A Potluck of Murder and Recipes

by Jeanne Cooney

  Rather than responding, my friend twisted her head and gaped out the window. And, before long, I was doing the same thing, while an eerie silence swelled around us.

  I wasn’t sure what Barbie was focused on, but I was taken by the atmosphere. With the bare bushes and naked trees, the area felt abandoned and more than a little spooky. The howling wind sounded like someone sobbing in the observation tower. And while I knew no one was up there, my neck and arms prickled just the same.

  Dropping my gaze, I noticed that the snow around the stone structure was trampled, and Styrofoam cups and pop cans littered the entire area. There wasn’t a soul in sight, but we clearly weren’t the first looky-loos to visit the scene of the crime. Not all that shocking, I suppose. After all, we were dealing with a murder, and murders were few and far between in these parts. Still, the realization that folks came out here to gawk made me squeamish.

  A voice in my head warned against acting too indignant. Emme, you know perfectly well you’re here for far more than evidence. You, too, are curious. Like those other people, you had to see this place for yourself.

  That nagging voice was right, which really irked me. I didn’t relish the idea of being lumped in with everyone who considered Boo-Boo’s murder nothing more than a novelty. Regardless of how he had treated me, he deserved a little dignity in death, didn’t he? “Barbie, now that we’re here, I don’t see any point in going inside.”

  Barbie appeared even less eager than I was to explore the tower. In light of the accusations swirling around about her husband and what he may have done up there, I understood her reluctance. “Yeah,” she said, her eyes raw with an emotion I couldn’t name, “the door’s probably locked, anyhow.”

  “Yeah. Probably.”

  “And since no one’s guarding it, the police obviously have their evidence already.”

  “Yep. They’ve even taken the car, so—”

  She finished my sentence. “It’s unlikely we’ll find anything new.”

  “And I really don’t need to see the ledge. You know how high it is.”

  She nodded, then we both fell silent again.

  A full minute or more passed before I asked, “Should we leave?”

  She cleared her throat. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

  That’s all I needed to hear. I shifted the car into gear, pulled back onto the road, and drove toward the gate.

  At the same time, Barbie checked the time on her cell phone. “It’s still early, but the Maverick should be open. Let’s stop there and see what we can find out today.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  ITRAILED BARBIE THROUGH the front door of the bar. She abruptly stopped, and I smacked right into her. “Hey, what gives?” I complained.

  She whispered over her shoulder, “We must be living right.”

  Stepping up to the glossy, wood counter, she greeted the middle-aged man staring into his beer. “Hi, Burr.”

  She grabbed the stool next to him, while I sagged onto one on the opposite side of her. “We’ll have whatever he’s drinking.” Barbie motioned toward Burr while talking to the bartender. “Give him a refill, too.”

  The bartender poured three mugs of beer, set them in front of us, and made change from the twenty-dollar bill Barbie handed him before meandering to the far end of the bar, where two old guys shook dice. The bar was otherwise empty. Not all that surprising given it wasn’t yet eleven o’clock in the morning.

  I sipped my beer, certain I’d never consumed alcohol so early in the day. Not even during my college years. After forcing down a couple more swallows, I returned my mug to the counter and swiveled in Burr’s direction.

  A cap advertizing corn seed was perched on the guy’s head, and, like most other men in the area, he wore a Carhartt jacket with a hooded sweatshirt under it. The exposed portion of his face was weathered from years in the sun. His eyes were small and planted in puffy cheeks. And his double chin rolled softly into his neck.

  “So,” Barbie began, her attention solely on him, “this whole murder thing is unbelievable, isn’t it?”

  “Yah,” he said, glancing at her before looking back at his glass.

  “Do you have any thoughts on it?”

  I elbowed her. She was coming on too strong. She’d scare him off before we learned a thing.

  “Nope,” he muttered. “Don’t know nothin’.”

  Barbie tasted her beer while undoubtedly debating her approach. With the police more or less dismissing her “irate husband or boyfriend theory,” I was curious if she’d pursue a new tack.

  I soon got my answer. “Burr, they think my Tom did it.” She set her mug down. “He invested all our savings in that wind-farm project, and the police believe he killed Owen Bair because the guy wouldn’t return the money.” She inhaled a long, slow breath. “I forced the issue. I threatened to walk out on him if he didn’t get the money back. That means, in a way, this mess is all my fault.”

  Burr fingered the condensation on the side of his mug. “No one really suspects Tom of murderin’ anyone.”

  “The sheriff does.”

  “Well, he’s a fool. And come fall, he’ll be out of a job.”

  “That won’t do Tom much good. He’ll be in jail long before then.”

  With those words hanging over us like a dark cloud, we sat silently as the two old-timers at the end of the bar cussed over “unforgiving dice.”

  “Tom doesn’t remember seeing Owen Bair,” Barbie uttered after a while. “And even if he did see him, he was too drunk to hurt him.”

  Burr grunted. “He was pretty hammered when he came in here. That’s for sure.”

  I don’t know why, but Barbie chose to play dumb. “You saw him?”

  “Oh, yah. He came on over and sat by me. And right off the bat, he asked about Stacy.” He blinked at Barbie, his eyes damp with emotion. “I owe your husband a lot. If it weren’t for him, my daughter wouldn’t of gotten into that fancy music program down in Chicago, there. And it was real important that she did. Important she got outta here.”

  Barbie smiled. “Tom was more than happy to help. Stacy deserved it. She’s a great kid and a fantastic singer and musician. You should be very proud of her.”

  With a simple nod, he indicated he was.

  “I only wish someone would help my Tom like he helped your Stacy.”

  Burr didn’t respond, although he shifted about, which said a lot as far as I was concerned.

  “You’re sure you didn’t see or hear anything?”

  Burr’s face remained expressionless, but I was willing to bet there was plenty going on behind it. “We only talked about Stacy. That’s all. And he was too drunk to say much.”

  Barbie gnawed on her lips, while presumably considering her next comment. “Well, maybe you remember something that happened elsewhere that might have a bearing on the murder. Something connected with the city, perhaps?”

  One dice player swore at the other, but Burr remained silent until Barbie came right out and asked, “Burr, what’s the real reason you left the city council?”

  He answered as if offended. “Ya know gall-darn well it was ’cause of my health. Fallin’ in the lake ended up bein’ real hard on me.” He failed to make eye contact.

  “But you’d fallen in before.” She gave him the once over. “And you seem healthy enough. On top of that, you loved being on the council.”

  “Well . . .”

  “You did a lot of good for the city, Burr.” She was relying on Journalism 101—feeding the subject’s ego to get him to open up.

  “I tried.”

  “Then how could you give up your seat, knowing the President would take it?”

  He glared. Evidently, she’d missed class the day tact was covered. “What makes ya so sure I knew?”

  “Oh, come on, Burr. Very little happens in Kennedy without your knowledge.”

  Burr shoved his empty mug aside. “Even if I did know, that don’t mean somethin’ out of line was goin’ on.”

&
nbsp; He reached for the beer Barbie had bought him and downed almost half of it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he was done. “I just want everybody to leave me and my daughter be. Understand?” He stood, signaling an end to their conversation.

  Barbie, however, wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye. “That’s all we want, too. Tom and I just want to be left alone to live our lives in peace. But that won’t happen if the sheriff has his way.”

  “I . . . ahh . . . don’t know what else I can tell ya.”

  “How about the truth? Why’d you resign?”

  “Like I told the police, I got sick. End of story. As for this past Thursday, I was havin’ a beer in here when your Tom came in. I’d never seen him in the place before. Heck, I’d never seen him take a drink before.” He waited a beat. “Anyways, a while later, the President showed up. I’d never seen him in here, either. And that’s all I know.” Then, without so much as a glance in our direction, he left the bar.

  “Shit!” Barbie hissed as soon as he was gone. “I was counting on guilting him into divulging something useful. But I went after him too hard.”

  “No, you did just fine.”

  “How can you say that? He didn’t give us a thing. Not a single piece of information.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  Her face exemplified bewilderment. “What do you mean? He didn’t reveal anything we didn’t already know.”

  “Oh, I think he did.” I pitched her way. “Barbie, ever since Randy shared with me that the President saw Tom confront Boo-Boo in the parking lot, I’ve had the feeling that some of the pieces to this puzzle just didn’t fit. And now I know why.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The President’s lying!” I tried to keep my voice down. The bartender was only ten feet away, unpacking horns and glittery hats for the evening’s festivities.

  “I’m not following.”

  I took another swig of beer. It was starting to taste a whole lot better. “The President said he witnessed Tom and Boo-Boo arguing, although he went into the bar before they were finished. But, according to Burr, Tom came in here ahead of the President. That’s what Janice told me, too. I just didn’t recall it until Burr said the exact same thing a few minutes ago.” I splayed my hands on the counter. “They both can’t be mistaken, Barbie, which means the President’s lying! And if he’s lying, he must be guilty!”

  THE BARTENDER AMBLED OVER. “How about another beer?”

  “No,” Barbie replied rather curtly, as if upset by the interruption. “We’re good.”

  The guy apparently failed to pick up on her tone because he remained where he was, thumping his hands against the bar to the rhythm of a silent tune. “Weren’t you two in here last night?” he asked, his gaze volleying between us.

  “Yeah.” Barbie seemed miffed by his continued presence.

  Nevertheless, he stayed where he was, now eyeballing her from the top of her head to where her breasts came awfully close to napping on the bar. Unlike the night before, though, those breasts were currently stuffed into a Minnesota Gophers sweatshirt. “I didn’t recognize you at first,” he told the golden gopher stenciled across her bust line. “You were wearing way different clothes.”

  At that exact moment, a light bulb evidently flashed in Barbie’s head because her manner abruptly changed, all signs of irritation instantly disappearing. “Well, I didn’t recall you right off the bat, either.” With a wry smile and a sparkle in her eyes, she yanked on her sweatshirt until it was stretched tightly across her chest, inviting his full consideration of the gopher logo as well as her other assets.

  Obviously, she had decided to go after information to support my theory about the President. And while I appreciated her efforts, as well as her enthusiasm, I didn’t care for how she regularly resorted to using her body to get what she wanted, despite the fact that it worked more often than not.

  “So, you were the bartender on Thursday afternoon, huh?” Her voice dripped with sweetness.

  “Yep.” A grin raised the tips of the guy’s white mustache. “The police questioned me and everything.” He puffed out his skinny chest, while his eyes danced with self-satisfaction. “Yeah,” he sniffed as he hitched up his pants, channeling Barney Fife, “I guess they needed my help.”

  “Were you able to tell them anything they didn’t already know?” She was baiting him. Again, Journalism 101.

  “Oh, yeah, I had lots of information.” He raked his fingers through his straggly white hair. “For instance, I gave them the lowdown on everybody in the bar that day.”

  “Oh, really? Care to share?”

  “Now, why would I do that?”

  “Because I’m the editor of the newspaper in Hallock, and I’m writing a story about what happened. I could use a source with lots of knowledge.” I believe she winked at him.

  “What’s in it for me?” He lowered his gaze to her chest, eliciting in me a strong urge to slap him. I only managed to curb the impulse by downing another swig of beer.

  “You’d get to see your name in print.”

  He crossed his arms, tipped against the bar, and sucked on his teeth, reminding me of a weasel, complete with tiny head and drooping shoulders. “The cops warned me not to discuss the case with anyone.”

  “Well, then,” Barbie cooed, “I could refer to you as an anonymous source ‘intimate’ with the investigation.” She actually made the word “intimate” sound dirty.

  “I’d expect to be ‘intimate’ with more than the investigation, if you know what I mean.”

  I knew exactly what he meant, and it almost made me gag.

  “Well, you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.” Barbie wiggled her fingers, making me want to slap her, too.

  “Oh, believe me, I could do far more than scratch.”

  Yuck! The cocktail of sexual innuendo being served by the two of them slushed around inside of me, mixing with my beer and my breakfast hash until I was pretty sure I’d upchuck the whole works.

  Barbie seemed unaffected. “Well, then, reveal something I don’t already know, and we’ll see what we can do.” She inhaled deeply, and I swear the man’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets at the sight of her expanding chest.

  “I . . . ahh,” he stuttered before giving up and starting over. “Did you know that the dead guy was . . . ahh . . . in here just before he was murdered?”

  Barbie yawned, as if bored. “Old news. Everyone knows that.”

  The guy tried harder. “The cops . . . they consider practically everyone in here that afternoon a suspect, including the guy who just left, Burr Nelson.”

  “Again. Old news. We knew that, too. That’s why we were visiting with him.”

  The bartender squinted until his eyes were nothing but two tiny black specks. “Well, if you already know so much, why do you need me?”

  “To make sure I haven’t missed anything. So come on. Tell me exactly what happened in here that day.”

  “I don’t think so.” He was growing more confident the longer he talked. “Why don’t you give up what you know, then I’ll tell you if you’re wrong. After that, we can negotiate a ‘deal’ for the right information.” He winked, forcing me to swallow the sour taste in my mouth.

  “Okay,” Barbie replied on a sigh, “if that’s how you want to do this. But it seems like we’re wasting a lot of time that could be better spent some other way.” Barbie tapped her right index finger against the guy’s chest, and he shuddered. I did, too, but for a whole other reason, I’m sure.

  “Well,” Barbie began, “I understand that in addition to the victim and Burr Nelson, Janice Ferguson was in here, as was Tom Jenson, who was sloppy drunk.”

  The bartender stepped back. “Whoa! No one can blame me for that. Like I told the cops, he seemed loaded when he got here, so I only served him two beers. And he nursed them until I sent him on his way.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you handled the situation perfectly.” Barbie purred the first syllable of th
at last word. Yep. She purred. “You strike me as that kind of guy.”

  More chest puffing on the part of the weasel. “Well, I do my best.”

  “I understand John Hanson, a man folks refer to as the President, also came in.”

  “Yeah, I’d never seen him before.”

  “And, lastly, there was a guy called Tiny.” She angled her head. “How’d I do? I figured I’d start by identifying the people reportedly in here at the time since, as you said, they’re all under suspicion.”

  A laugh burst from the guy’s throat. “You got the names right. But I never said all of them were suspects.”

  “What?”

  The weasel drew lazy circles on the back of Barbie’s hand. His nails were overgrown, dirty, and utterly disgusting. “Well, well, well, looks as if I might know something you don’t. That’s gotta be worth a lot.” He pursed his lips, and I choked on my beer.

  Barbie yanked her hand away from him and slapped me on the back. “You okay?”

  I wheezed, “I may never be okay again.”

  She almost smiled before returning her attention to the man behind the bar. “Who’s not a suspect?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Oh, I get it,” she said to his silence. “Burr Nelson had no relationship with the victim, and Janice Ferguson wasn’t strong enough to shove him over the ledge of the observation tower, which means—”

  “Stop!” He again hitched up his pants. “I don’t know about any of that. But I do know Tiny’s no suspect.”

  “Tiny?”

  The bartender bent his head forward until his pointy nose was mere inches from my friend’s face. “What do you say, girlie? Are you willing to pay to get some answers?” He licked his lips, and I cringed so hard my lungs almost cracked.

  “Why isn’t Tiny a suspect?” Barbie’s voice had lost some of its luster. She must have been getting fed up with this creep, too.

  “Because, honey, Tiny’s . . . a . . . cop.”

  At that, Barbie jerked her head back and practically tumbled off her stool. “A cop?”

  “Yeah, a cop,” the bartender repeated. “He’s been working undercover with the police up here for a few weeks now. They’re investigating that wind-farm project. Heard of it?”