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

by Jeanne Cooney

  “I’m not sayin’ she did. In fact, I’m prayin’ she didn’t. I like her, and we need her on our curlin’ team this winter.” Again, to me, she explained, “We have a pretty good shot at goin’ far this year. But only if Janice is on board. She may be small, but she’s as strong as an ox. And by golly, she can sweep a rock like nobody’s business.” She turned back to Barbie. “I’m just repeatin’ what I was told.”

  Barbie tapped the tips of her short fingernails against her dark red lips. “Do you really think she’d be strong enough to move Raleigh’s body to the scale pit? Remember, he wasn’t killed down there.”

  Margie thought about that. “Like I said, she’s strong. Besides, if she couldn’t do it by herself, she could probably get help.”

  Barbie didn’t appear persuaded. Yet, she said, “Something to consider, I suppose.”

  Margie stood straight. “How about considerin’ it while ya eat some Overnight Hot Dish?” She peeked across her shoulder. “That’s all I’ve got left on the stove. The rest of the hot dishes, includin’ two different sauerkraut ones, are out in the banquet room. One recipe’s from Darla Hanson, and the other is from Linda Kutzer. And I don’t know which I like better. Anyways, the boys decided to set the buffet tables up in there, so there wouldn’t be so much traipsin’ back and forth. And God only knows what’ll be left when that crew gets done.”

  She leaned her head sideways, evidently listening for something. “Ya know, it’s soundin’ quieter. Maybe folks are headin’ out. Wanna wait and see? Or ya wanna go with the Overnight Hot Dish? It’s a new recipe from Jill Fedo. She’s mostly known for her bakin’. She’s won more state fair ribbons than ya can shake a stick at. But I’m wagerin’ she’s a decent cook too.”

  “Oh, I guess I’ll go with the Overnight Hot Dish.” Barbie’s tone conveyed her disappointment. She really wanted to try something with sauerkraut. “I’m so famished I suppose I could eat just about anything.”

  Margie balled her fists. “Well, I certainly don’t wanna force anythin’ on ya.”

  Recognizing her mistake, Barbie began backpedalling. But it was too late. The damage had already been done. Margie was irked.

  Being no dummy, when Margie looked at me, I played the role of Switzerland by saying, “I don’t want to cause any problems, so I’ll just have whatever you think is best.” In truth, while hungry, I really didn’t want to hang around the café for fear of meeting up with the twins—Buddy in particular. Nevertheless, I added, “Overnight Hot Dish would suit me just fine.”

  As I said, Margie was an easy-going person, at least where I was concerned, but I’d annoyed her once already, and I wasn’t about to press my luck.

  Chapter Nine

  Margie went to the kitchen to dish up some hot dish for Barbie and me. And while she was gone, Barbie sat quietly, most likely mulling over everything we—I mean she—had learned about Raleigh Cummings and his death. As for me, I was thinking about food. Yeah, I did that a lot. Some might say too much. And I was making a concerted effort to change. At present, for example, I had a second portion of my brain fretting about the possibility of running into Buddy Johnson, while a third was stewing over what Randy must have said about me to Tweedledum and Tweedledumber.

  Oh, yeah, I was also upset about this latest murder. I enjoyed this area and, for the most part, the people in it, so I didn’t want bad things to happen here. And because I’d always been a fair-minded person, I didn’t want anyone—including Buddy Johnson—prosecuted for a crime unless actually guilty. But from what I’d gathered, Sheriff Halverson wasn’t like minded on that particular subject. He wanted to solve this case quickly, and he’d prefer to do it on the back of Buddy Johnson. Naturally that bugged me.

  When it came right down to it, though, unraveling this murder wasn’t my cause. I was a mere guest in town. Tomorrow forenoon I’d get my new recipes. Then I’d meet up with Deputy Randy Ryden. And if he could adequately explain away the attitude of his fellow deputies, we’d go on to have a great weekend at his place, despite the weather or Kennedy’s current crime wave. At least that’s what I’d hoped.

  “Hey, Emme Malloy!”

  The force of the bellow practically blew me off my stool. And while I didn’t need to raise my eyes to verify its source, I did just the same.

  It was Father Daley, the Irish priest who ministered to the few Catholics who resided in this corner of the state. Like me, he was an oddity here. Then again, he probably would have been an oddity anywhere.

  He was a sixty-something clergy who enjoyed beer and wine and was a fierce competitor at bowling, golfing, and curling, not to mention poker and whist. He laughed hard and often and was known to frequent the VFW in Kennedy as well as the Eagles in Hallock. He wasn’t particularly tall, but what he lacked in height, he made up in girth and volume. His hair was black, curly, and streaked with gray. He always wore black pants and shirts, his religious collar barely peeking out from under his double chin. As customary, a toothpick was lodged between his jaws. Tonight his normally bright blue eyes were tired, rimmed in red, with dark shadows beneath them.

  “Hello, Father.” I stood for his embrace. Father Daley was a hugger. A big hugger.

  “I heard you were planning to visit us, lass.” He stepped back after nuzzling me. “I just wasn’t sure you’d make it in light of the weather.” He spoke with an Irish brogue that sometimes was more prominent than others. I suspected it changed to suit his needs.

  “The threat of a storm couldn’t keep me from dropping in on all of you.”

  Margie placed a plate of food in front of me and another next to Barbie, while the priest squeezed my arms with his big bear paws and asked, “So how are you feeling?”

  When I was laid up here, Father Daley had stopped by every day. I’m sure he did it primarily because of his friendship with Margie. Since he spent considerable time with her in the café, I suppose it didn’t take too much effort to trudge upstairs to “visit the sick.” Still, it was nice of him to break the monotony of my days, even if I was exceedingly uncomfortable around him at first.

  I had no idea what an older priest and a young wayward Catholic woman with a bump on her head would discuss. But it didn’t end up being a problem. As Margie often said, “We talked up a storm.” He also recited poetry and told pitiful jokes. And not once did he question my religious practices, although, in the end, that also caused me guilt. You see, while not a particularly good Catholic, I’m a Catholic nonetheless, and we’re born with more than a lifetime worth of guilt, especially about our faith.

  “I’m doing fine, Father. Just fine.”

  He narrowed his eyes while using his tongue to slide his toothpick to the opposite corner of his mouth. “Are you sure, Emerald?”

  When I’d first met Father Daley, I feared he—and all priests, for that matter—could see into my soul. It was a notion imparted on the students at my elementary and middle school by Sister Helen, the most frightening person to walk the face of the earth. Even in the lower grades, I knew better than to put any faith in what she said. Yet I found myself steering clear of clergy whenever possible. And when not possible, I did my best to avoid eye contact. The practice flourished in high school. And now, while I was doing my utmost to put a halt to the silly habit, it was tough going, mostly because Father Daley was extraordinarily perceptive. Despite an inability to see into my soul, he seemed to have little trouble otherwise reading me, as he was doing at that very moment.

  “Well, I suppose I’m still struggling.” I forced myself to meet his gaze. “But I’m certainly doing better than I was.”

  “Aye,” he replied, “and now that you’re among friends, you’ll grow even stronger. See, Emerald, the support of others is important to overall well-being.” He winked at Margie. “As is laughter from a good joke.” He eyed Barbie. “And believe it or not, I happen to have one!”

  Bot
h Margie and Barbie dropped their heads and groaned, but the priest grinned, exposing a set of square white teeth that resembled so many piano keys.

  Now trust me, Father Daley wasn’t the only person in the area who told jokes. Ole and Lena jokes, recited in memory of two of the town’s most beloved residents, were as common as “snow in January,” as Margie said. And given the number I’d heard during my last visit, I could attest to that.

  “Emme,” the priest said, his weary eyes conjuring up a tiny sparkle, “don’t pay any attention to those two. Just sit and enjoy.”

  He steered me back onto my stool while remaining standing at my side. “I got this one from Jodi Johnson. She and her husband farm just west of Hallock. True, they’re Protestants. But they’re nice folks just the same.” He chuckled at that.

  And Margie repeatedly cleared her throat.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, dismissing her impatience with a wave of his hands before hitching up his pants. “One day Ole was driving along, when he got hit by a truck. So he sued. And while in court, the truck driver’s lawyer asked him, ‘So, Ole, did you report to the police officer at the scene that you were just fine?’ And Ole replied, ‘Well now, I’ll tell ya what happened. See—’

  “The lawyer interrupted. ‘Your honor, I’m trying to establish that Ole’s a fraud. First he said he was uninjured, but now he’s suing. So please instruct him to answer my question!’

  “The judge, obviously intrigued by Ole, said instead, ‘I’d like to hear more.’ And Ole replied, ‘Tanks, your honor. Well, I’d just gotten my favorite cow, Bessie, into my truck and was drivin’ down da road, when dat udder truck came thunderin’ through da stop sign and hit me. I was thrown into one ditch, while Bessie was thrown into da udder. I was hurt bad. But worse den dat, I could hear old Bessie moanin’ in pain. And when da officer showed up, he went on over to Bessie, saw her sufferin’, took out his gun, and shot her right between da eyes. Den he crossed da road, his gun still in his hand, and said to me, ‘Now, fella, how are ya feelin’? So I ask ya, what would ya of said?’”

  Margie and Barbie moaned, while Father Daley snickered as he scratched his belly.

  I did the same—the snickering, not the scratching. “Hey, Father, what are you doing here on such a terrible night?” I asked the question after concluding I didn’t dare encourage another joke, even though I got a kick out of them. “I assumed you’d be tucked away at home in Hallock.”

  Snatching his toothpick between his stubby fingers, he picked his teeth. “I had to come to the beet dinner.”

  Margie echoed, “Had to?”

  “Yes,” the priest replied emphatically. “I wasn’t about to let bad weather keep me from getting a free meal out of you and your nephews. I deserved this banquet. I worked hard.”

  “What?” I repeated the remark to myself before I spoke out loud. “You worked in the beet fields?”

  “Of course. I may be old—”

  Margie cut him off. “Eh, there’s no maybe about it. You’re so old your Social Security number is ‘one.’”

  The priest bit his lip, visibly working to stifle a grin. Just as I’d remembered, Father Daley and Margie thrived on kidding each other.

  “Yes, Emerald,” the priest said, playfully turning his back on his friend, “I operated a beet cart on the day shift. I’ve done it for years. And the good Lord willing, I’ll do it for many more. Working the earth is good for the soul.” He expelled a lung-clearing breath. “However, at my age, doing both farming and preaching on a daily basis is tough on the body. Thankfully beet harvest only lasts a few weeks. Although because of the rain and the cold, it dragged on much longer this year.”

  Barbie, who’d been eating, let her fork clamor against her plate. “Father, since you were on the day shift, I suppose you didn’t get to know Raleigh Cummings, the guy who was murdered, did you?”

  While a question, she asked it as if she already knew the answer, so the priest surprised her with his reply. “I met him once. This past Tuesday, as a matter of fact. Right after his shift ended. And I suppose you could say we talked.” He settled on the stool next to me.

  “How did that come about?” Margie wanted to know.

  Indecision flickered in the priest’s eyes. “I don’t know if I should say . . .” He wrung his thick hands as he sputtered, “But . . . umm . . . since he’s deceased . . . And . . . umm . . . considering I’ve already told the sheriff . . . Still . . .”

  “Hey, Padre,” Margie squawked, “let me know when you’re done arguin’ with yourself.” She stepped into the kitchen, only to return about five minutes later with four plates of Lemon Meringue Pie. She placed one in front of each of us, keeping the last for herself.

  I was awestruck by what looked to be confectionary perfection. Margie had made a variety of pies for the beet banquet. When she told me this particular Lemon Meringue Pie was the best she’d ever tasted, I knew I had to try it. “The recipe’s from Irene Stellon, over there in Drayton,” she had said. “It’s been a family favorite of theirs for generations.”

  “So what did you mean you ‘could say’ you talked to Raleigh Cummings?” It was a good question on Barbie’s part, but I wished she’d waited with it. I didn’t want anything affecting my pie experience. I was hoping to engage all my senses.

  “Well,” the priest replied, “he was so angry I couldn’t really get a word in edgewise. He just kept on ranting.”

  “Ranting? About what?”

  Father Daley picked up his fork. “Margie’s niece, Little Val.”

  Chapter Ten

  The priest forked a sizeable chunk of Lemon Meringue Pie into his mouth. “Buddy asked me to speak with Raleigh about his . . . umm . . . inappropriate use of the field radio.” He licked his lips. “Margie, this is delicious. Definitely one of your best.” He helped himself to another big bite. “He thought a warning from me might carry some extra weight.” He glanced down at his paunch, then up at Margie and winked.

  I turned back to my own slice of heaven. And after finishing it off in record time—thank you very much—I ate more of my dinner, alternating mouthfuls of hot dish and Jell-O.

  Normally I avoided Jell-O salads and desserts. But I was hungry. And this Jell-O salad was good, even if it consisted of little more than Jell-O and Cool Whip. It was called Lime Jell-O Salad.

  Earlier, Margie had handed me the recipe card, noting that the dish was perfect for the paper’s next spread on “church cuisine.” And now, while perusing the short list of ingredients, penned in her barely legible handwriting, I eagerly took another bite of the final product, only to stop short of swallowing.

  The priest was staring at me. I felt his eyes boring into the side of my head. The sensation left me with no choice but to rest my fork on my napkin and meet him eye to eye.

  “See,” he said, once he had my full attention, “each machine used during harvest has a radio so everyone on that particular farm can communicate. You know, the guys driving the trucks can talk to the person manning the lifter back in the field and so on. But whatever is said by one is heard by all. And there’s the rub.”

  “What’s that got to do with Raleigh being mad to Little Val?” Barbie pushed aside her empty dinner and dessert plates.

  “Well, even though the radios are mainly for work, folks also use them to shoot the breeze. And usually that’s not a problem. But this past Tuesday morning Raleigh Cummings used it to tell a joke that was totally inappropriate. And he did it while Vivian was operating the rota-beater, and Little Val was on the lifter.”

  “Huh?” I’m sure my eyes nearly popped out of my head. “Did you say Vivian?” That was almost impossible for me to fathom. I’d met Vivian. She was Margie’s younger sister and the mother of Little Val. She talked nonsense—literally. She routinely mixed metaphors and jumbled her words. Half the time no one had a clue what she was sa
ying. On top of that, she was utterly full of herself. I couldn’t imagine her consenting to work anywhere, much less in the beet fields.

  “Oh, she didn’t do all that much,” Margie was quick to point out. “She only helped those last few nights ’cause Vern got the flu.” Margie seldom gave Vivian credit for anything, in spite of being quick to come to her defense if anyone else criticized her. “She wanted to keep on his good side.” She said for my benefit, “She’d finally convinced him to drive down to Arizona early this year, and she didn’t want him havin’ any second thoughts. They’re scheduled to leave right after Thanksgivin’. Other years, they’ve waited ’til after the first of the year. But Vivian says that’s too late. She gets too cold.”

  Margie cocked her head. “Yah, they’re snowbirds. Every winter they stay in one of those RV camps near Phoenix.” She shuddered. “I don’t care how nice the weather is down there, I’d go crazy with so many people crowded into such a small area.”

  She switched back to the subject of farm work without so much as a breath. “Anyways, while Vivian doesn’t really do diddly squat on the farm, Little Val has pretty much run the place—the whole kit and caboodle—just as good as any man, ever since her dad lost his arm in that farm accident a few years back. Oh, for sure, he offers her ‘a hand’ every now and again.”

  She chuckled at her “one arm” joke. They were her favorite jokes to tell. And oddly enough, Vern didn’t seem to mind being the butt of them. To the contrary. He actually was flattered when she renamed her signature meal at the cafe “One-Arm Hot Dish,” noting on the menu, “It’s so easy to make even Vern can do it!”