A Potluck of Murder and Recipes

by Jeanne Cooney

  Margie replied, “I’ll never get drunk enough to model them.”

  Of course that delighted Hester, who was munching away on a pair, her earlier indigestion seemingly no longer a problem.

  It was the first time I’d ever seen Margie with her hair down, literally or figuratively. She’d removed her customary ponytail while changing into her new nightgown, leaving her hair to sway as she danced in wool socks to Kelly Pickler’s version of “Santa Baby.”

  When the song ended, she bowed and stated in an alcohol-laced, ceremonial tone, “Thank you, ladies. That concludes our evenin’ wear competition.” She wagged her index finger. “And I guess we’ll hafta forego the bathin’ suit event since none of ya remembered yours.” She tipped her martini glass, licking the last drops from the rim. “But, I expect to see ya all back here on Saturday for the talent contest, when I’ll not only get confirmed bachelor John Deere to admit his undying love for me publically, but I’ll also get ’im to dance!” We applauded, and Margie bowed once more before heading off to change back into her street clothes.

  When she returned in jeans and a UND Fighting Sioux sweatshirt, she oversaw a brief cleaning frenzy. And once the dishes were dried and put away and the floor vacuumed, she shooed her guests from the building, leaving behind just the two of us, along with Vivian and a very drunk, rubber-legged Little Val.

  WHEN THE FOUR OF US made our way outside, Vivian insisted she needed her sister’s help in heaving Little Val into the back seat of her extended-cab pickup, which posed a problem. And not just because Margie was a bit wobbly. Vivian, you see, had no intention of doing any heavy lifting. And I was unable to determine how best to lend a hand since I, too, was slightly impaired.

  To further complicate matters, Little Val refused to let go of the life-size Precious Moments bridegroom. Clasping him around his wooden waist, she swore he was her soulmate and insisted on taking him home. Vivian tried to reason with her as only Vivian could, explaining that Wally, Little Val’s husband, wouldn’t appreciate another man in their house, “even if he is wood and such.” She also mumbled something about Little Val needing to follow the lead of “the rich and famous and do some of that there ‘unconscious uncouplin’.’”

  Little Val wasn’t listening or had given up trying to interpret her mother’s words because she spoke over them, saying to the wooden cutout with the rosy cheeks, “My soul saw you, and it kind of went, ‘Oh, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.’” With unfocused eyes, she then glanced in our general direction. “I read that on a poster somewhere. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Oh, brother,” Margie mumbled as she yanked the fake groom away from her niece and tossed him into the truck bed.

  Little Val whimpered, “What do you mean ‘Oh, brother’? Don’t you believe in soulmates, Aunt Margie?”

  Margie tugged on the cuffs of her jacket. “No, I don’t.”

  “How can you say that?” Little Val acted as if Margie had committed blasphemy. “You’re getting married on Saturday. Then, you and John . . . will . . .” Her voice petered out, and a vacant expression overtook her face. She had lost her train of thought. Considering she was slightly green around the gills, I prayed she wouldn’t lose her supper, as well.

  “I’m sure John and I will get along fine,” Margie informed her, being far more patient than I would have been. “But I seriously doubt I’m the only woman in the world who could make him happy. Or visa-versa. It just so happens we both live here and—”

  “That’s not the least bit romantic.” Little Val blinked back tears as she began to sway.

  “Oh, brother,” Margie repeated, catching the girl before she fell into the snowbank that bordered the street. I clumsily stepped over that same mound to open the back door of the four-door truck. Then, with a grunt, Margie boosted Little Val onto the seat. It wasn’t pretty, but she got the job done.

  “Now, close your eyes and shut your mouth,” Margie ordered. “And don’t throw up!”

  Little Val followed her aunt’s instructions and passed out, mere drool dribbling down her chin.

  At the same time, Vivian continued to fret out loud about how she was going to explain her daughter’s condition and “the man in the truck” to her son-in-law. Margie assured her she’d come up with something, although, truth be told, she didn’t sound as if she truly cared one way or another. She just wanted Vivian and Little Val to be on their way.

  “Yah,” Vivian mumbled in resignation while climbing in behind the wheel, the hood of her parka pulled over the tiara that now sat on her head. “I suppose, like always, it’ll be up to me to get us through this sinkin’ ship, though I don’t have a paddle.” She put the pickup in gear. “Oh, well, I suppose I’ll just hafta jump off that bridge when I come to it.”

  AFTER VIVIAN AND LITTLE VAL LEFT, Margie and I boxed up the shower gifts and schelped them down the snow-covered sidewalk to the Hot Dish Heaven Cafe, an old, two-story, clapboard building along the highway that served as the main street of the tiny town. I was staying in one of two bedrooms above the café, and Margie was spending the next couple nights in the other since the interior of her house was getting painted. John was scheduled to move in with her after the honeymoon, but he didn’t care for her pastel wall colors and had asked that they be changed. According to Margie, he’d actually alleged that her pink bedroom caused him “performance” problems.

  “So,” Margie said, stuffing the last present into her bedroom closet, “care for some coffee and a snack? I’m cold from our time outside, and I’m too keyed up to sleep.”

  I snickered. “Keyed up? Is that what you call it?”

  A blush pinked up her cheeks far more than the outside air had. “Okay, okay, I’m still a bit tipsy, and I could use some coffee.”

  “Yeah, I’ll join you. I’m a touch ‘keyed up,’ too.” I headed for the hallway, halting before I got there. “First, though, may I see your dress?”

  Margie smiled shyly as she backtracked to retrieve the purple satin gown from the hook behind her bedroom door.

  “Margie, it’s stunning!”

  “Really? Ya think so? Vivian wanted me to go with white or beige, but neither’s particularly flatterin’ on a middle-aged, full-figured bride with pale skin and gray-blonde hair. And John really wanted Vikings’ colors, and I didn’t care.”

  I wasn’t sure about a Minnesota Vikings’ wedding theme, but the dress was beautiful. It was like something from a 1950s movie. A-line and ankle length with three-quarter sleeves. It gathered slightly across the bodice, a cut-glass pin catching the fabric just below and to the left of the waist.

  She returned the hanger to the hook on the door, pausing to appreciate the garment for an extra moment. “I’ve never had such a pretty dress. Never had the occasion to wear one.”

  “Weren’t you in Vivian’s wedding?”

  “Uff-da, the dress she forced me to wear was ugly. Orange taffeta with a green bow. Folks kept mistakin’ me for a pumpkin. I was afraid if I stopped movin’, someone would stick a burning candle in my cleavage.” She waited a beat. “I’m pretty sure that was her plan all along.”

  “To light your boobs on fire?”

  She swatted my arm. “No! To make me look like a giant pumpkin, while she got to be Cinderella. That’s where she got the crown she stuck on my head tonight. Her weddin’. She wore it that entire day.”

  “Well, now’s your chance for revenge. Are you making her wear something hideous on Saturday?”

  Margie sniffed. “Nah. I’m almost sixty, and though she’ll deny it, she’s not far behind. It’s time we stopped bickerin’.”

  I gave her a hug. “You’re a good person. I’m very happy for you.”

  She slipped her arm through mine. “I’m glad you’re here. Now let’s go raid the refrigerator, Vivian’s dieting rules be damned!”

  “I’m game. I didn’t eat a single bar at the party. I didn’t have any cake, either.”

  “What’s wrong with ya?”

 
I cringed. “That cake was too scary looking. And, as I said earlier, I’m attempting to fix some of my bad habits, my addiction to sweets being the worst.”

  “How’s it goin’?”

  “My consumption of sweets is down, but now my alcohol intake has spiked.”

  “I suppose that’s not what ya were aimin’ for.”

  “No, not really, but what’s a girl to do?”

  WE SAT AT THE METAL PREP table in the café’s kitchen. In addition to the table and usual commercial appliances and countertops, the space featured an old Hoosier cabinet, the sole piece of furniture with any personality. Given the characters who frequented the place, however, personality was never really in short supply.

  We were enjoying a cup of coffee and a few Salted Caramel Brownies. Margie’s friend Rachel Korkowski had provided her with the recipe, and with my first bite, I was grateful Rachel believed in sharing. After my second, though, my spirits fell as a voice in my head reprimanded me for consuming “too much sugar.”

  Yes, I’ll admit I hear voices once in a while, yet I’m not crazy. Not certifiable, at any rate. And, quite honestly, I usually ignore them. Although, in this instance, I did one better by closing my eyes and drowning them out by loudly moaning over the sinful taste sensations oozing across my tongue. It was then, when my eyes were shut and I was mid-moan, that a knock at the back door almost startled me right off my seat.

  “Who in the heck would drop by at this hour?” Margie squinted at the schoolhouse clock high on the wall. “Oh,” she added with a chuckle, “must be John. The bachelor party’s probably over. When you’re our age, ya can’t party real late.”

  “You guys aren’t that old.”

  Margie scoffed. “I don’t know about that. I often find myself wishin’ I was home before I even get where I’m goin’. That’s a sign of old age.” She made her way toward the door. “And the other night John told me some guy at the bar asked if he’d like a joint, and before he realized what he was sayin’, he told the man he wouldn’t refuse a new hip.”

  Margie opened the door. “Well, I’ll be.” She stepped back, allowing Deputy Randy Ryden to enter. “What are ya doin’ here?” She fluttered her eyes at me. “As if I didn’t know.”

  “I have to talk to Emme.” Randy stomped snow from his boots and peeked over Margie’s shoulder. Spying me, he lumbered across the floor, causing my stomach muscles to contract. Regrettably, it was the only exercise they’d gotten all week.

  As he moved closer, Margie concocted some phony purpose for leaving the room, but I wasn’t exactly sure what she said because Randy had a way of distracting me. See, he was extremely good looking, especially in uniform.

  At well over six feet, with broad shoulders, and lots of muscles, he came across as somewhat menacing, which often made my pulse run ragged. Yes, I’d always been drawn to bad boys. I was positive I had a genetic predisposition for them. But I was doing my best to change. To mature. And since Randy was a law enforcement officer who only came across as dangerous, I assured myself I was headed in the right direction.

  When he stopped in front of me, even the pheromones in the air swirled with desire. And understandably so. He was very sexy. His hair was dark, wavy, and a tad shaggy. His eyes were a warm brown but morphed to black whenever he was amorous. And his smile was usually crooked, as if he was up to no good. At that moment, though, his eyes were cold, and his smile was nonexistent. “What was your old boyfriend’s name?”

  Huh? I was baffled. Not that I had a lot of old boyfriends. That wasn’t the case. I was merely caught off guard. I was expecting a “hello” of some kind. “You mean Boo-Boo?”

  “Yeah, Boo-Boo.” His tone was colored with impatience. “What was his real name?”

  My chest tightened. “Owen. Owen Bair. Why?”

  “When did you last see him?” His features were hard set, not at all what I pictured when I dreamed about him.

  “Well, it’s been over a year since I actually saw him.” Irritation radiated off him like heat, making my lips go dry. And while my pulse remained rapid, its tempo no longer had anything to do with Randy’s charisma or my bedtime fantasies. “Why do you want to know?”

  “What do you mean ‘over a year’ since you ‘actually’ saw him?”

  “Randy, what’s going on?”

  His face was like granite. Just a bunch of plains and edges. “He’s dead, Emme. His body was discovered at Lake Bronson.” He was referring to the town and the state park a dozen miles east of Kennedy.

  “Dead?”

  “Yeah.” He scratched his whisker stubble. It sounded like sandpaper. And, for some peculiar reason, that sound was the only thing I heard as I grappled with the words, Boo-Boo’s dead.

  Chapter Four

  IT WAS MURDER,” RANDY explained just prior to catching me as I fell off my stool.

  I had a habit of fainting whenever I received shocking news. The tendency first came to light following my parents’ death in a car crash when I was thirteen. After I began coming to Kennedy, I discovered I also blacked out whenever someone tried to kill me. Not exactly surprising, but disconcerting nonetheless. To date, it had happened twice. You might think it would have convinced me to avoid this town. Yet, I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

  “Boo-Boo was murdered?” I must have misunderstood.

  “Yeah.” He settled me back on my stool and patted my shoulders, as if that would ensure I’d remain upright. “Emme, I have to ask where you were around four o’clock this afternoon.”

  “What?” His meaning slowly dawned on me. “You think—”

  “Of course not.” His voice and expression had softened but only a smidge. “That’s why I want to establish your alibi. So we can move on.”

  “Umm.” My head rattled. “Four o’clock did you say?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well . . .” My brain misfired, forcing me to try again. “Well, I guess I was almost to Thief River.” I had to concentrate really hard just to get my words formed. “I was . . . umm . . . running late, but I needed to stop for gas.”

  “Did you?”

  “Huh?

  “Stop for gas?”

  “Yeah, I—”

  “Pay at the pump?”

  “What?” He had me at a disadvantage. At best, my mind was operating on only one or two cylinders. “Why does that—”

  “Emme, think. Please think.”

  I closed my eyes and put all my energy into answering him. “Yeah, I paid at the pump.”

  “Did you get a receipt?”

  The question confounded me. How could it be pertinent to Boo-Boo’s death? Then, again, I probably wasn’t the best judge at that particular minute. “Yes. I needed a receipt to get reimbursed. The paper agreed to cover my expenses if I returned with more of Margie’s recipes.”

  “Where is it?”

  “The receipt?” I motioned toward the row of pegs behind the back door. “In my purse.”

  He crossed the room in three long strides. “I’ll give it back, but I have to take it for a while.” He delivered my purse to me. “That receipt will prove you couldn’t have shoved Owen Bair off the observation tower in the park.”

  My stomach roiled. “Is that how he died?”

  He grunted in the affirmative as I handed him the slip of paper.

  “Are you sure he was murdered, Randy?”

  At the sound of my trembling voice, he bent over the corner of the table and clasped my hands. “It wasn’t an accident, Emme.” He looked as if he’d finally grasped the extent of my shock. “He was too short and the tower ledge was too high. Plus . . .” He hesitated, seemingly deliberating whether or not to say anything more.

  “Keep going, Randy. I can take it.”

  His expression implied he wasn’t so sure. “His shirt was torn, and his neck was bruised, suggesting a struggle, so we know it wasn’t suicide, either.”

  He twisted his lips. “We just can’t figure out why he was there.” His volume rose as his e
xasperation became more apparent. “He lived in Minneapolis, for cripes’ sake. What on earth was he doing at Lake Bronson State Park in the middle of winter?”

  I slowly breathed in and out, praying the effort would help me gather my wits or, in the alternative, give me the energy to make a break for it. True, I had already decided—albeit reluctantly—to talk to Randy about Boo-Boo. But, now, with him dead—murdered no less—that discussion seemed like a terrible idea, particularly in light of Randy’s frustration over the situation.

  Even so, I knew I had no choice. Absolutely no choice. I had to tell him. “Well,” I mumbled to my feet, not daring to meet his eyes. “I was supposed . . .”

  He dropped my hands. “What?”

  Keeping my head down, I spoke a few decibels louder. “I was supposed to meet him at the park at four.”

  “Huh?”

  “Not at the tower. But outside the Visitors’ Center. The building with the native bird and animal displays.” I hunched my shoulders before going on to explain—again to my feet—“But I was late. I didn’t get there until five-thirty. Still, I waited until well after six. He never showed.”

  Randy clasped my chin between his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger, lifting it until we were eye to eye—in the physical sense only. His manner suggested we’d never truly see eye to eye on this particular subject. “Why were you meeting your old boyfriend?” he wanted to know.

  Oh, man, this wasn’t good. The tenderness he had shown earlier had vanished, and his tone was so icy I had to rub my hands up and down my arms to refrain from getting frostbite. “Didn’t I mention that Boo-Boo had been calling and texting me?”

  Randy canted his head and carefully enunciated, “No, you never said a thing.” From past experience, I knew that the angrier Randy got, the more succinctly he spoke. At this point, I gauged him to be pretty damn mad.

  Who could blame him? I hadn’t been much of a girlfriend. He’d caught me kissing one guy, and now I’d failed to inform him about setting up a meeting with another. One who just happened to be an old boyfriend. Yep, if I were Randy, I’d probably walk away, which made me really glad I wasn’t him. Hopefully, he was way more understanding than me.