Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes (22 page)

I rolled my eyes again. “Seriously, I thought I had my professional life all figured out, but now …” Since there was no easy way to articulate my frustration, I let the words tumble out, hoping they’d fall into some sort of logical order along the way. “After Deputy Ryden told me that Ole had an alibi for the night Samantha was murdered, I decided the killer had to be Vern because that’s what Margie’s aunts claimed. And while I warned myself not to believe anything they said, I kind of did just that.”

“You got taken in by those three?” Barbie rubbed her hands together. “This is just too damn good.”

“Stop that! It’s not funny.”

Her lips took a sympathetic turn, though it was clearly less than genuine, given the smile in her eyes. “Emme, I learned a long time ago you have to take everything those old girls say with a grain a salt. A shot of tequila and a slice of lime aren’t bad ideas either.”

I heaved air like a slashed tire—Boo-Boo’s slashed tires. “And later, when Margie introduced me to Father Daley, I mistrusted him right from the start too. In part because he had such a high opinion of Vern, but also because I’m Catholic but not a very good one.”

“So?”

“So that causes me a lot of guilt, which I suspect screws up my intuition and judgment when it comes to things like priests. On top of that, your Father Daley is a rarity.”

Without a doubt, Barbie was wrestling with her emotions. It seemed she didn’t want to laugh but was having a hard time holding her giggles in check. She repeatedly bit the inside of her cheek, the indentation clearly visible. “You’ve had a tough day, haven’t you?”

There wasn’t an ounce of sincerity in her voice, but I didn’t care. I was in a lousy mood and willing to take any measure of sympathy, real or manufactured.

“Yeah, well, after Father Daley advised me that the old ladies had once before tried to frame Vern, I felt terrible for what I’d been thinking about him, as well as a bunch of other people. Like you said, it’s not good to go around questioning everyone’s character. It caused me to question my own. Not something I enjoyed.” My shoulders slumped. “That’s why I’m done with investigative journalism. Hell, I’m not even sure I want to be a journalist of any kind.”

“Hence, the nun talk?”

“I was joking.” I thought about it some more. The celibacy thing would be a bummer—a definte bummer. “Yeah, I’m almost positive I was joking.”

She patted my shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Emme.” Her tone was now truly consoling. “You don’t know these people, so it’s not all that strange that you wondered about them. Me on the other hand?” She took a breath so deep it stretched the limits of her spandex tank top. “I grew up with most of them. Even so, when Samantha’s body was found, I kept right on thinking that this one or that one was the killer. It was terrible of me.” She stopped for a second. “Hell, for a while, I even believed Vivian was the culprit. Of course she wasn’t. I guess being a pain in the ass doesn’t automatically make you guilty of murder.” She threw up her hands. “Who knew?”

Barbie bit into the bar that had been taunting me from the corner of her plate. It was a Seven Layer Bar. I first became acquainted with that particular treat in my youth. My mother made them. They were one of my father’s favorites. Another quick look around. Nope, none had miraculously appeared.

“So why’d you suspect Vivian?”

A second big bite and her bar was history. She washed it down with coffee. “She wouldn’t account for her whereabouts on the night of Samantha’s disappearance.” She set her cup back down. “Considering how angry she was with the tramp for wrecking her brother’s family and hurting his children, I assumed she’d done her in. But eventually, she owned up to where she’d been.”

“Which was?”

She traced the rim of the cup with her finger. “With a guy everyone calls Mr. President.”

She definitely knew how to get my attention. “I heard about him. Deputy Ryden pointed him out at dinner.”

“Did he tell you that the two of them, that is Vivian and Mr. President, have some kind of thing going, something that’s been sparking for years?”

Just when I thought she couldn’t surprise me anymore, she did just that. “You mean an affair?”

She shook her entire body, as if having a seizure. “Don’t say that. Pictures pop into my head, and I can’t get rid of them. Then I can’t sleep, which leaves me exhausted and edgy the next day.

“Anyhow, I don’t think either of them is interested in sex. It’s more of a mutual admiration society. She tells him how wonderful he is, and he reciprocates. She’s one of his allies on the school board. She believes that if she helps him pass his President Hanson petition—a whole other story—she’ll get to be First Lady or something.”

“Really?”

“No, I’m just shittin’ you again.”

I rolled my eyes, this time all the way to the back of my head. It actually hurt a little. “If there wasn’t anything going on between them, why didn’t she come clean right away?”

Barbie leaned forward and tented her fingers in front of her chest. “She was scared. Vern hates the guy and doesn’t like Vivian anywhere near him. But she finds him so damn irresistible she can’t help herself.”

I rubbed the corners of my eyes. They seemed okay. But I had to stop with that whole eye-rolling thing. “Were their whereabouts confirmed?”

“Oh, yeah. At the time Samantha disappeared, they were having dinner and drinks in Grafton, about forty minutes from here. When Vern found out, he hit the ceiling.”

It was my turn to lean in. “That was hypocritical of him, don’t you think? According to the police, he spent a lot of time at Samantha’s house. So why shouldn’t Vivian—”

“He only went there to demand that she leave Rosa alone. You see, Samantha got a kick out of mocking the girl. And Vern despised her for it. He even threatened her. Because of that, he was the cops’ prime suspect when Samantha’s body was first discovered. But I never thought he was guilty.”

She tilted her chin toward the ceiling and spoke with authority. “If he had killed her, he would have been inconspicuous about it. Yet that night he stopped in the ‘V’ before going to her house and hung out here in the café afterwards. Those aren’t the actions of a guilty man. Still, the cops put him through the wringer.” She twisted her lips. “Just goes to show that no good deed goes unpunished. He helped Rosa and ended up paying a hefty price for it.”

“But, Barbie, doesn’t it bother you that the murder was never solved? Don’t you wonder who did it and if they’re still around?”

She again ran her finger along the rim of her coffee cup, allowing close to a minute to go by before answering, “I guess I try not to think about it.”

I was about to jump all over her for making such a comment but got interrupted by another question. It was posed over a microphone down the hall, in the bar. “Where’s Emerald Malloy? Emerald Malloy, our guest from the Twin Cities? Where is she?”

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Well, I believe it’s you.” Barbie snickered.

“Very funny.” My voice was filled with sarcasm. “I mean who’s asking?”

“It sounds like Father Daley. And if I’m not mistaken, he’d like you to join him in the bar.”

“For what?”

She pushed her plate away. “I don’t know. But he’s stubborn. If you don’t go, he’ll just keep hollering.”

“How mortifying.” I covered my face.

“Oh, go on. See what he wants.”

I spread my fingers apart, peeking out between them. “No way. As I said before, he doesn’t trust me. I don’t think he likes me.”

She brushed away my concern along with some of her dessert crumbs. “You’re being paranoid. Father Daley’s a good guy. He probably just wants to introduce you to everyone.”

I wanted to believe her but was afraid. “I don’t know.”

“Miss Malloy, where are you?” The priest’s voice was loud without a microphone. With one, it was booming.

“Oh, come on, I’ll go with you.”

“Okay. But if he accuses me of having nefarious reasons for being in town, I’ll …” I let the sentence fade. He was a priest. What was I going to do?

Barbie spun around on her stool. “He won’t accuse you of anything ‘nefarious.’ But we aren’t stupid. We all know you’d love to get a story about Samantha Berg’s murder while you’re here.” She got up and headed toward the hallway.

“That’s not true.” I slid off my stool and trudged after her. “I don’t want to be an investigative reporter anymore. I’m not sure I want to be a reporter of any kind. Hell, I may not even stay in the news business.”

“Oh, right, I almost forgot,” she replied over her shoulder. “You’re going to open a convent.”

With a laugh, she entered the banquet room and headed for the stage. “Well, come on, Sister Emme, let’s go see what Father Daley wants.”

“Everyone,” Father Daley announced, “in addition to showing our love and support to Maureen Russell, our guest of honor, I’d like you to welcome another Irish lass. She’s visiting from the Twin Cities, where she’s a newspaper reporter. She’s here to write an article about one of our own, Margie Johnson. That’s right, isn’t it, Emerald? You’re here to do a story about Margie?”

I barely nodded, seeking to remain anonymous in a crowd where everyone knew everyone else. Needless to say, all eyes were on me, and for a moment, I contemplated running into the coatroom. I doubted the wooden bride and groom would even notice.

Father Daley continued. “Her name is Emerald Malloy.” He waved his arm like a TV pitchman, giving rise to a smattering of applause and a shoulder squeeze from Barbie.

“See, he’s just being friendly,” she whispered. “You have nothing to worry about. Nothing at all”

I wasn’t so sure. His words were pleasant enough, but I thought I heard an ominous undercurrent in his tone. And there was something in his eyes. What? I couldn’t tell. Mistrust? Caution? An eyelash?

“With the help of my trusty fife,” the priest went on to say, “I’m going to sing a Tom Russell number to Maureen and Emerald. And when I’m done, the band will take over. So here we go, a one and a two and …”

Maureen Russell walked up and shook my hand as Father Daley began, “When Irish Girls Grow Up,” a folk song about the evils that await innocent Irish farm girls who move to the city. I knew the song because my dad often sang it when I was an adolescent. Afterward, I’d promise to live at home forever, and he’d laugh and pick me up and twirl me around.

In a strong, Irish-tenor voice, Father Daley sang, “Now, Darling, don’t go to the city, you’ll get lost there in the crowd. All the boys there in the city, they drink and smoke and talk too loud. And the women in the city, they sneak their whiskey from a cup. Oh, isn’t it a pity when Irish girls grow up.”

I’m not sure if it was the song and the memories it triggered or the fact that I was standing arm in arm with a woman who, by all accounts, was fighting a dreadful disease with great dignity. But something touched me deep inside, and a tear or two rolled down my cheeks.

Barbie nudged me, a tissue in hand. I accepted it and wiped my face as the three of us—Barbie, Maureen Russell, and me—swayed to the music. “Have you heard about the Cooneys, the Russells and Malloys? Their girls all left the farm and went to chase those city boys. Their mothers pray to Mary that the girls won’t turn corrupt. Oh, isn’t it a pity when Irish girls grow up.”

Father Daley played his fife and sang two more verses. And when he was through, he stepped from the stage and joined us.

I thanked him for the “serenade” while silently scolding myself yet again for ever having been suspicious of him.

The priest replied that he was “honored” to sing to us “fine Irish lasses.” Then he asked to speak with Maureen privately, and they strolled away, arm in arm.

Meanwhile, the band had begun its next number, a boogie that featured a brief instrumental solo by each member of the group. Wally led off on guitar, followed by Little Val on the keyboard. After that, Rosa took a turn, swiftly sliding her fingers along the bass fiddle, plucking the strings with such intensity that she actually looked possessed by the music.

Unlike Lena, who was reportedly outgoing, Rosa, her daughter, came across as guarded. She played with passion, but it wasn’t willingly shared with her audience. Her face remained rigid, her focus entirely on her bass.

Yes, Rosa Johnson was beautiful in an exotic way, yet there was something mysterious about her too. “Rosa’s quite a musician,” I whispered to Barbie. “She’s attractive too.” As an afterthought, I added, “She must have lots of guys interested in her.”

“That’s what you’d expect,” Barbie said, “but it’s not the case. Deputy Ryden went out with her for a while, but it didn’t work out.”

I winced, though I thought I hid it well by pretending to scratch my shoulder. Damn afterthoughts!

“She doesn’t perform with the band very often,” Barbie explained. “I’m surprised she’s even here tonight. But I suppose she wanted to be a part of the evening since Maureen was her classroom assistant until she had to quit because of the cancer.”

Margie approached us from behind, draping her arms over our shoulders and hanging her head between our own. She dangled three open beer bottles from her hands. “Take one,” she instructed, so that’s what we did.

I sipped my beer and did my best to downplay what Barbie had just said. I barely knew the deputy, and I’d probably never see him again. So it didn’t really matter who he dated. What’s more, it sounded like they broke up. He probably turned out to be a jerk. Yeah, most likely, I was lucky he left the café when he did.