The cooking instructions, like the listed ingredients, were straight forward, allowing my mind to wander some more. And no matter how hard I tried to steer my thoughts away from the murder, they veered in that direction.
I wondered why the police never arrested Ole Johnson. Sure, the best in law enforcement probably didn’t get assigned to cases in the middle of nowhere. But how could cops of any caliber overlook a killer who was standing—or staggering—right in front of them?
Chapter 7
Following a good ten minutes of awkward silence, Margie spoke, raising her voice to be heard above the running water and the clanging of cookware. “Men are fools for helpless women, and Samantha Berg knew how to act helpless. She was always complainin’ about bein’ broke or misunderstood or somehow mistreated. Oh, she loved to play the victim. But it was all an act until the end, when she got what she deserved. She gotta be the victim for real.”
Margie stopped ranting only long enough to rinse a kettle and precariously set it on top of the others in the dish rack. “Of course a man doesn’t wanna marry a helpless woman. No, sir-ree. He wants a strong, hard-workin’ wife, but a helpless woman can really get his motor runnin’, especially when he’s older or not thinkin’ straight.”
I cautiously interjected. “You’re being awfully cynical, aren’t you?”
She dismissed my remark with a wave of her soapy fingers. “I’m not cynical. I just don’t believe in lookin’ at life through rose-colored glasses. They distort the view.”
She knocked the water taps closed, dried her hands with a clean towel, and swung it over her shoulder in place of the dirty one, which she tossed into a bucket. “Take Ole and Lena, for instance.” She lifted a stack of mismatched dinner plates from a nearby shelf.
“Want some help?”
She considered me for what felt like eternity. She wasn’t about to make this easy. I’d implied her recently deceased brother was a murderer, and she was going to make me pay.
“Margie,” I said, resolving to ease the tension by seeking immediate absolution. “I’m sorry. I guess I just got caught up in your story.”
Her eyes lingered on me before she acknowledged, “Well, I suppose we all get carried away at times.”
The corners of her mouth ticked upward in what I hoped was the beginning of a smile. “Yah,” she uttered, “go ahead and put these on the counter there. It’ll serve as our buffet table tonight.”
I exhaled in relief. My apology had been accepted, at least to some degree, and that made me feel a whole lot better. As I said, I needed to get along with Margie to finish my job. But more than that, I’d developed warm feelings toward her and didn’t want her angry with me.
Nevertheless, my opinion of her brother hadn’t changed. I was one-hundred-percent certain he was a murderer. Margie just didn’t need to know that. Yep, some things were better left unsaid, a rule of journalism I’d always had trouble following. But, hey, I was trying.
Handing me the stack of plates, Margie repeated herself. “Take Ole and Lena, for instance. No two people ever loved each other more.”
She stared off into the distance. “Years ago, Lena would sometimes take supper to Ole in the field, and she’d come back with her hair all messed up and her clothes all disheveled. I’d tease her, and she’d get so embarrassed.”
She refocused on me. “But it wasn’t all fun and games. Lena worked hard both here and on the farm. And Ole expected no less.” A few loose hairs fell against her eyelashes and twitched with each blink. “She was his best beet truck driver, don’t ya know.”
She grabbed a plastic bin of silverware and carted it to the counter. “When it’s time to harvest beets, ya need to work ’round the clock to get ’em out of the ground fast. And one of the toughest jobs is drivin’ a fully loaded truck through a field at night after a rain. Ya gotta avoid the wet patches, or the truck will sink so deep in gumbo you’ll need a tractor to pull it out. Now, that takes time, and ya don’t have time, so ya can’t get stuck. Lena never did.” Her smile was now unmistakable. “She just knew where to drive.”
Margie ambled back to the prep table. “My point is that Ole and Lena truly loved each other. They shared dreams and worked hard to make ’em come true. Yet, look what happened. Ole turned fifty and got down on himself. The tramp saw her openin’ and did her ‘woe is me’ routine, knowin’ he’d wanna help. And after he did, she thanked him by callin’ him her ‘hero’ and encouragin’ him to join her in the horizontal rumba.”
She opened the recipe box and retrieved something from behind one set of index cards. “See this picture? It’s Ole and Lena not quite six years ago, just before things went bad.” She handed me the photograph. It was wrinkled along the sides, but the center, where Ole and Lena stood in front of the café, remained undamaged.
In the picture, Ole was tall and lanky, his hair fine and light, like his sister’s. Lena, on the other hand, was dark and tiny. She only reached Ole’s chest but didn’t seem overpowered by him. No, they stood side by side, his muscular arm draped over her shoulder, and they appeared very happy.
As I stared at the photo, I found myself wanting to ask a question. Not wishing to ignite any more controversy, I carefully searched for my words.
Margie took note. “So what’s goin’ on in that brain of yours now?”
Because my search wasn’t over, I didn’t reply.
“Oh, for land sake,” she exclaimed, “speak your peace. It’s bad for your digestion to hold things in. Say what ya want. I promise I won’t bite your head off.”
She winked, putting me at ease enough to talk, even though I wasn’t certain how to ask what I wanted to know. “I just don’t understand how … I don’t get …” I paused and then tried again. “Well, um … Margie, why did Ole have an affair in the first place? He really didn’t throw his life away simply because he turned fifty, did he?”
Margie appeared to give my question thoughtful consideration. “I guess I’m not positive. But it’s not unusual for people to get frustrated when they reach a certain age—a milestone age—and see they haven’t accomplished everythin’ they set out to do.” She rested her forearms on the table. “Some blame their families and turn mean. Others, like Ole, run from themselves and their so-called failures with the help of booze or a tramp or both.” She stood up ramrod straight again. “Dr. Phil actually had a show about that very thing not too long ago.”
I returned the photograph to her. “What did Ole ever fail to accomplish?”
“I’m … not … quite sure.” She spaced her words out, as if using the time between them to come up with an explanation—even after all these years—for what had happened to her brother. “He made a decent livin’ at farmin’ but didn’t seem all that fulfilled by it. He spent lots of time tinkerin’, though nothin’ big ever came of it.” Margie stared past me. “I guess he didn’t realize ’til it was too late that he was pretty successful anyways.”
“How so?”
“Well, he had a devoted wife. He also had family and friends who loved him.” She tucked the picture back into the box.
“Margie?” I momentarily wavered. “Do you ever regret not marrying?”
She closed the lid. “I’m not the most religious person in the world, but I believe God has a plan for each of us, and for some reason, his plan for me didn’t include that.” She rested for a beat. “His plan for Ole and Lena clearly did, though. That’s why I don’t feel bad about what happened to Samantha. She got what she deserved for interferin’ with God’s intentions.”
That seemed kind of harsh, but I let it go. And after a moment, Margie switched topics.
“Ya know,” she said, “I was with Lena the night before she died.” Her voice had changed. It was lower and a bit mournful. “She’d been feelin’ bad for nearly a month but thought it was nothin’ more than a flu bug that wouldn’t go away. I wasn’t so sure.
“Ya see, Lena was always outgoin’, but she’d turned inward, like folks do when they’re g
ravely ill. She was lettin’ life pass her by, not noticin’ much and carin’ about even less.” Margie folded her arms across her chest, tucking them under her breasts. “She got so she’d hardly talk, but for some reason, that night she insisted on visitin’, so that’s what we did.
“After a while, we got ’round to the subject of Ole, of course, and we must have gabbed about him for darn near an hour.” She hugged herself tightly. “Lena told me he’d stopped by to urge her to see the doctor. He said he was gonna make an appointment for himself too. He wanted to find out why he’d done what he did. He said the affair was like a dream to him, nothin’ but a bad dream.” Margie’s eyes filled with tears, and she blinked them away.
“He also asked her to go out to dinner with him sometime. Not surprisingly, that got me goin’ about them gettin’ back together, but Lena warned me to ‘slow down.’” Margie sniffled. “I didn’t. I guess I couldn’t. I told her that when two people are together for a long time, they’re bound to hurt each other, so they better learn to forgive. That’s when she gave me one of those ‘don’t push it’ looks. She said she wasn’t even sure why Ole wanted her back. Did he suddenly realize he still loved her? If so, how did that happen? Accordin’ to her, nothin’ had changed since he left. Or was life with Samantha just too darn lonely? Is that why he finally walked out on her? Ya see, when Ole and Samantha were together, no one in town wanted much to do with either of ’em, considerin’ what they’d done to his family there.
“Yah, I probably should of said more.” She sounded so melancholy. “But I simply told her that Ole loved her and only her. That they were meant to be together. Though that didn’t ease her mind. She said she was tormented by the thought of him livin’ with her again but wishin’ he was with Samantha. She told me she knew that life on the farm with her was all about hard work, while life with Samantha was only about havin’ a good time. Then she confided that most of all, she couldn’t stand the idea of him makin’ love to her but imaginin’ himself with that tramp.”
Margie dropped her gaze. “Oh, I’ve probably gone and said too much again. That there is pretty personal stuff.”
Retreating to her recipe box, Margie studied one particular group of recipes. When she came upon the card she wanted, she pulled it from the box and slid it across the table. “Before I left Lena’s house that night, I made some Tuna Noodle Hot Dish. It’s a good hot dish for folks who don’t feel well ’cause it’s not too greasy or spicy.”
Chapter 8
With her forearm, Margie wiped sweat from her brow. “Yah, I probably should of said more to Lena. I’d just read an article about infidelity and was gonna tell her about it, but she was so tired I decided to wait for another day.”
Margie busied herself with a paper towel, wiping cheese crumbs and water spots off the stainless-steel prep table. “The psychologist who wrote the piece argued that divorce is much harder on kids than previously thought. So he suggested that when a woman has trouble forgivin’ her ‘unfaithful husband,’ she should try instead to forgive the ‘father of her children.’ A bit corny, I know.”
“Children?” I echoed. “Ole and Lena had children?”
Margie registered shock. “Yah, I told ya that.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Oh, gosh, I’m pretty sure I did.”
“No, you told me your sister, Vivian, and her husband, Vern, had a daughter.”
“And my brother, Ole, and Lena had children of their own.”
“No—”
“But I’m almost positive I told ya about Buford and Buddy, Ole and Lena’s twin boys.”
“You mentioned their names, but you never said they were Ole and Lena’s kids.”
Margie dropped her head and groaned, “For cryin’ out loud, I swear I’m losin’ my mind. As I get older, my brain cells seem to die off as fast as my fat cells multiply.” She patted the little muffin top that spilled over the waistband of her jeans. Then she pulled a slip of paper from her pocket. “This here’s my checklist. I’ve done a million of these suppers, but if I don’t check everything off … Well, a few months back, I cooked for two hundred at a funeral and forgot to put coffee in the coffee makers. We ended up with nothin’ to drink ’cept hot water, if ya can imagine that.”
“You get two hundred people for a funeral?”
“Sometimes more. When the former mayor died, five hundred folks showed up. They came from all over. Yeah, we end up pretty close around here, if for no other reason than body heat in the winter.”
Margie snickered as she skimmed the checklist. Afterward, she shoved it back in her pocket and headed for the rear of the kitchen. “Oh, I was gonna tell ya about the kids.” Reaching for several bags of dinner rolls from the top shelf of a large, painted cupboard, she informed me that when Lena died, the twins had a year left of high school, so they moved in with Vern and Vivian.”
She hustled to the counter and dumped the rolls into napkin-lined baskets. “While my sister can really frost my buns, she’s always been good to those kids. She’d do anythin’ for ’em.” A gentleness colored her words, which I found heartwarming in light of how she’d spoken earlier about her sister. “I reckon it’s because Vivian had trouble havin’ children of her own. She had a couple miscarriages, and Little Val barely survived. She only weighed a pound and a half at birth, and it was touch and go for a long while after that.” Margie closed her eyes, no doubt wishing away those memories.
“What about Ole? Where was he when Lena passed away?”
Margie’s shoulders drooped. “For the love of Jesus, did I forget to tell ya that too?” She shook her head. “When he left the tramp, he moved into an old trailer house out on Vern’s farm. And after Lena died and the boys went to live with Vivian and Vern, Ole decided to stay right there, close by, in that same trailer.
“From then on, the twins let him farm with ’em whenever he was sober, though they didn’t have to. See, Lena got everythin’ in the divorce, includin’ the house and all the land. And followin’ her death, it all went to the kids.” Several seconds ticked by. “Ole didn’t want any of it anyways. He wouldn’t take so much as a dime in the divorce.” Her face turned smug. “He was shacked up with Samantha at the time, and I bet that made her mad enough to drown puppies.”
Margie crossed the room and retrieved several serving trays from on top of the refrigerator. After delivering them to the work station, she headed to the freezer, where she collected an array of colorful tins. Barely balancing them, she wobbled back to the prep table and let them slide from her arms, metal clattering against metal.
“Want some help?”
“Well, if it’s no bother, ya can take the bars from these canisters and arrange ’em on the platters.” She hurried back to the freezer and picked out more tins. “When you’re done, put the platters at the end of the counter. I’ll get ya the recipes later.
As I yanked the frost-covered tops off the metal containers, the scent of chocolate, vanilla, and mint curled through the air. I was in heaven.
“Yah, Buford and Buddy are good boys.” Margie emptied another armload of canisters, and like the others, they clanged like cymbals as they hit the table. “They’re naturals, ya know.”
“Naturals?” Concentrating was difficult, not because of the noise but because of all the sweet-smelling treats.
“Natural farmers.” Margie returned to the cupboard and grabbed a giant electric coffee maker. She carried it to the sink and filled it with water, speaking only after she’d closed the tap. “Ya see, some kids stay on the farm ’cause they’re too darn lazy or scared to try anythin’ else. But Buford and Buddy stayed because they truly love farmin’. Always have.” She twisted a metal cylinder into the pot, poured far too little Folgers in it, and cracked a couple eggs on top of the grounds. Scandinavian coffee. I’d heard about it but had never seen it made.
“When they were toddlers, Lena would take ’em to the field whenever they got crabby. There, she’d put ’em in the tractor with Ole,
and they’d calm right down. Rather than fussin’, they’d watch out the window as their pa drove down one row and up the next. More often than not, before a single round was complete, they’d be fast asleep, one on each of his knees. If he moved ’em, they’d wake up and cry some more, so he’d just let ’em be. Like I said, they’re natural farmers. It’s in their blood.”
She cleared some counter space for the coffee maker and plugged it in. “When Ole was drinkin’, their Uncle Vern worked with ’em, even after he lost his arm. And a year ago, when they finished the agriculture program at the university in Crookston, they moved back into their parents’ house and took over the entire farm operation. Accordin’ to Vern, they’re doin’ a darn good job too.”
Margie asked me to fill a large drink dispenser with homemade lemonade. And while I poured the liquid into the yellow, Igloo container, she told me about the twins’ sister. “Her name’s Rosa. She’s four years older than the boys. She was in her last year at Moorhead State when her ma died.”
Some time slipped by before Margie whispered, “She found her, don’t ya know.” She then held back, as if unsure she wanted to tell the story. But in the end, she did just that.
“Ya see, shortly after leavin’ Lena’s house that last night, I called Rosa to let her know how worried I was about her ma. She said she’d come home after class the followin’ day. The twins were gone, so Rosa and Lena would be alone, which Rosa thought might be good since she wanted to convince her ma to go to the doctor.
“Anyways, when she got to the farm, she couldn’t find Lena anywheres. Her car was parked out front, but there was no sign of her. Naturally, Rosa called her cell phone but got no answer. Now that wasn’t all that unusual because Lena was always leavin’ her phone one place or another. But it was kind of odd she wasn’t just sittin’ there in the kitchen, waitin’ for her daughter, considerin’ how much she loved her visits.” A smile made an effort to take shape but faltered.
Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes Page 4