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

by Jeanne Cooney

  “When you find a costume you like, we’ll need to make a few alterations.” She opened the hard-sided case. “But that’s easy to do with safety pins and Velcro.”

  I helped myself to a Strawberry Pretzel Square and climbed onto the bed, scooting up against the headboard. “I really don’t—”

  “Shhh!” She pointed her finger at me, prompting the nearly irresistible urge to offer her a finger of my own. “We already decided that a costume was necessary,” she said. “Now it’s just a matter of determining which one. I’ll try on a few, so you can get an idea of the possibilities.” She was still wearing that stupid grin. “I just love dressing up for Halloween! Always have.”

  Margie cleared her throat. “And while you’re doin’ that, we can share what we learned today about the murder. Then we’ll know what we hafta find out tonight.”

  Margie collected a small notepad and pen from the top drawer of the dresser and settled in the corner chair, while Barbie picked through flimsy tops and tiny bottoms from haphazard piles in her costume trunk. As for me? I pondered my visit thus far.

  I wasn’t in jail, like Buddy, so that was a good thing. But between being dumped by Randy and cajoled into wearing a degrading costume in order to participate in an investigation I’d pledged to avoid, I wasn’t having a great time either. In fact, it pretty much stunk. And that realization led me to mutter an old adage often uttered by my dad.

  “What was that, Emme?” Margie asked when I was done.

  Before I could answer, Barbie whistled. She was holding a piece of shiny black material about the size of a dish towel. “Oh, yeah, this will work.” She glanced at me, her grin nearly wrapped around her head. “This should be great!”

  “Emme?” Margie repeated. “What did you just say?”

  I stared at the small slip of fabric and answered in a voice lined with gloom. “I said, ‘Nothing is ever so bad that it can’t get worse.’”

  Margie let out a hardy laugh, her coffee sloshing over the rim of her cup, while Barbie complained, “You Irish are a cynical bunch, aren’t you?” She added black fishnet stockings to the clothing collection clutched in her hand.

  “Oftentimes for good reason.”

  “Oh, come on.” She picked up a clear plastic zip-lock bag full of costume accessories. Among the many items inside was a feather duster. “I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you think.”

  I shuddered while considering what that duster might have wiped off in the past. “It hardly could be.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Taking a break from rummaging through her trunk, Barbie briefed Margie about what we’d learned from Guy and Jarod as well as what we’d seen in the scale pit. When she was done, she headed into the bathroom, costume pieces in hand. She flicked on the light but left the door halfway open in order to hear us better.

  I turned to Margie and cleared my throat. “Before we get too far along, I need to say something.” I’m sure she expected me to make another pitch for going to the party in street clothes. So I probably surprised her when I said, “I realize that some of what we have to discuss may be difficult for you since it involves your family. But we need to talk about it. And we need to talk freely. Are you going to be okay with that?”

  She barely moved her head. “Yah, I’ll be fine, Emme.”

  Considering the sadness in her eyes, I wasn’t so sure.

  Nevertheless she positioned her notepad on her lap and stoically said, “Now, ya seem to think the most likely suspects are the men who played poker with Raleigh last Friday night. Is that right?”

  I nibbled on the piece of Strawberry Pretzel Square stuck to the tip of my fork. “It’s all we really have at this point.”

  Margie shook her head. “Not necessarily. What about Janice?”

  I nibbled some more. “I suppose it’s possible. But—”

  “But,” Barbie shouted from the bathroom, “she doesn’t have a motive. Not a strong one in any case. Likewise with Little Val.”

  Margie blanched and Barbie peeked out from behind the bathroom door. “Sorry, Margie, I shouldn’t have blurted that out. Though I’m sure you realize that since Little Val had a public argument with Raleigh shortly before he died, she’s a suspect of sorts.”

  Margie sighed. “Yah, yah. We hafta consider everyone.”

  I finished my bar. “Those are really good.” I licked every last speck of sugary goodness from my fork. “Margie, remember, Little Val is only a suspect of sorts. Yes, she had an argument with Raleigh. And he was really angry with her.”

  “But,” Barbie once more shouted from the bathroom, “she was eight months pregnant when Raleigh was killed. And while she’s strong, she was . . . umm . . . well, eight months pregnant. She couldn’t have pulled him through that scale pit. What’s more, if Raleigh was killed during the night, Little Val has an alibi. Unlike our four card players, all of whom drove beet truck and, therefore, could have slipped away from everyone else now and again, she worked in the field alongside other people.”

  “So,” I continued, giving Barbie a breather, “if we eliminate Janice from our suspect list because garbage isn’t much of a motive, and we do the same for Little Val because of her condition at the time of the murder, not to mention her possible alibi, we’re left with the guys who played poker at Dinky’s cabin last Friday night. That game provided a pretty good motive. And the timing seems right.”

  Barbie walked out of the bathroom, arms held wide, hips swaying. She was dressed as a sexy French maid, wearing a shiny little black dress with a plunging neckline and a full skirt that barely covered her bottom. She complemented it, you might say—but only if you were into trashy clothing—with black pumps, those fishnet stockings, a frilly apron, and a maid’s cap.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. Among its many outrageous features, the dress had a neckline that exposed a canyon of cleavage—the grand canyon of cleavage.

  Even the little dog seemed flabbergasted. He actually left his plate to stare at the plus-size version of Frou-Frou Barbie, the Trampy French Maid.

  “You’ve really worn that in public?” I knew the answer, but I felt compelled to ask just the same.

  Barbie twirled around. “Cute, huh?”

  “Actually,” Margie said quite hesitantly, “that may be one of her more reserved costumes.”

  “Well, don’t reserve it for me.”

  With a shrug, Barbie returned to her trunk undeterred and began sorting through a pile of spandex. Margie and I watched wordlessly. And the dog? He whimpered and scampered under the bed.

  Two or three minutes later Barbie found something that met with her approval. “Let’s see what you think of this.” Her face glowed with anticipation as she grabbed another bag of accessories and headed back into the bathroom.

  “Ya know,” Margie said, her voice slightly raised so Barbie could hear, “Dinky couldn’t of murdered Cummin’s either. Based on what ya two said about that scale pit, he wouldn’t of been able to move around down there any easier than Little Val. Not with his bad back and knees.” She squinted at me. “Both Dinky and his brother have problems along those lines.”

  Barbie shouted, “And since those two only rely on each other, the idea of them hiring someone else to pull the body through the scale pit for them seems farfetched.” I heard the snap of elastic. “I think you’re right, Margie. We can rule out Biggie and Dinky.”

  I wasn’t so sure. “It still bothers me that Dinky implicated Janice. Why would he do that unless he wanted to shift attention away from himself? Sure, Buddy says it was just Dinky being a gossip. But that doesn’t feel right to me.” I returned to the dresser, serving myself a slice of the Pumpkin Roll.

  “I’ll admit what he said does seem to go beyond plain old gossip,” Barbie hollered. “Still, I don’t think Dinky’s a likely murderer. I’m not so sure about Hu
nter Carlson, though. He’s an odd duck.”

  Barbie strode into the bedroom. This time she was dressed as a sexy nurse in a white spandex uniform. Again the hemline was high and the neckline was low—so low it easily could have induced a heart attack, even in a relatively healthy man.

  “Barbie,” I said, “I’m sensing a theme here.” I placed my empty plate on the nightstand, knelt on the bed, and picked through the costumes in the trunk, careful not to touch anything with more than my fingertips. After all, God only knew where these things had been. “Sexy judge, sexy librarian, sexy soldier, sexy school girl.” I leaned back against the headboard. “I don’t think so.”

  Barbie swung her stethoscope around in the air. “You have to wear something.”

  I looked to Margie. “Emme,” she said, “I . . . umm . . . agree with Barbie. Folks will be far more willin’ to talk if you’re in costume, just like them.”

  I pressed the heel of my hand against my aching forehead. “Okay, I’ll find something. But I’ll do it myself.”

  Barbie flicked her wrist. “That’s fine. Go for it.” She made her way to the dresser to get herself a bar, but it took practically forever since her dress was so tight she could barely move her legs.

  Meanwhile, I searched the trunk. And I did it quickly, hoping I’d get done before the cooties came after me. I uncovered a couple items that didn’t totally gross me out and laid them on the bed. “Barbie, what did you mean about Hunter Carlson being an odd duck?”

  Bar in hand, she inched herself to the wall, planting her ample hip against it. “I’ve never been out to his house, but my hubby has—once. And that was enough. I guess he lives in a rickety old trailer in the country. It’s such a hell hole that Janice won’t even stay there. Of course, he’s here in town with her most of the time, but he insists on keeping the trailer house.”

  Margie ventured to supply the reason why. “He probably needs a place to go when the two of them are on the outs, which is pretty darn often.”

  “I suppose.” She nibbled on her bar. “But you’d think he’d keep the place up then. From what Tom told me, it’s a disaster. Dirty dishes. Clothes all over. Broken windows. Stained furniture.” She wrinkled her nose. “Tom said that while he was sitting on the couch, a weasel ran across the floor. So he said to Hunter, ‘I didn’t know you had a pet weasel.’ And Hunter replied, ‘Well, it’s not exactly a pet.’” She wrinkled her nose again, this time adding a gagging sound. “He had to go to the bathroom but didn’t dare and ended up squatting alongside the road on his way home.”

  I twisted my hair around my finger. “I assumed he had money. I got the impression from Buddy he was pretty good at poker.”

  Margie answered, “He might be good at cards. But like most gamblers, he probably loses way more than he wins.”

  “Whatever the case, he’s strange, and I think he’s getting stranger.” Barbie finished off her bar. “Take last Saturday night at the Eagles, for instance. He knew full well that Janice was sucking face with Raleigh right down the hall, yet he didn’t do anything to stop it.” She took itty bitty steps back to the dresser, where she picked up her coffee cup. “And what about Janice? Why was she being so indiscreet about her . . . umm . . . indiscretions? Sure, she’s cheated on Hunter pretty much since the beginning of time, and everybody knows it, including Hunter, but she’s never done it right under his nose before. What was up with that?”

  “Maybe she was mad at him,” Margie volunteered, “and wanted to make him jealous.”

  I understood what she was getting at, but there was a flaw in her reasoning. “Margie, are you suggesting that all the other times she cheated she was actually happy with Hunter?”

  With her notepad and pen on her lap, Margie pulled the binder from her hair and redid her ponytail. “Maybe those other times had nothin’ to do with him. Maybe she was with those other guys because she wanted to be with them, pure and simple.” She patted the sides of her hair and picked up her pen. “But last Saturday night she practically shoved her behavior in his face. That tells me she was really angry with him.”

  “Boy, Margie,” Barbie playfully said as she set her cup back on the dresser, “you’re getting so perceptive that pretty soon you’ll probably find us too obtuse to be your friends.”

  “Just tryin’ to broaden my horizons is all.”

  “A good thing,” Barbie replied. “Better than what I’ve been doing lately, which is broadening my ass.” She yanked on the bottom of her spandex nurse’s uniform. “This thing is getting a little too tight.”

  Margie shuffled in her seat. “Honey, that thing passed ‘too tight’ years ago.”

  I leaned over the bed and discovered that the puppy was still hiding out. I was tempted to join him. “So why would Janice get so angry with Hunter?” I absently asked the question as I pulled the little guy out from under the bed, picked him up, and nuzzled him. “And is it at all possible that it somehow led to the murder of Raleigh Cummings?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I was still sitting on the bed, scratching the puppy’s belly, when Margie said, “I realize neither of ya wants to do it because we’re friends, but we can’t leave it go any longer. We hafta consider Wally. He’s a suspect too.”

  Barbie baby-stepped over to where Margie was seated and gave her a one-arm, shoulder hug. “Yes, sweetie, he is.”

  “You know what bothers me the most about him?” Margie’s tone was reflective. “He didn’t stand up for Little Val on the farm radio. And that’s not like him. He worships that woman.”

  “Well, maybe he didn’t dare for some reason.” Barbie was concentrating on some invisible spot on the wall opposite her. “Maybe, for instance, Raleigh found out about his gambling problem and threatened to expose him if he crossed him.”

  I quit scratching. The dog kicked his legs. So I went right back to it. “You’ve been watching too many Dateline Mysteries, Barbie. How would Raleigh come to know something like that about Wally?”

  Margie squeezed her chin between her thumb and her knuckle and answered for her. “Well, Raleigh and Wally are both from Fargo. And Wally’s only lived here a few years. So maybe they knew each other before.”

  “Not you too, Margie!” Wasn’t she supposed to be defending him?

  “Well . . .”

  I shook my head. “Fargo’s a big place. It’s unlikely they knew each other before Raleigh came here.”

  “But if they did,” Barbie countered, her arms braced on the back of Margie’s chair, “or if Raleigh found out that Wally shouldn’t have been gambling or that his problem was a secret of sorts, he could have threatened to blackmail him over it.”

  “Then what?” I asked. “Wally hit him over the head and stuffed him in a scale pit?”

  Margie flinched.

  And I nodded at her. “See? It’s a dumb idea. Wally couldn’t have killed him. If for no other reason, he was never alone. He carpooled to and from the field with his mother-in-law, for God sake. And when he wasn’t at work, he hung out with his pregnant wife.”

  “Except Wednesday afternoon,” Barbie pointed out, “when Father Daley saw him rushing around Hallock all by himself.”

  I had to close my eyes and gather my composure. “Do you really believe Wally raced through Hallock to get to the twins’ farm so he could meet Raleigh Cummings in their front yard and murder him in broad daylight?”

  Margie’s face brightened. “Of course not,” she said with relief. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Yeah,” Barbie agreed, “although I’d feel a whole lot better if we knew two things.” She wiggled two fingers in the air. “One, why didn’t Wally come to Little Val’s defense on the radio? And, two, why didn’t he tell the truth about what he was doing Wednesday afternoon?”

  I agreed. “Those are definitely questions that need to be answered.”

&n
bsp; And Margie made notes to that effect on her pad.

  “In the meantime,” I said, “let’s move on to the fourth card player, the guy everyone calls the President. No one seems to know much about him. In fact, no one even sees much of him now that he and Vivian are on the outs.”

  The two women exchanged shrugs before Margie said, “Well, I think he’s kind of sleazy. And I’m not just sayin’ that ’cause he chases after my sister.”

  “Yeah,” Barbie agreed. “I’d never want to get locked in a room with him.” She shuddered.

  “What else?” I asked. “Anything more substantive?”

  They both gave that considerable thought.

  “Well,” Margie said at last, “He’s always been a loner except for golf, poker, and the school board.”

  “And he goes out of town a lot,” Barbie added. “I assumed it was business. But I guess I don’t really know.”

  It was Margie’s turn again. “He’s also lost a lot of weight recently.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Barbie tugged at the mid-section of her nurse’s uniform, as if to emphasize the point by way of comparison. “I bet he’s dropped forty or fifty pounds in the last couple months.”

  “Really?”

  “Remember him from before? He was kind of roly poly? Well, not anymore.” Barbie continued to pull on her hem. “I should check with him to see how he did it. I could probably stand to lose a few pounds.”

  “So,” I said, “are you saying he’s fit?”

  “What?” Barbie’s was looking at her waistline, and she yanked her head up so fast it almost snapped right off her neck. “Did you just call me fat?”

  “No!” I squealed. “I asked if the President was fit now that he’s lost weight.”

  Barbie fluttered her hands. “Oh. Sorry. I might be getting overly sensitive about my weight. Does that mean I need to go on a diet?”