Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes (8 page)

I shoved the makeup tubes back into my bag and pulled out my phone. No messages, not even from my editor. His apparent lack of interest annoyed me, which, in turn, drove me to speculate what he and the other big shots at the paper would do if I returned with a story about an old murder case.

I tossed the phone onto the bed. If I did something extraordinary, like actually solve the crime, they’d have to take notice. Hell, they’d have to give me a by-line. What choice would they have? And if my story was good—and it would be—they’d be obliged to move me from the “Food” section to real news, in spite of my lack of experience. If they didn’t, I’d quit and head over to one of the other papers no doubt vying for my talent.

I stared at my mirrored image and whispered, “This could be your big break, Emme.” I glanced at my phone and back at my reflection. “But you don’t want anyone calling your editor and telling him that you’re nosing around for something other than recipes, so you’ll have to be discreet.” I looked doubtful. “Wait a minute, you can be discreet.” I splayed my hands on top of the dresser. “In fact, keep working on your real assignment, and then no one, not even Margie, will catch on to the story you’re truly after.”

I leaned against the dresser and gazed intently at my image. “Solving this case won’t be hard. It’s surprising it hasn’t been done already.” I wrinkled my face in concentration. “I suppose people just get too close to a situation sometimes to see it clearly.”

I drew myself up to my full height. “Even though everyone around here seems to be an expert with a knife, Ole Johnson is the most logical suspect. He lost everything—his family and his farm—because of Samantha. And there’s no stronger motive for murder than that.

“Now, Emme, just unearth a little more information and answer a few more questions, such as why Ole Johnson wasn’t ever arrested, and you’ll be ready to write a story so good it’ll knock the argyle socks right off your editor’s gout-swollen feet.”

I gave myself a determined look. “You can do this.” I spread my legs and put my hands to my hips, imitating Wonder Woman. “You’re going to do this.” I pumped my fist into the air. “And it’s going to be big!”

*

My super-hero impersonation was cut short by some shouting outside, which I felt compelled to check out. Hurrying to the bedroom window for a quick look-see, I spotted the two old-timers from earlier that day in the café. They had replaced their overalls and long-sleeve work shirts with blue jeans and short-sleeve plaid shirts but still donned the same caps.

They were hollering to a portly, middle-aged man with short legs. He was sliding out of a white service van. The sign on the side of the van read, “Swenson’s Sewer Works: Your Sh** Is My Bread and Butter.” Once on the ground, he adjusted the waistband of his jeans, half hidden beneath his beer belly, and extended his hand to John Deere.

I cringed. Did he come straight from work or go home first to wash up?

With their hellos out of the way, the three men waddled across the highway, briefly stopping to greet a young woman who ran past them in the opposite direction. She was clad in shorts and a dirty tee-shirt, her long, dark hair blowing in the wind. She carried a shovel among some other garden tools. And after pitching them into the bed of a restored, 1950s pickup, she gave the guys a quick wave before climbing into the truck and taking off.

I followed suit. Only I took off for the café downstairs, thoughts of hot dish competing with those of homicide. While eager to begin my investigation, I also was excited to try Margie’s Tater-Tot Hot Dish as well as something she called Cheeseburger Hot Dish.

Yes, I was looking forward to everything I thought the evening held in store for me, from home cooking to intrigue. But I was woefully ignorant as to what truly lay ahead.

Part Two - Boil the Noodles

Entering the café, I spotted Margie, still dressed in her Hot Dish Heaven tee-shirt and blue jeans. She was crouched in a corner, consoling the two little girls who’d been in for ice cream. They were rubbing their eyes, as if they’d been crying.

I also saw John Deere, his friend, and the sewer guy shuffle through the doorway. They stopped to hug a middle-aged, fragile-looking woman with alabaster skin and a colorful scarf tied around her bald head. She held a bouquet of white daisies and blue delphiniums.

Across from her, several men, their sunburns ending where their tee-shirt sleeves began, formed a buffet line along the counter, now chock full of hot dishes, salad, dinner rolls, and bars. The men were accompanied by a smattering of blonde kids, all of them surrounded by elderly people with clouds of gray hair. There were so many gray clouds, in fact, I half expected rain.

My stomach gnawed at me, apparently trying to convince me to eat straightaway, but I needed no convincing. Famished and determined to get my food before the sewer guy, I forged ahead, side-stepping a pair of shrunken-up, stooped-over women, deciding it would be rude to hurdle them, no matter how close to the ground they stood or how quickly I wanted to eat.

I was just about there, my eyes glued on what would be my place in the buffet line, when, out of nowhere, the Anderson sisters stepped in front of me. I pulled up just short of plowing them over.

“Hello there. Nice to see ya again,” one of them said, after which the other two chimed in with, “Yah, we’re back, just like we promised.”

I caught my breath and offered a fake smile. It was the best I could do. Keep in mind, they were standing between me and my dinner. There was Henrietta, the mother hen, the oldest and largest of the three; Harriet, whose moustache was undoubtedly the envy of every boy in town; and tiny, elfin Hester.

“See what I won at bingo.” Henrietta pulled a plastic bag of cucumbers from the large canvas purse hanging from her shoulder.

Not sure whether a prize of cucumbers warranted congratulations or condolences, I remained mum.

Harriet, however, knew exactly what to say. “It ain’t fair. She’s too lucky. She always wins the best prizes.”

Still unsure how to respond, I merely stated, “Oh, I’ll bet you’ll win next time.”

To that, Harriet replied, her voice filled with yearning, “I can only hope and pray. Ya see, the cucumbers in my garden turned out just terrible this year.”

As shocking as this might sound, I really didn’t care about Harriet’s cucumbers. Yes, I wanted to talk to her and her sisters. They were Ole’s aunts and probably knew something about Samantha Berg’s death. But at that moment, I was in no condition to carry on a decent conversation, much less conduct an interrogation. I needed food, so I suggested they join me in line.

Little Hester eagerly accepted my invitation. “Oh, for sure,” she said. “But let’s get goin.’ Ya don’t wanna be slow to eat at one of these things. Everythin’ gets too picked over.”

Henrietta agreed, reciting the poor food choices left for the “slow pokes” at the last community dinner. The tale led all three ladies—large, medium, and small—to hobble ever faster to the counter, with me bringing up the rear.

I pulled a twenty-dollar bill from my pants’ pocket, slid it through the slit in the plastic ice cream bucket that served as the donation jar, and stared at the ladies. They hadn’t contributed a thing.

Seeing me eye them, they eyed each other until, finally, they retrieved their coin purses from their large shoulder bags and picked through change. Choosing a few dimes and quarters, they dropped them into the pail and, with indignant huffs, snatched their plates and stepped in behind me.

I began my culinary journey with a serving of Cheeseburger Hot Dish and another of Pizza Hot Dish before spying my favorite, Tater-Tot Hot Dish. Not wasting a second, I helped myself to a large spoonful of that, heavy on the tots. The pleasant aroma triggered a reverie of Saturdays during my childhood, my dad and me sitting at the kitchen table, playing Kings on the Corners, my favorite card game, while Mom served up our hot-dish lunch nearby.

Feeling all warm and fuzzy inside, I tucked that memory away and strolled on down the line. I added a dinner roll but stopped when I got to the Jell-O. I don’t like Jell-O. I don’t like any food that wiggles after it was prepared. Orange Jell-O with marshmallows. Red Jell-O with bananas. I didn’t want any but feared I’d be asked if I’d tried at least one, so I scooped up a small amount of something that appeared to be—and hopefully was—more Cool Whip than Jell-O.

While shaking the pink concoction onto my plate, I noticed the steady stream of people now entering the building. I’d planned to do some serious eating, and for that, I needed to be seated, so I quickly claimed my silverware and a cup of freshly brewed coffee and scanned the room for a spot to squat. Spying an empty booth in the far corner, I turned to inform my elderly companions, only to find them still way back in line. I considered waiting for them, but my hunger and desire to rest my rear won out.

Promising to track them down later, I wove through the burgeoning crowd, dodging elbows and beer bellies while struggling to keep my plate and cup upright. My moves were tentative, accompanied by a low, monotone chant of, “
Pardon me. So sorry. Excuse me.” My chant was accompanied by another fake smile. What can I say? Genuine charm is difficult when near faint from hunger.

Reaching the booth, I settled down and dug in. Pizza Hot Dish first. Cheeseburger Hot Dish after that. Both were delicious, yet I knew I was only using them to tease my taste buds, and when I couldn’t hold out any longer, I devoured the object of my afternoon fantasies—Tater-Tot Hot Dish. I savored every bite, soft moans of delight actually escaping my lips. Okay, that was a little embarrassing
.

Later, with my stomach full, I strained to see the desserts on the counter, but from where I sat, I couldn’t tell a Lemon Treat from a Date Bar. What I could tell, however, was that the Anderson ladies were still dawdling in line, even though everyone who’d accompanied us along the buffet route was seated and eating.

Curious
, I thought, until I realized what the old girls were really doing. I blinked to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me. They weren’t. The Anderson sisters were pilfering food.

That’s right. In addition to filling their plates, they were stuffing hot dish, dinner rolls, and dessert bars into zip-lock freezer bags partially concealed in their big purses. Little Hester was even trying to smuggle Jell-O, but discreetly spooning that into a half-hidden plastic bag was proving difficult.

“How despicable,” I muttered under my breath. “How reprehensible. How … funny!”

Sure, it was wrong of me to think that way, but I couldn’t help myself. There was something darkly amusing about a trio of elderly, prim-and-proper-looking women stealing food from a benefit dinner. And while no one else appeared taken by the scene, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Were these three Kennedy’s biggest criminals? Its most notorious gang? True, they didn’t sport traditional gang colors or tattoos, but they did dress alike, in gingham house frocks and black orthopedic shoes.

Of course I was being silly, but given what was playing out in front of me, silly seemed appropriate, prompting me to go with it until a hand squeezed my shoulder and startled the silliness right out of me. I’m pretty sure I catapulted a foot before jerking around to discover Margie laughing at how she’d made me jump.

After patting me on the back, she motioned to her elderly aunts. “They do that all the time. Everyone knows and simply ignores ’em.”

I smoothed the front of my shirt, doing my best to downplay that my heart had relocated to my throat. “Well,” I uttered with a dry swallow, “at least I now understand why they didn’t want to be last in line.”

Margie snickered and passed me a few more cards. “These are the recipes for the rest of what’s up there. I didn’t have time to make everythin’. Father Daley helped me out some.”

The recipe on top looked to be for the pink stuff on my plate. I meant to read it over but again got distracted by the Anderson sisters.

Emme, do you really want to ask them about Ole?
It was a voice from inside my head. Yeah, that’s right. Sometimes I hear voices. The whole therapy thing makes much more sense now, doesn’t it?

With their shoulder bags already bulging, they shoveled in more food.

Emme, look what they’re doing. They’re absolutely nuts. Can you trust anything they say?

If I didn’t talk to them, though, I’d be done as an investigative reporter before I even got started. Margie wasn’t going to volunteer anything about Ole. She liked him too much. Neither was the newspaper editor. And I didn’t know anyone else.

A glob of Jell-O fell out of Hester’s bag and splattered on the floor. As she kicked at the slimy mess, my confidence in the women as information sources grew shakier, and before long, it was as shaky as the pink stuff on my plate.

Now, Emme,” Margie said, waving to a man in a short-sleeve sheriff’s uniform, “I want you to meet someone.”

The guy steered toward us, and I took a visual inventory. I had to. I was a reporter—a trained observer. What’s more, he was hot. Tall, no less than six-three, and well built. My guess? Around thirty. His eyes were dark brown, his hair a shade lighter and unruly, making for an interesting look on a cop.

“This here is Deputy Randy Ryden,” Margie explained when he reached my booth. “He’s from the Twin Cities too. Randy, this is Emerald Malloy, the reporter I told ya about.”