I was almost convinced.
“I will admit, though,” she went on to say, “I’m surprised you got involved with him to begin with. I never met him, but I have every reason to believe he was a major scumbag.”
Margie slapped her arm. “Hey, give the girl a break. She’s young. She’s gonna kiss a few frogs—or scumbags—before she finds a prince.”
Barbie studied the tiled floor. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” She faced me straight on. “Sorry. I guess I am kind of touchy these days.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I was thrilled she was speaking to me at all. “You’re right. He turned out to be a scumbag.”
“And even though I didn’t know him, I really hate him.” Barbie hitched her shoulders, a gesture that implied she couldn’t help herself. “To be fair, though, I pretty much hate all men right now.”
In view of everything she’d been through, I wasn’t about to pass judgment. Instead, I hugged her briefly—the only way Scandinavians preferred to be hugged—and thanked her for being so understanding.
She waved off my appreciation in favor of rifling through her shoulder bag. She removed a brush, a water bottle, a can of mousse, sunglasses, three mismatched gloves, and a pair of slippers before recovering her wallet. Opening it, she withdrew several dollar bills and scuffed her way to the jukebox, while Margie and I hung back.
She fed the bills into the machine and announced, “Now, as therapy, I’m going to play every man-bashing song I can find on this thing.” She then called out song titles as she pressed the corresponding buttons. “First up, B-52, ‘Mamma Get a Hammer, There’s a Fly on Papa’s Head.’” She glanced at us, a devilish expression on her face. “After that, B-71, ‘I Would Have Writ You a Letter, but I Couldn’t Spell Yuck.’” She ran her finger up and down the glass, scanning the rows of song offerings. “Oh, here they are.” Again she glimpsed in our direction. “I can’t have a man-hating, good time this afternoon without G-16, ‘My Give a Damn’s Busted,’ and G-33, ‘Did I Shave My Legs for This?’”
Margie and I exchanged glances but said nothing. Barbie needed to vent and playing socially inappropriate music was a harmless way to do it. Far better than slashing car tires, a vindictive little voice echoed from inside my head.
OVER THE NEXT FEW HOURS, as Barbie painted our nails and waxed our brows and upper lips—yeah, we compromised on the whole waxing thing—she sang along to the jukebox. And when she wasn’t singing, she was sharing horror stories about her husband and every other man who had done her wrong, as well as some who had merely made the mistake of crossing her path.
“I shouldn’t belittle Tom,” she said at one point, when talking about her husband. “He’s really smart. But his brother’s a whole other story. You know, one day his wife got furious with him for being a slob and told him he’d have to do his own laundry. So, he pulled his dirty clothes together and carted them to the laundry room, only to holler back to her, ‘Hey, what washing machine setting do I use for my sweatshirt?’ Frustrated by his ineptness, she replied, ‘I don’t know. What does the sweatshirt say?’ To which, he answered, ‘University of Minnesota Football.’”
I squinted. “You made that up.”
“No, I didn’t. He’s that dumb. But he comes by it honestly. His dad was so useless even his wife got sick of him.”
Fully aware I was being strung along, I nevertheless said, “Tell me more.”
“Well,” she began, struggling to keep a straight face, “a while back his wife took him to the doctor. And following the exam, the doctor pulled her aside and said, ‘Your husband’s very sick and unless he’s kept calm and happy at all times, he’ll die. Therefore, you must make him good meals every day, do most of the farm work, and avoid complaining to him about anything. If you do all that, he’ll live and, perhaps, even regain his good health. But only if you do everything I’ve instructed.’ The woman nodded, exited the room, and met her husband in the lobby. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what did the doctor have to say?’ And she answered, ‘No doubt about it, you’re going to die real soon.’ Which he did.”
Margie admonished her. “Barbie, that’s enough, there!” It wasn’t particularly effective since she was laughing as she spoke. “No more makin’ fun of men. I happen to like ’em. In fact, I’m marryin’ one tomorrow.”
Barbie scoffed. “They don’t need you defending them, Margie. Truth is, they don’t need any woman defending them. They’ve got it made. The entire world’s their urinal. Their sleep is never disrupted by hot flashes or night sweats. And when it comes to chocolate, they can take it or leave it.”
“Yep,” Margie countered, still chuckling, “like Janice said, you’re in one foul mood.” She threw her hands up, as if afraid Barbie might attack. “I understand why, considerin’ everythin’ that’s goin’ on with ya and all. But still . . .”
“I already admitted I’ve been bitchy. What more do you want?”
“I’m just givin’ ya a hard time.”
Margie grabbed two potholders and pulled a hot dish from the oven. “Now let’s have some lunch. That’ll make us all feel better.” She set the casserole dish on the counter. “This here’s called Gertrude’s Hot Dish. It’s just hamburger and canned soup for the most part, but it’s still real good. My friend Candice Homstad made it, but it’s Gertrude’s recipe. She’s Ole Homstad’s wife. They used to live in Lancaster, don’t ya know.”
The food looked wonderful. But if I had known the predicament I’d end up in by remaining with Margie and Barbie that afternoon, I would have left that very moment, regardless of the great eats.
Chapter Nine
WE LOADED UP OUR PLATES and sat down at the prep table, but only after forcing Barbie to dispose of her filthy napkins and wash the table twice with anti-bacterial soap. We also made her douse her tee-shirt with the perfume Margie kept upstairs.
Since we were lunching late, I ate heartily. Yet, Barbie outdid me by consuming everything on her plate with what could only be described as “a religious fervor all ministers prayed for but few ever attained,” as Margie’s friend Father Daley liked to say.
After finishing her meal, which included a substantial second helping of hot dish, she went digging in the fridge for dessert. Naturally, she found an assortment of wonderful goodies, including left-over Raspberry Squares from the bridal shower. Doing my best to be gracious, I tasted one or two of them, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t eat four, as Margie later claimed.
While I nibbled on those decadent bars, Barbie provided a litany of makeup tips, most of which, I was certain, neither Margie nor I would ever use. Around four o’clock, when I was about to nod off, visions of concealer, glitter shadow, and lip liner dancing in my head, she announced, “That’s it. Stick a fork in me. I’m done. I’m going home for a nap.”
“What about Tom?” Margie asked.
Barbie didn’t respond.
“Ya know ya can sleep upstairs,” Margie told her. “I wancha guys to stay together. But you’re my friend, Barbie. And if you’re not ready to face Tom, you’re welcome to stay here ’til ya are.”
Barbie patted Margie’s hand. “Nah, that’s all right. I’ll head home. We’ve been married for close to thirty years. He’s the father of my children. And, as you know, even though they’re grown and on their own, they pop in on a regular basis. I can’t hide what’s going on forever. I almost drove myself crazy pretending everything was fine at Christmas. I was so stressed that before anyone else got up Christmas morning, I ate an entire pumpkin pie topped with ice cream. I nearly convinced myself it was like eating health food since the ice cream was full of calcium, and the pie was made of fruit.” Barbie packed up her cosmetic bag. “Or is pumpkin a vegetable? I always get that mixed up.”
Margie took hold of her shoulders. “Promise me ya won’t do any-thin’ rash.”
“I won’t. There’s no food in the house.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” Barbie flicked her eyes from Margie
to me and back again. “In my heart of hearts, I’m positive Tom didn’t kill that guy. He’d never physically harm anyone.” She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. “But the circumstances really scare me. The sheriff will be hell-bent on a speedy resolution. With the election less than a year away, he can’t afford to drag his feet. That makes me afraid he’ll zero in on Tom. In his present condition, he’s an easy mark.”
Barbie hesitated, then set her bag on the floor. “I’ve been thinking. What if those guys at the bachelor party were right? What if Owen Bair’s death had nothing to do with his job?”
Margie rubbed her chin. “In that case, the death wouldn’t be linked to Tom’s investment, which, in turn, would rule Tom out as a suspect. Is that what you’re gettin’ at?”
“Yeah. That about sums it up.”
I raised a finger. “Barbie, while I appreciate what you’re attempting to do, you have to remember Boo-Boo confessed to me that he got himself in a jam while working up here.”
“Did he specifically say the ‘jam’ was job-related?”
“Well, no, I guess not. But—” She didn’t allow me to plead my case any further.
“Maybe those guys were onto something. Maybe Owen Bair got killed because of how he played around.” She dipped her head at me. “You admitted he was a hound, so it stands to reason he could have been killed for stepping out with some guy’s wife or girlfriend.” She must have seen the doubt registered on my face because she quickly added, “The possibility is not that far-fetched.”
She lifted her coat from where it was heaped on the stool next to her. “Yep, the more I think about it the more convinced I am that some guy in the Maverick Bar heard about his wife or girlfriend getting it on with Owen Bair and decided to do something about it. He followed him to the park, confronted him, then threw him off the observation tower.” She slipped her coat on while directing her next comment specifically at me. “As you said, he was a small man, despite being an athlete. And since we grow them big and burly around here, a local guy could have tossed him from the tower without any trouble whatsoever.”
While the notion of Boo-Boo getting killed because of his philandering wasn’t hard to imagine, it flew in the face of what he’d revealed to me on the phone. At least I thought it did. “Barbie, even if we dismiss what Boo-Boo told me, there are other problems with what you’re suggesting.”
“For instance?”
“Well, he was found by the observation tower. Why there?”
Barbie buttoned her coat. “That’s easy. The killer probably stalked him. Possibly for days. And when he saw him enter the park to meet you, he decided it was time to act. After all, what better place to kill someone than a state park that’s practically deserted in the winter?” She slid her tongue across her teeth. “Most likely he had a knife or a gun.”
It was Margie’s turn to poke some holes. “Why follow ’im anywhere if he had a weapon? Why not stab ’im or shoot ’im right where he found ’im?”
“Like in his motel room or in the bar’s parking lot?” Barbie was incredulous. “Too many potential witnesses. Plus, the tower served as the perfect backdrop for an ‘accident’ or ‘suicide.’” More air quotes.
“Boo-Boo put up a fight,” I reminded her. “His body was bruised. Consequently, his death didn’t bear any resemblance to an accident or a suicide.”
“True,” Barbie granted. “But I’m sure the killer didn’t expect a physical confrontation.” She nodded, as if agreeing with herself. “I imagine it just sort of happened.”
I wanted to support my friend, but she had to deal in reality. “Barbie, you aren’t even—”
“Yep. To my way of thinking, your old boyfriend left the motel and stopped at the Maverick before your scheduled meeting. Maybe he needed some liquid courage before seeing you again. Or, maybe, he just needed to kill some time.” She sucked her breath. “Oops, bad choice of words.” She momentarily pressed her fingertips against her lips.
“In any case,” she proceeded to say, “when he left the bar, the spurned husband or boyfriend followed, waiting for an opportunity to strike. As I said, the park was the perfect place. But since there’d be fewer red flags if the murder looked like an accident or suicide, the guy pulled a knife or gun and ordered Owen to the top of the observation tower. And, there, he pushed him off.”
My mouth fell open, and Margie reached over and shut it with a lift of her finger. “With all due respect,” I said, not all that respectfully, “you made up that theory without one shred of evidence to support it.”
Barbie fluttered her eyelashes. “It makes more sense than your theory that the President killed him. Why in the world would he have it in for your Boo-Boo?”
“He wasn’t ‘mine!’”
Barbie’s eyes got saucer-sized. “I just realized something.” She offered us a self-satisfied smile. “Since Owen Bair’s body had bruises from his struggle with the killer, the killer must have bruises, too!” She practically bounced with excitement. “That means we just need to find a guy with unexplained marks, and he could very well be the murderer.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Oh, come on, Emme. My premise is a good one, unless you want to confront the President regarding your suspicions about him.”
“I never want to talk to the President again!” After mixing it up with him during my last visit, I had no desire to come face to face with him.
“In that case, we’ll begin with my plan.”
“Begin what?” I grew uneasy merely asking the question.
“Our investigation.”
“Oh, no.”
“Come on, Emme, let’s just visit the Maverick and nonchalantly search for bruised men.”
Margie chuckled. “For goodness sake, Barbie, you’re talkin’ about the Maverick Bar. Odds are every guy in there will have bruises.”
“Very funny.”
“The Maverick’s on one side of the street,” Margie informed us, “and the Legion’s on the other. By last call, folks at both bars are often in the road, fightin’.”
“Margie,” Barbie squealed, “that’s a great suggestion!”
“Fightin’?”
“No, checking out both bars.” She momentarily pressed her lips together. “We should start with the Maverick, though, since that’s where Owen Bair spent his free time whenever he was up here.”
“Says a couple drunks at a bachelor party,” I protested.
“Drunk or not,” Barbie argued, “they’d have no reason to lie about that.”
She instantly raised her hands to keep Margie from speaking. “I know you’re in no position to help, with the wedding and all, but . . .” She flashed me doe eyes.
“I already said no!”
“Oh, come on, Emme.”
I shook my head back and forth really fast, as if that would better demonstrate my steadfastness. “I won’t go. Those places sound way too rough.”
“They aren’t that rough. In fact, the Maverick can be a lot of fun. Anyhow, we’re journalists.”
What did that have to do with anything? “So?”
“So, we can handle ourselves in sticky situations.”
Margie piped up, “And I imagine just about every gall-darn surface in those two places will be sticky.”
Barbie glowered at her. “You’re not helping.”
Margie pretended to zip her lips, but her eyes kept right on smiling.
“I’m not getting involved,” I reiterated. “I may have been interested in doing some snooping initially. But now that I know the sheriff is out to get me, I’m keeping my distance from him and his investigation.”
“Emme, the sheriff expects us to do a little digging. It’s our job. And he respects that.”
Margie snorted.
Once more Barbie glowered. “Okay, he doesn’t respect it. Truth is, he’s a male chauvinist pig. But it’s our job, damn it!”
“Maybe it’s your job. But it’s not mine. I’m only a glorified errand girl for
the Food section of the Minneapolis paper. I write about recipes, when I’m lucky enough to write at all.”
Barbie propped her hands on her hips. “Then how do you explain solving those other murders?”
I rubbed the back of my neck. It was getting stiff. With any luck, I was coming down with the flu and would be confined to bed very shortly. “There’s no decent explanation. I just stumbled upon the killers.”
Barbie stomped her foot. “We have to help Tom. If we don’t, he could get arrested for murder. You don’t want that to happen, do you?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, in his current state, he can’t do much for himself. Therefore, we have no choice but to step in.” While I wasn’t so sure about that, I kept quiet. Barbie didn’t. “True, I’m furious with him. And I’m not sure what I’ll do when this is all over. But I won’t be able to look myself in the mirror unless I’ve done my best to clear his name.”
She scratched her head thoughtfully. “Emme, if you won’t go with me, I’ll go by myself.” Evidently, she was doubling down on the guilt she was laying on me. “But I don’t understand why you’d let me go alone if you truly believed it was dangerous. And if it’s not dangerous, I don’t see why you won’t go with me.”
She searched my face, clearly attempting to discern if she was getting to me. “I also find it odd you aren’t more intent on tracking down Boo-Boo’s killer. Granted, he turned out to be an ass. But he was your first love. In many ways, he shaped who you are today.”
Margie snorted. “Ya had me until ya got to ‘he shaped who you are today.’ That was just way too corny.”
A Potluck of Murder and Recipes Page 8