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

by Jeanne Cooney

  I wasn’t about to admit it, but the voices in my head were right. At that very moment I was practically consumed by cravings for Black Bottom Cupcakes. I’d spotted some on the kitchen counter the night before. Margie said the recipe was from Nancy Peterson Lundberg. She also said, “They’re gall-darn tasty.” I gave the room a quick once-over but didn’t see any. Damn! I mean darn!

  With a resigned sigh, I folded my hands and rested them on the steel table in front of me. “Buddy?” I attempted to inhale deeply, but my chest was too tight for anything more than a shallow breath. “I’m sorry about your family.” I pushed the statement out fast, on a single exhale, afraid I’d chicken out if I paused at all. “I didn’t mean for things to turn out the way they did.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” Buddy shifted uncomfortably. Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about the incident either. But now that I’d committed myself to this particular act of contrition, I couldn’t turn back, even if that’s what he would have preferred.

  “Well . . . umm . . . in truth,” I stuttered, “I was only supposed to gather hot dish, Jell-O, and bar recipes. Nothing more. I wasn’t . . . umm . . . assigned to dig into an old murder case. Even so, that’s what I did.” I swallowed over the lump in my throat. “See, I wanted to be . . . umm . . . a hero. I wanted to become an investigative reporter. I really didn’t give much thought to how my ambitions might hurt other people.”

  In spite of what folks may claim, unburdening yourself doesn’t feel all that great. At least not initially. And Buddy was no help. He didn’t say a word. He merely raised his head and stared at me, his intense dark eyes giving nothing away. And the silence stretched on between us.

  I hate silence. It leads to obsessive thinking. Usually about painful experiences: My parents’ death, my uninspiring job, my past relationship with Boo-Boo, this frightful confession. So I fill silence whenever possible.

  “See, Buddy, I tried to . . . umm . . . crack the case to advance my career. But I’m not particularly good at investigative work. The truth is I only stumble along. Solving that murder was a fluke.”

  “Emerald, I understand. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?” Nope, he wasn’t any more thrilled about rehashing that other murder case than Margie had been.

  Maybe Barbie was right. When I’d asked her to explain Margie’s reluctance to “talk things out,” she said that Scandinavians usually keep their problems and disappointments to themselves. Which was probably true. But I was Irish. Stubborn. A talker. And I was going to finish what I’d started.

  “Well . . . umm . . . I just wanted to apologize, Buddy, and say that I’d do anything to make it up to you.” I glanced all around the room but not at him. “Truly I would.”

  I sucked in a deep breath and waited. But believe it or not, the world didn’t end. I’d done a very hard thing. I had taken responsibility for my actions. I’d even apologized for them. Still, the earth kept spinning. So I summoned all the courage I had left in me and forced my eyes to meet his. And when that didn’t tilt the planet right off its axis, I indulged in a big gulp of coffee, feeling awfully smug.

  At the same time, Buddy flashed me one of his half smiles, where just the right corner of his mouth ticked upward. Then, with a wink, that same smile morphed into what could only be described as a leer. “Really?” he said. “You’d do anything?”

  I gagged on my coffee. There was enough suggestive inflection in his voice to choke a horse. “What did you say?” I knew full well what he’d said, but I had to ask again because I didn’t want to believe my ears. Buddy Johnson had propositioned me! Just when I was ready to cut him some slack, he proved what a creep he actually was.

  I was angry and embarrassed. And I was pretty sure I wanted to go home. This trip had been doomed from the start. First, Randy had called to say he wouldn’t get back until Friday afternoon, so I’d have to stay with Margie Thursday night. Then, I was late leaving Minneapolis because one of my tires sprang a leak. On top of that, there was this new murder investigation, which I desperately wanted to avoid. And now, Buddy turned out to be the sleaze Randy had warned me about. Could things possibly get any worse?

  Ya betcha, Emma. Just wait and see.

  Chapter Twelve

  Buddy laughed as he patted my back. “I was kidding, Emerald. Just kidding.”

  With my coughing winding down, I wiped the corners of my mouth with my fingertips. I wasn’t sure if I believed him.

  “In all seriousness,” he continued, not appearing especially serious, “I want something from you. But it’s not what you think.” He stopped for a two count. “I’m not interested in you in that way.”

  I dropped my eyes. I couldn’t look at him. First he comes on to me, only to deny it. Then he assures me he doesn’t find me the least bit desirable. What a jerk!

  “Emerald,” he said, “I need your help.”

  Unless it involves me shoving my foot so far up your ass I’m able to tie my shoes through your nostrils, you shouldn’t count on it.

  “See,” he continued, oblivious to the snide commentary running through my mind, “I’m having a problem with the sheriff.”

  “What?” Although I heard him, I was still too humiliated and confused to make sense of his words.

  “He’s decided that I killed Raleigh Cummings.” He combed his fingers through his hair. “Margie told me you know the story. She said you and Barbie were out at the piler, talking to Guy and Jarod while they stood guard, waiting for the body to be picked up.”

  My breath hitched, prompting another coughing episode.

  Once again Buddy patted me on my back.

  “The body . . . was still . . . down there?” With all my hacking, my words ended up staggered in phrases that sounded like really bad rap.

  Buddy seemed perplexed. “Well, yeah.”

  Oh, God! I was standing on top of a dead guy! Another shiver ran along my backbone, while several others fanned out to my legs and arms.

  “Anyhow,” he said while scratching the whisker stubble that covered his chin, “despite what you claim, I know you’re good at solving mysteries. So how ’bout it?”

  “Huh?” I couldn’t process his words.

  “Emme, I don’t want to go to jail, particularly for something I didn’t do.”

  I massaged my temples and concentrated on slow, steady breathing. Eventually his words resonated, causing me to lurch forward. “Whoa!” My hands instantly made the international sign for “no way.” And when I was certain I’d gotten my point across, I added out loud, “I’m not a detective. You need to hire a professional.”

  He canted his head toward the front window. “It’s storming. I wouldn’t be able to get anyone out here for at least a couple days. By then the sheriff will have me bound and gagged. Once I’m in jail, I won’t be able to do much.” His eyes pleaded with me. “I need to figure things out now. And to do that, I need your help.”

  “But I can’t.” I had to stay strong. I couldn’t get tangled up in another murder investigation. “I don’t know how—”

  “Emerald.” He leaned across the table, a curly lock of his hair falling across his forehead. “What happened to wanting to do whatever you could to make things up to me?”

  “I wouldn’t be aiding your cause. You need . . .” An idea limped forward from the back of my brain. “You need . . . the BCA guys. Yeah, they can help you.”

  Buddy set his right elbow on the table and rested his chin against his fist. “Maybe, when they get here. But who knows when that’ll be. The interstate’s closed at Alexandria. There’s no air travel between here and St. Cloud. And unless we do something soon, the sheriff will tie the crime to me. Then by the time the BCA guys do show up, it’ll take them forever to sort everything out. And all the while, I’ll be stuck in jail. And I can’t handle that.”

  I twisted my hair around my
finger. “What about Buford?” Even as I said it, I knew it was a dumb idea. Buford knew farming, but otherwise he wasn’t a deep thinker. Barbie had once told me he could only identify major cities by their professional hockey teams.

  “Emerald, I don’t want my freedom dependent on Buford.”

  I didn’t want his freedom dependent on me either. I couldn’t be responsible for him. I could barely manage my own life.

  “I’m not asking you to strike out on your own.” He spoke as if he understood my concern. “I’m just asking you to work with me. Let me bounce ideas off you.”

  “But it’s already Friday. And I’m scheduled to go home on Sunday.” I gathered some much-needed gumption to add, “And . . . umm . . . I have plans beginning this afternoon.”

  A bemused expression overtook his face. “There’s no way lover boy’s going to make it back today, if that’s what you’re thinking. This storm’s out of the northwest. He’s stuck in Williston.”

  My heart sank so low that if not for my stomach it would have ended up in my lap. Sure, Randy and I needed to work through the whole Tweedledum-Tweedledumber thing. But I was pretty sure we could. At least that was what I was hoping.

  “Wait a minute.” Buddy studied my face, his own features slowly revealing understanding. “He hasn’t called or texted you, has he?”

  He may have wanted an answer, but I wasn’t about to volunteer anything. See, I had tried to assure myself that Randy’s failure to call was no big deal. But in truth, his disregard hurt. Apparently, while not as needy as I’d been earlier in my life—or even earlier in the year—I still required reassurances. Then again, a measly phone call wasn’t exactly “reassurance.” It was just common courtesy, right?

  I gazed at my reflection in the surface of the metal prep table. My distress was apparent to me, and Buddy must have recognized it too because he switched gears, now speaking in a passive voice—the kind you use with a child or an adult you find pitiful. “Hey, the more I think about it, phone reception out there might be spotty with the storm and all. Hell, it’s spotty here when the weather’s good.” He waited, possibly hoping I’d laugh at his attempt at humor. When I didn’t, he rocked back on the rear legs of his stool. “Yeah, he probably called and just couldn’t get through.”

  I bit down on my bottom lip. I was a loser of such monumental proportions that even the grand poobah of the local womanizer’s club felt sorry for me. Tears stung my eyes. But I refused to let them fall.

  “So?” He settled his stool, stood up, and stretched his arm across the table. He lifted my chin with the tip of his finger. “How about working with me?” He sat back down, his eyes showing so much compassion that it almost made me sick with humiliation. “You’d be helping me out.” He waffled, obviously hunting for something more to say. “And it would keep your mind off . . . I mean . . .” The words stalled on his lips. He hadn’t intended on mentioning Randy or his apparent decision to forget all about me. As a result, he now found himself at a loss. “Well . . . umm . . .” he sputtered. “Who knows? It might be fun.”

  I deadpanned, “You’re accused of murder, Buddy? What part of that might be fun?”

  He smiled that half-smile of his—the nice one—the one that makes his dark eyes shine like polished stones. “Oh, come on. Do this for me.” He once more bent across the table, this time invading my personal space. He covered my hands with one of his own. “Please.”

  While his palm was calloused and his fingers, rough, his touch was soft and soothing. And for someone who had undoubtedly slept in his clothes and hadn’t yet cleaned up, he smelled good. I caught the scent of musk along with a hint of something else. Baby powder perhaps?

  I pulled my hand free as soon as I realized I had absolutely no desire to do so. “Did you sleep on the pool table last night?” A change of subject was definitely in order.

  “What? Where did that come from?”

  “Well, you smell like baby powder. You know, like people use when shooting pool. Plus, I’m guessing you didn’t go home.” I wagged my finger up and down, pointing out his rumpled appearance, which included the same clothes he’d worn the previous day. “And since I slept in one of the bedrooms upstairs, and I assume Margie took the other, you and Buddy were left with the booths or the pool table. And you’re too tall to stretch out in a booth, so you must have slept on the pool table. Am I right?”

  He regarded me with appraising eyes. “You are good at deduction.”

  He arched what must have been a sore back. And as his torso stretched and his tee-shirt climbed, I couldn’t help but sneak a peek at his abs. “I flipped Buford for it,” he said, relaxing his midsection. “I got the pool table. He got stuck on the bar.”

  “The bar?” I mentally scratched my head, determined to keep my thoughts trained on his words and nothing else. “Isn’t that a little narrow for sleeping?”

  “Well, you don’t want to do a lot of tossing and turning, that’s for sure.” He settled back on his stool, his half-smile again in place. “On the flip side, you’re close to all the bottles if you get thirsty before morning.”

  I found myself chuckling. It was easy to do around Buddy Johnson. My impression was he didn’t take himself too seriously.

  “So what do you say?” He tilted his head. “Will you hang out with me for a while? At least until Dudley Do-right shows up?”

  I stopped chuckling so I could scowl.

  “Sorry, no more snide comments about the esteemed deputy.” He flashed me the Boy Scout hand signal. “I promise.”

  “Yeah, right.” A grin betrayed my terse tone. “Like I’m going to believe you were ever a Boy Scout.”

  He adjusted the cuffs on his flannel shirt. “How dare you doubt me!” He was going for indignant, but it didn’t work. “Okay, come on,” he added, pretending total exasperation by my misgivings. “Let’s go to my place, and I’ll show you all my badges.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  “Does that line really work for you?”

  “No, but it made you smile.” He dipped his head toward me. “So? What’s it going to be?”

  His expression was full of expectations, which scared me, leaving my mind to jump around until, for some reason, it landed on Pudding Shots. Margie had made some to serve as an after-dinner treat for the adults at the beet banquet. From what I understood, they were nothing more than dollops of pudding in various flavors, all infused with alcohol. She said there were extra servings in the fridge. And I wondered, as I checked the time, if nine o’clock in the morning was too early to taste test a few.

  “Emerald? Are you going to help me out or not?”

  I sighed. I couldn’t get drunk. I was on the job. Besides, I owed Buddy, given what I had done to his family. So with yet another sigh, I replied, knowing full well I’d more than likely regret my words, “Yeah, I’ll help. I don’t know what kind of assistance I can provide, but I’ll try—at least for the time being.”

  “That’s all I’m asking.” He pushed his stool back, the legs scraping the wood floor. “How about some breakfast while we talk things over?”

  “Sounds good.”

  He started for the refrigerator, while the chimes at Maria Lutheran began to play, just like they did every morning. On this day, though, I could have sworn the tune was something of a funeral march.

  Oh, Emme, did you just make a horrible mistake?

  Part Two: Survey the Buffet Table To See What’s Left

  Chapter Thirteen

  While Buddy was in the kitchen, scrounging up breakfast, I ambled to the front of the café and grabbed a seat in one of the booths. The Community News section of The Enterprise was on the table, and I pulled it closer. A notation across the top of the front page encouraged folks to submit information regarding social events, group meetings, and other “happenings.”

  The first entry in “Social Event
s” read,

  Sue Kulbeik and friends drove from Elbow Lake, Minnesota, to Oakwood, North Dakota, last Wednesday for taco night at the bar.

  It was followed by,

  The Hennen sisters had lunch at Bauer’s Flowers, Gifts & Coffee Corner in Warren after visiting the Willow and Ivy Gift Shop and their urologist in Crookston. The lunch was pleasant. As was shopping. The urologist, not so much.

  The next was a bit more dramatic:

  Unexpected guests stopped by Lyndon Johnson’s rural-Hallock home last Saturday afternoon. Having nothing prepared to go with the coffee he served, Lyndon whipped up Fork and Pan Cake, which takes very little time and, as suggested by its name, requires only a fork and a pan to prepare.”

  Hmm. The recipe wasn’t included, but I made a mental note to ask Margie about it.

  I then skimmed the rest of the event entries as well as two ads, one urging folks to visit Drayton Drug for their prescription and gift needs and the second encouraging them to shop at Anderson’s Pharmacy in Hallock for the same.

  Buddy walked into the room and, from the large tray balanced on his forearm, retrieved plates of what he called Breakfast Pie. After setting them on the table, along with a pot of coffee, a carafe of orange juice, and a plate of buttered toast, he tossed the empty tray onto the table in the next booth and slid in across from me. “Tell me what you’ve got so far.”

  “Didn’t Margie already do that?”

  He held up his hand, signaling he’d respond as soon as he’d finished a mouthful of eggs. “I’d like to hear it from you,” he said on the swallow.

  “Well . . .” It was my turn to do the hand thing. I’d never been especially concerned about my manners, but I was making an effort to change my ways. “Well,” I repeated after washing down my food with a sip of coffee, “I don’t have a lot.”