A Potluck of Murder and Recipes

by Jeanne Cooney

  “On second thought, I’m not that hungry for Cranberry Pudding,” Barbie announced.

  “You don’t have to leave just because he’s here.” I was being magnanimous. In truth, I wanted her to go.

  “Nice of you to say, but I don’t believe you mean it. If you did, I’d force you to get your head examined.”

  We pulled in next to the squad car.

  “Anyhow, we’ve talked this investigation to death.” She opened the car door. “Maybe Randy has some information that’ll help make sense of what we’ve uncovered thus far. If that’s the case, you’ll have a better chance of getting it out of him if no one else is around.” She shimmied. “If you know how to handle him, that is.”

  We got out of my car, and I walked straight toward Randy, while Barbie made tracks to her own vehicle, fluttering her fingers in greeting as she passed the good deputy.

  A smile cracked the tight line of his mouth. “She never disappoints, does she?”

  I punched him in the shoulder.

  “Hey!” he yelped, rubbing his arm. “There’s nothing wrong with looking.”

  I UNLOCKED THE BACK DOOR of the café and flipped on the overhead light in the kitchen. “Margie must still be at the rehearsal dinner. I didn’t see her car or John’s pickup anywhere.”

  Randy pointed himself in the direction of the refrigerator. “I’m starved. I didn’t have time for dinner or supper. Margie wouldn’t mind if I ate, would she? I’ll leave cash on the register.”

  “I doubt she’d care. She insisted I eat whatever I want. According to her, there’s way too much food for tomorrow. And, after that, she and John are gone for a month.”

  He rattled a number of bowls and pans inside the refrigerator.

  “While you find what you want, I’ll make coffee.”

  At the front of the café, I brewed a fresh pot. “Hey,” I called back to him, “Barbie said there’s Cranberry Pudding in there, and it’s supposed to be really good.”

  “Already found it. Along with Upside Down Hot Dish, one of Margie’s best. Want some?”

  “Do you need to ask?”

  Five minutes later, we were seated at the prep table, plates of Upside Down Hot Dish, bowls of Cranberry Pudding, and cups of steaming hot coffee in front of us. The scene captured my imagination, creating a picture in my mind of us as a married couple, eating our supper while catching up on the day’s events. Feeling playful, I gave life to the portrait by doing my best June Cleaver impression. “Well, Ward, how was your day?”

  Like me, Randy was a devotee of old-time television and fell right into his role. “I missed the Beaver’s basketball game because I was in Lake Bronson, investigating Owen Bair’s murder.”

  “Oh? How did that go?”

  He set his fork on the table. “I heard the strangest thing.” Randy wasn’t much of an actor. He couldn’t stay in character. Just two lines in, and he no longer sounded anything like the Beaver’s dad. Rather, he was back to being a cop. “Several people claimed they saw you and Barbie in the Maverick Bar earlier tonight. Can you believe that?” I snuck a peek at him but couldn’t tell if he was upset or merely giving me a bad time. “Of course, they didn’t really recognize you. They said Barbie was with a cute redhead. Being a detective, I used my skills to deduce that they were referring to you.”

  I tried for levity. “You think I’m cute?”

  “Emme, do you have something to confess?”

  “Are you a priest now, too? Because, if you are, we’ll have to reexamine our entire relationship.”

  He tried to look tough, but since he had to bite his lip to keep from smiling, he didn’t come across as very intimidating. “Emme, do you want to tell me anything?”

  Hoping to keep him from getting too serious, I stretched my hands out, as if preparing to get cuffed. “Okay, copper, you caught me. Barbie and I were in Lake Bronson.”

  He took hold of my wrists. “Wanna explain?”

  His good humor seemed to be evaporating, prompting me to reply, “No, not particularly.”

  “Emme.” He drew out my name, making it about four syllables long. Never a good sign.

  “All right, I’ll tell you. But no sermons about how we shouldn’t be interfering in police business. And no laughing at our pathetic excuse for undercover work.”

  “Sorry. I can’t guarantee anything.”

  I sighed in resignation. “Well . . . ahh . . . we went there hunting for bruised men.” I might have mumbled those last few words.

  He arched his eyebrows.

  “See, Barbie figured that since Boo-Boo was bruised, his killer would be, too. She also had a hunch the murderer was some guy who frequented the Maverick since Boo-Boo’s body was discovered nearby, and he supposedly hung out there whenever he was in the area.” As I stopped to take a breath, I decided that the best way to avoid Randy’s lectures or ridicule was to prevent him from speaking altogether, so I hurried on. “She wants to believe the killer is the husband or boyfriend of one of Boo-Boo’s recent sexual conquests.”

  He lowered just one brow, and even while wondering how he did that, I kept talking. “Crazy, I know. And I don’t abide by her theory. But I have to give her credit. We learned that Boo-Boo was in the Maverick just before he died.” I couldn’t keep from adding, “We also discovered that whenever he was up here, he picked up women in there and wasn’t particularly choosey.”

  I then had to steal a couple seconds to try yet again to get past that last aggravating point. And, wouldn’t you know, Randy used my momentary lapse into silence to say, “I thought you weren’t going to get involved in this investigation. I thought you were leaving it to the professionals. The people actually trained to handle these kinds of things.” So much for the evening remaining lecture free.

  “I didn’t get involved, Randy. I merely rode to the Maverick with Barbie because she didn’t want to go by herself. That’s it.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “What?”

  “With you, there’s always more.”

  “Randy, I couldn’t turn my back on her. She’s afraid for her husband. Afraid he’ll be arrested for murder if she doesn’t find Boo-Boo’s real killer.”

  “Well, it doesn’t look good for him, that’s for sure.”

  He lifted his hand when I would have interrupted. “Emme, you know I can’t disclose much about the investigation, but I will tell you this case has the potential to be dangerous. And I don’t want you mixed up in it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  UNABLE TO REIN MYSELF IN, I snarled, “You don’t want me ‘mixed up in it’? When did you earn the right to tell me what to do?”

  Randy rubbed his hands down his face. “I’m sorry. I had no business saying that. And, believe me, I realized it as soon as the words were out my mouth.” He pushed his hot dish around on his plate before dropping his fork to the table. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  He flashed me a look that, when translated, read, Oh, really? Is that why you almost get killed every time you come to town?

  Since it was only a look, I decided it didn’t require a direct response and, instead, said, “If I need your help, I’ll ask for it.” I offered him a conciliatory shrug. “Even then, there’s no guarantee. I could still get in trouble or end up hurt.”

  “If you’re trying to make me feel better, you’re doing a lousy job of it.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  He swiped his napkin across his mouth, stood up, and stepped between my knees. “We need to talk.” He paused for what felt like eternity. “I’ve been . . . been thinking a lot about us lately.”

  Considering the staid expression on his face, a heaviness settled in my stomach, and my mouth went dry, leaving me barely able to utter, “Are you going to dump me for poking around in Boo-Boo’s murder?”

  He captured a few wayward strands of my hair and tucked them behind my ear. “No, I’m not going to dump you. In fact, one of the rea
sons I like you is because you’re . . . gutsy.”

  “Gutsy?” Feeling relieved that our relationship was still intact, I gave him a little shimmy. “And here I was under the impression it was my never-ending curves that captivated you.”

  He slid his hands around my waist, sending quivers to all my lady parts. “I like the way you look. I like it a lot. But I’m also really attracted to your . . . personality.”

  “My personality? That’s the kiss of death!”

  He tightened his hold on me. “Give me a break, Emme. I’m doing my best to be serious here. To tell you how I feel.”

  “Okay, go ahead. I’m listening.”

  He captured my fingers—the ones caressing his face—and kissed the tips of them. “Well, it goes without saying that you’re pretty and funny and smart.”

  “No, by all means, say it. I won’t stop you.”

  He groaned. “And, as I’ve already pointed out, you have a good personality. You’re gutsy, fiercely loyal, and very nice. At least most of the time.” He dropped my hands to raise his own. “You probably don’t want to hear that, but it’s true. You’re nice. You’re kind and considerate and—”

  “Stop. You’re confusing me with a girl scout.”

  He chuckled in spite of himself.

  “Trust me, Randy, I’m no girl scout.” I wiggled my brows. “Though I’d consider wearing the outfit if you’d like. I believe Barbie has one I could borrow.”

  He briefly lifted his face to heaven, most likely praying for patience. “I simply meant you’re always there for your friends.”

  It was my turn to get serious. “My friends are important to me. Remember, I don’t have any family to speak of.”

  “I guess what I’m trying to say, Emme, is that I’d hate for anything to happen to you. But, you are who you are, and I have to accept that and deal with it.”

  “Wait a sec. You just got done telling me I was pretty amazing. But now you sound as if I’m someone you regrettably have to put up with.”

  “See? This ‘from the heart’ stuff doesn’t come easy for me, so let me try again.” He once more clasped my hands. “You’re going to do whatever’s necessary to help your friends. And, on a fairly regular basis, that seems to include butting into police business.” He circled the backs of my hands with his thumbs. “I may not always like it. But I understand it. And, on some level, I even admire it.”

  “Randy, what are you getting at?”

  He pressed his finger against my lips to silence me. “Likewise, since you’re a journalist and I’m a cop, we’ll occasionally be at odds over our work. It’s only natural. And, again, I better get used to it.”

  “I’m just a food reporter.”

  “Yeah, right. Let’s not even go there.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed several times over. “Bottom line, Emme, I don’t want to lose you. And bossing you around is the surest way to do that. So I’ll try to stop. But it’s tough for me to keep quiet, especially when my work’s involved. Besides, you drive me crazy sometimes.”

  Despite my confusion over what he was saying and why, I managed to utter, “Ditto.”

  “Good thing we’re together then.” He gave me a butterfly kiss. “We can drive each other crazy.”

  I gave up attempting to figure him out, opting, instead, to nibble on his bottom lip. “That sounds kind of fun.”

  “I agree.” He then leaned in for a deep, passionate kiss that truly curled my toes.

  LATER, AFTER WE WERE done kissing, Randy plopped a Frosted Zucchini Bar in front of me.

  “No, thanks,” I told him. “I’m not much for vegetables that masquerade as dessert.”

  “You mean to tell me you don’t like carrot cake?”

  “Well, yeah, I like carrot cake. That’s an exception to the rule.”

  He gestured toward my Zucchini Bar, while biting into his own. “’rust me. ’ou’ll ’ove this bar. Helen Hennen made it, and it’s delicious.” He motioned toward my mouth. “Go ahead. Taste it.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

  “Oh, come on.” Another bite and his bar was gone. “Mmm.”

  Reluctantly, I bit into mine, my bite far smaller than either of his. At least my first one was. After that, I went big. Really big. What can I say? He was right. The bar was scrumptious.

  “Told ya,” he said as I quickly devoured the rest of it.

  “Want another?” I licked cream-cheese frosting from my fingers.

  “No, I’ve had enough.” He patted his flat stomach. “But don’t let me stop you.”

  “I won’t.” I slid off my stool and scooted over to the refrigerator, where I snatched one more from a plastic container.

  “Now, let’s get back to business.” With my mouth full, I asked, “’hat were you ’aying about things not ’ooking very good for Tom?”

  “Damn. I was hoping I’d distracted you from that particular subject.”

  “Nope.” I zeroed in on his lips as I swallowed. “But, believe me, I appreciated your effort.”

  He smiled, although the expression didn’t fit his words. “I can’t disclose much about the investigation, Emme. You know that.”

  “Oh, come on, Randy. Reviewing your evidence may actually help you come up with another idea or two.”

  “I have plenty of ideas about this case. What’s more, you aren’t genuinely interested in helping me.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Mostly you just want to find out what we’ve learned so far.”

  I attempted to look hurt. “You’re being quite cynical, and it’s not very becoming.”

  He didn’t appear the least bit affected by my words or my pouty lips, leaving me no choice but to beg. “Please, Randy. At least tell me something. Barbie’s my friend, and I want to help her, which means I need to have an idea of the kind of trouble her husband’s actually in.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t believe I ever thought you’d stay clear of this case.”

  What could I say? It was a continual battle for me. On one hand, I wanted to live a simple, safe, drama-free life. On the other, I had this weird super-hero-type compulsion to fight for justice. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, I also was afflicted by a chronic case of curiosity. A dangerous combination.

  Randy absently scraped his empty pudding bowl with his spoon and begrudgingly said, “Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt to go over a few things.” He pointed his spoon at me. “But I’m not getting into the nitty gritty.”

  I gave him a palms up. “Fine. No nitty gritty.”

  He moved about on his stool until apparently comfortable. “As Barbie no doubt told you, Tom was seen arguing with Owen Bair in the Maverick parking lot yesterday afternoon, just a few hours before Owen was found dead.” That was news to me, but I chose to keep that fact to myself. “I guess he demanded his money back. The money he invested in the wind farm venture. But Owen told him it was too late. The money had been deposited, and Tom had his promissory note, so that was that.” He appeared to think twice before adding, “From what I understand, Tom got really mad. Furious, in fact.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Their argument was overheard.”

  “By whom?”

  “Didn’t Barbie tell you?”

  “No, she didn’t mention any names.” Probably because, like me, she wasn’t aware the exchange ever occurred. “Go ahead and tell me, Randy. If you don’t, I’ll just ask her in the morning.” Not really a lie since I could always pose the question. Admittedly, she wouldn’t have an answer, but that was beside the point.

  Randy fidgeted while seemingly arguing with himself over what to divulge and what to keep under wraps. “Ahh, it was the President,” he finally supplied. “He was on his way into the bar and saw and heard everything.” He briefly pursed his lips. “Well, not everything. He only stuck around long enough to get the gist of the argument. Then, he went inside. An hour or so later, Tom followed him in.”

&nb
sp; “How convenient that the President saw him.” I was being cynical.

  “Emme, don’t let your personal feelings cloud your judgment.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

  I finished off my second Zucchini Bar. “You know, even if Tom quarreled with Boo-Boo, it doesn’t mean he murdered him.”

  “True. Although it does make him a prime suspect. And, as for your ‘bruised killer’ theory, Tom has bruises. He was in a fight.”

  “Or, he fell down. He was pretty drunk yesterday. Likely too drunk to be a real risk to anyone.” Another notion hit me like a whack to the head. An actual defense for Tom. “He certainly couldn’t have out-wrestled a former athlete. Not in his condition.”

  Randy slurped the last of his coffee. “We don’t know that Tom was really intoxicated. According to the bartender, he smelled of booze, wasn’t particularly steady on his feet, and slurred his speech. But the President says he didn’t appear drunk when he was in the parking lot, which leads us to speculate he may have been putting on a show to establish an alibi.”

  “You truly believe he pretended to be drunk to get people to believe he was incapable of murder?”

  “It’s possible.”

  I couldn’t keep from rolling my eyes, although I didn’t try very hard. “It’s also possible he drank himself into oblivion after Boo-Boo refused to return his money.”

  “No one in the off-sale recalls selling him a bottle.”

  “Maybe he bought it elsewhere. Or maybe he already had it on him.”

  Randy fingered the handle of his cup. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  “Are you even looking at anyone else?”

  “Like a jilted husband or lover?”

  I bobbed my head, astonished I was proffering Barbie’s theory.

  “We haven’t found any evidence along those lines, which leads us to believe it’s a dead end. But, we won’t completely dismiss the idea.”

  “Any other possibilities?”

  “We’re checking to see if Owen had any enemies.”

  “Any luck?”

  “No.” He blew out an audible breath. “When you were with him, Emme, do you remember anyone hating him?”