Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes (23 page)

While I tried desperately to assure myself of all that, the band transitioned into an up-tempo country song that led folks to the dance floor, among them, burnt Buford and one of the women who’d been mooning over him during his duet with his brother.

I checked the rest of the room, praying that his twin had gone home or had otherwise forgotten all about me. I couldn’t get past the uneasiness I felt around him. Nope, I had no desire to be his dance partner, even if the band was really good, as confirmed by my tapping foot and swaying hips. Of course I put the kibosh on my hip action before anyone noticed, but my foot continued to do its thing.

Thankfully, I didn’t see Buddy anywhere, although I did spot Father Daley. He was back playing cards, seated next to Vern, with the Precious Moments minister still standing guard. I also saw Vivian and Maureen Russell. They were at a nearby table, paging through Vivian’s cake album, while Mr. President sat at the far end of the bar, next to the Nelson girls’ mother. He was ogling Vivian. The Donaldson brothers were at the bar too, surrounded by several people who were hollering and exchanging money. Someone yelled something about woodtick races, but I didn’t ask for details. I had no desire to know.

I circled back to Barbie and Margie, my head bopping to the music while the steady hum of conversation filled my ears. Notwithstanding the prospect of games involving blood-sucking insects crawling on the bar, near the food, I was having a pretty good time. Well, at least as good as I could expect considering my career plans were pretty much in the shitter, and my prospects—professional and personal—were nil.

Getting depressed all over again, I tried to lose myself in the insistent beat of the drum and the bass guitar. But I guess I didn’t try hard enough, because Buddy found me. In fact, he stepped in front of me, mere inches from my face, causing me to yelp.

He shot his hands into the air. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to know if you were ready to shake a leg?
”

My leg was already shaking. The guy certainly made me nervous. But for Margie and Barbie, he prompted an entirely different response. “Oh, go on,” they cajoled. “Get on out there. Have some fun.”

I had to admit, if only to myself, the song the band was playing was perfect for dancing. The rhythm was pulsating. Sensual even. Still, uncertainty poked at me. Either that or Barbie and Margie were prodding me into the guy’s arms. “Oh, go on. Get on out there,” they repeated.

“What do you say?” Buddy gestured at the dance floor. “Should we give it a try?”

An internal debate ensued, the cautious me versus the risk taker. Usually caution wins, hands down. But as I said, the band was great, and it had been a long time since I’d done any dancing. The music tempted me, and as others took to the floor, my resistance waned. It wasn’t long before desire won out over common sense, and I handed my beer to Margie for safe keeping. No harm in just a dance or two, right?

“Do you swing dance?” Buddy asked as he escorted me to the powder-prepped dance floor.

“Yeah,” I answered uncertainly, “but I’m surprised—”

He finished my sentence. “That a farm boy does?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“My mom taught us. Music was important to her.”

He placed his hand on the small of my back, and I jerked. He expressed bewilderment, and me, embarrassment. “Ticklish,” I lied.
Nothing bad can happen while dancing.

He again settled his hand on my back and tapped out an unhurried beat with his right foot before starting us across the floor. He moved effortlessly, leading me through a series of side steps and back rocks. Soon he integrated more complicated moves, swinging me out and pulling me in, all to the count of six against a four-beat rhythm. “Hey, you aren’t half bad,” he said.

“Thanks,” I dead-panned. “But don’t flatter me like that. It’ll go to my head.”

He laughed, his dark eyes glimmering. “Seriously, where did you learn to dance so well?”

We rocked back and forth. “Music was important to my folks too.”

He propelled me into a double turn, twirling me several feet out. I did the “sugar foot” back into his arms, and he uttered, “Damn,” in appreciation.

I didn’t know what to make of Buddy Johnson. Perhaps I’d misjudged him. Perhaps there was nothing sinister about him after all. I might have simply seen and felt the arrogance and certainty possessed by many handsome and talented men. He certainly was handsome. And he definitely had talent. He could really move! And out there on the dance floor, his moves counted for a lot. As I said, it had been a while since I’d danced with anyone and even longer since I’d danced with anyone who knew what he was doing. Matter of fact, my last good dance partner was Boo-Boo.

Truth be told, Boo-Boo was good at a lot of things. He turned out to be a jerk, but before that, he opened my eyes to a host of new experiences. He even encouraged me to explore my wild side, a side I didn’t even know existed until I met him. And guess what? I kind of liked it. Of course, as I discovered that morning in Chicago, Boo-Boo was a little too wild for me.

The band segued into its next song, a blues cover, and those on the dance floor began a sexy version of the electric slide, with Buddy pulling me along until we fell into step behind his brother. Apparently it was Rosa’s number to do with as she desired, and she desired to make it her own. Her fingers seduced brooding tones from her bass fiddle, while her voice soulfully caressed the lyrics. Like her or not, Rosa Johnson was a remarkable musician and a beautiful woman, all of which led me to “like her not.”
Okay, so I can be petty. Big deal.

Out on the floor, most of the dancers kept to the standard linedance moves, but Buddy and Buford put on a show. They substituted the “fan” or a complicated “hitch and slide” whenever possible. And while no one else could follow along, I managed to stay right with them. I mimicked their every move, and before we were through, I even showed off a few of my own.

They were visibly impressed. When the music died, burnt Buford actually slapped my back and gave me an “atta girl.” That was just before he began explaining to everyone within earshot the finer points of cooking Egg-Bake Hot Dish. I had no idea why. Nor did I catch much of what he said. His voice frequently got swallowed up by the noise in the room. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t especially interested in cooking advice from a burnt barbecue anyway.

His dance partner, however, was utterly captivated, or so it seemed. She literally hung on his every word as well as his arm, easing her concentration and her grip only long enough to wave to a young woman who’d sashayed over.

The woman was blonde, buxom, and insistent that Buddy dance with her. When he stole a glance at me, ostensibly to get my reaction, the woman went so far as to step between us, with me getting her rear view. I’d seen better. Not necessarily in my own mirror. But I’d seen better.

Naturally, part of me wanted to tweak her for being so insolent—and having such a nice ass. And I figured the best way to do that was to claim Buddy as my dance partner for the rest of the evening. Yet, I was leery. I didn’t want to send him the wrong message. I’d almost convinced myself that my earlier take on him was off base. Almost. But not quite. With my feet once again firmly planted on the ground, that nagging sensation had returned, the one that whispered,
There’s something amiss with Buddy
Johnson
.

Pressing through the crowd, I worked to rid myself of all thoughts of Buddy Johnson. He was a great dancer. But I had to stay clear of him. He was a bad boy. I was positive of that. I just wasn’t certain how bad.

I found Margie and Barbie in a dark corner. They’d highjacked a table toward the back of the room. I plopped down on a chair, and Barbie complimented me on my dance moves while Margie handed me my beer.

As I drew a long pull from the bottle, Margie warned, “Now, don’t choke.” She couldn’t disguise her smile. “I know how much trouble ya have handlin’ your booze.”

With a clunk, I set the bottle down. “You think you’re pretty funny, don’t you?”

“On occasion,” she replied with a snort of laughter. “On occasion.”

I fanned my hands in front of my face. “God, it’s hot in here.”

Barbie leaned forward, a goofy grin on her face. “And it’s about to get a whole lot hotter.” She nodded toward the door.

Margie and I twisted around to see the object of her focus. It was Deputy Ryden.

Margie splayed her hands on the table. “Do ya hear that, Barbie? I do believe it’s our cue to leave?”

“Don’t you dare!” I aspired to sound threatening, though I must have fallen short because both women merely chuckled as Barbie waved her arms over her head until she got the deputy’s attention and motioned him over.

“What are you doing?” The tone of my voice had changed to an odd mixture of apprehension and anticipation. “I told you what a mess I made out of my dinner with him. I don’t think I’m ready to talk to him again.”

Barbie ignored me while the deputy closed in on our table. “Hi, Randy,” she said, pulling out the empty chair between us. “Take a load off.”

“Thanks.” He spun the chair around and threw his leg over the seat, like he was mounting a horse. As he sat down, he smiled at me by way of hello.

“Was the accident serious?” I wanted to sound cool and classy, but my voice may have been in “Olive Oyl” range.

“No, not serious at all.” He rested his forearms on the back of the chair. “How’s everything here?”

Barbie answered for me, an impish look on her face. “The night started off as a slow burn, but I think it’s about to heat up.”

Margie added something equally ridiculous, causing me to kick her under the table. “Ouch,” she whimpered.

“What’s wrong?” the deputy asked.

She stammered while shooting me the devil’s eye. “Umm, I meant to say, ‘shit,’ not ‘ouch.’ Shit! I’m supposed to be gettin’ recipes together for Emme here, and I just remembered I’m not done. Oh, shit.”

I placed my hand firmly on her forearm. “You told me I had all the recipes you were going to give me.” I squeezed her arm to let her know I was on to her.

She slowly pulled free and scraped back her chair. “Yah, but I was wrong. When I was in the kitchen a while ago, I saw a heckuva lot of recipe cards still layin’ on the prep table. There’s one for a Jell-O salad that’s delicious, regardless of what Father Daley might say, and another for Apple Square Bars that are out of this world. Before I forget, I better go get ’em. And when I’m back there, I’ll double check that I didn’t miss any other good ones. I want ya to have a bunch to choose from for that article of yours.”

“Why don’t I give you a hand?” Barbie said.

“Okay, let’s get a move on.”

With bogus exasperation, Barbie shook her head. “Margie, Margie, Margie, how many times do I have to tell you not to end a sentence with a preposition?”

Margie fanned her hand like she was a nineteenth-century southern bell. “Well, pardon me, darlin’,” she drawled. “I meant to say, ‘Let’s get a move on, bitch.’”

Both women fell back in their chairs, laughing and slapping their thighs. If I had to guess, I’d say they had consumed more than a few beers while I was dancing.

When done amusing themselves, Margie wiped her eyes and stood while Barbie said to the deputy in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the music, “You don’t mind keeping Emme company, do you? I know you’re on duty, but we’ll only be a few minutes.”

Deputy Ryden glanced at me and then back to Barbie. “Yeah, I can hang around awhile.”

“Good.” She sprang to her feet, and the two of them hurried away. Well, that wasn’t quite true. Barbie hurried. Margie hobbled. And I didn’t feel bad about it in the least.

“You don’t have to babysit me.” I made the statement while pulling a napkin from the dispenser on the table and wiping my face.

The deputy rubbed his thighs. “No problem. I wanted to talk to you anyhow.” He bent his head close to mine. “But it’s really loud in here. Mind if we go outside?”

Gazing at him, I knew exactly what I wanted to say. After warning myself not to appear too eager, however, I let an appropriate amount of time pass before responding. It was the longest three seconds of my life. “Sure, let’s go. I was dancing. And I got really warm. I could use some fresh air.”

The deputy twirled his chair around. “Who had you out dancing?”

I rose, leaving my half-empty beer on the table. “Margie’s nephew, Buddy Johnson.”

“Oh.” The deputy’s mouth took on a grim set.

For a moment, I considered asking him about it. And for another, I toyed with the idea of sharing my own assessment of Buddy Johnson. But I tossed both ideas aside. After all, what would I say? I have an icky feeling about the guy. It’s not based on anything concrete. It’s just an icky feeling. Yeah, right.

I steered toward the door, the deputy on my heels, and several pairs of eyes on the two of us. I did my best to ignore the staring by considering what was flitting around in the back of my mind. It was just out of reach, and the more I grabbed at it, the more elusive it became. It was a question. Of that much, I was sure. Big surprise there, I had another question.

I veered around tables, restricting my glances to the door, the floor, and the table legs. Even when the deputy touched my back to usher me around a cluster of folks, sending shivers from my head to my toes, I refrained from looking at him or anyone else. And then it came to me. The question. It was about Rosa Johnson. I wanted to ask the deputy about his relationship with her. I just had to figure out how.