A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes: A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery

by Jeanne Cooney

  I got the sense that Margie was wrong. I was the last person on earth Buddy Johnson wanted to see. And Buford reinforced that notion by shuffling in behind his brother, clearly ready to follow his lead, whatever that might be.

  A few possible scenarios played through my mind. Buddy may merely holler at me for what happened to his family and my role in it. Or he could strike out across the floor and actually punch me in the nose. Then, too, there was the outside chance he’d throw his arms around me and kiss me tenderly.

  Okay, there was absolutely no chance of that kissing thing. I didn’t even like the idea. I was involved with Deputy Randy Ryden, or at least I was attempting to get involved with him. So I don’t know why the thought of kissing Buddy Johnson had even popped into my head. And I dismissed it as nothing more than a natural reaction to the appearance of an incredibly good-looking man and the agony I was suffering due to my aforementioned romantic dry spell.

  I ordered myself to get a grip. And to that end, I drew in a slow deep breath. On the exhale, I directed myself to speak. After several false starts, I managed to push a sound from my throat. I was going for, “Hi,” but it came out part greeting, part frog croaking.

  Nice, Emme, real nice. That is if you lived on a lilypad and ate flies for lunch.

  I silently told the voices in my head to muzzle it.

  “Hello,” Buddy replied. The word rumbled from deep within him like a growl.

  It scared me or, at a minimum, caused me dread. And soon that dread was weighing heavily on me, seeping deep into my bones, where it mingled with desire. But not the kind of desire you probably assume. No, this was the desire to “skedaddle,” as Margie would say.

  Trusting my instincts, I cleared my throat and took a crack at an excuse to leave. “Sorry to rush off.” My voice sounded strange, even to my ears. “I . . . umm . . . Barbie and I are . . . We have to . . . I mean . . . umm . . .” Talking was pointless, so I gave up and yanked on Barbie’s arm.

  I pulled her toward the door as Margie hollered, “Eh, Emme, I thought ya were hungry. If ya wait a minute, I’ll serve ya up some Vegetable Hot Dish. Ya can take it with ya.”

  “No, that’s okay.” I shouldered the door. “I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble. It’s already done. It’s an ‘express’ hot dish. I got the recipe from Deb Kapinos. Didn’t ya meet her last time ya were here?”

  “No, Margie, I don’t think so.” I shoved Barbie outside. She stumbled, barely catching herself before falling to the sidewalk. “And I’m not that hungry after all.”

  The door slammed as Margie called out, “Okeydokey then. See ya later.”

  To which my stomach responded with a growl of its own.

  Chapter Six

  The wind propelled us across the highway to Barbie’s SUV. At the same time, a gaggle of geese passed overhead in a “V” formation. Their honking was frantic, much like my nerves.

  We jumped in the car and buckled up. Barbie turned the engine over, and the radio blasted “Hell on Heels,” a song by the Pistol Annies. “I’m hell on heels, say what you will, I done made the devil a deal.” I stared at my red high-top tennis shoes while reviewing my pitiful behavior back in the cafe. Not exactly “hell on heels.” More like “tenuous in tennies.”

  Barbie cranked up the heater and spun the car around in front of the community garden. Only a few months back the garden had been abundant with colorful and fragrant flowers. Now all the blooms were spent, and the stems were shriveled and brown, bending in the wind like crippled up gardeners.

  Barbie switched off the music and, oddly enough, the heater. “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?” I tried on a tone of innocence.

  “Oh, puleeze.” I guess it didn’t fit. “The air between you and Buddy was practically crackling with electricity. On top of that, you all but ran up my back on your way out of the cafe.” She leaned into a sharp left, bounced over the railroad tracks, and headed down County Road 7.

  “Barbie,” I yelped, “you didn’t even use your turn signal!”

  She shrugged. “Don’t have to. In a town this small, everyone already knows where you’re going.” She winked and added. “Now quit trying to change the subject.”

  “I’m not.” I tugged my seatbelt tighter. “It wasn’t electricity. It was friction.” I’d never before ridden with Barbie. It was reminiscent of a carnival ride—a scary carnival ride. “He hasn’t gotten beyond what happened last time I was here.”

  Barbie dismissed my remark with a wave of her hand—a hand I would have preferred she had kept on the steering wheel. “I think you’re imagining that. As I’ve told you before, he’s Scandinavian, like me. And we don’t like discussing personal matters, especially with people outside of family. But that doesn’t mean we’re holding a grudge.”

  “Barbie, you talk about personal stuff all the time.” Often to a fault, I added to myself.

  “Well, I’m unique.” She displayed a toothy grin before jerking her attention back to the road and slamming on the brakes. I lurched forward, only my seatbelt saving me from smacking my head into the windshield.

  The little white pup from earlier trudged across the road, its own head bowed against the wind. “Damn dog,” Barbie muttered. “I almost ran him over.”

  With that she was off again. And a few minutes later—though it should have been much, much longer—we hung a two-wheeled left onto County Road 1 and way too soon another into the beet piler. Barbie’s car skidded to a stop, gravel spraying from under the tires. “Good, the sheriff’s gone.” She cut the engine and opened the door.

  “Barbie,” I said, snatching the sleeve of her football jersey, “I only came along for the ride.” I couldn’t help but add, “Such as it was.” I dropped my hand. “I’m not getting drawn into a murder investigation. So I’ll just wait here.”

  “You can’t do that. You’ll look ridiculous sitting alone in the car. Like a kid waiting for her mother.” She rested for a beat. “But if that’s what you want, I guess it’s your prerogative. Just don’t expect me to bring you a sucker, honey. I don’t care how good you are.” Fluttering her eyelashes, she eased from the vehicle, the wind gripping her door and slamming it shut behind her.

  Despite Barbie’s mockery, I wasn’t about to leave the vehicle. She strutted toward the scale shack, where two deputies leaned against a nearby squad car. She could ask them questions all night long as far as I was concerned. I was just going to sit here. And I wouldn’t look “ridiculous.” I was certain of that.

  I made a visual sweep of the area. The vast fields around me were upholstered in a tweed of black dirt and brown stubble against the overcast sky. The landscape wasn’t pretty in the traditional sense—not like a mountain scene or a lake view. Still, there was something intriguing about it. Maybe because it had a purpose. It actually had an important job to do. And that made it fascinating.

  At the piler itself, sugar-beet mountains, each at least twenty feet high and two hundred feet long, waited to be moved by a convoy of trucks to the processing plant in Drayton. Unlike earlier, though, no trucks now stood in line. And the only people in sight were the two deputies, Barbie, and me. Yep, even to someone who had never before been to a beet piler, the inactivity generated a tension that was almost palpable.

  The wind howled at the car, and I pulled on the bottom of my short jacket, once more regretting I hadn’t brought a warmer coat. I glanced at Barbie and muttered under my breath. She’d taken the car keys, so I couldn’t even switch on the heater.

  She was talking to the deputies. And even though I couldn’t hear them, I knew exactly what the men were saying. Their movements spoke volumes. With curious expressions and less than subtle gestures, they were asking about me.

  I made an effort to ignore them. Twisting my hair around m
y finger, I pointed my eyes elsewhere. But they trailed right back. And no matter how hard I fought the sensation, I did indeed feel “ridiculous.” As Barbie had warned, I was akin to a kid confined to the car. And I didn’t like it. No more than I had as a child.

  “Shit!” I muttered as I opened the door.

  I instantly chided myself for swearing. My editor had received complaints. The way he’d explained it, I came across as too innocent to swear. It threw people. It left them unsure what to think of me and, by extension, the newspaper’s Food section, which was “G” rated. What’s more, he said swearing was a sign of a limited vocabulary. Particularly bad for a journalist. So I was working to curb the habit. Even so, during the previous week, he’d been forced to remind me twice to refrain from swearing, “Damn it!”

  I wrangled from my seat, this time mumbling, “Shoot!” No, it just didn’t project the same oomph.

  I trudged toward Barbie, the wind hollering at me as I went. I’m not some kid restricted to the car, I assured myself. I’m an intelligent adult and a professional newspaper reporter who’ll participate in any conversation of her choosing. Even so, I wasn’t about to let my guard down and get dragged into another murder investigation. And to make certain of that, I silently pledged to keep mum. I wouldn’t speak. I wouldn’t utter a word. I’d simply stand next to Barbie and let her take care of business. Ugh!

  “What can you tell me?” Barbie asked the question of the deputies as I approached.

  The men, in response, simultaneously tilted their heads at me, leaving Barbie to answer their unspoken question. “Like I already said, that’s Emme Malloy.” She pointed at me, somewhat ambiguous about continuing. After a moment, she did anyhow. “She’s a reporter for the Minneapolis paper. You probably remember her from a few months back.”

  The deputies smiled, just barely, as if sharing an inside joke. And I went from feeling ridiculous to uncomfortable—extremely uncomfortable. “Yeah, we know who she is,” the bigger of the two men said before his smile transformed into what appeared to be a smirk. “We’ve heard all about her.”

  Barbie didn’t wait for them to elaborate, and for that, I was grateful. I had no idea what Randy had told them, but it must have been bad. At least that’s the sense I got from their smirks. Or were they sneers? Hmm. Another glimpse and I decided, yes, they were sneers. Lecherous sneers.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. And here I thought Randy liked me. My shoulders slumped. I sure got that wrong. He played me for a fool. Then he made fun of me to his friends. My chest heaved. When will I get it through my thick skull that guys don’t really like me? When will I realize they only want to use me?

  Emme, you’re overreacting. It was yet another voice from inside my head. You’re allowing your insecurities to take control. Don’t do that. And don’t get all bent out of shape before you learn the facts. Ask Randy what he said. Give him a chance to explain.

  I should have been pleased that this particular voice was showing kindness, rather than hurling insults, as was usually the case. But I wasn’t. I hated that the voices in my head could be so damn—I mean darn—reasonable. It was far easier for me—and way more familiar—to make assumptions and jump to conclusions based on my perceived deficiencies.

  “Come on, guys,” Barbie pleaded, “give me a little something here.”

  One of the men—the bigger one with the receding hairline—took a drag from his cigarette. “Barbie, I recall sayin’ that very thing to you back in high school. It was in the band room one night after practice. Remember? It didn’t get me anywhere either.” He and his buddy chuckled and bumped fists.

  “These two are former classmates of mine,” Barbie said to me. “Guy Gunnerson.” She pointed at the sandy-blonde lug with the hair-loss problem. “And his cousin, Jarod Martinson.” She formed a gun with her thumb and index finger and aimed it at the skinny man with the hang-dog face and absent chin.

  I raised my index finger. “Excuse me. I didn’t catch that. Was that Jarot with a ‘T’ or Jarod with a ‘D’?”

  The thin man wrinkled his forehead. “It’s Jarod,” he stated slowly, as if I were an idiot, “with a ‘J.’”

  Out of the corners of my eyes, I caught Barbie’s attention. “All righty then,” I muttered to her in disbelief.

  “Yeah, it’s a wonder they’re allowed to carry guns.” She spoke loud enough for all to hear. “Well, it’s no wonder really. It just bugs the hell out of me.”

  Guy snapped his cigarette onto the ground. “Oh, Barbie, you love us. You just talk mean because you’re afraid if you don’t, you’ll paw us all over, like a cat in heat.”

  “In your dreams,” Barbie countered.

  To which Guy replied, “That’s what I’m countin’ on, Barbie. That’s what I’m countin’ on.”

  Jarod laughed and slapped his thigh, while Barbie shook her head.

  “Hey, now,” she proceeded to say after allowing the men another moment to enjoy themselves, “let’s get down to business. Tell me who you’ve got for suspects so far.”

  Guy rubbed the back of his neck. “Barbie, the sheriff will have our jobs if we say anythin’ to ya.”

  It was Barbie’s turn to laugh. “No, he won’t. He’s your uncle. He wouldn’t dare fire you.” She squinted at them. “So tell me what’s going on.” More squinting. “You know you want to.”

  The men eyed each other. Barbie was right. They were nearly bursting at the seams. They definitely wanted to talk.

  Guy re-adjusted his laid-back position against the squad car. “Well, I guess it won’t be a secret for long,” he said after fighting the desire to speak for a whopping two or three seconds. “The sheriff called the BCA. They should be here before mornin’, weather permittin’.”

  He was referring to the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, a state law enforcement agency that assisted rural sheriffs and police chiefs investigate crimes beyond what they normally encountered. I knew of them because until recently I’d kept notes on anything I heard at the paper that pertained to “real” news. Like I said, I thought I wanted to be a “real” reporter.

  “Yeah,” he continued, his head inclined in my direction, “after she showed him up by solvin’ that last murder, he wasn’t about to take any chances this time around. No, sir-ree, Bob. He’s makin’ sure this case gets wrapped up under his watch. Don’t forget, he’s up for re-election in another year.”

  Jarod adjusted himself—in the crotch. Then he shook out his leg and did it again, as if he had to wind himself up to speak and that’s how he got the job done. “And while he’s waitin’ for the BCA,” he finally said, “he’s goin’ after the usual suspects, startin’ with Buddy Johnson.”

  Guy backhanded him, causing the skinny man to gasp.

  Chapter Seven

  What’d you hit me for?” Jarod asked between coughs and just prior to taking a swing at Guy. Since he was folded over at the waist, it was a feeble attempt at best.

  Guy scowled. “I did it because you talk too much.”

  “No, I don’t. I talk way less than you.” Jarod worked at standing erect.

  “Then maybe it’s that you’re an idiot when ya do talk.”

  Jarod coughed. “I’m not an idiot. You are.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  I recalled Randy telling me about two of his fellow deputies. He’d referred to them as Tweedledum and Tweedledumber. I presumed I’d just made their acquaintance.

  “Now, boys!” Barbie scolded. “Stop arguing! You’re both idiots.” The pair actually seemed pleased—for a moment. “But neither of you is as idiotic as your boss. Why on earth is he after Buddy this time?”

  “Well, because, for starters, Buddy’s a hothead.” Guy scuffed the ground with the toe of his boot. I got the impression his feelings were hurt by Barbie’s “
idiot” comment. But his need to sulk was obviously trumped by his longing to flaunt his knowledge about the case, as evidenced by his continued chatter. “Word has it that him and Cummin’s were in pissin’ matches on a regular basis. Cummin’s was drivin’ beet truck for the twins, you know. And this past Tuesday night, the two of them went at it outside the Caribou.” He glanced at me. A gust of wind had come up, and I was wiping dirt from my eyes. “That’s the bar and grill in Hallock. The town just up the road there.” He tossed his thumb across his shoulder before redirecting his attention to Barbie. “Buddy fired him on the spot. Told him not to show up for his shift that night. And that’s the last time anyone saw Cummin’s alive.”

  “So what did they fight about?” Barbie asked.

  Guy puffed out his chest. He clearly enjoyed being the source of information. “Oh, you know. The usual. This and that. Everythin’ and anythin’.”

  I was about to respond with a snort but held back, deciding that with these guys around, I might need a good snort later on.

  “Cummings knew how to get under Buddy’s skin.” Guy was doing his best to sound authoritative. “Not that it takes a whole lot of figurin’.” He offered me a knowing look. “See, he liked to say that Buddy and Buford got the farm ‘handed to them.’ Of course Buford just laughed it off. But not Buddy. He said they’d worked too damn hard to have some jackass shoot his mouth off about somethin’ he knew nothin’ about.”

  I wasn’t privy to all the details, but I knew the twins were hard workers and always had been. Their parents, Ole and Lena, had died separate, but tragic, deaths—a whole other story—leaving the boys to run the farm, which, like so many farms in the area, had been in the family for generations.

  With the help of relatives, Buddy and Buford had worked the fields while attending the University of Minnesota in Crookston, where they’d studied agriculture and business. Upon graduation, they took over the entire operation, dedicating themselves to expanding it. Of course, none of that excused Buddy’s behavior. But it may have explained it.