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

by Jeanne Cooney

  Margie clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I don’t even want to think about what’s goin’ to happen to that little family.” She paused, looking the part of the prayerful nun, her hands folded on the table in front of her. “But at least now that he’s accounted for his whereabouts on Wednesday and we know why he was so quiet around Raleigh out in the field there, he doesn’t seem like much of a murder suspect. So I guess he’s got that goin’ for him.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed with little enthusiasm, “I guess he’s got that going for him.”

  Of course, neither Margie nor I truly believed Wally had much going for him at this juncture, considering what he had done to his family. But there wasn’t anything we could do about it. So we simply sipped our beer until Bernie Streed ambled up alongside Margie. “Hey, Sister Margie,” he said. “It’s good to see you.” He was dressed as Benjamin Franklin, complete with kite and key. “I’ve got a new joke for you.”

  He leaned his kite against his shoulder and, without further preamble, began, “Well, it seems that Ole and Lena decided it was time for a checkup. So Lena called her doctor and made an appointment. And the doctor said, ‘Okay, Lena, I’ll see you on Monday with a specimen.’ Then Lena hung up the phone and asked Ole, ‘Vhat’s a specimen?’ And Ole said, ‘Vell, Lena, I don’t rightly know. Vhy don’t ya go on over there and ask Helga. She knows just about every gall darn thing.’ So that’s what Lena did. And an hour later she returned home, her hair a mess, her blouse torn, and her lip bloodied. Of course, Ole was horrified. And he asked, ‘Lena, vhat in the vorld happened to ya?’ And Lena answered, ‘Vell, I vent to Helga’s and asked her vhat’s a specimen? And she said, ‘Oh, piss in a bottle.’ And the fight was on!’”

  Bernie bowed and walked away, leaving Margie and me laughing. And after we wiped our eyes, we listened to the music and watched the folks out on the dance floor. Clearly, we both were discouraged and wanted to do anything but work the case, even though we knew that’s exactly what we had to do.

  “So,” I finally said, “if the killer’s not Dinky or Wally, should we look more closely at Hunter Carlson?”

  Margie shook her head. “I’m not sure.”

  “Why?”

  “You heard Janice. He has lung trouble. He can’t exert himself.”

  “But Janice thinks Raleigh was killed in a brawl. He wasn’t. The cops said he merely got hit in the back of the head several times with the flat side of one of those big metal ice scrapers. That wouldn’t have required a lot of strength.”

  “But pullin’ him through the scale pit would.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “When I was in the café a little while ago, I called John, like you wanted. He confirmed Hunter has lung problems. He gets winded pretty easily. He tries to hide it, so people don’t get after him about his smokin’, but John knows, bein’ his boss and all.”

  “Oh.”

  “Even so, I asked if he’d disappeared at all during his shift on Tuesday night—or rather Wednesday mornin’. And John said that as far as he knows, Hunter was workin’ the whole time. But since he’s a truck driver, he could of gone off somewhere for a little while without anyone gettin’ too suspicious.”

  “So that means . . .”

  Someone spoke into my ear. “That you have to dance with me.”

  I swung around in my chair to find Buford standing over me, a smile on his face. He was dressed as a cowboy, chaps included. But rather than a six-shooter in his holster, he appeared to be packing an orange water pistol.

  Right away I asked, “Have you talked to Buddy?”

  He frowned as he pushed his cowboy hat back on his head. “If he wasn’t in jail, I’d be hurt that the first thing you did when you saw me was ask about him.”

  “Sorry.”

  He gave me a nuggie. “No, I haven’t talked to him. But I did speak to his lawyer, who said he’s doing fine.”

  He then took my arm in his as he said to his aunt in a southern drawl, “Mind if I steal this little filly for a while, ma’am?”

  “Not at all. In fact, I think that’s an excellent idea.”

  So without another word, he towed me to the dance floor, where we began the country swing to “Ghostbusters.”

  Like his brother, Buford was a great dancer, and it was fun to set aside all thoughts of the murder for a while, especially since we weren’t any closer to solving it. We rocked back and forth, then side to side, spinning and dipping to the beat of the music.

  “I talked to Wally,” he said, drawing me close for the next, much slower tune. “The sheriff had just left. He stopped by to question him.”

  “About the poker game?”

  “No, about Buddy. According to Wally, the sheriff’s sure Buddy’s his man.”

  “But wasn’t he out in the field when the murder occurred?”

  “Yeah, but according to the sheriff, he could have left for a while, and no one would dare say otherwise. Not if they wanted to work around here again.”

  I pulled my head back to search his eyes. They were partially concealed by his hat. “That’s stupid,” I said. “Why does he hate him so?”

  Buford twirled me around, my short skirt billowing, before coaxing me back into his arms. He attempted a smile. So did I. It didn’t work for either of us. We were all business again. So much for frivolity. “The sheriff has a daughter who’s twenty-one or so. And not surprisingly, he thinks she’s an angel. But she enjoys playing the part of the devil.” He rocked me back, then forward. “What I mean to say is she runs around. A lot. Has ever since she was old enough to drive. And several years back, after she’d just turned eighteen, and Buddy was around twenty, the sheriff found her car out in the country. He also found Buddy with her in the back seat. Word is he actually drew his gun on him.” He gazed down at me. “See, the sheriff was just a deputy back then. And thankfully another deputy arrived on the scene before Buddy was ‘accidently’ shot. Still, the guy vowed to get even.”

  “And that’s what he’s doing now?”

  “That’d be my guess. It’s not the first time he’s arrested Buddy for something he didn’t do. But this is the worst charge he’s ever filed against him. That’s one of the reasons Wally decided to tell Little Val everything.”

  “And he did,” I told him. “This afternoon. Vern and Vivian too.”

  “So that’s explains Vivian’s appearance.”

  We moved effortlessly across the floor together. Since both of us had been dancing since we were young, we were well versed in our roles. Buford was great at leading, and I was pretty good at following—on the dance floor anyway.

  “You and Buddy also scared the shit out of him yesterday morning when you told him you were poking around in Raleigh’s murder. Right away he figured it would somehow lead back to that card game. So he ended up calling Father Daley and asking his advice. Naturally Father Daley told him to confess everything to Val right away. Which he was going to do, except then she had the baby. So he put it off. But after the sheriff stopped by this morning, he said he didn’t think he could wait any longer. I agreed.”

  When that song ended, Buford insisted on one more. It was another slow song, which was just fine by me. While I had no romantic feelings for the guy, I nevertheless felt comfortable in his arms. Not surprising after the craziness of the past few days.

  “Hey,” I said, “have you talked to Barbie? Did she ask you if any of your folks—”

  “Yeah. And I told her I didn’t think anyone was late or went missing on Tuesday night.”

  “Even the President was accounted for?”

  “Yeah, although—”

  “I know. I know. Since he’s a truck driver, he could have disappeared for a while without anyone noticing.”

  He chuckled. “Sorry, but it’s true.”

  We danced in silence for the re
st of that number. And when it was over, a cute blonde hesitantly approached, asking Buford if he’d give her a spin around the floor. From the look on his face, I figured that’s exactly what he wanted to do. So with a little finger wave, I headed back to the table, where Margie was still sitting.

  I relayed everything I’d learned, ending with, “So now what? Should we see what we can find out about the President? We don’t know much about him.”

  Margie glanced toward the bar, and I followed her gaze. Vivian was headed back in our direction, each hand clutching a drink. “Well, I suppose we hafta. And since there’s no one better to tell us about him than Vivian, we might as well do it now.” She tilted her head close to mine. “Although I hope she doesn’t need to share a lot. The less I know about that guy, the better. He’s kind of creepy.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Hey, Vivian,” Margie said in a cheerful voice, “I bet your chair’s still warm.”

  Vivian’s butt hardly grazed her seat before she was imbibing again. “I don’t care if my chair’s warm as long as my drinks are cold.” She licked her blowfish lips. “Ya know, as the night goes on, Jim gets better and better at mixin’ drinks. Why do ya suppose that is?” She waited for a nanosecond before answering herself. “I guess it’s like anythin’ else, practice makes perfect.” The repeated “P” sound caused her swollen lips to putter, leading her to giggle. “P-Practice makes p-perfect,” she repeated, giggling some more. “P-Practice makes p-perfect.”

  No doubt about it. She’d be incoherent before long. If we wanted answers, we needed to get busy and ask our questions. “So, Vivian,” I said, “can you tell us about the man everyone calls the President?”

  She made an effort to raise her eyebrows. “Ya mean John Hanson?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I don’t like talkin’ about him.”

  Margie leaned toward her. “Believe me, I don’t care for the idea either. But we hafta. He played in that poker game. And from what we understand, there was a lot of tension between him and Raleigh Cummin’s.”

  Vivian canted her head. “And ya suspect that John killed him?” I believe she tried to whisper, but her volume control was messed up. As a result, her words left her mouth at nearly a shout.

  Margie and I instantly shushed her, our fingers to our lips.

  The clown was staring at me—or us—but he wasn’t the only one.

  “Vivian!” I said her name as quietly as possible while still sounding firm. “You need to be more careful. We’re talking about murder here.”

  She nodded. “Okay.” She lowered her head, as if that would keep her voice down. “We serve on the school board together, havin’ done it for years and just doin’ our part to serve and be of service. But I don’t see how that’s goin’ to lead ya to a killer.”

  “Well, you’re right. We aren’t really interested in your professional association with the man.” This was harder than I’d expected, so I fortified myself with a slug from my longneck bottle. “Umm . . . what we really want to know about is . . . umm . . . your personal relationship.”

  I’m not sure, but Margie might have gagged.

  And Vivian? Well, she sat ramrod straight. Quite a feat considering she was half tanked. “I don’t wanna talk ’bout that. Ya see, he didn’t turn out to be a very nice man.” She smoothed her hair away from her face.

  “In what way?” Margie asked.

  “Well,” Vivian said, “I dunno if I can talk about it.”

  “Vivian.” Margie’s tone was much firmer than mine had been. “Your nephew’s in jail, and your son-in-law, the father of your new grandbaby, could end up there if we don’t get to the bottom of this.”

  Vivian gnawed on her swollen lips but then apparently thought better of it. “Well, ya know I’d do anythin’ for the kids in our family. I love ’em. Really, I do.”

  Margie and I nodded with encouragement.

  “But whatever I tell ya can’t go beyond this table here.”

  We nodded some more.

  Vivian opened her mouth again, but rather than speaking, she downed a long drink from her glass. “Okay, well . . . umm . . . he wanted me to be . . . umm . . . intimate with him.”

  I could almost see the thought bubble over Margie’s head. It mirrored my own. Both read, “So? Tell us something we don’t know.”

  “Didn’t ya hear me?” Vivian seemed perplexed and a bit irked by our lack of outrage.

  “Yah,” Margie answered. “But we assumed you already were . . . umm . . . involved.”

  “Of course not!” Vivian used her most indignant voice. “I’m a married woman.”

  “But ya were always hangin’ around him.”

  “I simply enjoyed his company.” She sniffed before sipping from her glass, doing her best to drink like a lady, her pinky raised and everything. “He actually listened to me. And he let me have my way.” She set her glass down. “Vern’s not like that. Never has been.” She lowered her head and her voice. “I love him, but he can be pigheaded, don’t ya know. Anyways, since I married young, I never got the chance to do much on my own terms, so I missed out there. Or so the . . .” She stopped mid-sentence.

  “Yah?” Margie urged her on. “Or so the . . .”

  Vivian blinked at the two of us, her nerves on display. “Or so the . . . umm . . . marriage counselor says.” She quickly glanced between Margie and me, watching for signs of judgment. But she wouldn’t find any—not from me anyhow.

  “Vivian,” I said, “I’ve been in counseling for years.”

  “Really?” She sounded skeptical. “You see a therapist?”

  “Yep, once a week for more than a decade now.” For some dumb reason, I then decided to go for a little levity. “And see, I’m still a mess.”

  She bobbed her head up and down. “Well, that’s true enough. From what I understand, ya don’t have your act together at all.”

  I eyed Margie. Her expression read, “Welcome to the club.”

  Mine read, “I really didn’t want to join.”

  “When did the President start pressurin’ ya about sex?” Margie went ahead and asked, wincing at those last few words.

  Vivian moved on to her second drink. “A couple months ago. That’s when I found out he was nothin’ but a wolf in cheap clothin.” She rubbed her eyes. “He wanted to do some disgustin’ things.”

  Knowing I could be psychologically scarred for the rest of my life by what she said next, I nonetheless asked the question that begged to be asked. “What did he suggest, Vivian?”

  “Well . . . umm . . . he . . . umm . . . was into that swingin’ stuff. And I’m not talkin’ ’bout dancin’.”

  “What?”

  She took another gulp of her drink. That’s right. She was sucking that thing down like a slurpee. “Yah, and he was real insistent that I do it with him.”

  Margie bristled. “Insistent? How? Did he hurt ya, Vivian?”

  “Oh, no, just my feelin’s.” She rubbed her thumb through the condensation on her glass. “But I thought Vern was goin’ to kill him.”

  “You told Vern?” Margie’s surprise was evident.

  “Oh, for sure. He’s my husband. Besides, he’s the one who suggested we see someone about what happened and about some other things there too.” She narrowed her eyes. “But don’t say anythin’ to him. I don’t wanna embarrass him.”

  Margie nodded. “So what did the President do when ya told him ya weren’t interested in . . . umm . . . swingin’?” Margie shuddered, and I couldn’t help but join in.

  “I slapped his face. Then I said he was positively the most perverted person . . .” She stopped and almost smiled. She was puttering her “Ps” again. And it tickled her. Yep, even though she was in the midst of a very serious conversation, her
puttering “Ps” prompted her to pause with pleasure. “After that,” she added, “I told him I never wanted to speak to him again.”

  “But let me guess,” Margie said. “He didn’t listen.”

  “No, he didn’t. He started callin’ me. Tellin’ me he couldn’t live without me. Said he couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. And while understandable, I felt guilty, which was only natural, comin’ to find that out through the counselin’. But back then it made me crazy, so I told Vern, not knowin’ what he’d do and bein’ nervous about that to boot. Like I said, he wanted to kill the guy. But after his cooler head prevailed, he suggested we get guidance as to the best thing to do in situations such as these.”

  Margie and I nodded.

  “Anyways,” she continued, “we began seein’ a counselor down there in St. Cloud, not wantin’ to go to Reverend Pearson here in town and St. Cloud havin’ good services along those lines. Not that Reverend Pearson isn’t good. Havin’ been married, but now bein’ a widower, he’s probably fine at counselin’, even if no one knows for sure how his wife died. Still, we went to St. Cloud and talked to the sheriff some too. The one here. Not in St. Cloud.” She made quick work of finishing off her drink.

  “That was a giant mistake,” she said after wiping her chin with the sleeve of her jacket. “Talkin’ to the sheriff. Not goin’ to the counselor.” She hesitated. “Anyways, the sheriff here is a friend of John’s. Or, I mean, the President.”

  She blinked, appearing as if she was making an effort to clear her head. “I always hated that nickname because I knew people used it to make fun of him, assumin’ he was a pompous ass, which he was but still . . .” More blinking. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the only thing that would clear her head was about twelve hours of sleep. “And here they were right all along,” Still more blinking. “Anyways . . . Now where was I?”

  We were losing her. “You were talking about the President and the sheriff.” I was anxiously twirling my braids.

  “Oh, yeah. Well, anyways, the President financed most of the sheriff’s campaign, so he pretty much has to do whatever the President tells him to do or not to do or say or . . .” She was utterly confused.