A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes: A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery (14 page)

Part Three: Spoon a Discreet Amount of The Dish You Want Most of All

Chapter Twenty

A
fter Buddy got carted
away
in handcuffs, I called his lawyer in Crookston, like he had asked. The guy assured me he would talk to Buddy first thing in the morning. Beyond that, he said, there wasn’t much anyone could do until Monday, when Buddy would make his first appearance in court. If he needed an investigator, he’d hire one then.

I disconnected, stuffed my cell phone into my purse, and entered the café. The place was pitch black and eerily quiet except for the hollow pounding of the furnace as it kicked in against the cold. I was pretty sure no one was around. If they were, the noise and lights accompanying the arrival of the gestapo would have rousted them. Just the same, I slipped off my shoes and stealthily climbed the stairs and padded down the hall to my room.

I got undressed, shimmied into my nightshirt, and tucked myself in bed. With my teeth chattering and my thoughts on the loose, I attempted to warm myself while developing a plan of action. It was tough going on both fronts. I raised my knees to my chin and wrapped my arms around my ankles, while my mind jumped around as if I’d spent the evening downing cappuccinos.

I may have drifted off. I’m not sure. But sometime during the night, I heard commotion, first downstairs, then in Margie’s bedroom. Whispering and laughing. Followed by bedsprings creaking. And after that, the crooning of Barry White.

I didn’t trust my ears at first, certain it was nothing more than a Motown dream, prompted by one of those late-night, thirty-minute television ads for CD collections. But it wasn’t a dream, though undoubtedly a CD, from which Barry White sang in his sexy baritone, “Can’t get enough of your love, babe.”

For a moment I considered pounding on Margie’s door and blurting out everything. But for what purpose other than to silence Barry White and the giggling and bed squeaking? And I didn’t really want to ruin Margie’s night, did I? After all, we couldn’t do anything about Buddy till morning. Besides, I was finally warm, all cuddled up in bed. And while I wasn’t sleeping soundly, I was resting. So I simply clicked on my bedside radio and cranked up the volume. Giggle, giggle. Squeak, squeak. “Can’t get enough of your love, babe.” Really loud.

*   *   *

The sun was rising
when I woke to the commodities’ report and a terrible headache. Despite my fitful sleep, the ruckus down the hall, and the blaring radio, I’d managed to come up with a plan. It wasn’t a great plan. But considering the conditions I’d been operating under, it wasn’t a bad plan either. It consisted of two parts. Part One: I’d remain in town for another day or so to do what I could for Buddy, even if it meant running into Randy Ryden. Part Two: I’d ask Barbie for assistance because she’d know more about the case than anyone other than the police. And . . . Well . . . That was it. My entire plan.

Switching off the radio, I was confident in the knowledge that wheat prices were holding steady, while corn and beans were dropping. Beyond that, I wasn’t confident about much, especially solving this murder. I wasn’t a real investigator. What did I truly know about finding a killer? Thankfully, when I called Barbie, she said she had some ideas, and she’d share them with Margie and me when she arrived, within the next hour or so.

By eight o’clock, I was washed, dressed, and sitting on the edge of my bed, writing some notes about the case and waiting for Margie’s overnight guest to take his leave. The two of them were in the hallway. I wasn’t eavesdropping. Yet I heard him say he’d call her later. I also caught her reminding him about the Halloween party. She explained that she’d be in the café, cooking for the supper crowd and handing out candy to the kids until around eight o’clock, when she’d lock up and head next door to the bar. He wanted to know what she was wearing for a costume. But she wouldn’t give him so much as a hint. And with him still guessing, they headed downstairs.

Now don’t get me wrong, I liked John Deere—if, indeed, that was his name—but encountering him “the morning after” would have been awkward. So I remained tucked away in my room until I was positive he was gone. Only then did I venture downstairs.

I spotted Margie on a stool at the metal prep table in the kitchen. She was sorting through recipes, her old, wooden, recipe box positioned in front of her. A couple notebooks were scattered off to the side. And near the far edge of the table rested a hammer, a few small nails, and a beautifully painted plaque about four feet wide and one foot tall.

Margie hummed along as Kenny Rogers and Sheena Easton sang “We Got Tonight” on the juke box. “We got tonight. Who needs tomorrow? We got tonight, babe. Why don’t you stay?” Oh, brother, Margie was in love.

When she noticed me, she lowered her eyes. But that didn’t stop her cheeks from pinking up. “Umm . . . I thought . . . umm . . . I oughtta get these recipes together for ya before I forget.”

“Thanks.”

“Yah, I have Tammie Cuddihy’s Pudding Shots recipe and Nichol Berg’s Breakfast Pie recipe. I also have one from Wendy Wheeler for Pineapple Cheese Hot Dish. Have you ever heard of that? She got the recipe from an old romance novel written by Heather Graham Pozzessere.”

I pulled out the other stool and sat down. I wasn’t sure how to begin telling her about Buddy. I’d auditioned several lines upstairs, but none of them sounded right. So I’d decided to wait until I got down here, then open my mouth and see what spilled out. Sure, it was a risky way to proceed, but since it required no forethought, I’d resorted to it on numerous occasions and was familiar with what to expect. “Umm . . . you’re not open for business this morning?” Okay, that wasn’t even close to what I thought I’d say.

“Nah, I’m not openin’ till late this afternoon. And then, just for supper.”

“Oh.”

“Because of the storm, I ended up stayin’ closed last night too.”

“I see.”

“Yah, it’s given me a chance to collect your recipes, along with time to start my cookbook there.”

“What? You’re writing a cookbook?”

Margie did one of those non-committal shrugs. “I’m not positive, but I think so. That’s why I’ve been gatherin’ all these different recipes. Remember, man cannot live on Tuna Noodle Hot Dish alone.” She snickered. “Yah, I’ve already settled on a name. I’m goin’ to call it
Fifty Shades of Hot Dish
.” She worked her mouth from side to side while searching my face for approval.

“Catchy,” I replied. I really didn’t think so, but who was I to say?

“Oh, yah, it worked for that other lady, so I figured it might work for me.”

“But, Margie, her book was all about sex.”

“Yah, I know. I read it.”

“And yours will be about—”

“Hot dish.” She fanned the recipe cards she held in her hand. “I considered weavin’ in some sex. But I couldn’t figure out how.”

I opened my mouth but let my criticism die on my tongue. Margie was so happy I didn’t want to dampen her spirits.

“So . . .” she went on to say, “did ya ever hear from Randy?”

Ugh!
Margie was in love, and a part of me wanted to bite her head off because of it. Of course, I didn’t really begrudge her romantic happiness. Mostly I was irritable because of the news I had to break to her. And because of my lack of sleep. Oh, yeah, and because people in new relationships always seemed compelled to pry into everyone else’s love life—or lack thereof. “No, Margie, I never heard from him. And I don’t—”

“I think the weather’s still pretty darn bad out there. And bad weather often causes chaos with the phone service.”

“Margie, I don’t want to talk about Randy.”

“What? Why not?”

I pursed my lips. “Well, I don’t know. Do you want to discuss your personal life?” I raised my eyes to the ceiling, in the general direction of her bedroom.

Margie blushed. “Emme, I really like him. But I’m not ready to answer a bunch of questions.”

“Fair enough.” I fiddled with a recipe card. “Just give me the same consideration. That’s all I’m asking.”

She hesitated but finally said, “Fine then. But I’ll tell ya one thing. If Randy ends up missin’ the party tonight, he’ll be none too happy. He really likes our Halloween parties.”

“And I’ll tell you another thing. You’re great just the way you are. You don’t need to re-invent yourself for anyone.”

That got her flustered. “Well . . . umm . . . I’m not so sure about that.”

“I am.”

She screwed up her mouth thoughtfully. “Sometimes challenging yourself can be a good thing, Emme. Otherwise you might fall in a rut.”

“True enough. As long as you’re doing it for yourself.”

She shook her head. “All this readin’ and studyin’ has made me feel more alive than ever. If that makes any sense.” She hesitated. “Even so, I’m not ready for the teasin’ I’m goin’ to get from Barbie. Teasin’ about my new interests as well as you-know-who.”

“Well, she won’t hear about either from me.”

“Good.”

I nervously wiggled my toes in my shoes. Then I sat on my hands. There was no point delaying the inevitable. While Margie didn’t need any more grief in her life—and who did?—she deserved to know what had happened to her nephew. “So . . . um . . . Margie . . . um . . . tell me about that plaque?” Okay, I’m pitiful. I’ll do just about anything to avoid hurting my friends or causing myself any anguish.

“Well,” she replied, retrieving the wooden panel from the table, “this is an art piece from Ingebretsen’s Scandinavian Gift Shop down in Minneapolis there.” It featured a flowing flower design painted in shades of blue, orange, and green. “It’s called rosemalin’. It’s a form of folk art. For sure you’ve seen—“

“Yeah, I’m aware of what it is. I was just wondering if it was a gift or . . .” I didn’t need to finish my question. Margie’s flushed cheeks had provided her answer.

“I’m not sure where to hang it,” she rushed to say in a clear attempt to talk away yet another embarrassment. “I might take it home. But it’s so pretty. And since I spend most of my time here, I . . . well . . . I dunno.”

“I’m sure you’ll find the perfect place for it.”

“Yah, I suppose I will.” She set the piece down and fell silent.

I did the same. There wasn’t anything more to add to our discussion about rosemaling, self-improvement, or cookbooks. There wasn’t even anything else to say about good old what’s-his-name. Yep, we’d talked about everything except the one subject I had no desire to broach. But there wasn’t any way around it. So with a dry swallow, I began, “Margie . . . umm . . . I’ve got something important to tell you.”

She must have noted the concern in my voice or felt the tension in the air because she quickly gathered her recipe cards, stacked them on the table, and folded her hands in her lap. “Okay, I’m listenin’. What is it then?”

I closed my eyes and slowly began my story, speaking with as little emotion as possible, for her sake as well as my own. Part way through, I peeked to find her eyes filled with unshed tears, and seeing that, my own grew moist. Yet I continued. In rote fashion, I reported everything from the poker game and Wally’s involvement in it to Buddy’s arrest and my subsequent conversation with his lawyer.

When I was all done, Margie said, “Well, if that don’t beat all.” She rubbed her red, dry hands together. “On the plus side, I know everythin’ will work out. On the minus side, I don’t wanna wait for the BCA folks. We need to get Buddy out of jail sooner rather than later. Ya see, Emme, he’ll go berserk in there.”

A lone tear escaped her right eye, and she rushed to wipe it from her cheek before any of the others noticed and decided to follow its lead. “He was accidently locked in a farm shed when he was young, don’t ya know. He was stuck in there for more than twenty-four hours. It was in the fall and really cold out. There weren’t any lights. Rodents were runnin’ around. Uff-da, he was only eight. When we finally found him, he was ‘traumatized.’ At least that’s what the doctors called it. And they were probably right because, ever since, he’s been unable to handle bein’ confined in any way.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Well, it’s not somethin’ he’s goin’ to talk about.” She made an apparent effort to find her bearings by redoing her ponytail and straightening her tee-shirt. “I suppose we all have things—secrets and such—that we’d rather not admit to.”

“Yeah, I suppose we do.” Thoughts of Boo-Boo immediately sprang to mind. I hadn’t shared with anyone—not even my therapist—the details of his recent and increasingly insistent efforts to renew our relationship. To my way of thinking, I should have been able to deter him on my own, without involving others. I felt foolish that I hadn’t succeeded. And I couldn’t help but wonder if I was unknowingly doing something to encourage him.

“Anyways,” Margie said, thankfully scattering my Boo-Boo-related concerns, “do ya have any idea how we can help him?”

I recounted my pathetic, two-point plan. “No, nothing specific, but I promise I’ll do whatever it takes.” I then informed her that Barbie was on her way.

As if on cue, Margie’s cell phone rang. “It’s Barbie.” She answered but didn’t say much other than an occasional “oh, for sure” and “ya betcha.” The call was short. And when it ended, she reported, “Change of plans there. Barbie wants ya to go and meet her for breakfast at the Caribou in Hallock. She said there’s more information we need from the police. And since Guy and Jarod never miss breakfast or their mornin’ whist game at the Caribou, the two of ya should start there, while I do a little phone work from here. Then we’ll get together and compare notes.”

I rose from my stool and patted my friend’s forearm. “We’ll get this all ironed out, Margie. I promise.”

She made an effort to smile, but it fell short. “Yah, we will. But I can’t help but worry about the damage that’ll be done along the way.” She shook her head. “Uff-da, what a mess.”

“Well, I better get moving if Barbie’s waiting for me.”

“Before ya go, wanna little somethin’ to eat? Ya never know, the Caribou might not have anythin’ good on the menu. And I’ve got some Orange Jell-O Salad. It has fruit cocktail, bananas, and mandarin oranges in it, so it’s good for breakfast. Ruth Hennen gave me the recipe. I think it’s a lot like one of those smoothies some folks always insist on in the mornin’. Only way thicker. And not nearly as expensive.” She winked.