“It’s the new me.”
“In that case, I’m glad I got in trouble before you turned over this new leaf.”
He was referring to events of a few months back, when I’d inadvertently helped him out of a jam. “I’m happy everything worked out for you.”
He reached across the table and molded his hand over mine. “Mostly because of you, Emme. And, for that, I’m forever in your debt.”
Embarrassed by what sounded like genuine gratitude, I reclaimed my hand and twisted my torso to watch the action on the dance floor. I had a hard time maintaining indifference toward Buddy Johnson when he was cocky. It was darn near impossible when he was sincere.
As soon as the chicken dance ended, the band eased into a song perfect for a country swing, and Buford and Barbie resumed their places in the middle of the floor and at the center of attention. But, rather than performing a traditional swing dance, they proceeded to do some moves that, at a minimum, were three steps beyond risqué.
“Oh, my God,” I muttered at the sight.
While pleased that Barbie had finally left her worries behind, I was more than a little taken aback by her approach for getting into the festive spirit. You see, she was twerking against Buford’s crotch, while he was tugging on her dog collar and thrusting his pelvis in her direction.
Glancing around the room, I saw mothers shield their children’s eyes, while fathers openly gawked. As for me, I turned back to Buddy, assuring myself that, in spite of my convoluted feelings for the guy, dealing with him was far less dangerous than watching Buford and Barbie.
I drank my beer and tried not to swallow my tongue. “So what were we discussing?” My face was burning.
“Murder.” He flashed me a smile full of awareness but didn’t otherwise acknowledge my flustered state. He truly was attempting to be kind. “I asked for your thoughts about your Boo-Boo’s death.”
In an effort to cool down, I finished off my beer. “Well . . . at first, some folks figured he was murdered by a jealous husband or boyfriend.” Because my cheeks remained hot enough to fry eggs, I pressed the cool bottle against each of them, one after the other. “See, Boo-Boo was a womanizer.”
Buddy mugged. “If that’s why he got killed, maybe I better watch my own back. Until the culprit’s caught, in any case.” To a nearby waitress, he signaled for two more beers.
“Now, though,” I continued, determined to re-establish my equilibrium, “there’s speculation that the crime may be connected to Boo-Boo’s job with that wind farm venture. Are you familiar with it?”
Fiddling with his empty bottle, he merely replied, “Yeah, I am.”
“Well, that particular scenario makes the most sense to me.”
More fiddling. “Why is that?”
I glanced over my shoulder. The band had abruptly ended the swing dance, opting, instead, for the Macarena, which prompted people of all ages to flood the dance floor, thankfully putting a stop to Barbie and Buford’s exhibition.
I expelled a pent-up breath. And when I turned back to Buddy, I felt more relaxed, and my words flowed with ease. “Initially, it was only because of something Boo-Boo said to me on the phone. But this afternoon I learned the wind farm operation is being investigated by the feds. They suspect it’s a fraud scheme of some kind.” I inclined my head in the direction of the bar, where Burr Nelson was sidled up alongside the President, Booger Carlson, and Delmont. “From what I gather, the President’s presumed to be a part of it.”
As soon as I put a period on that last sentence, I wished all my words back. Once again I’d divulged information that Randy may have intended for my ears only. “That’s just between you and me,” I added in an effort to do some damage control. “I don’t believe that whole fed thing is common knowledge.”
He nodded, and I wondered if the glint in his eyes signaled his recognition of my blunder.
“As for those other three guys,” I quickly said before he could comment one way or another, “I have no ideas.”
“That sounds about right.”
“That I have no ideas?”
“No. That if there’s a scam underway, the President’s in the thick of it.”
“Oh.” I picked imaginary lint off the bodice of my dress. “What about the murder, Buddy? Do you think the President was involved in that?” Admittedly, I was like a dog with a bone. I couldn’t let go of the notion that the President was somehow responsible for Boo-Boo’s death, notwithstanding the fact that he failed to sport any tale-tell bruises.
“I have no thoughts about the murder, Emme.”
“But surely—”
“Nope. No thoughts whatsoever. And don’t call me Shirley.”
“Very funny.”
I slouched in my chair. “For what it’s worth, the police don’t believe he was responsible. The President, that is.”
Buddy tipped his head from left to right, as if weighing what to say. “Fraud is serious business. But murder? That’s something else entirely. It’s huge. I can’t imagine . . .” He stared past me, his expression indicating he was concentrating on something.
“Buddy? What is it?”
His eyes slowly found their way back to mine. “Nothing, Emme. Nothing at all.”
I didn’t believe him.
Chapter Twenty-One
YOU’RE HOLDING OUT ON ME, BUDDY.”
“No, Emme, I’ve told you everything.” He picked up his bottle, then set it right back down. “What does it matter, anyhow? I thought you were staying out of police business.”
“I am.”
“Then why all the questions?”
I slapped the table. “Can’t anyone understand? I’m simply curious. It’s my nature.” I took a second to inhale a calming breath. “Besides, if we didn’t talk about the murder, what would we talk about?”
Buddy eyes grew a shade or two darker. “I’m sure we’d come up with something.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
He laughed, and I couldn’t help but smile at the sound of it, although I quickly got serious again. “Now, since you insisted you were indebted to me for helping you out, you need to tell me everything you know about the fraud case as well as the murder.” I let him consider that for a second. “Unless that was all talk.”
He locked eyes with me, faux indignation on parade. “Why Emerald Malloy, if I hadn’t heard it for myself, I never would have believed that you’d stoop so low as to attempt to extort information.”
I stiffened my back. “You’re the one who said I only had to ask.”
“And here I was under the impression you were meek and innocent and—”
“Well, I guess I’m not the pushover you took me for. Now, shelve your bogus righteousness and spill what you know.”
“But I don’t—”
“Buddy!”
He rocked onto the back legs of his chair. “And if I don’t give you what you want, what are you going to do? Use a rubber hose on me?”
“Wishful thinking on your part.” I examined my hands. “I’m immune to you and your wicked ways, so—”
“Wait a minute! I thought you were ‘drawn’ to me.”
“That was before.” I forced myself to meet his gaze. “I’m completely unaffected by you now.”
“Really?”
I had to move on before I embarrassed myself. “I promise I won’t repeat anything you tell me.”
“Right.” Clearly he meant the opposite.
“If you think I can’t keep a secret, you’re wrong.”
He snorted, most likely reflecting on my earlier slip of the tongue.
“Please, Buddy. I won’t even tell Barbie or Margie.” I stalled before deciding to go all in. “I won’t say anything to Randy, either.”
He considered my proposition for a long minute before grumbling, “Oh, hell. All right. I’ll tell you. But you better not breathe a word to anyone.”
I flashed him the Boy Scout sign. “I promise.”
He momentarily closed
his eyes as if suddenly struck by a headache.
“What? You can be a Scout, but I can’t?”
He dismissed my remark and checked over both his shoulders. Apparently spotting no eavesdroppers, he leaned forward and said in a husky whisper, “Buford and I invested $50,000 in that wind farm deal about a year and a half ago.”
Stunned, I only managed to utter, “And?”
“And we were supposed to receive dividend checks right from the start.”
“Even though the wind farm hasn’t been built yet?”
“The local wind farm is part of a bigger operation made up of wind farms across the state, some of which are already up and running and earning profits. At least that’s what we were led to believe.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “The investors in this wind farm were to share in those profits, too. And the first year we received regular payments, but over the past six months, we haven’t received a dime.”
“Did you ask about it?”
“Oh, yeah. We called Greg Rogers lots of times. We’ve dealt with him directly from the beginning. From what I gather, your ‘Boo-Boo’ didn’t get involved until recently.”
I ignored the “your Boo-Boo” reference. In truth, I was getting used to it. “What did Rogers tell you?”
“We never got through to him. We left messages, but he never called us back.” He went from rubbing his neck to scratching his head. “Then, about a month ago, the President dropped by the house to let us know he’d spoken with Rogers personally. Supposedly, Rogers assured him that none of us had anything to worry about. We’d make our money back and then some. The President claimed we just needed to be patient. According to him, operations like this often ‘hit snags.’”
“How’d he know you guys were investors? Wouldn’t that information be confidential?”
“We figured as much. That’s why we assumed he had an in with Rogers. Was a partner or something.”
“Or maybe Rogers was stiffing him, too.” I felt conflicted. I loved imagining the President losing his shirt, financially speaking, but I also had a strong desire to see him mixed up in the fraud scheme so I could watch him get taken down by the law.
“Emme!” Buddy jiggled my forearm, and the Etcha-Sketch image of the President being cuffed and hauled away by federal agents was shaken away. “Did you hear me?”
“Umm . . . no. Guess not.”
Buddy raised his voice, obviously believing the noise around us, and not my musing, was to blame for my distraction. “I said anything’s possible. Although I doubt the President wanted to commiserate with my brother and me over lost funds. See, while he was at our place, he encouraged us to put up even more money.”
I leaned across the table. “What?”
“Yeah. He called it, ‘priming the pump.’ He said that whenever a deal showed signs of struggling, investors had to ‘prime the pump.’”
“How did you and Buford react to that?”
“We said if we ever discovered he was involved in scamming us, we’d prime his pump.”
“Huh?”
Buddy tilted his head to the side. “Yeah, I don’t know exactly what we meant, either.” A grin cracked the tight line of his mouth. “It sounded good at the time, though.”
The waitress cozied up to Buddy while handing him two fresh bottles of beer. After she left, a hefty tip in her pocket, I asked if he knew anything about the other investors.
“Nothing I’ll share.” He handed me one of the bottles. “Other than to say that over the past six months, a number of them have been griping about the lack of return on their investments.”
“Really? I’ve only heard about the push for more investors.”
He twirled his beer bottle. “That’s because the folks who are afraid they’ve lost their shirts aren’t talking.”
“Why not?”
“They’re embarrassed. No one, myself included, wants it known that they were taken.” He narrowed his eyes. “That’s why you aren’t going to utter a word. Got it?”
“But it wasn’t your fault.”
“Maybe not. Or maybe Buford and I should have done a better job of due diligence before handing over our cash.”
“You were investing with Greg Rogers, for God’s sake. What more did you need to know?”
“If it turns out he was scamming us, we should have learned a hell of a lot more.”
I looped some hair around my index finger and twisted it while mulling things over. “By keeping quiet, Buddy, you’re allowing the fraud to continue.”
“No, Emme. It’s not up to me. Federal investigators are calling the shots now.”
His tone gave me the impression he had known about the investigation long before I’d mentioned it. And when I asked if that was the case, he said, “Yeah, I’ve been aware of it for a while.”
“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”
He only shrugged, but I didn’t belabor the point since I was far more interested in learning about the investigation itself. “So, what have the investigators discovered?”
“They don’t keep me in the loop, Emme. Like everyone else, I’ll just have to wait and see.”
Unwilling to let go, I peppered him with a few other questions. “Have you actually met with any of them? Any of the federal agents, I mean? What did they tell you?” I specifically wanted to learn if he had talked with Tiny, but I didn’t dare go so far as to reference him by name.
“Yeah. I’ve met with the feds a couple times. But I’m not at liberty to discuss those meetings, so don’t bother to ask me about them.”
“But—”
“Emme, I’m not going to risk word getting back to the folks involved in the scam. It could ruin everything.”
“But I won’t—”
“Emme!”
“Why doesn’t anyone trust me?” I mumbled.
“What was that?”
I grabbed my bottle, desperately wanting to wring its neck. “Nothing.”
Given Buddy’s forbidding manner, I concluded that additional browbeating would do no good. He was determined to keep quiet, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to change his mind. It sucked. But . . .
“So,” he said, “the police really think the murder and the fraud are linked, huh?”
He tilted his head, indicating at least some interest, so I immediately stated, “Well, if the crimes aren’t connected, Boo-Boo, a member of the wind-farm group, just ‘happened’ to get killed while up here on wind-farm business, and his murder just ‘happened’ to be committed at the same time authorities were investigating the wind-farm operation.” I waited a couple beats. “It’d be quite a coincidence. And the police don’t believe in coincidences.”
“WHAT A BLAST!” BARBIE EXCLAIMED as she skidded to our table. “I needed that.”
She bent down and whispered to me, “There’s talk I shouldn’t be here since my husband’s a ‘person of interest’ in a murder case.” Again, she added air quotes.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“In the bathroom. We took a potty break during the chicken dance. It’s just not my thing.”
Well, that explained a lot. Not about the chicken dance. There was no explanation for that. But it did help me understand Barbie’s outrageous behavior on the dance floor. She was reacting to careless remarks about her husband. Of course that didn’t excuse her x-rated show. Still . . .
I urged her to dismiss their comments and she, in turn, dusted off her shoulders as if wiping away the criticism. “It doesn’t bother me. Not a lot, anyhow.” She put on a brave face. “My husband didn’t kill anyone. And I’m where I’m supposed to be, celebrating my best friend’s wedding.”
“That’s right.”
She examined her boots. “Even so, will you come with me?”
“Come with you?”
She lifted her head. “I could use something to snack on, and I don’t want to go get it by myself.”
“Barbie, you’ve never needed a friend to tag along before.”
<
br /> “Well, things feel different tonight.”
Without question, Barbie was the personification of contradiction. Totally shameless one minute and utterly vulnerable the next. I had never met anyone quite like her.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.”
“Good. The food’s set out in the café. Alice Smith made some bars I’ve got to try. They’re called Telephone Bars because the recipe was passed along via the phone. Kind of funny, huh?”
As Buford sat down next to his brother, Barbie and I gave them a wave and made tracks for the café.
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE COUNTER IN THE CAFÉ was packed with platters and bowls full of food, free for the taking. Dozens of hot dishes, a variety of salads, and plenty of bars, cookies, and pies fought for our attention. It was plain to see, Margie didn’t want anyone to go home hungry.
I pulled a paper plate from the pile at the end of the counter, snatched a set of plastic silverware, and served myself a small amount of Queso Mac and Cheese along with some Cauliflower and Sausage Rigatoni Hot Dish. Barbie picked up a couple Peppers Italiano, explaining they were made from a recipe provided by Ray Ecklund, someone Janice knew through the League of Minnesota Cities. “Unlike Janice,” she added, “Ray’s nice, and he’s a good cook.”
Setting our plates down, we poured ourselves coffee, then slid into a booth. For a while, neither of us spoke. We were fixated on our food. I wasn’t sure how we could eat again so soon after our fish and pork dinner, but we managed. And we weren’t the only ones. A man and a woman I didn’t recognize sat in a booth across from us, their plates nearly overflowing. And four little boys in wrinkled shirts and dress pants divided their time between twirling around on the counter stools and taste testing various desserts.
“You guys better watch it,” Barbie shouted in their direction. “You keep eating and spinning those stools, and you’ll throw up.”
One of the kids burped, and the other three gazed at him in admiration. “No, we won’t,” the burper argued. “Besides, we don’t hafta listen to you. You ain’t the boss of us.”
Barbie bent her head and whispered to me, “God, I hate that kid. I know it’s wrong to hate anyone, especially a child, but I can’t help it. That kid’s a jerk. And if there’s any justice in the world, he’ll be up all night, puking his guts out.”
A Potluck of Murder and Recipes Page 18