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

by Jeanne Cooney

  The wind whistled, coaxing another strong breeze, complete with dirt, into my face—and my eyes. No doubt, I needed to head back to the car. I wouldn’t be missed. After all, I hadn’t contributed to the discussion. Not that I’d planned to. Nope, I wasn’t about to get involved.

  It didn’t matter anyhow. Guy knew nothing substantive about the crime or the suspects. And clearly his partner never had much on his mind. Yep, the way I saw it—that is if I could have seen—we were—I mean Barbie was—gaining little by hanging around.

  Barbie must have agreed. “If that’s all you bozos have for us,” she said, “we’re taking off. We haven’t eaten supper, so we’re going to Hot Dish Heaven. Margie’s testing new recipes, and there’s one I definitely want to try. It’s called Sauerkraut Hot Dish.” She licked her lips.

  “Yeah, Margie’s ‘broadening her horizons,’ culinarily speaking.” Barbie fluttered her eyelashes at the made-up word. “And as her primary taste tester, I’m broadening my hips.” She flung them from side to side, coming awfully close to sending skinny Jarod with a “J” into the next county.

  * * *

  About halfway back to town, I broke the silence that had descended over the car. I did it in small part because I had questions I wanted answered but in large part because I needed to divert my attention away from Barbie’s erratic driving. With darkness settling in, her unpredictability behind the wheel had my stress level soaring to new heights. “So,” I said in a shaky voice, “those two deputies aren’t very bright, are they?”

  Barbie didn’t seem to notice my tentative tone or my fragile emotional state. “To be honest, Guy’s not as dumb as he looks.” She glanced at me. “Then again, how could he be?” She chuckled as the wind howled, heralding the arrival of snow. Heavy with moisture, the first flakes hit the windshield like BB pellets. “Jarod’s another story.”

  She accelerated along a straightaway, and I gripped the sides of my seat, babbling in an attempt to distract myself. “Yet, he’s in law enforcement. Hard to believe. You wouldn’t think he’d meet the requirements. Not that I’m an expert on what they are. But I’m sure . . .”

  Barbie flipped the wipers on, leaving them to squeak while smudging snow across the glass. “Their mothers are the sheriff’s sisters. There’s no way in hell he’d cross those two by laying off their sons. So their jobs are safe in perpetuity. To be fair, though, they come by their stupidity naturally.”

  “Huh? How so?”

  Barbie clicked on the defroster, then the air conditioner. I did a double take. It was the air conditioner all right. “No one in their family is particularly bright.” She bounded over the railroad tracks, and I believe I actually caught air. “Take the whole Two River thing, for example.” She barely slowed for the approaching intersection. “That’s a river up here. It was supposedly named by their great-great-great-grandfather based on the number of tributaries.”

  “And?” While passing under a street light, I snagged a glimpse of my hands. My knuckles were white.

  “It has three,” Barbie said, veering onto Highway 75. “The Two River has three branches.”

  I had to peel my fingers from the seat to wipe my runny nose. “So can you take anything they say seriously? Do you really think the sheriff’s after Buddy Johnson?” I shoved my tissue back into my pocket.

  “Oh, yeah.” Barbie jerked the car to a stop across the highway from the café, and I offered a silent prayer of thanks for our safe return. “While those two may only have the intellect of basic garden tools, they know their boss.” She doused the headlights, switched off the engine, and along with it, the air conditioning. That prompted another prayer of thanksgiving. “He’s no fool in spite of what I might say. And he hates Buddy Johnson. He’d love to arrest him for anything.”

  “Hmm.” I’d met Sheriff Halverson while laid up during my last visit. With his bulging muscles, barrel chest, and crew cut, he came across as a drill sergeant. And he treated me like an unwanted recruit. Under the guise of investigating that earlier murder, he made one condescending remark after another. And no matter what I said in return, he merely muttered, “I see,” when clearly he had no inclination to do so.

  “Is that how Randy got his negative impression of the twins?” I asked. “From Sheriff Halverson?” Deputy Randy Ryden didn’t care for Buford and Buddy. As a matter of fact, he’d almost convinced me they were responsible for that other homicide. Of course they weren’t, though they did get hurt by it.

  “I think so.” She pulled the key from the ignition. “Then again, Randy and the twins have had lots of issues over the years. Primarily because of his relationship with their sister.”

  My heartstrings tied themselves in knots. Yes, my jealousy was irrational. The man was thirty years old. He was bound to have been in a few relationships prior to meeting me. And I was fully aware he had dated the twins’ sister. I also knew they were pretty serious before things fell apart. I just didn’t like hearing about it.

  “What’s more,” Barbie said, “the twins used to get into their share of trouble, especially after their mom died. And since Randy’s a cop, that caused some tension. But you already know all that. Besides, they’ve changed a lot over the past couple years. Much to Sheriff Halverson’s chagrin.”

  We eased from the car, the wind whistling at us like a chorus of construction workers. “Why does the sheriff dislike them so?” An especially strong gust practically swept the words from my mouth.

  “Something that happened a few years ago,” she shouted in an effort to be heard. “He just can’t seem to forgive or forget.”

  Before I could follow up, Barbie started across the road, and I scooted after her, the sharp, ice-like snowflakes stabbing my cheeks.

  Chapter Eight

  The commingled scents of melted cheese and baked bread drifted throughout the cafe. Margie was behind the counter, preparing a fresh pot of coffee, when Barbie and I plunked ourselves down on the stools opposite her.

  “Is it gettin’ nasty out there?” the café owner asked.

  “Oh, yeah.” Barbie rubbed her hands together. “I better get back to Hallock, or my hubby will worry about me.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “And I certainly don’t want to be late. It’s date night.”

  “Gee whiz,” Margie muttered.

  “What are you two talking about?” I combed my fingers through my hair. It was ripe with static electricity, not to mention snarls. I was sure it stuck straight out, and “Pippi Longstocking” had never been a good look for me.

  “Sex,” Barbie said. “We’re talking about sex. Tom and I end every date night in bed. And our sex is so good that when we get done, even the neighbors light cigarettes.”

  “Gee whiz,” Margie repeated.

  “Before I go, though, I want to taste some Sauerkraut Hot Dish. I also want to find out what you learned from the folks in there.” She bobbed her head toward the middle room. The beet banquet was well underway. I heard the murmur of voices and the occasional heightened sound of laughter.

  “The weather’s been the major topic of conversation,” Margie informed us. “I don’t think anyone will be stayin’ very long. If they had their druthers, they’d probably be at home right now.”

  She filled a coffee cup and handed it to Barbie. “That oughtta warm ya up.” She then glanced my way, the implicit question in her eyes.

  “Yes, please,” I answered.

  “Do you mean to tell me you didn’t find out anything about Raleigh Cummings?” Barbie sounded surprised if not altogether disappointed.

  “I didn’t say that.” Margie gave me a mug of coffee, and I wrapped my hands around it, hoping to thaw them out. “I asked around,” she said, “and some people were more than happy to talk about him. But since he wasn’t from around here and only drove on the night shift, the day folks didn’t know much.”

  She a
dded to me by way of explanation, “Beet harvest takes ’round-the-clock work. Ya don’t stop for nothin’ other than too much heat, too much cold, or too much rain. And since ya always encounter some of that, ya gotta move fast when the conditions are right. So all the beet farmers run two shifts during harvest—a day shift that works from noon to midnight and a night shift that goes from midnight to noon.”

  She leaned back against the service counter and crossed her feet at her ankles. “I talked to Dinky Donaldson.” She honed in on Barbie, who didn’t appear all that impressed by her source of information. “Did ya know he and his brother sold their beet stock last winter?” She dipped her chin. “Well, they did. So as it turns out, they were able to drive beet truck for Buford and Buddy this past week.” She glanced at me. “See, flu season started early this year. Workers were droppin’ like flies, leavin’ the farmers scramblin’ to find fill-in help.” She sidled up to the wall and rapped her knuckles against the wainscoting. “Knock on wood I don’t get sick. That flu bug sounds awful.”

  Barbie slurped her steaming coffee. “It makes sense they’d help out, doesn’t it? You’re all related, right?”

  Margie returned to her stance against the back counter. “Yeah,” she said slowly, “if I remember right, Arlene Donaldson—that’d be their grandpa’s sister—married Gus Johnson, my grandpa’s uncle on his father’s side.” She squished up the left side of her face. “Or was he my grandpa’s first cousin? Hmm, I always get that mixed up.” She snapped her fingers. “No, I got it now. He was my grandpa’s nephew. That’s right. He was the oldest son of his youngest brother. Yeah, I remember. He married—”

  “Stop!” Barbie pounded her head against the counter. “I should have known better than to say anything. With you even the most innocent question about family turns into a genealogy lesson.”

  Margie shrugged. “I like knowin’ how everybody around here’s connected. That’s all.”

  She looked to me, perhaps for agreement, but I saw it as an opportunity to change the subject. Having no family to speak of, I’d never found genealogy particularly interesting. “Margie, what did you mean when you said the Donaldson brothers sold their beet stock?”

  With a swing of her ponytail, Margie shifted from the subject of ancestors back to farming. “Not just anyone can grow sugar beets, ya know. Ya need stock. And if ya don’t have any, ya hafta buy or rent some from someone else. And if ya can’t find any, well then, you’re out of luck. No beets for you.” She stopped, ostensibly to give me a chance to absorb everything she’d said. “That’s how the growers regulate the amount of sugar produced and, ultimately, the price.” She stopped again. “Well, that and they own the processing plants.” She chuckled, and a renegade gray-blonde hair came to rest on the lashes of her right eye. It flitted when she blinked.

  “Yah,” she continued, “even though sugar beets are still a darn good crop, financially speakin’, some growers are sellin’ off their stock.” More blinking. More flitting. “They’re afraid what Congress might do in the way of decreasin’ subsidies and all. So they wanna get out while the gettin’ is still good.” I think my eyes were glazing over. It was way too much information to process at one time. Besides, that flitting thing was hypnotizing.

  “Anyways,” she said, “what I was gonna tell ya was that Dinky went over to the city office this past Tuesday afternoon, after he got done in the field. And before he even got to the door, he heard Raleigh Cummin’s arguin’ with Janice.”

  She again paused to provide me clarification. But this time she spoke a little faster, apparently suspicious of my attention span. “Janice Ferguson’s our city clerk. Has been for some time. Does a darn good job too. Knows how every dime is spent. And what more could ya ask?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Then again, she probably didn’t expect one. “On the flip side, she can be a real pain in the keester. She’s set in her ways. More stubborn than hammered iron, as William Shakespeare said.”

  “Pssssh.” Coffee spewed from my mouth and squirted out my nose.

  Barbie threw her head back and let go of a guffaw.

  Margie stiffened her spine, set her shoulders, and with a righteous amount of indignation, demanded, “Now what in the dickens is so funny about that?” She glared, first at Barbie, then at me. “I may be a small-town café owner, but I can read.”

  I yanked a napkin from the dispenser in front of me and tended to my face. “I’m sorry, Margie. It just seemed out of character. I didn’t know you were fond of Shakespeare. You don’t seem the type.”

  “Well,” Margie huffed, tugging on her tee-shirt, “that’ll teach ya not to pigeonhole people.” She stepped toward the cash register, grabbed the tube of Chapstick tucked alongside it, and outlined her thin cracked lips. “Durin’ the last couple months, I’ve been tryin’ to broaden my horizons. And not just in the kitchen.” She replaced the cover and returned the tube to its resting place.

  I felt terrible. Hurting Margie was the last thing I wanted to do. “Margie, I’m truly sorry.”

  She brushed aside my words and hopefully her anger. “Anyways, Dinky said . . .” She let her voice trail off as she peered at me with one eye, the other tightly closed. “I think ya met Dinky and his brother, Biggie, when ya were here last.”

  While never formally introduced, I remembered them as the guys who had driven an old tractor to town. They’d lost their driver’s licenses due to excessive DWIs. But since a license wasn’t required to operate farm machinery, they didn’t seem concerned.

  I suspected their carefree attitude ran in the family. Grandpa Donaldson, who was pushing ninety, if not dragging it behind him, recklessly drove a golf cart all over town, refusing to listen to anyone who urged him to hang up his keys. During my last visit, I’d spotted the cart in his front yard, the front end leaning into a hedge, the rear wheels hanging on a garden timber. A bumper sticker plastered on the back read, “If you don’t like my driving, stay the hell off the sidewalk.”

  “Anyways,” Margie said, “Dinky was comin’ in to ask Janice about gettin’ a delay in tearin’ down that shed he owns on the southeast end of town there. It got condemned by the city, and rightfully so. But, of course, Dinky wasn’t thrilled about spendin’ the money to demolish it. See, those Donaldson boys are tight unless they’re playin’ poker or buyin’ booze. Yah, they’re worth millions. Still, for the most part, when either one takes a five-dollar bill out of his wallet, Lincoln is temporarily blinded by the light.”

  Margie snickered while picking up her coffee cup, only to set it right back down again. “Anyways,” she said for the umpteenth time, “Dinky told me that Janice and Raleigh were goin’ on about garbage bags, if ya can imagine that. See, Raleigh was stayin’ in the house his cousin Harvey had been rentin’ here in town before his heart attack.

  “Now I’m not sure if Raleigh didn’t know ya had to use special garbage bags or simply didn’t care. But either way he failed to put his garbage in the official orange bag, so his trash didn’t get picked up. It was left at the curb, and some dog got in it, and he had to clean up the mess. Which made him madder than a wet hen. So he went on over to the city office and accused Janice of never explainin’ about the official bags.” She took a break but only long enough for a deep breath. “Personally I find that hard to believe considerin’ how seriously she takes that aspect of her job.”

  Another deep breath. “Ya know, Dinky told me he actually turned sideways along the door frame to keep Janice and Raleigh from seein’ him.” She borrowed one of the snorts I’d been saving up. “Like that would make a difference.” She added to me alone, “If ya remember, Dinky and his brother are each the size of a Mack truck.” She paused, peering over her shoulder, as if checking the time.

  “And?” Barbie prompted.

  “And . . .” Margie repeated, visibly struggling to recount exactly where she’d left off. “Oh, yah . . . Raleigh called Janice so
me God-awful names. But she just hollered back, ‘Are ya always a pain in the ass, Raleigh, or is today a special occasion?’” Margie rubbed her large, rough hands. “Oh, that Janice can be a real wise alec. And even though I think she’s pretty darn funny, not everybody agrees. Nope, some folks don’t get her sense of humor at all. And I’ll admit, it’s an acquired taste. Still, Raleigh went too far. He actually threatened her. And that’s when Dinky walked in.”

  Margie crossed her arms and tucked them under her breasts. “Raleigh left right away then. And when Dinky asked Janice if she was okay, she told him that Raleigh didn’t scare her one iota. She said, if need be, she’d take care of him for good.” Margie allowed us to consider that remark for an extra moment. “Dinky told me that in spite of Janice bein’ small, he had no doubt she’d do it too. He saw it in her eyes.”

  “Margie, do you really believe Janice would kill Raleigh Cummings over garbage bags?” Barbie drew in her thick lips and bit down. I got the sense she was doing her best to stifle a giggle.

  “Accordin’ to Dinky,” Margie answered, “there was a bunch of trash dumped on the steps of the city office on Wednesday mornin’.” She stopped for a beat. “Yeah, that would of been yesterday.” She allowed another beat to pass. “Dinky didn’t see it himself because he was in the field. But Biggie saw it and told him about it.” She glanced at me. “Biggie was workin’ the day shift, so he didn’t start till noon.”

  “And?” Barbie tapped her index finger on the counter. Once more she appeared to be urging Margie along. Or perhaps she was trying to keep her on point. Either way I figured she didn’t stand much of a chance.

  “And,” Margie repeated, “guess who was cleanin’ up the mess?” She answered herself in the same breath, “One very angry Janice Ferguson.”

  “Hmm.” Barbie’s expression was an odd mix of humor and impatience, as if she didn’t know whether to laugh at what Margie had told her or dismiss it as so much malarkey. “I don’t know. You got your information from Dinky Donaldson, not an especially credible source. And while Janice may not be the most principled person in the world, I don’t believe she’d kill over garbage bags.”