Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes (15 page)

As I said, the sky was captivating, but the mosquitoes were attacking with vengeance, so I too headed indoors.

***

Inside Hot Dish Heaven, a few stragglers made their way through the buffet line, while a couple others lingered in booths. I didn’t see the tractor boys anywhere and assumed they were in the VFW, where the dance should have been underway. Jim, the banker and bar manager, must have had trouble finding a replacement band, however, because the only music I heard accompanied a female karaoke singer—an atrocious karaoke singer. She was attempting Kris Kristofferson’s “Help Me Make It through the Night.” But no mistake about it, her need for help was far more immediate.

My eyes swept the room in search of Vern, and though I saw no sign of him, I did spot Vivian. She was standing with Margie in the kitchen, arguing about something. She shook her finger in Margie’s face, while Margie stood her ground, fists on hips. From where I was, I couldn’t tell what they were saying. To me, the entire exchange was nothing more than angry pantomime.

When Margie noticed me, she took leave of Vivian, who kept right on waving her finger back and forth like a windshield wiper.

“There you are,” Margie said, drawing near, two small plates of some type of creamy dish in hand. “I thought ya got lost.”

“I was admiring the sunset and the community garden.”

“Well, no one here can take credit for the sunset, but we’ll argue that durin’ the summer, it’s the best you’ll see anywhere.” She stopped for a beat. “The garden’s courtesy of Ole and Lena’s daughter, Rosa.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Yeah, I wish ya could of met her. She was in earlier with fresh-cut flowers for our guest of honor. I told her you were upstairs, but she couldn’t wait around. I don’t know why.”

I recalled the young woman I’d seen from the bedroom window. That must have been Rosa.

Margie motioned me to a booth, where we sat opposite each other. “I forgot to put this out,” she said, placing the plates on the table. “Ya gotta try it.”

She went on about the popularity of the dish, but I paid little attention. As difficult as this might be to believe, I wasn’t interested in eating. My stomach was upset, either from all the sweets I’d already consumed or Harriet’s ranting about colitis. “Sorry, but—”

“Oh, come on. It’s a favorite. It’s called Snicker Salad.”

Another misnomer. Like most of the so-called salads at the benefit dinner, Snicker Salad shared none of the ingredients of a real salad. No lettuce, no garden greens of any kind. It consisted of nothing other than green apple slices and pieces of Snicker candy bars mixed with Cool Whip. Not that I’m criticizing. The fact is I believe green M&Ms should be classified as vegetables. I’m just saying.

“Please try a bite,” Margie pleaded.

I had a hunch she wouldn’t give up. I’d have to try a little, so that’s what I did. And I had to admit, “this is pretty good.”

Only a trace of a smile touched Margie’s lips before she switched topics. “Yah, I wish ya could of met Rosa. She’s real nice.” She nodded at Vivian, who was rushing toward the hallway. “Unlike that one,” she huffed. “She’s my sister, don’t ya know. But she’s so mean that even if she deserves to go to hell, the devil will never take her.”

I was chewing a candy-bar nugget yet managed to say, “Now wait a minute. I thought you told me that Vivian was great to Ole and Lena’s kids. She took them in after Lena died and—”

“For sure she’s a good aunt and a decent ma, but she can be a real bear to other folks.”

I snatched a final glimpse of the woman before she disappeared. “She doesn’t look that tough.”

“Don’t let her bony body fool ya. She’s as tough as leather.” Margie speared a couple chunks of cream-covered apple. “Anyways, she’s mad as heck at me.”

“Why?” I ate a little more, deciding that since Snicker Salad contained fruit, it might have been the healthiest thing I’d eaten all day.

“I didn’t tell her you were comin’. I didn’t want her to know in case it didn’t work out. I’d never hear the end of it. So, she didn’t find out you were here until she got here herself a little while ago.”

“And that made her angry?”

She raised her eyes to the ceiling, as if she’d find her answer there. “I’m guessin’ more jealous than angry. She said I had no business invitin’ ya or any other reporter here without talkin’ to her first.” She slowly pulled the apple pieces off her fork, licking her lips when she was done.

“Why should she care?”

Margie answered amid chomps. “Vivian’s self-centered. Like I said, she’s probably mad you’re not doin’ a story about her.”

“Could be,” I replied, now very curious as to what Vivian knew about Samantha Berg’s disappearance and death. “Could be.”

The tractor boys peeked around the corner, and I pointed them out to Margie.

“They’re just the Donaldson brothers,” she said. “They’re always losin’ their drivers’ licenses for one reason or another, but since ya don’t need a license to operate farm equipment, they get by, though they might be pushin’ their luck drivin’ on the highway.”

As if coming to town by tractor wasn’t that unusual and didn’t warrant a whole lot of discussion, she dropped the subject by asking, “Now, what were we talkin’ about?”

I briefly contemplated pursuing the Donaldson brothers, figuratively speaking only, but decided instead to go in search of more information about Vivian and her possible connection to Samantha Berg’s death. In particular, I wanted to find out if she cared enough for her husband, Vern, to help him cover up the murder. But since Margie was extremely sensitive about her family, as I’d discovered earlier in the day, I would have to be cagey with my questions, like I was with Deputy Ryden. Although that didn’t work out all that well, did it?

“Margie,” I began hesitantly, “your sister and her husband don’t have a very good relationship, do they?”

She crimped her brow. “Now why on earth would ya care about that?”

“Well … um,” I stammered, once more noting that “cagey” just wasn’t my thing, “I … um … I was just wondering.”

Margie eyed me with uncertainty but answered anyway. “I suppose they’re like most couples married for thirty years.”

“Oh,” I replied, collecting myself. “Considering what you told me, I assumed they didn’t get along.”

“Well, like I said, Vivian’s one tough cookie.” Margie reached for my empty “salad” plate and placed it on top of her own. “But she and Vern have been through more than their share of rough patches, and that’s bound to create some kind of bond, right?”

I didn’t answer. I was busy mentally banging my head against the wall. Why couldn’t I be more tactful? Why was that so difficult for me? One of my professors had routinely reminded me that tact was “getting a point across without stabbing someone in the eye with it.” But I, it seemed, often caused near blindness.

“Well, um … Margie,” I said, taking another shot at it because I was too stubborn to admit defeat, “have Vern and Vivian ever experienced anything that might shatter that bond? Something like … um … Ole and Lena’s problem?”

Margie raised her chin, and with a mix of exasperation and trepidation, I answered her perplexed expression head on. Or more accurately, eye to eye. Why not? Among my tact-related shortcomings was an undeniable inability to make my point subtly. So why pretend? “I mean have Vivian and Vern ever dealt with … um … infidelity?” I cringed and waited for her to pitch a fit.

Rather than yelling, though, she threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, my goodness, no. Vern likes to tease, but he’s no fool. If he ever had an affair, Vivian would kill him or the woman involved or quite possibly both.”

“You’re … um … kidding, right?”

She leaned toward me. “No.” The sour smell of alcohol laced her breath.

“Now,” she added as she rose from the booth, clutching our dirty dishes, “I’ll take these to the kitchen. I was nursin’ a bottle of wine back there, and I’m gonna get me another glass. Want one?”

Vivian? A killer? It was possible, I suppose. But the killer in this instance? Not likely. It just didn’t fit. “Um … yeah, I could use some wine.”

With a nod, Margie walked away, plates in one hand, silverware in the other.

No, it didn’t fit for a number of reasons, and while sitting there by myself, I ticked them off on my fingers:

One, despite any homicidal tendencies that Vivian might harbor, she wouldn’t have avenged Lena’s death. According to Margie, her sister wasn’t the type. When it came to Lena, Margie said Vivian wasn’t that nice.

Two, while Vivian may have been inclined to kill Vern, the “other woman,” or both if she ever learned of an affair, Margie found the idea of Vern actually having one literally laughable.

Three, even if Vivian had concealed Samantha Berg’s murder to save face, or for some other reason, Vern alone did the deed. No one else was seen at the bungalow that night. True, the Anderson sisters were the source of that information, but reportedly, the police confirmed his presence.

Four …

My train of thought got derailed by the hollering from down the hall. Several guys in the bar were belting out their version of Shel Silverstein’s “Put Another Log on the Fire,” and the crowd was getting into it.

Put another log on the fire. Cook me up some bacon and some beans. Go out to the car and change the tire. Wash my socks and sew my old blue jeans. Come on baby, you can fill my pipe and then go fetch my slippers. And boil me up another pot of tea. Put another log on the fire, babe. Then come and tell me why you’re leavin’ me.

Margie sang along in a tone-rich, alto voice as she made her way back to me, a tray balanced on one hand. From the tray, she retrieved a plate of Chocolate Caramel Bars and set it on the table before passing me a large coffee mug. “It’s wine,” she said, as if I’d asked. “Since we don’t have a liquor license here in the café, we can’t be too obvious.”

I sipped. “Tasty.”

Margie sat down and nodded toward the bar, where the singers carried on about doing their women wrong. “Don’t ever push a woman too far,” she warned with a devilish smile.

Images of Vivian, Margie, and Lena dashed across my mind’s eye. “No, don’t ever push a woman too far,” I repeated as a strange sensation bubbled up inside of me—a sensation that felt a lot like admiration.

But how could that be? I liked Margie, but I didn’t admire her. She never strayed far enough from home to have her own life, so what was there to admire? As for Lena? She gave up on life. And while Vivian wasn’t a murderer herself, she wasn’t to be trusted either. Just the same, there must have been something about the trio that resonated with me. Something that stirred my emotions.

I gave it more thought, begrudgingly concluding that I might have mischaracterized the ladies—or at least two of them. Even though I was almost one-hundred percent certain I’d pegged Vivian correctly, I may have erred where Margie and Lena were concerned.

Truth be told, I didn’t know Lena or the battles she fought prior to her death, so I had no business assuming she surrendered her life. Perhaps she went down fighting. And Margie? Well, I had to admit she was fiercely independent, strong-willed, and confident. And with all that going for her, she would have enjoyed success regardless of where she lived. Yes, she might have identified with the town of Kennedy, but she didn’t let it define her. She was true to herself.

I was in no position to judge anyway. After listening to Barbie’s spiel about “living by default,” I had plenty of concerns regarding my own life. Yep, throughout my adulthood, I’d been terribly unsure of myself, second-guessing most everything I did.

In fact, prior to pursuing the story about Samantha Berg, the only thing I’d done of late with any real conviction was slash the tires on Boo-Boo’s Range Rover. It happened the week after finding him frolicking in bed with those two inflated-breasted, baseball groupies. I got the idea from a country song and the nerve from a bottle of tequila, but I did the deed myself.

To toast the resolve I exhibited on that sole occasion, I downed most of my wine. But amid the coughing jag that followed, I reconciled myself to a few realities: First, I wasn’t much of a drinker. And, second, whatever their shortcomings, Margie and Lena were tenacious, even ruthless when necessary. So was Vivian for that matter. Perhaps even more so than the other two. But all three were decidedly tough broads. And that must have been what I appreciated about them. After all, I’d never be a member of any “tough broads club.” It wasn’t in my nature. At most, I’d be a rare guest, as I was the night I worked over Boo-Boo’s car. And between visits, I’d have to settle for just being me, nosy old me.

To that end, when done almost choking to death from guzzling my wine, I asked Margie another question, sticking with the direct approach, the one most suitable for me, even if it occasionally led to vision loss in others. “Margie? How did Vivian and Vern react to Lena’s death?”

She licked her lips. “Vivian’s always considered herself a cut above the other women in town, especially Lena. She was upset about her death but mostly because of the kids. Vern, on the other hand, was overcome with grief. See, he adored Lena. He loved her like a sister.”

Margie proceeded to detail how the people in Kennedy had come to love Lena but none more than Vern.