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

by Jeanne Cooney

  “He dresses up like that every year, doesn’t he?” Barbie said.

  Janice sighed. “Yeah. Any excuse to wear his old uniform and relive his glory days. I’m so sick of hearing how he single-handedly won this game or that. Like I always tell him, it’s been four decades. Move on!”

  Yep, that’s what the nearly sixty-year-old woman in her high school cheerleading uniform said.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Janice had conned me into going to the bathroom with her. And when I returned to our table, Wonder Woman was out on the dance floor, howling at the moon to “Werewolves of London.” Ed, the deputy, was her partner. He was dressed in regular clothes, obviously pretending to be an off-duty deputy sheriff.

  I scoped out the rest of the place and discovered that Hunter was still at the far end of the bar, scanning the room. Apparently he couldn’t find Janice. I also noticed that the clown was watching me and wasn’t being very discreet about it. In all fairness, though, it’s probably tough to be discreet while dressed as a clown.

  “Eh,” Margie said, grabbing the chair next to mine. She’d been in the café. “I just ran into Julie Lindegard, and she told me a good joke. Wanna hear it?” Margie wasn’t a very good joke teller, so I cringed whenever she asked me that question.

  “Well,” she began, not waiting for me to answer one way or the other, which was probably just as well. “See, Ole was in the Olympics, and on the day of the finals, a reporter came up to him and said, ‘So I see you’re a pole vaulter?’ And Ole replied, ‘No, you’re wrong on both counts. I’m not a Pole, and my name’s not Valter.’”

  Margie slapped the table. “Now I don’t care who ya are. That there was funny!”

  Even if Margie’s delivery was weak, her enthusiasm was strong, and I couldn’t help but smile—while peeking at the clown again. He wasn’t watching me anymore. He was scarfing down food, his movements looking somewhat familiar.

  “Hey, Margie, do you know who the clown is?” I angled my head toward the bar.

  “Nope.” She didn’t even give him so much as a glance.

  “What’s he eating? He’s wolfing it down like he hasn’t had supper in a month.”

  She lifted her head in his direction. “Oh, that’s Creamy Chow Mein Hot Dish. It’s Jessica York’s recipe. I always make a little somethin’ that the bartender can serve in here durin’ the party. But this year I decided to change things up a bit. So I made that and somethin’ called Cheesy Chicken and Rice Hot Dish.”

  “Are they any good?”

  “What?” Her eyes got big, and she grabbed my wrist.

  Of course I was well aware that Margie was sensitive about her cooking, especially her hot dish. But I hadn’t criticized her or them. I’d merely asked a question. So squeezing my hand until it tingled seemed like a bit of an overreaction.

  “It’s Vern and Vivian,” she whispered, her face contorted. “They just walked in. They’re at the other end of the bar.”

  “So?”

  “They don’t look good. They’re not even in costume.”

  “What?” I pulled my hand free.

  “They’re not in costume,” she repeated, only louder, as if increased volume alone would help me make sense of what she’d said.

  “So?”

  “They always wear costumes to this party.”

  She was beginning to irritate me. “Maybe they didn’t want to get dressed up this year. I sure didn’t.” She shook her head, so I added. “They just became grandparents. Maybe they didn’t have time to pull anything together.”

  “No, that can’t be. Every year Vivian makes an elaborate costume. See, while Barbie’s all about shockin’ folks, Vivian goes for elegance. Last year she dressed as Cinderella. An older version, grant ya. But she looked spectacular. She won first prize. And this year’s costume was supposedly even better. She said she finished it before Labor Day.”

  “And?”

  “And ever since Vern’s accident, he’s worn the same costume. People have come to expect it of him. It’s a pirate suit, complete with a hook for his missin’ arm and everythin’. Vivian says it’s in bad taste. But Vern insists it doesn’t matter because it’s Halloween.”

  I shifted my gaze to the other side of the room. Vivian and Vern stood alone at the bar, just down from Hunter. He was drinking a beer, while she was tossing back a dark cocktail. Both wore jeans and hooded sweatshirts. His was topped with a tan Carhartt jacket, and hers, a brown corduroy barn coat.

  Vivian was more casual looking than I’d ever seen her, but I didn’t spot anything “wrong,” so I twisted back around and grabbed my own drink. At the same time, Margie seized my hand yet again, practically knocking the bottle out of it. “Don’t look now,” she mumbled, “but she’s headed our way.”

  Margie abruptly looked straight ahead. “Oh, hi, Vivian.” She pasted on a fake smile, “I didn’t know ya were here.” She patted the back of the empty chair between us. “Sit down. Take a load off.”

  Vivian placed two identical drinks on the table, one of them already half gone. “What a day!” She sat down and bobbed her head at me by way of hello. After that, she sucked down the rest of her partial drink, pushed the empty glass aside, and slid the full one in front of her.

  Margie gawked at her as if she had no idea who she was. And now that I saw her up close, I could appreciate her confusion.

  In addition to her casual attire and insatiable thrust, Vivian’s blonde hair, normally twisted into a perfect French roll, was parted in a variety of directions and hanging haphazardly around her shoulders. Her eyes, meticulously lined and colored any other day, were puffy and merely smudged with makeup. And her lips? Well . . .

  “Now, Vivian,” Margie began, “don’t take this the wrong way, but what in the heck happened to ya?”

  Vivian gulped her drink, a little of it dribbling down her chin. “I ’ad a collagen treatment yesterday. I guess my lips are still numb.”

  “And swollen,” Margie added. “They look like they’ve been stung by a colony of bees.”

  “Yah, well, I might of asked ’em to plump ’em up a little extra. Ya see, last time they deflated so fast that—”

  “Oh, yah,” Margie interrupted her to say, “I hate when my lips deflate.” She rolled her eyes.

  Vivian’s eyes pooled with tears. “Margie, don’t go and get after me. I don’t think I can ’andle it today or forever for that matter.”

  “Sorry. I was only jokin’ about your lips.”

  “And my forehead too.”

  “Your forehead?”

  “Yah, I had ’em stick my forehead with some of those botex injections. Now I can’t even raise my eyebrows.” She seemed to give it a go but to no avail. Which led to more tears. “See?” She sniffed. “I can’t feel my hair or anythin’.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?” Margie asked. “Do ya really need to feel your hair?”

  Vivian glared at Margie. “Well, of course, ya do!” She gave her sister the once over. “Unless you’re willin’ to wear it plain, like ya do.” She sniffed. “By the way there, Margie, you’re sixty years old. It’s time ya lose the ponytail.”

  Ouch! That had to hurt.

  I expected Margie to retaliate with a verbal slam of her own. But she simply patted her sister’s back and said, “There, there.” Then, as if she suddenly got possessed by the devil, she added, “So why exactly does your hair look like ya just made your way through a blizzard?”

  Vivian’s face was expressionless except for the tears dripping down her cheeks. “Is it really all that bad? Or are ya just askin’ a question? Like, oh, is that a new hairdo ya got goin’ there, Vivian? The wind-blown look or somethin’ else from nature?”

  I’m not sure if Margie understood her or not. But she smartly refrained from engaging her anymore on the subje
ct of hair. “Vivian,” she said instead, “why don’t ya just calm down there.”

  “Yah, calm down there,” her sister mimicked. “Sure, ya can say that. Ya can talk ’til the cows turn blue in the face. Ya aren’t all stiff and swollen. And that isn’t even the worst of it.

  “What do ya mean? Did ya have some other work done?” It was Margie’s turn to look Vivian over.

  “No, no.” Vivian waved her away. “But somethin’ else was sure as heck done to me.”

  “What are ya talkin’ about?”

  Vivian dropped her gaze, allowing a few of her tears to fall on the table. “It’s the kids. Little Val and Wally and baby Brian.” She raised her eyes again. “That’s what they named him, don’t ya know. Brian, with the regular spellin’.” She shook her head. “I suggested Brian with a ‘Y,’ but Little Val said that was too ‘pretentious.’ Like a baby could be pretentious.” It seemed as if she wanted to frown. “But ya know how Little Val can be. And ya know me. Never one to interfere. So that’s what it is. Brian with the regular spellin’.” She again lowered her eyes, and another tear plopped onto the table.

  “Vivian, Brian’s a nice name,” Margie assured her. “Even if it’s spelled the regular way. It certainly isn’t anythin’ to cry over.”

  “I’m not cryin’ about that.” She paused. “Well, okay, I might be cryin’ about that a little but not too much anyways.”

  “And your face will relax in another day or two. Then you’ll be as pretty as ever.”

  Vivian sniffled. “Are ya sayin’ I’m not pretty now. ’Cause if ya are, Margie, that wouldn’t be very nice in the least considerin’ my bad day and then, too, what will be the bad rest of my life.”

  Margie closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and expelled a long, slow breath. “Vivian, I’m only sayin’ that things sure as heck aren’t as bleak as you’re makin’ them out to be.”

  Her sister’s head shot up. “Oh, now I’m bein’ overly dramatic, am I? Well, ya don’t know the half of the whole story.”

  Margie glanced at me before returning her gaze to her sister. “Vivian, what else is goin’ on then?”

  Vivian didn’t answer, and Margie and I exchanged a look of understanding. We both suspected the same thing. Vivian had somehow found out about Wally.

  I scooted back my chair. “I can leave if you two need to be alone.”

  “No!” Margie shouted, evidently not keen about going one-on-one with her sister. “Ya might be able to help.”

  “Yah,” Vivian concurred, “I suppose it’s possible ya might be some help.”

  Not exactly a ringing endorsement. Nevertheless, I pulled my chair back to the table.

  “Now, Vivian,” Margie said, “tell us what’s really got ya so upset?”

  Vivian sipped her drink. “Well, ya see, earlier today, Wally called us over to the house. So of course we went, bein’ asked and all. And we found Little Val cryin’ like a stopped up faucet. She was goin’ on about Wally losin’ money in a poker game and sneakin’ it out of their savin’s after not gamblin’ and promisin’ the same.”

  “And?” Margie apparently believed it was best for Vivian to proceed at her own pace, which meant waiting while she drank most of her drink.

  “And,” she repeated while dabbing what had dribbled down her chin, “I guess Wally was frustrated with work and harvest and the baby and all and feelin’ like he was burnin’ the midnight oil at both ends, and he just couldn’t take it. So, anyways, he got himself mixed up in a poker game. And ya know with his gamblin’ problem, he shouldn’t be in a card game with a ten-foot pole. No, sir-ree. Not him. And not with the winner gettin’ murdered. And Buddy bein’ arrested. And the sheriff questionin’ Wally this mornin’.”

  Margie patted her sister’s hand. “Vivian, I know all about that poker game. And we’re lookin’ into Raleigh Cummin’s death. We don’t think Buddy killed him. And we certainly don’t believe Wally did it either. But someone connected to that card game is more than likely guilty. And we hafta figure out who. And the sooner the better. We gotta get Buddy out of jail there.”

  Vivian nodded. “Yah, it makes me sick to think about him in jail, practically like a prisoner or somethin’. Ya know he can’t stand that.”

  “I know, Vivian. I know.”

  “So, do ya have any leads as to the real killer?” She swung her attention over to me. “Or can ya only catch folks who are related to us?”

  “Huh?” I slouched against the back of my chair, stunned.

  “Vivian!” Margie scolded.

  And Vivian cried, “I’m sorry.” The tears again fell like waterworks. “I didn’t m-mean that.” She blew her nose with a napkin she pulled from the dispenser in the middle of the table. “I’m just so upset about everythin’ that I don’t know what end is right.” Her eyes veered from me to her glass, where they remained until she picked it up, tipped it back, and finished off her drink.

  “It’s okay,” I assured her. While I wasn’t shocked that she didn’t care for me, I was astounded she’d had the nerve to tell me. According to Barbie, Scandinavians didn’t do that kind of thing. “I can’t imagine how awful you feel, Vivian. And for what it’s worth, I truly am sorry about what happened the last time I was here.”

  Vivian waved her hand, each finger adorned with a tasteful ring and a neatly manicured nail, contradicting everything else about the woman’s current appearance. “No, no. I suppose ya only did what ya had to do.”

  “Well, I’d really like to make it up to you and everyone else by finding out what really happened to Raleigh Cummings.”

  She regarded me as if I were a dunce. “He was murdered, Emerald.”

  “Yeah.” I glanced at Margie, silently asking, Is she for real?

  Apparently sensing I’d had just about enough of the fruitcake known as her sister, Vivian Olson, Margie stepped in. “Vivian, would ya be willin’ to answer some questions that might lead us to the killer?”

  Vivian stared at her, an earnest look in her eyes. “Of course, though I didn’t know that Raleigh Cummin’s guy.”

  “But ya did talk to Wally this afternoon,” Margie said. “And it’s important for us to know if he said anythin’ about the poker game or payin’ Cummin’s the money he owed.”

  Vivian gazed off into the distance, clearly working to retrieve that conversation from her mind—not an easy job, even if she hadn’t been drinking. “No . . . um . . . I don’t believe he paid the man, though he did say somethin’ about lookin’ for him in Hallock there Wednesday afternoon, while gettin’ that ice cream cone for Little Val’s cravin’s.”

  “Huh? Did ya just say that Wally admitted he was in Hallock Wednesday afternoon?” See? Even Margie had trouble making sense of her sister.

  But that didn’t stop Vivian from talking. “Well, of course. The Reverend Pearson came by to visit Little Val, bein’ the nice man he is and givin’ Wally a chance to run there to Hallock, knowin’ Little Val likes her cones. But he had to get back to church for choir practice in thirty minutes. And believe me the Reverend’s choir needs all the practice it can get. Givin’ Wally not much time to go and come back.

  “Oh, for sure,” she went on to say, “Little Val had some strong cravin’s durin’ her pregnancy, ice cream bein’ the worst, although nothin’s wrong with that in moderation. At least that’s what I always say to those that will listen. She also loved that Beef Stroganoff Hot Dish, eatin’ it almost every day, sometimes for breakfast as well as dinner and supper, with me warnin’ Wally he might hafta order a whole side of beef from Ed over there at the Farmer Store.” She crunched on an ice cube from her glass.

  “Anyways, she got the recipe from Margie, who got it from Juliann Armbrust, not that she couldn’t get recipes from me, mind ya, I’m a pretty darn good cook, though I have lots of hobbies I prefer better than cookin’. And bein’
honest, which I do my darndest most times, cookin’ isn’t all that hard. Just brownin’ some meat and addin’ a couple cans of cream soup and there ya go.” She clapped her hands together, while Margie, I noticed, pressed her fingernails into the palm of her own hand until she winced in pain.

  “No, it’s certainly not like cake decoratin’, that’s for sure. Now there’s somethin’ that takes true talent, and I’m not afraid to say so. Although I realize ya couldn’t feature my cakes in that last article ya did because ya aren’t the boss and all. But, I hafta say, your paper really missed the boat comin’ ’round the bend on that one.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Vivian had returned to the bar, where she was commiserating with the Papas, her head on his shoulder except when she was sucking down booze. Which meant I actually saw her drop her head on his shoulder only once, for a few seconds. Barbie remained out on the dance floor. She and Guy and Jarod were trying to moon walk to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” Barbie was doing an amazingly good job, but the deputies’ heels made it a tough go for them.

  “So,” I said to Margie, the two of us sitting at our table, “if I understood your sister correctly—and I realize that’s a big if—Wally may not have intentionally lied to us. The trip to Hallock on Wednesday afternoon was so quick he might have forgotten he ever went.”

  “Makes sense considerin’ the amount of stress he’s been under.”

  “Or he could have lied since, in addition to getting Little Val’s ice cream, he was searching for Raleigh so he could pay him what he owed. And he didn’t want anyone to find out about that.”

  “That makes sense too.”

  “Either way, for some reason, he ’fessed up to Little Val and her parents this afternoon. Probably because the sheriff questioned him this morning.”