A Potluck of Murder and Recipes
A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery
Also by Jeanne Cooney
Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery with Recipes
A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes
A Potluck of Murder and Recipes
A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery
(Book 3)
Jeanne Cooney
Copyright © 2016 Jeanne Cooney
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-68201-001-3
This is a work of fiction. Characters, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people or events, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Some of the places mentioned are real, and the author encourages you to visit them. They’re great establishments, and they help make the Red River Valley the unique place that it is.
First Edition: May 2016
Printed in the United States of America
Published by
North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.
P.O. Box 451
St. Cloud, MN 56302
www.northstarpress.com
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my granddaughters, Brooke and Molly. I hope your lives are rich in mystery and humor and, one day in the very, very distant future, even a little romance.
Acknowledgments
Once again I must thank my sister Mary Cooney for brainstorming ideas and reviewing drafts. I also want to thank my sister Teresa Cooney and my niece Amy Hennen, who, along with Mary, provided critiquing that immensely improved the final manuscript. Thanks also to my daughter, Elizabeth Young, for overseeing my Facebook page, and my niece Haley Cooney, who designed and continues to monitor my website. And, finally, thanks to my publisher, North Star Press, for all that is done by its staff, from editing and cover design to overseeing printing and distribution.
Part I
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Chapter One
I RUSHED THROUGH the back door of the senior center, stomped snow from my boots and skidded down the hallway. I was an hour late for the bridal shower. From what I could hear, a couple drinks behind everyone else, too.
“I’m not sure which one I like better, the Gimlet or the Gin and Tonic.” I recognized the voice, even though it sounded a tad shaky. It belonged to Margie’s niece Little Val. According to Margie, the combination bridal shower/bachelorette party was to be Little Val’s first solo night out since giving birth to her son two months ago. “I’ll have to drink . . . umm . . . at least one more of each to decide for sure.” Hiccup. Evidently, she planned to make the most of it.
“Oh, come on now, you’ve had more than enough and then some.” I rounded the corner to find Vivian, Little Val’s mother, scolding her married daughter as if she were a child. “Ya sure as heck don’t wanna pass out and miss all the games and such.”
“Games?” I silently prayed I’d heard wrong. “Please don’t tell me we’re playing silly shower games.”
Vivian whipped her head around, her eyes bobbing between me and the door I’d just closed. “Brrr,” she uttered, rubbing her arms.
I felt no sympathy for her. It was the end of December in northern Minnesota, and she was wearing a thin, sleeveless, v-neck top. Even indoors, sweaters were the order of the day. For normal people, anyhow.
“Well, Emme,” she said to me, “it’s about time ya showed up.”
I faked a smile. As anyone might have guessed, I didn’t care for Vivian. She thought a lot of herself and not much of anyone else. On top of that, she was like a static-laden song on the radio—grating and nearly impossible to understand. In a screechy voice, she regularly misused idioms, mixed metaphors, and generally jumbled her words—“a fate worse than a dog’s bark.” Still, she was Margie’s sister, and Margie was one of my dearest friends, despite being thirty years my senior. So I made an effort to be kind. Or at least act the part.
As for Little Val, she seemed nice enough, although I didn’t know her well, notwithstanding the fact I’d witnessed her give birth to her son. That’s right. I saw her deliver baby Brian with an “I,” not a “Y.” But that was a whole other story.
Little Val staggered my way, reaching out with arms clad in a red pullover sweater, a cartoon moose appliqued on the front. “Hi, Emme,” she slurred as she embraced me, the alcohol on her breath warming my cheeks and providing me with a contact buzz. “Glad to see you.” Her antler headband slipped down over her face. “Though you’ve seen way more of me than I have of you.” She giggled as she pushed the headband back up on her head.
“Oh, Heavens to Betsy, there you are!” From the other side of the room, Margie hurried my way, shouting over the jukebox sounds of Dean Martin and Martina McBride, as they stated the obvious in their duet, “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.”
Reaching me, she sandwiched Little Val between us when she leaned in with a hug of her own. Like always, she smelled of vanilla.
“’orry, I’m ’ate,” I sputtered into her neck. After she let go, Little Val continued to hold on tight, her nose nestled in what little cleavage I had developed in my twenty-six years. “With all the blowing snow, I had a hard time seeing where I was going.” My tone sounded edgy, even to my own ears.
“Uff-da, I was startin’ to worry.”
“I called but couldn’t get through.”
“Oh, yah, that’s par for the course up here, ’specially durin’ bad weather.” Margie grabbed Little Val, spun her around, and propelled her in the direction of her mother. “But, you’re here now, so let’s get ya a drink. Somethin’ to calm your nerves, there.”
I shrugged off my navy pea coat, as she snatched a hanger from the coatrack.
“We’ll shovel some food into ya, too. We’ve got plenty.” She eyed me from head to toe. “And, by gully, ya need it. You’re so skinny that if your sweater were yellow, I’d swear ya were a No. 2 pencil.” With a chuckle, she then escorted me to the center of the room.
The place was decked out in streamers and balloons in purple and gold, a-la the Minnesota Vikings. The tables along the outside walls held gift bags, bottles of booze, and two crock pots, one filled with Potato Hot Dish, the other, Chicken Crescent Hot Dish. Margie informed me that both had been prepared by her friend Bonnie Johnson, who, at the moment, was chatting with several other white-haired ladies in the open kitchen behind us.
Next to the hot dishes rested a three-tier dessert tray overloaded with bars. And on a card table sat a four-layer cake with a creepy papermache bust of a bride on top. No doubt, Vivian’s doing. As were the life-size, wooden cutouts of the Precious Moments bride and groom propped up close by. I’d seen them before. Believe me, those two got around.
Margie raised her hand to the fifteen or so women scattered about, all balancing martini glasses, luncheon plates, and gold paper napkins in their hands. “Hey, everyone!” She motioned for someone to lower the volume on the music, and within seconds, Dean and Martina faded away. “Pipe down, I’ve gotta young lady here I wancha to meet. Her name’s Emerald Malloy, though everyone calls her Emme. She’s a newspaper reporter from Minneapolis. She’s the one who wrote those real nice articles about me and my recipes last year, don’t ya know.” Margie playfully yanked one of my long, red curls, surely causing my face to turn the same color. My dad used to call it the curse of fair-skinned, Irish women. We blushed easily. Very easily.
“Anyways,” Margie proceeded to say, “when I told her I was marryin’ John, she said she wouldn’t miss the weddin’ for the world. So, even with the poor weather and Christmas just gettin’ done with and all, here she is.” She flipped her large hands like she was the Midwest’s answer to Vanna White. “No
w, if ya didn’t meet her when she was here before, come on over and introduce yourself. But not until she’s chowed down some.”
She bent over and lowered her voice. “For sure ya gotta try that Chicken Crescent Hot Dish. It’s out of this world.” To everyone else, she added, her volume cranked all the way up again, “The rest of ya gotta keep on eatin’ and drinkin’, too. We’ve got enough food and booze here to choke a horse.”
“Yoo-hoo. Yoo-hoo.” Vivian wiggled her perfectly manicured fingers. Her nails were red, like her lipstick, her flimsy shirt, and the Christmas ribbons threaded through the French roll that was her mustard-colored hair. “Margie, you, yourself, oughta take it easy with that there food and whatnot. Remember, ya hafta fit in your weddin’ dress the day after tomorrow.”
Margie sent her sister the stink eye.
“I’m only tryin’ to help.” Vivian adjusted the frameless rectangular glasses perched on what I presumed was a surgically sculpted nose. “Ya know the old sayin’, ‘Middle age is when your age starts showin’ around your middle.’” She laughed, then snorted.
A few of the ladies chuckled at that—the snort, not the joke—while Margie rubbed her chin with her middle finger, although her cryptic message seemed lost on Vivian.
ASIDE FROM MARGIE, Vivian, and Little Val, I recognized very few of the women at the party. I knew Barbie Jenson, the local newspaper editor. She saluted me with her martini glass from several tables over. Janice Ferguson, Kennedy’s city clerk, was also there, visiting with another woman, whose name was Sandy. Her husband, Ed, was the sheriff’s deputy who planned to run against the current sheriff in the next election.
No one else struck me as familiar, though, until I caught sight of Henrietta and Hester Anderson, Margie and Vivian’s crazy octogenarian aunts. They and their sister, Harriet, had been embroiled in a mess that had come to light during my first visit to town. As a result, they’d been “sent away” for a while. Margie had failed to mention their return, despite informing me of Harriet’s recent passing. I guess Harriet’s distress over being far from home had proven too much for her heart. I couldn’t help but feel guilty for my role in the trio’s demise and, ultimately, Harriet’s death. Then, again, guilt’s a perpetual burden of mine. That’s correct, I’m Catholic.
Margie barely glimpsed at me before answering the question I hadn’t yet asked. “They got back a couple days ago,” she whispered. “I didn’t have time to call ya.”
“What about Rosa?” I was referring to Margie’s other niece, the daughter of Ole, her deceased brother. She, too, had been tangled up in that earlier mess.
Margie handed me a plate. “She’s got a few months to go.”
Relief washed over me, and I quickly turned so Margie wouldn’t see.
I zeroed in on Henrietta and Hester. They didn’t look any different from the last time I’d seen them. Like then, they wore dark, belted, shirt dresses and orthopedic shoes, with white sweaters hanging from their shoulders. Henrietta was large framed, with a head covered in tight gray curls, while Hester was tiny, her hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. Both possessed faces reminiscent of overripe fruit—spotted and wrinkly—with straw-thin lips. Currently, they were “discreetly” plucking bars from the dessert tower and stuffing them into oversized purses. Some things never changed.
The reminder of that fact prompted me to return my plate to Margie. “I’m going to start with a drink,” I informed her. “And I probably won’t stop at one.”
“I’m really sorry I didn’t get a chance to warn ya.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I massaged my forehead to stave off the headache loitering around my frontal lobe. “I’ve just had a really long day. With the heavy snowfall, my drive took closer to eight hours rather than the usual six. Then, seeing those two . . .” I nodded at the old ladies, who seemed confident their thievery was going undetected. “Plus . . .”
I let the word trail off. It was neither the time nor the place to discuss Boo-Boo, my old boyfriend. True, I needed to talk to someone about him. But Margie was getting married over the weekend, so it wouldn’t be right to saddle her with my Boo-Boo-related problems. Besides, she wouldn’t be much help. No, I had to take up the matter with someone else, fully aware of whom that had to be. I just wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of a conversation with him about an old flame. “Well . . . umm . . . I guess I was . . .”
She finished my sentence for me. “Hoping to see Deputy Ryden before the party?”
I didn’t respond, choosing instead to reach for a bottle of Solveig gin, an award-winning liquor produced by Far North Spirits, a local distillery. The gin was made from rye grown right here in Minnesota’s northern Red River Valley. But, at that precise moment, I didn’t care about the origin of the rye. I was far more interested in the alcohol content. The greater the better. Because of my arduous trip, coming face to face with Henrietta and Hester, and the whole Boo-Boo thing, my anxiety level had risen like a flame, and I needed a few drinks to douse it. Following Little Val’s example, I’d start with a Gimlet. After that, I’d probably go with a shot or two of Far North’s rum. A Dark and Stormy Daiquiri seemed apropos.
“Randy stopped in a few hours ago,” Margie explained, “when Vivian was decoratin’ the place.” She rolled her eyes at the word “decoratin’.” “He was gonna wait around for ya.”
I gave her an “And?” look as I splashed gin into a metal drink shaker. “And,” she obliged, “he got a call on his police radio and tore out of here like a bat out of hell. Didn’t say how long he’d be.”
I added a couple other ingredients, along with some ice, covered the top, and shook the cylinder, letting my angst do the mixing.
After arriving in town, I’d spotted a missed cell-phone call from Randy. Since I never heard it ring, I figured it must have come in while I was driving through the boonies, where reception was iffy at best.
What was I talking about? This entire area was “the boonies.” Sure, I liked it, but that didn’t alter the fact that Kittson County, in the northwest corner of the state, was desolate by most standards. Kennedy’s population had fallen to 193. And Hallock, the nearby county seat, now claimed fewer than 1,000 residents.
I poured my drink into a glass and immediately downed most of it. I’d returned Randy’s call before entering the senior center but only got his voicemail. Truth be told, I wasn’t altogether disappointed.
Don’t get me wrong. I truly liked the guy. I’d met him here in Kennedy in August, at a benefit dinner in the Hot Dish Heaven Café. The newspaper I worked for in Minneapolis had sent me in search of the best hot dish, Jell-O, and bar recipes for a feature it was doing on country church cuisine. You know, the food eaten in rural church basements after funerals. And I’d ended up here, in a tiny, Scandinavian, Lutheran farm town.
Yep, a master’s in journalism from Northwestern, and I was chasing casserole recipes and writing blurbs about small-town cooks. I wasn’t happy about it then and still wasn’t sure what to think, regardless that my assignments had led to kudos from my editors, something akin to a mother-daughter relationship with Margie Johnson, the owner of the Hot Dish Heaven Cafe, and a budding romance with the aforementioned Randy Ryden, a local sheriff’s deputy.
RANDY AND I BECAME friendly soon after Margie introduced us, though not as friendly as either of us would have liked. We were ready to remedy that during my second visit to Kennedy, this past October, but our timing was off. Randy got called out of town on police business, while I got caught up in a murder investigation that involved Margie’s way-too-handsome nephew, Buddy Johnson. Then I got caught in a lip-lock with the guy. By none other than Deputy Ryden.
It was more than a month before Randy accepted my apology. Time and again I insisted I wasn’t really attracted to Buddy. True, he was gorgeous and sexy and loads of fun . . .
Granted, my apologies may have been better received if I hadn’t repeatedly mentioned all that. Oh, well.
Finally, in early December, R
andy and I found our way back to each other when we met for lunch at Mama’s on Rice Street in St. Paul. He was in the Twin Cities for a law enforcement conference. And over the best spaghetti and Italian fries in the state, I once more pleaded my case, swearing that Buddy and I had merely gotten swept away by the moment. A moment that had ended in a single kiss. Nothing more. I didn’t want anything more. I wanted a relationship with him, Randy Ryden. Not that a relationship with him would be nothing. I was certain it’d be more than that. It’d have to be, right? How could it be less than nothing?
Yes, when nervous and frustrated, my mouth tended to run amuck, usually followed by my tears, then my nose.
Thankfully, on that day, Randy took pity on me. Or, perhaps, he simply couldn’t stand the sight of a women mixing her tears and snot with to-die-for marinara sauce. Whatever the case, he scooted his chair closer and cleaned my cheeks with his napkin. Then, he hugged me, admitting that he, too, wanted us to be together. He just believed we should take things more slowly.
I wasn’t sure how much slower we could go. We hadn’t even had a sleepover. But, believe it or not, I didn’t say that. I simply nodded, delighted for a second chance with someone who might actually be a keeper.
From then on, we e-mailed back and forth and talked on the phone. I also spent Christmas Day with him at his parents’ house in Minneapolis. It was all very nice, but I was ready for more. A whole lot more. And I preferred to get it before Rosa, the woman Margie referenced earlier, returned to town.
See, in addition to being Margie’s niece, Rosa was Randy’s ex-girlfriend. She was dark, curvaceous, and the one who’d ended their affair. Not that I was insecure or anything. I just favored being comfortably involved with the guy before encountering her. Developing decent-sized breasts and exchanging my freckles for exotic features wouldn’t hurt, either.
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