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

by Jeanne Cooney

  “So,” I continued on for her, “even though you told the sheriff you didn’t want the President harassing you, he still calls you on occasion, and nothing’s done about it.”

  “Well, I tell him off. But I had to stop tellin’ Vern about the calls, as he’d go after him. Havin’ just one arm and all, he’s still a good shot and bein’ even handier with a carvin’ knife.”

  Margie placed her hand on Vivian’s shoulder. “Did the President call ya on your cell phone that night Little Val and I were at your house for supper? It was the night of the card game.”

  Vivian rubbed her stomach. “Yah. He said he wanted us to be friends again. He’d prefer bein’ . . . umm . . . intimate but promisin’ no undue pressure there while at the same time assurin’ if I did have . . . umm . . . sex with him, he’d give up those swingin’ parties in Fargo if that’s what I wanted.” She glanced between the two of us. “I guess that’s where he goes sometimes when folks think he’s doin’ business of a different kind.” She shook her head, then held it steady between her hands. “He said I’d never hafta go unless I wanted to, which he hoped someday I would, but again not pushin’. And even if we were only friends, he’d never see other women ’round here so as not to hurt my feelin’s.” She wiped sweat from her rigid brow. “I told him to take a flyin’ hike.”

  “Vivian?” I asked, adjusting my fake glasses. “Are you sure you’re okay?” She was looking a little green.

  “Oh, yah, it’s just hot in here.” She took a slow, deep breath. “Just ’cause there’s snow on the ground, folks kick the thermostat up to seventy or higher. But ya don’t hafta.” And with those words of wisdom, she turned to her sister and vomited in the lap of her nun’s habit.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Margie went upstairs to get cleaned up. And, yes, a part of me was jealous. If Vivian had only puked in my direction, I’d be up there right now, changing out of this stupid costume. Instead, Wonder Woman was corralling me into the café.

  “Did Vern take Vivian home?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  “So how about sharing some Buttermilk Salad while I bring you up to date on what I’ve learned about the murder?” She sashayed over to the fridge.

  “I don’t know, Barbie. Buttermilk Salad sounds . . .”

  “Good. And it tastes even better. It’s cool and refreshing. It has pineapple and oranges. It’s a lot like a yogurt parfait.”

  “But I’ve been drinking beer.”

  “So?”

  I sighed. “Okay, I’ll give it a try.”

  With a smile, she served up two plates of the creamy salad squares, setting one in front of me and the other catty corner from me. “Now, dig in,” she said, “while I tell you a few things.”

  I obliged by picking up my fork and giving the Buttermilk Salad a taste. First, a teenie weenie one. Then, after discovering how good it was, a much bigger one. “Yum.”

  “Told you.” Barbie was using her teeth to pull a piece of pineapple off her fork. “I talked to both Buford and Ed. He was the deputy we met when we examined the scale pit.”

  “Well, I danced with Buford earlier and probably got the same update from him as you did. So why don’t you start by telling me what Ed said.”

  Barbie adjusted her long, black wig and the metallic crown on top of it. “Well, he said he requested any information that the Fargo police might have on Raleigh Cummings, being that’s where he lived and all. And this afternoon he received a very interesting report.” She paused to yank on her bustier. After that, she began making designs in her salad with her fork.

  “Barbie, don’t you dare try that delaying crap on me.”

  She giggled and set her fork down. “Okay, okay.” She jingled her hands. “Well, according to the report, Raleigh was questioned a couple months ago in connection to a house party in Fargo. The police got called by a neighbor who was complaining about the noise.”

  “And?”

  She leaned over the table. “When the cops got there, they found folks in various stages of undress, occupying a variety of rooms with numerous people.” Her eyes got bigger and rounder as she spoke. “And while there’s no law against that, the police also found some drugs, mostly weed but some cocaine too. Not a lot. But enough to take down names and question those involved.”

  “And?”

  “In the end, the whole thing got swept under the rug because, in addition to Raleigh Cummings and a few other nobodies, several big shots were there.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh. And one of those big shots had a friend with him from out of town.” She paused again. She just couldn’t help herself. She was born to create suspense.

  “Barbie,” I warned.

  “Okay. Just guess who it was.” She folded her hands as if in prayer. “Please. Pretty please.” She was actually bouncing on her stool.

  She was nutty, but I liked her. “Well, fine.” I decided to play along. “Hmm. Let me think. Was it the President?”

  She stopped mid-bounce, clearly dejected. “How did you know that?”

  I gave her the rundown of what Vivian had told us.

  “Wow” was all she said when I finished.

  “So now we know the President lied to Dinky. He really did know Raleigh Cummings.”

  “That’s right. Though Ed doesn’t expect that fact to be made public anytime soon. Remember, no charges were filed in that Fargo matter. Plus, it may not have anything to do with our case, so there’d be no justification for releasing the information. On top of that, the sheriff confiscated the report and ordered Ed and everyone who’d seen it to forget they ever had.”

  As I’d suspected, my Buttermilk Salad was not making nice with the beer in my stomach. “He actually said that?”

  “Yep.”

  It was my turn to say, “Wow.”

  “And that wasn’t all Ed told me. Do you recall when Guy told us that all the fingerprints found in Raleigh’s pickup were explained away?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, according to Ed, the President’s fingerprints were among them. Clear sets. Undoubtedly fresh. Yet the sheriff refused to allow anyone to ask the President about them. He said he’d take care of it. But no one thinks he will.”

  I pushed my plate away, out of my direct line of vision, hoping that would appease my upset stomach. “So what do you think? Did the President kill Raleigh because he didn’t want to get exposed as a ‘swinger’? You know, a preemptive strike? And the sheriff’s covering for him?”

  “It’s possible. Or perhaps Raleigh was blackmailing the President, and the President got tired of it and killed him.”

  “You just love that blackmailing idea, don’t you, Barbie?”

  She smirked. “Either way he could have ransacked the house, found whatever information Raleigh had on him, along with the IOUs, and tossed the whole works.”

  “Well, as I’ve come to understand, the fact that the President wasn’t noticeably AWOL from his job the night of the murder doesn’t mean much. And as you reminded me earlier, the murder may have taken place during the day.”

  Barbie leaned her elbows on the table. “Ed doesn’t think so. He agrees with you.” Hearing that, I sat a little taller. “He said Raleigh was definitely killed on the farm, near the ditch, not far from the house. And it seems there was a lot of activity out there, in the shop, till close to midnight. Some machinery broke down or something. So he says the murder must have occurred during the night, when Buford and Buddy and the rest of the night shift were finishing up that last section of beets, which was more than ten miles from the house. No one would have been around the farmyard to see anything.”

  Frustration clogged my brain. “I don’t know what to think. Who’s the killer, Barbie? I have no idea.” I pulled the backpack from my back and threw it on t
he table. I’d been wearing it all night, and I was done. I pulled my fake glasses off too, pitching them next to the backpack. “I wish Father Daley were here. He has good insight. Maybe he’d have some ideas of where we should go from here.”

  “Well, don’t hold your breath, Emme. He never comes to these parties. He says it wouldn’t be appropriate because he’s a man of the cloth, and these parties get kind of wild.”

  I stared wide eyed at Barbie’s bustier. It was sliding down again. “He may be right.”

  She noted the target of my focus and once more gave it a yank. “I don’t remember the real Wonder Woman having this much trouble with her top.”

  I sniffed. “The real Wonder Woman never had that much top.”

  Barbie snickered. “Yeah, you’ve got a point.”

  I unzipped the backpack and claimed my notebook, paging through what I’d jotted down. Everything had been covered. Even so, as I closed the notebook a notion struck me. “Hey, why does the President allow the sheriff to go after Buddy the way he does? I realize the sheriff hates Buddy. But he is Vivian’s nephew.”

  Barbie rested her forearms on the table. “Yeah, the President’s obsessed with Vivian, but I get the impression he doesn’t like the rest of her family. Most likely because they aren’t real friendly to him, being he’s trying to break up Vivian and Vern. You know, I have it on good authority that during the last murder investigation, the President was pushing for Vern’s arrest.”

  “So why’d he agree to work for the twins this fall?”

  “I don’t have any idea. Probably something to do with his Vivian fetish. I know the twins only asked him out of desperation. They wanted Dinky and Biggy. But they were out of town at some big family gathering. Although they still ended up pitching in for a few days when they got back.”

  I tapped my finger on the table. “So how do we proceed?”

  “I’m not sure, Emme.”

  I was about to say something else but was stopped by a sexy male voice. It was floating through the air, sounding much like the sensual sounds of a tenor saxophone.

  Barbie formed a perfect “O” with her mouth.

  The music was coming from above. But I don’t mean heaven. Although Margie may have considered it that. The lyrics were soft, yet clear. “Can’t get enough of your love, babe. No, can’t get enough of your love, babe.”

  “Who on earth . . . ?” Barbie asked

  “Well . . . umm . . . I believe that’s Barry White.”

  She squinted at the ceiling. “You mean Margie?” She lowered her eyes until they met mine. “And?”

  I lowered mine until they met my lap. “Umm . . . it’s not my place to say.” I slipped off my stool. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going out outside to get some air. My stomach’s a bit queasy.

  “Emme!” Barbie shouted as I made a beeline for the back door, “don’t you dare run out on me!”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I stood in the alley behind the café, Margie’s gray parka hanging from my frame, my bare legs chilly beneath my short skirt and light-weight knee highs. I assumed Barbie was upstairs, pounding on Margie’s bedroom door, asking her what she was doing and who she was doing it with. The thought of it made me smile. It also made me feel a tad sorry for Margie and John Deere. They’d be questioned and teased mercilessly. But mostly it made me smile.

  It was dark outside, although the light above the door and the street lights along the alley provided a fair amount of illumination. I strolled back and forth in front of the parking lot, hoping my stomach would settle down and my feet wouldn’t freeze to the ground.

  As I walked, thoughts of Margie and Barbie and John Deere and Barry White gave way to murder. What had we missed? The President seemed to be the most likely suspect. But I wasn’t sure about Hunter or Janice either. And then there was the sheriff. He was unscrupulous. But how unscrupulous?

  I walked some more, but no new ideas came to me. Maybe it was just too cold for my brain to function out here. Maybe I had to go back inside. Maybe I needed something to eat. Something that wasn’t sugar-based. There’s a novel idea!

  I turned toward the door, hoping I’d avoid Barbie for a little while. I didn’t want to deal with her questions any more than Margie did.

  As I reached for the handle, I spotted something out of the corner of my eye. Something near the far side of the building. I peered in that direction. It was a figure of some kind. I squinted. What on earth? Then I recognized him. It was the clown from inside. He was about thirty feet from me, crooking his finger, bidding me closer.

  He had definitely caught me off guard. Clowns never waved me over.

  He again curled his fingers. The gesture or the person making it struck me as familiar. But who would be watching me, first from the bar, then from outside? Who would be pursuing me? Teasing me to join him?

  I felt a smile cut across my face as the answer came to me. Randy Ryden. Margie said he loved the Halloween party. She also said he’d be disappointed if he had to miss it.

  I gave it some more thought. Margie was in on this little charade with him. She picked our table near the bar, in close proximity to him. She even pointed out our seats. It wasn’t Margie being bossy. It was Margie helping Randy surprise me. Which only made sense considering she was all about romance these days.

  He wiggled his finger one more time. And I was tempted to run across the parking lot, peel off his mask and smother him with kisses. I presumed we’d then go to his place, spending the rest of the night in front of a roaring fire. And later—like tomorrow morning sometime—I’d tell him about Buddy. And even though he disliked him, he’d help me clear his name because he was fair and just—as well as really hot.

  But wait. I couldn’t put an end to his little production just like that. He’d gone to a lot of trouble. I’d have to play along, at least for a while.

  So I wrapped my arms around myself, my extra-long sleeves dangling, and padded in his direction, anticipating how he might reveal himself. Amazingly I wasn’t cold anymore. Well, okay, my feet were still freezing as I shuffled across the hard-packed snow. But the rest of me was all warm, and some parts were even melting a bit.

  He headed down a shoveled path toward the garden shed, and I followed. I knew that building. I was stuck in it for a while during my last visit. Consequently, I wasn’t that fond of it. But I was willing to keep an open mind. With Randy in there with me, I might actually come away with a whole new appreciation for the place.

  He opened the door and stepped inside, and I did the same, pulling the door shut behind me. He then wheeled around the best he could, given his gigantic shoes, and tore off his mask.

  I caught my breath. I couldn’t see him very well. As I said, it was dark outside, and the only light filtering through the shed’s sole window originated from a street lamp in the alley. Still, I didn’t need much light to see that something was wrong.

  “Why?” he hollered!

  “What?”

  “Why do you have to stick your noise in my business?”

  Right away I realized it wasn’t Randy Ryden. But the question he posed didn’t narrow it down much beyond that. Lots of people thought I interfered in their business.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “You know damn well who I am.”

  And I did. It came to me at that very moment. Which was about two minutes too late to do me any good. “You’re the President, aren’t you?”

  “I’m John Hanson, that’s correct.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” I mumbled.

  “What? What was that?” His words were clipped, his tone, hard and angry.

  “Nothing. Umm . . . what do you want from me?” I had a pretty good idea, and it was making me sick to my stomach. Or maybe it was just the Buttermilk Salad and beer. But I doubted it.
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  He nudged me toward the wall to the right of the door, then held me there by bracing an arm on each side of me. “Every time you come up here, you cause me trouble. Now I’m going to make sure you go away—for good.”

  That didn’t sound promising. “So why’d you kill Raleigh Cummings.” Granted, the question came out of the blue. But if he was going to kill me, I didn’t think small talk was necessary. Go right to the heart of the matter.

  “What?” He moved closer, his big shoes stepping on my feet, trapping them against the floor. “Are you nuts? Why would I kill him?”

  “Because he was going to expose you for . . . umm . . . what you do in Fargo.” It was just a guess. But it was the only thing I had on the guy.

  An evil-sounding laugh slid from his throat. “How’d you find out about that?” I didn’t respond. “Oh, it doesn’t matter.” He flapped his white-gloved hand before returning it to its place against the wall, where it crowded my shoulder. “Raleigh wasn’t going to expose me. We’d just come to an understanding.”

  “Huh?” True, that wasn’t much of a question. But I was certain I was about to be killed. I wasn’t at my best.

  “See, after he and Buddy had their falling-out at the Caribou, I picked him up off the ground, and we had a short talk in his pickup. I came to find out he was down on his luck, financially speaking.”

  “How could that be? He’d just won big at poker.”

  “But he hadn’t been paid. And even if he got everything coming to him, it wouldn’t be enough because he had developed quite a coke habit. That’s why he went off on people the way he did. I was surprised that neither Buddy nor Buford recognized it. Then again, maybe they just didn’t want to see it.”

  I tried to wiggle my toes out from under his clown shoes but couldn’t, so I settled for another question. “And?”

  He moved his arms closer together, squeezing my shoulders like they were in a vice. “I agreed to meet him the following afternoon to pay off my poker debt and to spot him some additional cash. In turn, at that time, he’d give me my IOU as well as his promise to refrain from talking about my out-of-town activities.”