Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes (6 page)

“You get two hundred people for a funeral?”

“Sometimes more. When the former mayor died, five hundred folks showed up. They came from all over. Yeah, we end up pretty close around here, if for no other reason than body heat in the winter.”

Margie snickered as she skimmed the checklist. Afterward, she shoved it back in her pocket and headed for the rear of the kitchen. “Oh, I was gonna tell ya about the kids.” Reaching for several bags of dinner rolls from the top shelf of a large, painted cupboard, she informed me that when Lena died, the twins had a year left of high school, so they moved in with Vern and Vivian.”

She hustled to the counter and dumped the rolls into napkin-lined baskets. “While my sister can really frost my buns, she’s always been good to those kids. She’d do anythin’ for ’em.” A gentleness colored her words, which I found heartwarming in light of how she’d spoken earlier about her sister. “I reckon it’s because Vivian had trouble havin’ children of her own. She had a couple miscarriages, and Little Val barely survived. She only weighed a pound and a half at birth, and it was touch and go for a long while after that.” Margie closed her eyes, no doubt wishing away those memories.

“What about Ole? Where was he when Lena passed away?”

Margie’s shoulders drooped. “For the love of Jesus, did I forget to tell ya that too?” She shook her head. “When he left the tramp, he moved into an old trailer house out on Vern’s farm. And after Lena died and the boys went to live with Vivian and Vern, Ole decided to stay right there, close by, in that same trailer.

“From then on, the twins let him farm with ’em whenever he was sober, though they didn’t have to. See, Lena got everythin’ in the divorce, includin’ the house and all the land. And followin’ her death, it all went to the kids.” Several seconds ticked by. “Ole didn’t want any of it anyways. He wouldn’t take so much as a dime in the divorce.” Her face turned smug. “He was shacked up with Samantha at the time, and I bet that made her mad enough to drown puppies.”

Margie crossed the room and retrieved several serving trays from on top of the refrigerator. After delivering them to the work station, she headed to the freezer, where she collected an array of colorful tins. Barely balancing them, she wobbled back to the prep table and let them slide from her arms, metal clattering against metal.

“Want some help?”

“Well, if it’s no bother, ya can take the bars from these canisters and arrange ’em on the platters.” She hurried back to the freezer and picked out more tins. “When you’re done, put the platters at the end of the counter. I’ll get ya the recipes later.

As I yanked the frost-covered tops off the metal containers, the scent of chocolate, vanilla, and mint curled through the air. I was in heaven.

“Yah, Buford and Buddy are good boys.” Margie emptied another armload of canisters, and like the others, they clanged like cymbals as they hit the table. “They’re naturals, ya know.”

“Naturals?” Concentrating was difficult, not because of the noise but because of all the sweet-smelling treats.

“Natural farmers.” Margie returned to the cupboard and grabbed a giant electric coffee maker. She carried it to the sink and filled it with water, speaking only after she’d closed the tap. “Ya see, some kids stay on the farm ’cause they’re too darn lazy or scared to try anythin’ else. But Buford and Buddy stayed because they truly love farmin’. Always have.” She twisted a metal cylinder into the pot, poured far too little Folgers in it, and cracked a couple eggs on top of the grounds. Scandinavian coffee. I’d heard about it but had never seen it made.

“When they were toddlers, Lena would take ’em to the field whenever they got crabby. There, she’d put ’em in the tractor with Ole, and they’d calm right down. Rather than fussin’, they’d watch out the window as their pa drove down one row and up the next. More often than not, before a single round was complete, they’d be fast asleep, one on each of his knees. If he moved ’em, they’d wake up and cry some more, so he’d just let ’em be. Like I said, they’re natural farmers. It’s in their blood.”

She cleared some counter space for the coffee maker and plugged it in. “When Ole was drinkin’, their Uncle Vern worked with ’em, even after he lost his arm. And a year ago, when they finished the agriculture program at the university in Crookston, they moved back into their parents’ house and took over the entire farm operation. Accordin’ to Vern, they’re doin’ a darn good job too.”

Margie asked me to fill a large drink dispenser with homemade lemonade. And while I poured the liquid into the yellow, Igloo container, she told me about the twins’ sister. “Her name’s Rosa. She’s four years older than the boys. She was in her last year at Moorhead State when her ma died.”

Some time slipped by before Margie whispered, “She found her, don’t ya know.” She then held back, as if unsure she wanted to tell the story. But in the end, she did just that.

“Ya see, shortly after leavin’ Lena’s house that last night, I called Rosa to let her know how worried I was about her ma. She said she’d come home after class the followin’ day. The twins were gone, so Rosa and Lena would be alone, which Rosa thought might be good since she wanted to convince her ma to go to the doctor.

“Anyways, when she got to the farm, she couldn’t find Lena anywheres. Her car was parked out front, but there was no sign of her. Naturally, Rosa called her cell phone but got no answer. Now that wasn’t all that unusual because Lena was always leavin’ her phone
one place or another. But it was kind of odd she wasn’t just sittin’ there in the kitchen, waitin’ for her daughter, considerin’ how much she loved her visits.” A smile made an effort to take shape but faltered.

“Rosa checked the barn, the Quonset, even the shop. But nothin’. So she headed upstairs. Lena was hardly ever up there durin’ the day, but Rosa had run out of ideas. Anyways, she knocked on her ma’s bedroom door. Again, no answer. For some reason, though, she opened it and stepped inside. And that’s when she saw her—poor, sweet Lena—lying in bed. She’d been dead since mornin’.” Anguish filled Margie’s voice. “The picture I showed ya earlier—the one with her and Ole in front of the café—was clutched in her hands.” A few tears ran down Margie’s cheeks, and she rubbed them away.

“Rosa dropped out of college and, like her brothers, moved in with Vivian and Vern. At their house, she had her cousin, Little Val. They’ve always been close.” She struggled to keep an even tenor. “She also spent lots of time with Ole. Yah, that girl always understood her pa way better than her brothers did.” She paused. “Then a year and a half later, when she was ready, she went back and finished her degree. Now she teaches vocal music in Hallock, which isn’t such a bad job.”

Margie again pulled the checklist from her pocket. She acted as if she were reviewing it, but I suspected she was hiding behind it until able to compose herself. Once she had, she crumpled the paper and tossed it in a nearby trash bin.

“Ya might meet all three of ’em tonight.” She cleared her throat. “Well, probably not Rosa. She doesn’t do much socializin’. She used to be so bubbly, but that all changed followin’ the mess with her folks.” Margie placed her hands on her hips. “More damage caused by that tramp.” When certain she’d made her point, she added, “But if she does show up, you’ll recognize her right away. She looks just like her ma, only taller.”

“And the boys?”

“Well, they may be twins, but ya won’t have any trouble tellin’ ’em apart now that Buford burnt his head.”

I must have appeared befuddled because she said, “Oh, my, let me tell ya about that.” She stole a glimpse at the school-house clock that hung high above the sink. “Ya see,” she began, the sparkle returning to her eyes, “a few weeks back, Buford and Buddy had some friends over for a catfish cookout. Catfish make real good eatin’. Ever had ’em?”

I nodded in the negative.

“Well, they’re not hard to fillet. Ya just need a sharp knife and a little know-how. And ya can catch all ya want right over there.” She bobbed her head to the west, toward the Red River. “Yah, the twins never go far without their fishin’ rods or their fillet knives.

“Anyways, Buford was grillin’ over a campfire, which I guess wasn’t burnin’ hot enough to suit him, so he squirted it with lighter fluid. Well, from what I understand, he still wasn’t satisfied, so he went ahead and threw the whole darn can in. Yah, he actually tossed the can itself right into the flames.” She grimaced.

“Now he insists he was ignorant of the fact that the can had fluid left in it, but I told him later he was ignorant of far more than that. Accordin’ to Buddy, the second the can hit the flames—POOF—a fireball erupted, and when the smoke cleared, there stood Buford minus his eyelashes, eyebrows, and most of his hair.

“The doctor says he’ll be fine, but he’s darn lucky he wasn’t seriously hurt.” She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “He claims he hadn’t been drinkin’ much, but I don’t believe him. Sometimes he drinks way too …” She narrowed her eyes. “Well, let’s just say that if he doesn’t start usin’ his head, he may as well have been born with two asses.

“I suppose, though, boys will be boys. Plus, we’ve all had some fun with the fiasco.” She drew her lips back into a timid smile while pointing to a homemade sign on the wall that read, “For blackened catfish, contact Burnt Buford, at 1-800-YOU-FOOL.”

“That reminds me.” She sifted through the recipe cards. “Ya oughtta write down the recipe for Buford’s favorite bar. I baked some for him the day after the catfish incident. They’re Blondies, meanin’ they’re nothin’ more than blonde brownies with chocolate chips, but Buford loves ’em all the same.”

The café door opened and in walked a woman with a husky build. She strutted to the kitchen. “Hi, Margie.” She reached for a mug from a shelf above the sink and wheeled back around. “You must be Emerald Malloy. I’m Barbara Jean Jenson, but everyone calls me Barbie.”

Barbie looked to be about ten years younger than Margie. But unlike Margie, she wore lots of makeup, including berry eye shadow and maroon lipstick. She also had a deep, tanning-bed tan and hair dyed henna red, cut short, and spiked with gel. A gaudy, gold chain hung from her neck, resting on a white, spandex, tank top that struggled to conceal her large breasts. The chain secured purple-rimmed eye glasses. Sunglasses, framed in pink, were perched on top of her head. Amazon Barbie.

“I told Barbie you’d be here,” Margie informed me. “I thought ya might enjoy talkin’ to her. She’s the editor of our local paper,
The Enterprise
, but used to write news in the Twin Cities.”

Since the fresh coffee wasn’t ready, Barbie filled her mug with the last of the lunch-time brew and made tracks to the end of the counter, where the bars were waiting. “I wrote for the St. Paul paper a long time ago,” she said. “A hell of a long time ago. It’s been almost twenty years.”

“You two should sit,” Margie suggested. “I have to throw together a few more hot dishes.”

Barbie selected two frosted pumpkin squares and motioned me to a booth. “I’ve only got a few minutes, but definitely, let’s talk.”

We sat down, and she immediately asked, “Do you know Stan Trendell? He was an up-and-coming reporter at your paper when I was at the one in St. Paul.”

I rested my glass of lemonade on the table. “I don’t know him personally, but I certainly know of him.” He was one of our most popular columnists.

Barbie unfolded her napkin, laid it on the table, and placed her Pumpkin Bars, side by side, on top of it. “We were competitors back then, but I liked him and really admired his work. I had a feeling he’d make it big. Whenever I’m in the Cities, we get together.”

I was bewildered, a fact not lost on the newspaper lady, as evidenced by her giggle. “I know what you’re thinking.” She flipped her hands, palms up. “How in the hell did she go from writing for a daily metropolitan newspaper to being the editor of a weekly way up here?”

“Well …”

“I was raised here. I got my bachelor’s degree at the University of North Dakota in Grand Forks and moved to Minneapolis to get my master’s in journalism at the U of M. While there, I wrote for the college paper, and the folks at the St. Paul paper liked what they read.” She picked up one of her bars and took a bite. “I ended up working for them for nearly ten years.” She talked with her hands, and her Pumpkin Bar went along for the ride.

“What made you come back here?”

“My parents began having trouble getting around. Either someone had to start checking in on them every day, or they had to sell their home. I couldn’t stand the thought of them selling, so when my husband got the chance to become the school band director in Hallock, we packed up the kids and moved north.” Barbie waved her hands. “We didn’t expect to stay long. My husband grew up in L.A. and didn’t think he could tolerate living way up here more than a few years. But in the end, he liked it. Now my parents are long gone, the kids have flown the coop, yet we’re still here.”

“But it’s so … desolate.”

Barbie scowled. “You call it desolate. I consider it serene.”

I’d insulted her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“I agree, it’s remote. That’s why we travel. Remember, we live here. We’re not trapped here.” A lipstick grin eked across her face. “Well, sometimes during January and February, we are.” She flailed her arms. “Just kidding. Just kidding. I wouldn’t live anywhere else. There’s a real sense of community here.” She looked to be thinking about something. “You know, I have more friends here than I did in Minneapolis. And it’s an eclectic group. Yep, up here, if the town doctor only wants to hang out with other doctors, he’ll end up pretty damn lonely.”