“Rosa checked the barn, the Quonset, even the shop. But nothin’. So she headed upstairs. Lena was hardly ever up there durin’ the day, but Rosa had run out of ideas. Anyways, she knocked on her ma’s bedroom door. Again, no answer. For some reason, though, she opened it and stepped inside. And that’s when she saw her—poor, sweet Lena—lying in bed. She’d been dead since mornin’.” Anguish filled Margie’s voice. “The picture I showed ya earlier—the one with her and Ole in front of the café—was clutched in her hands.” A few tears ran down Margie’s cheeks, and she rubbed them away.
“Rosa dropped out of college and, like her brothers, moved in with Vivian and Vern. At their house, she had her cousin, Little Val. They’ve always been close.” She struggled to keep an even tenor. “She also spent lots of time with Ole. Yah, that girl always understood her pa way better than her brothers did.” She paused. “Then a year and a half later, when she was ready, she went back and finished her degree. Now she teaches vocal music in Hallock, which isn’t such a bad job.”
Margie again pulled the checklist from her pocket. She acted as if she were reviewing it, but I suspected she was hiding behind it until able to compose herself. Once she had, she crumpled the paper and tossed it in a nearby trash bin.
“Ya might meet all three of ’em tonight.” She cleared her throat. “Well, probably not Rosa. She doesn’t do much socializin’. She used to be so bubbly, but that all changed followin’ the mess with her folks.” Margie placed her hands on her hips. “More damage caused by that tramp.” When certain she’d made her point, she added, “But if she does show up, you’ll recognize her right away. She looks just like her ma, only taller.”
“And the boys?”
“Well, they may be twins, but ya won’t have any trouble tellin’ ’em apart now that Buford burnt his head.”
I must have appeared befuddled because she said, “Oh, my, let me tell ya about that.” She stole a glimpse at the school-house clock that hung high above the sink. “Ya see,” she began, the sparkle returning to her eyes, “a few weeks back, Buford and Buddy had some friends over for a catfish cookout. Catfish make real good eatin’. Ever had ’em?”
I nodded in the negative.
“Well, they’re not hard to fillet. Ya just need a sharp knife and a little know-how. And ya can catch all ya want right over there.” She bobbed her head to the west, toward the Red River. “Yah, the twins never go far without their fishin’ rods or their fillet knives.
“Anyways, Buford was grillin’ over a campfire, which I guess wasn’t burnin’ hot enough to suit him, so he squirted it with lighter fluid. Well, from what I understand, he still wasn’t satisfied, so he went ahead and threw the whole darn can in. Yah, he actually tossed the can itself right into the flames.” She grimaced.
“Now he insists he was ignorant of the fact that the can had fluid left in it, but I told him later he was ignorant of far more than that. Accordin’ to Buddy, the second the can hit the flames—POOF—a fireball erupted, and when the smoke cleared, there stood Buford minus his eyelashes, eyebrows, and most of his hair.
“The doctor says he’ll be fine, but he’s darn lucky he wasn’t seriously hurt.” She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “He claims he hadn’t been drinkin’ much, but I don’t believe him. Sometimes he drinks way too …” She narrowed her eyes. “Well, let’s just say that if he doesn’t start usin’ his head, he may as well have been born with two asses.
“I suppose, though, boys will be boys. Plus, we’ve all had some fun with the fiasco.” She drew her lips back into a timid smile while pointing to a homemade sign on the wall that read, “For blackened catfish, contact Burnt Buford, at 1-800-YOU-FOOL.”
“That reminds me.” She sifted through the recipe cards. “Ya oughtta write down the recipe for Buford’s favorite bar. I baked some for him the day after the catfish incident. They’re Blondies, meanin’ they’re nothin’ more than blonde brownies with chocolate chips, but Buford loves ’em all the same.”
Chapter 9
The café door opened and in walked a woman with a husky build. She strutted to the kitchen. “Hi, Margie.” She reached for a mug from a shelf above the sink and wheeled back around. “You must be Emerald Malloy. I’m Barbara Jean Jenson, but everyone calls me Barbie.”
Barbie looked to be about ten years younger than Margie. But unlike Margie, she wore lots of makeup, including berry eye shadow and maroon lipstick. She also had a deep, tanning-bed tan and hair dyed henna red, cut short, and spiked with gel. A gaudy, gold chain hung from her neck, resting on a white, spandex, tank top that struggled to conceal her large breasts. The chain secured purple-rimmed eye glasses. Sunglasses, framed in pink, were perched on top of her head. Amazon Barbie.
“I told Barbie you’d be here,” Margie informed me. “I thought ya might enjoy talkin’ to her. She’s the editor of our local paper, The Enterprise, but used to write news in the Twin Cities.”
Since the fresh coffee wasn’t ready, Barbie filled her mug with the last of the lunch-time brew and made tracks to the end of the counter, where the bars were waiting. “I wrote for the St. Paul paper a long time ago,” she said. “A hell of a long time ago. It’s been almost twenty years.”
“You two should sit,” Margie suggested. “I have to throw together a few more hot dishes.”
Barbie selected two frosted pumpkin squares and motioned me to a booth. “I’ve only got a few minutes, but definitely, let’s talk.”
We sat down, and she immediately asked, “Do you know Stan Trendell? He was an up-and-coming reporter at your paper when I was at the one in St. Paul.”
I rested my glass of lemonade on the table. “I don’t know him personally, but I certainly know of him.” He was one of our most popular columnists.
Barbie unfolded her napkin, laid it on the table, and placed her Pumpkin Bars, side by side, on top of it. “We were competitors back then, but I liked him and really admired his work. I had a feeling he’d make it big. Whenever I’m in the Cities, we get together.”
I was bewildered, a fact not lost on the newspaper lady, as evidenced by her giggle. “I know what you’re thinking.” She flipped her hands, palms up. “How in the hell did she go from writing for a daily metropolitan newspaper to being the editor of a weekly way up here?”
“Well …”
“I was raised here. I got my bachelor’s degree at the University of North Dakota in Grand Forks and moved to Minneapolis to get my master’s in journalism at the U of M. While there, I wrote for the college paper, and the folks at the St. Paul paper liked what they read.” She picked up one of her bars and took a bite. “I ended up working for them for nearly ten years.” She talked with her hands, and her Pumpkin Bar went along for the ride.
“What made you come back here?”
“My parents began having trouble getting around. Either someone had to start checking in on them every day, or they had to sell their home. I couldn’t stand the thought of them selling, so when my husband got the chance to become the school band director in Hallock, we packed up the kids and moved north.” Barbie waved her hands. “We didn’t expect to stay long. My husband grew up in L.A. and didn’t think he could tolerate living way up here more than a few years. But in the end, he liked it. Now my parents are long gone, the kids have flown the coop, yet we’re still here.”
“But it’s so … desolate.”
Barbie scowled. “You call it desolate. I consider it serene.”
I’d insulted her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“I agree, it’s remote. That’s why we travel. Remember, we live here. We’re not trapped here.” A lipstick grin eked across her face. “Well, sometimes during January and February, we are.” She flailed her arms. “Just kidding. Just kidding. I wouldn’t live anywhere else. There’s a real sense of community here.” She looked to be thinking about something. “You know, I have more friends here than I did in Minneapolis. And it’s an eclectic group. Yep, up here, if the town doctor only
wants to hang out with other doctors, he’ll end up pretty damn lonely.”
Barbie polished off her first bar. “One of my best friends is a retired member of Congress. He lives down the road and splits his time between practicing law and managing his family’s hog farm. When some other friends got married last spring, he not only drew up their prenup, he slaughtered and roasted the pig for the wedding reception. These people are multi-faceted. Shit, they have to be because there’s so few of them.”
I mentioned I’d met the local banker, who, I understood, also managed the VFW.
“And he makes a mean margarita,” Barbie replied. “But then again, don’t all bankers?”
With a laugh, she started in on her second bar, while I sipped lemonade and mulled over how someone like Barbie, discernibly intelligent and talented and undeniably full of spirit, could cope in this environment. She called it serene, but it was desolate. The closest Starbucks, Target, and movie theater were sixty miles away. How did she do it? I had to find out.
“Barbie, although the people here seem really nice, I can’t help but ask how on earth …” That didn’t come out right. “It’s just that these towns are so small …” Still not right. I didn’t want to offend her again. “Barbie, don’t you miss … um … well, don’t you miss the concerts, the plays, the intellectual stimulation of city life?”
She frantically waved her hands, as if erasing my concerns. “Like I said, we’re not trapped here. And when we lived in Minneapolis, we didn’t do much anyway.” She rested her elbows on the table and pressed her fingertips together. Her nails were short and painted a brilliant red. “Of course we always threatened to ‘trip the light fantastic.’” She emphasized the phrase with air quotes. “But when we were younger, we didn’t have the money, and when we got older, we didn’t have the energy. Hell, most nights we were too tired for sex. I swear I got pregnant the last two times only because of our mattress. It sagged in the middle, and we regularly ended up on top of each other whether we wanted to be or not.” She raised her eyes to the heavens like an innocent cherub, but I doubted there was anything innocent about her.
“Tell me.” I truly wanted to have a serious discussion. “What changed when you moved back here?”
“Well, first off, we got a new mattress.” So much for serious. “And second, I came to realize that the Twin Cities didn’t have the market cornered on intellectual discourse. Some of the debates around my neighbor’s campfire in Hallock are downright eye opening.” She stuck her nose in the air and fluttered her eyelashes with exaggeration. “And if it’s culture you want, my husband and Margie’s niece direct some of the finest school musicals you’ll ever see.”
I raised my hands. “I give up! I don’t know what I was thinking. Clearly this place is a cultural Mecca, full of Renaissance people.”
“Precisely, so why do you live in the Cities?”
“Huh?” The question threw me. “I guess because that’s where I landed a job.”
“So you’re there by default?”
“Default? I’m not sure I’d say—”
“Besides your job, why’d you move there? Family? Friends? True love?”
“Hardly.” Her words reverberated in my head. Did I really live in Minneapolis by “default”? That sounded terrible, as if I were taking the path of least resistance, letting life happen to me rather than designing it myself. I wasn’t doing that, was I?
“Damn, girl,” she went on to holler, “you should move here!”
“What?”
She reached out and grabbed my wrists. “Move here!” She pleaded in mock desperation. “You’ve got no stake in Minneapolis. And you could make a difference up here.”
“What would I do?”
She let go of my arms and wiggled her fingers as if typing. “Write! Work for me. I could use the help. The woman who covers sports for me now pens romance novels on the side.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I end up with articles about boys’ basketball with lines like, ‘His body glistened with the sweat of desire as his throbbing loins pressed against the man he was guarding.’”
I snickered, but before I could speak, she was on to a new subject. “Do you own a home?”
“Huh?” I needed to think faster to keep up. “No, and I probably never will. You may not remember, but journalists in the Twin Cities get paid crap.”
“Well, up here you can get a house for free.”
“Really?”
“Nah, I’m just shittin’ you. But you can buy one for less than the cost of a new car.” She stopped to let that tidbit of information sink in. “I know someone who recently bought a cute, two-bedroom, one-bath, for under $25,000.” She leaned across the table and whispered, “You may find this hard to believe, but there’s not a big demand for housing in these parts.”
As she sat back, she lifted the glasses from her ample chest and peered through the retro, cat-eye lenses to read the time on her Betty Boop watch. “Oh, hell, I’ve gotta go. I have a paper to put to bed.” She shimmied seductively before sliding from the booth, and I followed suit, except for the shimmying seductively part.
Standing, she extended her hand. “It was great to meet you, and if you get a chance, say hello to Stan for me.”
Without taking a breath, she hollered toward the kitchen. “Hey, Margie, I tried.” Then to me, she said by way of explanation, “I’m always after people to move up here. I don’t want these little towns to die.” She paused. “Did I mention we have a lot of rich, single, farmers?”
While shaking my head, pretending exasperation, I realized just how tired I truly was. “Do you make that same sale’s pitch to every visitor?” As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew they sounded petty. I had no desire to live in Kennedy, so I wasn’t sure why it irritated me that Barbie had asked others to make the move, but it did, though I wasn’t proud of it. “Sorry. I think my long drive has caught up to me. I’m pooped, and I’m getting crabby.”
“Well, I meant it. If you ever need a change of pace, I could use the help. I’m not as young as I look.” She fluttered her lashes. “I should start training someone to take over for me.”
She peeled a few dollar bills from the pocket of her tight, denim capris and tossed them on the table.
“But why me? You don’t even know if I can write.”
From another pocket, she retrieved a business card and placed it in my hand, folding my fingers over it. “Honestly? Because you’re here. Besides, you wouldn’t be working where you’re working if you couldn’t write.” She winked. “And you’d be surprised what I know about you.”
That baffled me, but I was too worn out to engage in more banter.
“Now,” she added, “I have to skedaddle. I need to get back to my office and finish an article about wind farms. Some locals want one built here.”
I tucked my hair behind my ears. “A reasonable request if this afternoon’s breeze was any indication.”
“Yeah, it clips along like that most days. There’s nothing to slow it down. No trees. No hills.” She gently patted the wine-colored spikes on top of her head. “Before I moved back, my hair would actually lie flat.”
Shifting gears yet again, she hollered, “Hey, Margie, I left you some money on the table.”
“Okay, kiddo. Ya comin’ back later?”
“Only if I get my work done.” Eyeing me, she said in a voice still loud enough for Margie to hear, “It sure would be nice if I had someone to help me.”
Margie chuckled knowingly as Barbie wrapped the remainder of her pumpkin square in her napkin and started for the door, her flip-flops snapping against the bottoms of her feet.
When just about there, she twirled back around. “Oh, damn, I almost forgot, I have to finish a story about a meth-lab bust too. I’ll need more nourishment.”
“You have a lot of those?”
“Nah,” she answered, hurrying to the counter. “We don’t have much crime of any kind.”
Th
e murder immediately came to mind. “What about Samantha Berg?”
Barbie’s eyes practically bugged out of her head before she recovered enough to say, “That really didn’t amount to much.”
“But the FBI was called in.”
“And no one was arrested.” Trying hard to act nonchalant, she exaggerated her perusal of the bar selection.
“Which means the murderer is still around, right?”
“Not necessarily.” She ended up picking out two more pumpkin squares and adding them to her napkin.
“Huh?” The door to my brain slowly opened to another possibility. “Do you think Samantha Berg was killed by someone just passing through? Is that what you’re saying?”
Barbie drew back her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I’m saying the matter’s closed. I’m saying it’s not worth discussing.”
She was miffed with me again. “Sorry. I only asked because—”
“Listen, Samantha caused a lot of people pain, including members of one of this town’s oldest families. I’m not suggesting she deserved to die, but neither the police nor the FBI could figure out who killed her, so just drop it.” She spun toward the exit. “Now I have to go.” And with that, she strutted from the building.
Stunned, my mouth actually hanging open, I watched as she crossed the highway to her SUV.
“Yah, that girl’s a corker,” Margie said, joining me. “She’s a one-woman Chamber of Commerce. She loves these towns, and while she jokes a lot, she’s dead serious about keepin’ ’em goin’. She won’t let anythin’ stand in her way.”
Handing me another recipe card from the box, she added, “Ya may not have noticed, but Barbie likes my Pumpkin Bars. Ya might wanna jot down the recipe.” She stopped for a beat. “Ya might also wanna close your mouth before ya swallow a fly.”
Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes Page 5
