A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes: A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery (17 page)

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.”

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?”

Margie rolled her eyes, then fixed them on me. “Emme, I don’t know how fit he is. But as Barbie said, he’s certainly not heavy anymore.”

I’d quit scratching the puppy’s belly. And now he was circling my lap, searching for the perfect spot for a nap. “Let me put it another way,” I said as he settled in. “Could he duck-walk through a scale pit while pulling a dead body?”

Margie groaned. “Uff-da, this is one of the most morbid conversation I’ve ever been a part of.”

“Yeah,” Barbie agreed, “and it’s about to get worse.”

“How so?”

Barbie toddled over to the bed. And both Margie and I had to bite our lips to keep from laughing. True, we were engaged in a grim discussion. Still, it was hard to take Barbie seriously, particularly when she was on the move.

She sat down next to me, and her spandex skirt climbed to the very top of her generous thighs. “So far we’ve assumed one of the guys in that card game killed Raleigh because he was cheating or because they didn’t want to pay him or because they were afraid he’d expose their secrets or something along those lines. But what if we’re wrong?” She shifted her eyes between us. “What if . . . umm . . . it wasn’t just one guy?” Again she checked us both out. “What if the President, Wally, Hunter, Dinky, and possibly Biggie acted together to get rid of Raleigh?”

I snorted. “A murder conspiracy? That’s even crazier than your other theory.”

She slapped her hands against the bed. “Just hear me out, Emme. It’s clear they all hated the guy’s guts. So why is it so hard to believe they wouldn’t work together to—”

“Murder him?” I couldn’t believe my ears.

“Don’t act so shocked, Emme. Somebody killed him.”

Margie leaned forward on her chair. “I can’t imagine Wally bein’ a part of somethin’ as evil as that.” She tapped her feet. “And even though those other guys get along well enough to play cards and such, I don’t know if they’re friendly enough to—”

“Kill someone?” The irony was apparent in my voice. “Why go that far? Couldn’t they have simply agreed to deny that the game ever took place?”

Barbie yanked her head back. “Now who’s talking crazy?”

I held up my hand to stop her from saying any more. “It’s not like Raleigh could have proved otherwise.”

Margie’s eyes were wide. “Emme, doin’ somethin’ like that would of meant lyin’ to a lot of people. Not just Raleigh.”

“And, quite frankly, I don’t know if that particular group of men could have pulled it off,” Barbie added. “On top of that, it’s very likely that Raleigh had them sign IOUs or something since it wasn’t the friendliest of games.”

Margie nodded. “In the movies, the losers sometimes hafta hand over their car titles or the deed to property or whatnot.”

“And I’ve heard that guys around here
have
actually lost vehicles and land in card games.” Barbie leaned back on the bed, bracing herself with her arms bent at the elbows. “But no one really carries around titles and deeds. They’d be more apt to make arrangements to turn them over on some future date. And in the meantime, if they couldn’t be trusted, they’d probably have to sign IOUs.”

For the first time since Buddy’s arrest, I felt a spark of hope. “If the police found something like IOUs or car titles or land deeds on Raleigh Cummings’ body or in his truck or at his house, it would go a long way toward shifting the blame away from Buddy.”

Margie held her pen in the air. “Should I make a note to ask Guy and Jarod about that?”

“Hmm,” Barbie hummed. “You’d think they would have told us if the folks from their office had found anything along those lines.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Barbie, we’re talking about Guy and Jarod here.”

“Yah, you’re right. We better ask them.”

So Margie wrote it down.

“And while we’re at it,” I said, “we should check to see if any of our card players were late for work or temporarily missing from their shift Tuesday night—or rather Wednesday morning.” Both of my friends appeared to need more details, so that’s what I gave them. “See, the time of death is now estimated at sometime between those early morning hours and that afternoon. Basically a twelve-hour window. But the murder most likely occurred during the night. If it had happened during the day, someone would have seen something suspicious. So we need to account for our suspects’ whereabouts during their shifts.”

Barbie sat up straight. “Emme, I agree we should talk to Buford and John Deere. But remember, all of our card players were truck drivers. They could have snuck away for a little bit without it being noticed.” She pulled on her spiked hair. “And if it was noticed, they could have blamed their slow return to the field on equipment problems or whatever.”

My shoulders slumped. I felt dejected. My idea sucked.

“As for a murder during the day? It wouldn’t necessarily draw attention,” she added, as if she hadn’t already damaged my pride enough. “You’re from the Cities. It’s crowded there. But up here you can drive for miles and go for hours without seeing another soul.”

I shrugged. “Sorry. It was a dumb idea.”

Barbie caressed my arm, as if soothing my bruised ego. “No it wasn’t. It’s always better to have information. I’m just letting you know that checking time sheets is not a fool-proof way to find our killer. But we should do it just the same.”

I turned to Margie. She was making more notes. “So do you want to talk to John Deere?” I asked when she looked up. “Find out if Hunter was AWOL from work at all during the wee hours of Wednesday morning?”

Her face flushed at the mere mention of John’s name. “Yah . . . umm . . . okay.”

“And Emme and I will see what Buford knows,” Barbie volunteered. “Since the cops are scouring the farm site and won’t even let him sleep in the house, he’s staying with Vern and Vivian. I expect we’ll see him tonight.” She winked at Margie. “Not that an entire evening with Vivian would have him climbing the walls or anything.”

Believe it not, Margie chuckled, then rose, placing her pen and pad on her vacated chair. “Did I mention that this was the most disturbing conversation I’ve ever been a part of?” She shook her head. “I need a pick-me-up. Anyone interested in joinin’ me downstairs for some Pumpkin Bars? I’ll even brew a fresh pot of coffee to go with them.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Count me in.” I scooted off the bed, the sleepy puppy in my arms. “Is this another new recipe?”

“Yah, it came from Bev Thompson. After I finished making the Pumpkin Roll this morning, I decided to keep on goin’ with the whole pumpkin thing, so I made these bars too.”

“I’m glad you did.” I felt a smile ease across my face. “I love anything pumpkin.”

Barbie got up from the bed and slapped her hips, the sound cracking through the air. “Oh, hell, let me change back into my jeans, and I’ll join you.”

Margie lifted her chin. “What about losin’ weight?”

Barbie sighed. “I’m going through menopause!” She made the announcement as if we hadn’t heard it a million times before. “Woman always gain weight during menopause. Why should I be any different?” She pursed her lips. “It’s probably unhealthy to fight it.”

“Yah,” Margie said, her tongue poking the inside of her cheek, “it probably is.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

L
ater that afternoon
, I retreated
to my bedroom to give the puppy a bath in the sink. He didn’t care for any part of it, and as soon as I finished, he vigorously rubbed himself dry on the scatter rug next to the bed. I also tried to comb his hair, but his fur was matted, and he was terribly wiggly. In the end, my efforts were about as pointless as they’d been with my own hair.

I placed him on the foot of the bed, where he alternated between dozing and watching me slog through the various costume pieces I’d begrudgingly pulled from Barbie’s trunk. Time and again, I slipped something on, only to look in the mirror and yank it back off, either mortified or guilt-ridden by what I saw. And time and again, the puppy seemed to agree with my assessment.

After an hour or so, I was totally frustrated and resorted to the white cotton blouse and nubby knee-highs I’d brought with me. I matched them with a green plaid wrap-around skirt I’d discovered at the bottom of Barbie’s trunk. I was going to the party as a “school girl.” But not Barbie’s kind of school girl. That’s why I’d left the “principal’s paddle” in the trunk.

The skirt was awfully short but otherwise fit after I twisted it around my waist one extra time. I braided my hair and donned large black horn-rimmed glasses and a nylon backpack, both discovered in a bag of accessories. I also stuck my notebook and a pen in the backpack, just in case I really did come across some important information.

The puppy didn’t appear particularly impressed with my final ensemble, and after one last look in the mirror, I had to agree. But I couldn’t do anything about it, so I placed the dog in his makeshift bed, filled his water bowl, and made my way downstairs, feeling very much like a school girl on her way to detention.

As soon as I entered the café, I spied Margie. She was dressed as a nun. She wore a long black habit, cinched at the waist, and topped off with a matching veil and white bib and headpiece. In spite of my years in parochial school, I couldn’t remember what the bib was called but thought the headpiece was a “coif.” Not that it mattered.

“Where on earth did you get that outfit?” I asked.

She breezed past me, two plates of tonight’s special, Tami Boychuk’s Lazy Cabbage Roll Hot Dish, balanced on each arm. With her habit billowing behind her, she headed for the booth where Laurel and Hardy and Lucy and Ethel were waiting for supper.

Upon her return, she explained, “Father Daley found it in a closet in the rectory. He’s not sure where it came from. It was just the outfit—none of the religious trimmings—so he let me have it as long as I promised ‘not to act like a jackass while wearing it.’ His words, not mine.”

She gave me the once over. “Ya look sorta like a co-ed.”

I bit my bottom lip. “Yeah, I guess it’ll be okay.”

“Well, it’s different, that’s for sure.”

At that moment, two men dressed as women walked in. Both wore nylon wigs—one brown, one blonde—and lots of makeup, like they had finger painted each other’s face. They donned sleeveless dresses, complete with balloon-filled bras, and three-inch heels with pointy toes. Neither had bothered to shave his legs, underarms, or five-o’clock shadow.

They glanced sheepishly at Margie. “Can we eat here?” I recognized Guy from the timbre of his voice. The blonde floozy with him must have been Jarod.

“Why would ya think otherwise?” Margie’s tone was a bit gruff.

“Well . . . umm . . . because of what happened to Buddy.”

“Were the two of ya responsible for his arrest?”

“No, but . . .”

“Then ya can eat here. Just don’t say anythin’ that’ll tick me off, or I’ll . . .”

“Rap our knuckles with a ruler?” Jarod offered.

Margie scrunched up her mouth. “Make me mad, and your knuckles will be the least of your problems. Now go grab a booth.”

They hobbled away on their heels, their ankles buckling every few steps.

Meanwhile, Margie spun toward me. “Ya wanna ask ’em what we wanted to know, or ya goin’ to wait for Barbie?”

“Well, I suppose I can . . .”

The door squeaked open and in walked Barbie.

“Geez Louise,” Margie muttered, which pretty much summed up my sentiments as well.

Barbie was dressed as Wonder Woman. And her Wonder Woman left the sexy French maid and the sleazy nurse looking like kindergarten angels.

She was greeted by a host of cat calls, not only from Guy and Jarod, but Laurel and Hardy, as well as Frankenstein and Dracula, who were seated at the counter. She bowed dramatically, her boobs dangerously close to falling out of her red and gold bustier.

After re-arranging “the girls,” as she referred to them, she strutted over to us, her red, knee-high boots clicking against the floor like a warning. Which only seemed right. The women in town, I figured, deserved a chance to hide their young-uns and lock up their menfolk.

“Barbie,” Margie said, “ya look so slutty I bet you’ll get a Christmas card from the free clinic in Grand Forks.”

No doubt about it, Barbie could have been mistaken for a superhero hooker in her hardly-there bustier, suntan-colored nylons, and blue, starred panties. The outfit left little to the imagination, and she appeared delighted by it.

As she fidgeted with her black wig and gold metallic bracelets and crown, she said to me, “What do you think?”

I couldn’t speak.

She had no such trouble. Surveying my outfit, she advised, “You’d look a lot better if you’d stuff your bra and unbutton your shirt. You know, show some cleavage.”

I folded my arms over my poor excuse for a bosom and stammered, “N-No . . . umm . . . that’s okay.”

She adjusted the cups of her bustier. “Emme, until today I never realized what a prude you were.”

“I’m not a prude!” I made my case much louder than intended, leading everyone in the place to look my way. I yanked on Wonder Woman’s arm and hissed, “I just don’t have all the curves you do, so there’s very little to show off.”

“That’s why you need to improvise.”

I held back a sigh of frustration. Trust me, I wasn’t jealous of Barbie’s figure. She was much bigger—all over—than I ever wanted to be. Even so, it seemed unfair that I barely filled a “B” cup, while she was overflowing letters halfway down the alphabet.

“Guy and Jarod are over in that booth,” Margie said, disrupting thoughts of padded bras and silicone implants. “If ya don’t mind, maybe the two of ya could talk to ’em—get the answers to some of those other questions. I hafta get back to the kitchen.”

“Not a problem,” Barbie replied with an overabundance of enthusiasm. “Not a problem at all for Wonder Woman!” Margie and I did matching eye rolls. But Barbie didn’t care. She merely turned on her high-heeled boots and sashayed across the room. I followed, and it wasn’t long before I was so woozy from watching her hip action that I was desperate for a Dramamine.

Approaching the deputies, I saw their eyes on Barbie and drool on their chins. It was pathetic. Understandable. But pathetic. She slid in next to Guy, who couldn’t take his eyes off her chest, while I sat down next to Jarod, who had no idea I was even there. Yep, for these two guys, at that moment in time, Barbie Jenson was indeed Wonder Woman.

“So,” the superhero began, “how lucky are we to have the pleasure of your company twice in one day?” Her tone was spiked with derision, but the guys didn’t pick up on it. Hell, I’m not even sure they heard her. They were in a trance. And if they didn’t blink soon, I imagined we’d have to intervene, or they’d probably go blind.

Barbie smirked, fully aware of the powerful weapons she possessed. “I have another question for you two.” She arched her back ever so slightly. “I should have asked it this morning, but I forgot.” Guy’s mouth hung open, and she reached over and chucked him under his chin in an effort to close it. “Have you searched the house Raleigh was renting here in town? The one Harvey used to live in?”

Both men continued to stare, while sweat beaded on their temples and their makeup ran down their cheeks in colorful streams. Barbie repeatedly waved her hands in front of their eyes, and at last they blinked, then rattled their heads, their long, nylon tresses bouncing. I believe they were starting to come around.

“Well . . . umm . . . we d-didn’t” Guy stuttered, “search there, but some other f-folks from the office checked it out.”

“Did they find anything of interest?” Barbie asked

Guy was trying to regain his composure. He messed with the balloons in his bra and tampered with his wig. And after that, he clasped his hands, twisting them out in front of him until his knuckles cracked. “No. Why? Were they . . . umm . . . supposed to?”

Barbie offered him a palms up. “Not necessarily.” She did her best to convey innocence. She had a tough go of it, as you might expect. “Just wondering.”

Jarod then telegraphed Guy a question, and Barbie intercepted it. “Hey! What’s that about?” She demanded, glancing from one Halloween beauty to the other. “Come on. You two know something. Tell me.”

Neither man spoke, so she inhaled deeply. “What’s going on? What do you know that you haven’t shared with me?”

One look at her chest, and they both were goners. But this time it was Jarod who spoke. And he could hardly get the words out fast enough. “When the guys from our office got to Raleigh’s house, the back door was wide open. Jimmied, they said. Someone had rifled through all the cupboards and drawers inside. The closets too.”

“Do you know what they were looking for?” Barbie asked.

“No,” Jarod rushed to answer. “And we don’t know if they found it either.”

“Did you happen to find any papers on Raleigh’s body?”

“Papers?” Jarod repeated.

“Yeah,” I said, wanting to get in on the action. “Like car titles or IOUs. That sort of thing.”

Barbie frowned. Okay, I wasn’t exactly subtle. Then again, neither were her double-Ds.

“Nope,” Guy answered. He pulled a napkin from the dispenser and dabbed his face. “We only found $200 in cash, his driver’s license, and a credit card. All in his wallet.”

He inspected his napkin and shook his head at the makeup he’d wiped off. “I don’t know how you gals do it.” He balled it up and tossed it across the table.

“So, nothing else? Not even pictures?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said. “With Harvey dead, he had no family left.”

“Nothing in his truck either?”

He looked at me suspiciously. “No. Why?”

Margie arrived with their supper. “Eat up, boys,” she said, placing their food in front of them. “Holler if ya need anythin’.”

Barbie slid from the booth, and I followed, only to circle around again. “Oh, just one more thing,” I said, pushing my fake glasses up my nose, “Do you know if Wally and Raleigh were acquainted with each other when they both lived in Fargo?”

The deputies exchanged puzzled looks. “Wally and Raleigh? No, from what we understand, they never met until this fall, when Raleigh came up here to work beets. Why? What do you know?”

I shook my head and offhandedly replied, “Oh, nothing.”

*   *   *

When we entered the kitchen
, Margie rolled up the sleeves of her habit, letting them hang from her shoulders, and began stacking the dishwasher. “What did ya find out?”

Wonder Woman answered, “The killer was definitely after something. Raleigh’s house was ransacked before the police got there.”

“That must have been how the dog got out,” I added.

“Trick or treat!” The three of us jumped, then spun around to find a medium-sized mermaid and a half-pint Cinderella standing on the threshold that separated the kitchen from the dining area. The little girls wore winter jackets over their costumes, along with knit hats, gloves, and snow boots. Nevertheless, because their jackets were open, we could see most of their costumes.

“Oh, for cute,” I said. “Disney characters.” While I hated dressing up for Halloween, I enjoyed seeing kids have fun with the holiday.

“I’m the Little Mermaid,” the older girl informed us. She had to be around seven.

The younger one said nothing, choosing instead to stand on the side of her feet and stare at Barbie. “She’s Wonder Woman,” I told her. Right away, the little girl turned away. I’m not sure if it was because she was shy or completely overwhelmed by the wonder of Barbie’s womanhood.

“So, where’s your ma?” Margie asked the question as she plunked a large Hershey bar in each of the plastic, pumpkin baskets the girls held.

“She’s out front, talking to Dinky,” said the Little Mermaid. “Thanks, Margie.”

“You’re welcome, sweetie. I like your costumes.”

The older girl beamed. “Little Mermaid’s my favorite movie of all times.”

“Yeah,” Margie agreed, “it’s a good one.”

The girl peeked past Margie, at me. “What’s she supposed to be?”

I stepped forward. “I’m a school girl. I have a backpack and everything.” I spun around so she could see it.

“Hmm.” She didn’t appear impressed.

She grabbed her little sister’s hand, and they headed out the room, the smaller one saying as they went, “That’s not a costume.”

“Shh.”