A Potluck of Murder and Recipes

by Jeanne Cooney

  Little Val’s husband, Wally, was next to speak. “John, we tease you because we care about you. And we know you and Margie will have a great life together. We’re sure of that because you’re a kind man. And you’re really smart. You graduated from MIT or some such college, right?” He didn’t wait for confirmation. “And, as an intelligent guy, you’re aware of your limitations, which is a good thing, though Margie may be hankering for a little more effort on your part.” He shuffled his feet. “See, the other day she complained to Little Val and me that when she recently asked you to carry her upstairs and make love to her, you answered, ‘Now, Honey, you know I can’t do both.’” That earned both gasps and giggles, with Margie’s up-tight sister, Vivian, beginning and ending with the former.

  As the best man, Vivian’s husband, Vern, was the last to offer a toast. “It’s not a true toast,” he clarified as he scraped back his chair and took to his feet. “And it’s not about marriage per se.” With his one hand, he rubbed the stub of his missing arm, something he routinely did when nervous. “It’s more of a joke. An Ole and Lena joke to be exact.”

  Right away the crowd hooted. These folks loved their Ole and Lena jokes.

  “Anyways,” Vern began as Vivian watched him with a critical eye, “da day after Ole passed away, Lena realized she couldn’t go on without ’im. Yah, dat’s right. She wanted to die, too, but she hated pain and knew if she was gonna kill herself, she had to do it fast. So she called da doctor and asked him exactly where her heart was located, and he informed her dat it was directly beneath her left breast. Well, den, Lena hung up da phone, grabbed a butcher knife, and stabbed herself in dat very spot. But, wouldn’t ya know, a few minutes later Sven found her and rushed her to da hospital, where she was admitted for a knife wound—to her left knee.”

  Everyone howled, partly because the joke was funny, but mostly, I believe, because Vivian appeared ready to kill her husband, then die of humiliation herself. For his part, the usually docile Vern ignored his wife and soaked up all the attention, which eased only after folks began tapping their silverware against their wine glasses. As customary, John and Margie then rose and kissed, prompting a hearty round of applause and more than a little blushing by the bride and groom.

  Once the applause died down, John cleared his throat in a discernible attempt to regain his composure. And, after accomplishing that, he addressed his guests in a Scandinavian accent so strong I had to listen carefully to understand him. “Tank ya all for comin’,” he said. “Dis is da happiest day of my life, and havin’ all of ya here means an awful lot to da both of us, don’t ya know.” He put his arm around Margie’s waist.

  “Anyways . . .” He self-consciously pulled his arm back and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Da other day, when Margie and I visited with Father Daley, he wanted to know why it had taken me so long to settle down. ‘Didn’t ya ever find any girls ya wanted to marry before now?’ he asked. And I answered, ‘Well, for sure, I did, Father. But whenever I took one of dem home to meet my parents, my mother disliked her.’ With his brow furrowed, Father Daley den asked, ‘Why didn’t ya search for girls just like your ma, den?’ And I had to tell ’im, “I did that, too, Father. But whenever I took one of dem home, my dad hated her guts.’”

  Everyone guffawed until John hushed them by tamping down his hands. “Well, I’m . . . I’m glad I waited ’til now. I’m glad,” he repeated, his voice a raspy whisper, his gleaming eyes steady on his new wife, “because I just married da best woman around.”

  As you might expect, that led to a collective “awww” from the guests, as well as another kiss from Margie.

  A WHILE LATER THE VFW’S middle room was transformed into a dance hall that smelled of stale beer and fried fish and sounded like a carnival, with children screeching and musicians tuning their instruments.

  The band was unknown to me, but Barbie was acquainted with a few of the members and informed me they hailed from Lancaster. “Several have won Kick’n Up Kountry karaoke awards,” she explained. “And a couple have even been featured on national television.”

  Before I had a chance to ask what Kick’n Up Kountry was, the leader of the band introduced its first song, “I Don’t Dance,” and Margie and John took the floor amid cheers and whistles.

  Barbie whispered to me, “Are you truly done?”

  “Done?” My eyes were glued on Margie and John. Happiness radiated from them. It was a sight to behold, and I wished that Randy was there to share it with me.

  “Done with the case.”

  I vacillated between feeling shame and frustration. Barbie was my dear friend, and I didn’t want to let her down. But, at the same time, she refused to accept that I was weary of being threatened, second-guessed, or just plain wrong at virtually every juncture of this investigation. “I don’t see what good it would do, that’s all. Now that I know the President didn’t kill Boo-Boo, I’m clueless about how to move forward.”

  With a ticked-off look on her face, she swung her attention away from me and toward the bar, then uttered, “Well, speak of the devil.”

  From our table along the west wall of the middle room, I could see most of the bar area, and even though the space was illuminated by nothing more than neon beer advertisements and the light above the pool table, I had no trouble picking out the object of her interest. It was the President. He was bellied up at the far end of the bar, basking in the sickly yellow glow of a Miller Beer sign.

  The last time I’d seen him, he was much thinner. But that was then. Now he was extremely heavy, reminding me of Porky Pig, only way uglier and sleazier. Come to think of it, the comparison was totally unfair to the pig.

  The guy slurped a mixed drink as he conversed with a couple men, one bald and scrawny, the other big with facial features so squished together there was barely room for his bulbous nose between his mouth and beady eyes. Bald-and-Scrawny didn’t contribute to the conversation, but Mr. Beady Eyes spoke whenever he wasn’t picking that big, red nose of his.

  “Is that Booger Carlson?” I asked. What were the chances there’d be more than one public nose picker in a town this small?

  “Yeah, that’s Booger. But how did you—” She stopped. There was no need to go on. The scene spoke for itself.

  “Is that his cousin with him?”

  “Yep. That’s Delmont. Those two usually travel in tandem.”

  “So, what do you make of them?”

  She peered at me. “I thought you didn’t care.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I EXPELLED A BIG PUFF OF AIR, letting it hiss as it passed between my lips. “I never said I didn’t care, Barbie.” With the reception and dinner over, I had switched to beer and took a long pull from my bottle. “But we can take up another topic of conversation if you want. It doesn’t really matter.”

  My tone suggested indifference, and Barbie took notice. “No, that’s fine. Let’s talk about them.”

  I intended to stall to prove I really didn’t care one way or another, but since that wasn’t true, only a second or two lapsed before I asked, “Do you think they’re aware of the fraud investigation?”

  Barbie stared at the three men, as if she’d learn more by boring holes in them and peeking around inside. “If they are, I’m sure the President’s convinced it won’t lead anywhere. I expect he’s confident he can outsmart everyone.”

  When the bride and groom’s dance ended, Vern and Vivian joined them on the floor, and the band started playing, “When I’m Sixty-Four.” Being a huge dance fan, not to mention a devotee of the Beatles, I soon found myself dividing my attention between the President and his minions and the two couples undulating to the unusual wedding song.

  I was impressed by John and Margie’s moves. Granted, they wouldn’t be featured on Dancing with the Stars anytime soon, but they clearly knew what they were doing, making me speculate they had taken dance lessons recently. Yet, despite their possible training, they were no match for Vivian and Vern, whose rhythm and
agility truly amazed me.

  Vern only had one arm. Still, he deftly guided his wife through a variety of spins and turns. He demonstrated great control and authority, causing me to wonder if the happiness he exuded was from his love for dancing alone, or if it had something to do with being in charge when out on the dance floor. From what I knew of the couple, that normally wasn’t the case.

  “Don’t look now,” Barbie muttered, triggering my eyes to snap right back to her. She bobbed her head toward the bar.

  “Well, I’ll be.” It was one of Margie’s favorite phrases, and it seemed appropriate for the occasion. Burr Nelson, you see, now stood alongside the President.

  “You still don’t care what those guys are up to?”

  Using my thumbnail, I absentmindedly scraped at the label on my beer bottle. “I already admitted to being curious. But, based on what Randy told me at lunch, the President isn’t a suspect in Boo-Boo’s murder. And, as for the others—”

  Barbie didn’t let me finish. “You said the police suspect the President’s mixed up in that fraud scheme, which means Booger and Delmont are probably involved, too.” She paused. “Not Burr, though. He has no connection to the wind-farm project. None whatsoever.”

  “How can you be positive of that?”

  She continued to concentrate on the quartette at the bar. “When you were at lunch, I phoned deputies Dumb and Dumber. They told me Burr didn’t invest a dime in that venture. They also shared a number of other noteworthy tidbits.”

  I waited, and when she didn’t elaborate, I prodded, “Such as?”

  My words jarred her from her apparent reverie. “Sorry. Guess I was preoccupied.” She tapped her index finger against her lips. “What in the world is Burr doing with those three rejects?”

  “HEY!” SHOUTED A MAN in very close proximity to us. “Come on, you two. It’s time to dance!”

  With a start, I whipped around to find Margie’s nephew Buford grinning at me.

  After catching my breath, I hollered over the music, “It’s great to see you, Buford!”

  “Right back at ya, Red.” He chucked me under my chin. “Looking mighty festive in that outfit of yours.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  I felt my grin stretch coat-hanger wide. “You’re quite the looker yourself.” It was something I never imagined saying to the guy. When I’d seen him previously, his face was scarred, and his brows and lashes were all but missing due to an alcohol-related grilling accident. His face had healed nicely. Now, he even sported thick, dark eyebrows.

  “Come on, ladies, let’s shake a leg.” He lifted his leg, shimmied, and fell backwards, right into his twin brother.

  I did a double take at the sight of Buddy. As I mentioned earlier, he was incredibly handsome. On that particular night, he wore form-fitting jeans, a tweed sport coat, and a white, open-collar, button-down shirt that played nicely against his tan skin. His coloring was thanks to his mother, a Latina known locally as Lena. The twinkle in his whiskey-colored eyes, signaling his relaxed attitude toward life in general and his brother in particular, was of his own making.

  He planted Buford back on his own two feet and extended his hand, while his gaze wandered over me in an assessing manner. “How about it, Emme? Will you dance with me?”

  I measured my response. The music was upbeat. I loved to dance. And I knew the twins, like me, were extremely light on their feet, in spite of Buford’s present demonstration to the contrary. Furthermore, any heterosexual woman who’d pass up a few minutes in Buddy Johnson’s arms was a fool. Did I mention he was sexy?

  My own gaze traveled from his soulful eyes to his full, sensual lips. They were slanted in a half smile that oozed confidence, triggering my mouth to go dry and my pulse to pound wantonly in my throat. That’s when I decided it was imperative I remain more than an arm’s length away. “No . . . umm . . . thank you, Buddy. I’m not up to dancing tonight.”

  Buford clasped Barbie’s hand. “You don’t care if the two of us give it a whirl, do you?” I guess it was a rhetorical question because, without waiting for an answer, he towed her in the direction of the dance floor, leaving Buddy and me behind to stare at each other awkwardly. At least, I felt awkward.

  “Why won’t you dance with me, Emme?”

  Unprepared for any verbal jousting, I stuck to my story. “I’m just not up to it.”

  He pulled out a chair and sat down, motioning to a waitress to bring him a beer. “Did Dudley Do-Right order you to stay away from me?”

  I shot him dagger eyes. “I don’t take orders from anyone except my editor at the paper, and, according to him, I’m not particularly good at that.”

  “Well, then?”

  I plopped down on my chair after ensuring there was at least one empty seat between us. “Don’t be a jerk, Buddy. I wouldn’t appreciate Randy dancing with someone he had been . . . drawn to, and—”

  He broke in. “You were ‘drawn’ to me?”

  “Well . . .”

  He left me to struggle, a smug expression overtaking his features.

  His manner infuriated me, and that anger loosened the stranglehold on my tongue and jacked up my attitude. “Yes, Buddy, I’ll admit I was drawn to you. But, thankfully, I came to my senses before anything serious happened between us. That would have been a monumental mistake! An utter disaster! An epic calamity!”

  He reared back and laughed. “I suppose I deserved that.”

  The waitress returned with his beer. Buddy handed her a few bills, urged her to keep the change, then savored a long drink. “Should I leave? Or can I stay and visit for a while?”

  “Umm,” I hummed while the voices in my head argued over how best to respond. Because the music was too loud to hear what they decided, I was forced to make a unilateral decision. “You can stay. But only if you’re nice.”

  He winked. “I can be nice, Emme. You just never gave me the opportunity to show you how—”

  “See! There you go.”

  He chuckled. “Sorry. I couldn’t help myself. You set me up perfectly. But that’s it. I’m done. No more suggestive remarks.”

  I passed him a disbelieving glance before challenging him further. “No more cracks about Randy, either.”

  He flashed me the Boy Scout sign. “I promise.”

  “I like him, Buddy.”

  “I understand.”

  “A lot.”

  He combed his fingers through his dark, wavy hair. “Okay, Okay. Enough said, Emme.”

  With a sense of satisfaction, I sipped my beer. I had established ground rules! My therapist would be impressed.

  “How are you?” he then asked to restart our conversation.

  I followed my index finger as it traced a line of moisture down the side of my bottle. Buddy was easy to talk to, but I quickly determined it would be best to keep our visit on a superficial level. “I’m fine. Just fine.”

  He leaned forward. “No point in pretending, Emme. I know the guy who got murdered at the park was your old boyfriend.”

  My jaw dropped. “Does everyone—”

  “It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone else’s business, yours included.”

  “I could never get used to that.”

  A smile slowly split his face. “Sometimes it’s a good thing.”

  I offered a noncommittal shrug. “Then, I suppose you also know that Barbie’s husband’s been questioned?”

  “Yep.”

  “Barbie’s positive he’s innocent, and—”

  “Of course she is. And I hope she’s right. I’ve always liked Tom. Even if he’s a bit different.” The twinkle in his eyes began working overtime. “He’s not from around here, you know.” He added without skipping a beat, “He grew up in California, of all places.”

  I positioned my hands over my heart and feigned shock. “Oh, no!”

  A chuckle slid from his throat.

  I sipped my beer and listened to the band’s take on a country classic. “Anyhow,” I said following the song’s refrain a
bout a good-hearted woman loving a good-timing man, “Barbie’s of the mind that he was too drunk to do anyone true harm, especially an athlete like Boo-Boo. And the police—”

  “Whoa! Back up. Boo-Boo?”

  I cringed. “That was Owen’s nickname. His last name was Bair. He was rather small. And when he played professional ball, he hung around with a guy known as Yogi, as in the old Jellystone Park cartoons.” My words struck me. “Hey! You must have heard of him. He played for the Twins several seasons and—”

  “I’ve never followed baseball. I’m more of a—”

  It was my turn to interrupt. “Hockey fan. I know. But there are other sports.”

  “They pale by comparison. And based on what the folks around here told me today, your Boo-Boo wasn’t really all that good, so it’s not that surprising I’m not familiar with him.”

  “He wasn’t mine,” I mumbled.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” What was the point?

  “So, Emme, if Tom didn’t kill the guy, who did?”

  I knitted my brow.

  “Oh, come on. I’m sure you and Barbie have done some reconnaissance. What did you discover? What’s the real story?”

  “How should I know?” I practically had to shout to be heard over the noise currently emanating from the dance floor. I didn’t spot Buford or Barbie out there, but almost everyone else in the place was stomping and clapping their way through the chicken dance. “Remember, I work for the newspaper’s Food section. So I’d only be included in the investigation if the crime had been committed with a bundt cake.”

  “Yeah, right. Like you and Barbie wait to be invited into police business.”

  “Believe it or not, I’m staying away from murder investigations. Far, far away.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you.”