A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes: A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery (9 page)

Buddy grunted. “He was on paid vacation from his office job in Fargo.”

“But unlike him, I still had to go in once in a while.”

“Yet not this past Tuesday or Wednesday?” I reached for a nonchalance I wasn’t feeling and hoped it didn’t show.

“No, I was too tired.” His countenance remained guarded, indicating I probably wasn’t as good at faking nonchalance as I had hoped. Big surprise. “Plus, Val doesn’t like being left alone anymore. Now that she’s getting close to her due date, she wants me around all the time. I don’t think I’ve left her side since last Friday night.”

“So you didn’t go anywhere?”

He frowned, apparently signaling that once again I was pressing too hard. “Like I said, we slept most of Wednesday. I don’t think either of us got up until it was time to go back to work at midnight. Then two hours later we were sent home because the piler got shut down due to the cold. So we went back to bed. And we didn’t leave the house again until Val’s doctor appointment at noon yesterday. Then, when we got done there, we went home, cleaned up, and came here for the banquet.” His frown lines deepened. “Now, that should answer all your questions.” He pulled himself from the booth.

“I’ve gotta get out of this snowmobile suit before I roast to death,” he added to Buddy before tromping out of the café and down the hallway, with Buddy behind him.

Chapter Fourteen

W
hile slowly finishing my breakfast
,
I read through the rest of the local paper. I especially enjoyed the Meeting Notes that focused on Margie:

The VFW women’s auxiliary from Kennedy held its fall meeting last week. At the suggestion of Margie Johnson, owner of the Hot Dish Heaven café and the group’s treasurer, the women performed a team-building exercise by driving to Wahpeton, North Dakota, where they shopped and ate at Antoinette’s On the River, a gift boutique and luncheonette. While most everyone ordered the chicken salad, Margie tried the Chicken Dumpling Hot Dish, insisting she needed to expand her culinary horizons. With the exception of Margie’s sister, Vivian Olson, the women praised the food. And for her part, Margie was over the moon about the hot dish, noting that it was “gall-darn tasty.” The business portion of the meeting went off without a hitch. And a pretty good time was had by all.

I had folded the paper and was just about done with my coffee when Buddy returned, a scowl on his face. “What in the hell were you trying to prove with Wally?” He spoke in that hissing voice that people use when they’re angry but don’t want anyone to hear them except the target of their wrath.

Irritated by both his expression and his tone, I matched his scowl and raised him a pair of defiant eyes, along with a snarl. “I was teasing out information.”

“No you weren’t. You were torturing the guy.” He plopped down on the seat across from me. “Any minute I expected you to start with the waterboarding.”

I steeled myself against his criticism. “I warned you, Buddy, I’m not a professional investigator.”

“But you’ve heard of tact, haven’t you?” He was getting downright pissy.

“I can quit anytime, you know.”

His lips tightened like a piece of taut string. “I don’t want you to do that. I just want you to be more diplomatic. He’s my cousin’s husband, for cryin’ out loud. He’s one of my best friends. And he certainly didn’t have anything to do with Raleigh Cummings’ death.”

“Then why’d he lie?”

His face twisted into a grimace. “What?”

“He was in Hallock on Wednesday afternoon. But he said he never left his house after he and Little Val got home from the field. Not until they went back to work at midnight.”

“How do you know he was in Hallock?”

“Father Daley saw him.”

Doubt clouded his eyes. “Maybe the priest was mistaken.”

“He seemed sure of himself. And it was only two days ago. Unlikely he’d make a mistake like that.”

Buddy poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. “Maybe Wall-eye got mixed up. He’s under a lot of pressure with the baby coming and all.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

I wasn’t convinced. It seemed to me that stressed out or not Wally would remember if he’d spent the afternoon at home with his pregnant wife or in Hallock by himself. But rather than speculating about that, I decided to review what I knew for certain about the murderer. I also decided to do it silently. It’d give me an opportunity to calm down. Which would be a good thing because, at the moment, I still wanted to shove Buddy’s Breakfast Pie right up his nose.

I glimpsed at him. He was absently scanning the newspaper, the corners of his mouth turned down, the crease across the bridge of his nose more defined. He appeared as if he needed a break from me as much as I did from him. Hard to fathom.

I sipped my orange juice and mulled over who might have committed the murder. In my view, the killer was strong and, odds are, worked the night shift for a local beet farmer. After all, he—or she—had the ability to lug a dead body around and was aware of the unplanned night-time shutdown at the piler. The killer also knew that the piler had scales serviced via underground pits—perfect for hiding bodies.

By my estimation, there were a couple hundred night-crew beet workers in the area. But as I’d learned in a journalism class on investigative reporting, I only needed to focus on those who had “motive” and “opportunity” to carry out the crime.

Granted, I was just getting started, but my mental list of suspects already included several people. First, Little Val and Wally. Because of that dustup in the field, each had reason to dislike Cummings, though I questioned if it was motive enough for murder. Next, Janice Ferguson. True, she wasn’t employed by a beet farmer, but she was overheard arguing with Raleigh Cummings only a day or so before he died. The subject of the argument, however, was garbage—literally garbage. Again probably not much of a motive. And finally, there was the man sitting across from me. His fight with Raleigh was the most contentious. But if he had committed the crime, why ask me for help?

I stared at him, yet he refrained from looking up from the newspaper, even though he was well aware I wanted him to do so. “Buddy,” I said, my tone stern, “are you going to explain that black eye or not?”

He meticulously folded the paper and placed it on the seat next to him. “I already told you, it’s not important.”

That irked me. Call me crazy, but I’d always preferred reaching my own conclusions. “Listen, if this arrangement of ours is going to work, you have to level with me.”

“I am leveling with you. My eye has absolutely nothing to do with Raleigh Cummings’ death.” His manner suggested the topic was closed to further discussion. Another point of contention with me. In fact, it really ticked me off. I hated anyone censoring me.

“Fine!” I flung my napkin at my plate. “Forget the whole thing.” Frustration and fury had sharpened my voice and were urging me to toss around a few other “F” words.

Before I went that far, I slid from the booth, and he grabbed my arm. “Hold on. I need your help.”

“No you don’t. At least not enough to be up front with me.” I shook my arm free.

“But you agreed.”

I pinned him with a glare. “Not if you’re going to be less than honest.”

“I didn’t lie.”

“Omission is the same thing. Or is that concept just too vague for you to comprehend?” See? I could get pissy too.

He halfway rose to once more tug on my sweater sleeve. “All right. All right. Sit down, and I’ll tell you.”

I vacillated. This was my chance to bow out with a clear conscience. I could assure myself that while I’d offered my assistance, Buddy wasn’t keen on my approach or my need for transparency. As a result, I couldn’t help him. End of story.

So why didn’t I leave? The urge to go was so great it actually made my feet tingle. Still I remained in place. How come?

In a word—curiosity. In another—nosiness. I also could have gone with “prurience” or “inquisitiveness.” All pointed to the same thing. My unadulterated shameless need to know everything in general. And in this specific situation, the story behind that shiner.

Feigning disinterest, I edged back into the booth and poured myself another cup of coffee. “Well, okay. I guess if you insist. Go ahead. Shoot.”

He murmured something unintelligible.

“I can still take off, you know.”

He shook his head. “No, don’t do that.” He fingered the corner of the newspaper. “It’s just that I was surprised how . . . umm . . . aggressive you are.”

“You mean pushy?”

“You said it. I didn’t.”

I warned myself to remain civil. I’d been called worse. And he was right. My inability to be subtle was one of my biggest shortcomings as a reporter. It was one of the primary reasons I’d been assigned to the Food section at the paper and not real news, where I’d actually have to interact with people on a daily basis. Even so, I didn’t need him to remind me.

“Buddy, if I recall right, you were the one who said we didn’t have much time. So I was searching for information as quickly as I could. That didn’t allow much of a chance to get all touchy-feely. Sorry.”

He momentarily closed his eyes. “Okay. Let’s just move on.”

No way. I wasn’t done justifying my actions. Or making him feel bad for yelling at me. “I also had the impression you weren’t thrilled about asking your family or friends the tough questions yourself.”

“Of course I wasn’t ‘thrilled’ about it.”

“That’s one of the reasons you brought me on board, right? To ask the tough questions? And that’s all I was doing.” I stopped to allow him to think about that.

“Now,” I then added, “tell me about your eye.” He puffed out a big breath of air. He was giving in. I mentally licked my fingertip and drew a hash mark in the air, scoring one for me.

“I got hit by a guy named Hunter. He got upset with me over his girlfriend.”

I unintentionally smirked. “Why? Were you hustling her? Or was the hustling part over by the time he caught you?”

He raised his shoulders, appearing somewhat incredulous. “Why would you say that?”

I brushed my hand across my mouth but couldn’t wipe the smirk from my lips. “You have a reputation for being a cad.”

He leaned forward and spoke in a voice just above a whisper. Again I had no idea why, unless he suspected that Margie, Buford, Wally, and Little Val were eavesdropping on us from the kitchen. “I may like women,” he said, “but I don’t poach girlfriends—or wives.”

I mimicked him by leaning forward and replying in a similar tone, “This Hunter guy must think otherwise.”

“Not really.”

“Then why’d he hit you?”

Uncertainty crossed his face, embarrassment following close behind. “Because I . . . umm . . . said he was too good for her.”

“What? Why would you do that?”

He backed into the corner of the booth, bending his knee and pulling it toward his chest, his foot resting on the seat. “Because I saw her in the Eagles in Hallock last Saturday night. She was making out with some other guy while Hunter was at the bar in the next room, drowning his sorrows, as usual.”

“As usual?”

“Yeah, she runs around on him a lot.” He settled his forearm on his bent knee, his hand dangling. “When Hunter finds out, which he always does, he heads to the Eagles and ties one on. After that things settle down until the next time she chases after someone.” He rubbed the side of his nose. “Normally she’s more discreet. But for some reason that night—”

“He actually puts up with that?” I was having trouble accepting what he was telling me.

“Yep. Has for decades.”

“What?” I sat up straight. He definitely had my attention.

“They’ve been dating since high school, back in the seventies. They’re both in their late fifties now.”

“Wait a minute.” I had to take another run at this. “They’ve been dating for some forty years?”

“That’s right.”

“And they’ve never married?”

“Nope.” He bit back a smile, yet the corners of his mouth twitched. “Hunter says it wouldn’t be ‘prudent to marry’ given her ‘proclivity’ for other guys.” He worked to keep his smile in check. “Those are his words. Not mine. And where he got them, I have no idea. He doesn’t talk like that, so my guess is he’s met with a preacher or a shrink or someone like that.”

In an effort to clear my head, I gave it a good shake. It didn’t help. “But short of marrying her, he’s fine with the relationship as it is?”

Buddy offered a palms up. “That’s basically what I asked him Saturday night. I’d never said anything before. Figured it wasn’t any of my business. Besides, she’s nice enough—to everyone else anyhow. She just treats Hunter like shit sometimes. But I always thought that was between the two of them. On Saturday, though, I decided I needed to speak up.”

“And?”

“He hit me.” He brushed his bruise with his knuckle. “I would have gotten mad, but he was so drunk there wasn’t much force behind his fist.” He shrugged. “And he’s a friend.”

“Some friend.”

“Yeah, well, most guys in his situation would have gone a little berserk.”

I gaped. “Buddy, most guys wouldn’t be in his situation. Not for long anyhow.” I raised my coffee cup to my lips. “Why does he put up with it?”

“That’s what I asked him.”

“And?”

“Well, just before he let me have it, he told me he loved her. And he said everyone should leave them the hell alone.”

“Hmm.” So many questions. So little time. “Did he go after the other guy? You know, confront him? Beat him up?”

“Not that I saw.”

“But he must have known him. This isn’t exactly a metropolis.”

“Maybe he didn’t get a good look at him. I didn’t.”

“You didn’t?”

He winced. “I might have had a few too many drinks that night. I don’t remember everything real clearly.”

“You got drunk during harvest? I thought that wasn’t allowed.”

“We weren’t in the field last weekend. It was raining off and on, so we were shut down.”

I backtracked. “You really didn’t recognize the guy?” To my way of thinking, drunk or not, Buddy should have been familiar with practically everyone in the county.

As if reading my mind, he said, “Emerald, strangers do pass through once in a while. Guys come up to work beets every fall. And construction workers move through on a regular basis.”

He sank deeper into the corner of the booth and fixed a glassy gaze on some point beyond my shoulder. “I remember catching sight of her on my way to the bathroom. She was in the corner with . . .” He spoke in a quiet, modulated tone, as if narrating the scene playing out in his mind. “Then about forty-five minutes later, when I was headed back to the bar to get another drink, I saw her again. She was in the same corner, with the same guy. It was . . . It was her and . . .” His words faded as his gaze was replaced with the gleam of recognition.

“You remember, don’t you?” My interest turned to excitement. “Who was it? Who was she with?”

The curl of his lip signaled near disbelief as he said, “Raleigh Cummings.” He sat up straight. “She was with Raleigh Cummings.”

“Really?” Prickles of excitement ran up and down my spine. “Are you positive?”

He again stared past me, apparently rerunning the events of that evening through his head. “Yep, it was him.”

“Hmm.” Buddy’s revelation was disturbing yet fascinating in a perverse way. “And all this took place this past Saturday night?”