Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes

by Jeanne Cooney

  Chapter 10

  Kennedy, Minnesota, has no motels, but Margie keeps two guest rooms, with attached baths, above the café, “just in case.” I guess my visit qualified as one of those “cases.”

  I grabbed my overnight bag from my car and headed upstairs to freshen up before the benefit. I was wiped out from my drive, greasy from the time spent in Margie’s kitchen, and frustrated by my visit with Tundra Barbie.

  I undressed and climbed into the shower. The soft water ran down my back, relaxing my muscles and washing my tension down the drain. I soaped up, rinsed off, and toweled dry. Then I flopped on the bed. I had a full evening ahead of me and knew a rest, even a ten-minute one, would do me good.

  I woke to Kris Kristofferson. Not literally of course. Rather, I woke to his music, specifically, his rendition of “Me and Bobby McGee.” The song had made its way from the restaurant downstairs up through the floorboards. “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose …”

  Squinting at the clock-radio on the dresser, I saw that my ten-minute rest had stretched into a thirty-minute nap. I contemplated rising but was too comfortable to make any sudden moves and remained curled crossways on the double bed, one towel wrapped around my head, another around my torso. “And nothin’ ain’t worth nothin’ but it’s free.”

  From that vantage point, I studied the room. It was similar to the one I had when I was a little girl. The bed was crowned with a white, iron headboard and covered in a colorful, patchwork quilt that smelled fresh, as if recently brought in from the clothes line. Next to the door, a green drop-leaf table straddled two wooden chairs, and on the opposite wall, the antique low-boy dresser stood alone. The furniture pieces and colors weren’t identical to those in my old room, but the style was the same, as was the music wafting through the floor. “She’s lookin’ for the home I hope she’ll find.”

  I was weaned on country rock. My parents were passionate about country dancing. Every Saturday night they joined their dance group down at the American Legion, where they perfected old moves and tried out new ones. During the week, they practiced at home, often persuading me, their only child, to join in.

  Our house was always filled with the sounds of Kris Kristofferson and Willie Nelson. And while many kids undoubtedly hated that music, if for no reason than their parents liked it, I always enjoyed it. And I still feel connected to it. Probably because my folks died when I was young, and that music helps me stay close to them, or at least their memory.

  When Kristofferson faded away, my thoughts shifted from days gone by to earlier that day and my conversation with Barbie. She’d said that Samantha Berg’s murder didn’t amount to much. It wasn’t worth talking about. But how often did a journalist speak that way about an unsolved homicide, especially one committed in a place where murder must hardly ever occur?

  Pondering that, I rose and got dressed, tugging on a pair of blue jeans and slipping into a paisley, button-down, sleeveless blouse. I followed with a half-hearted attempt at brushing my hair. While not wet, it was terribly tangled from the wind outside and being wrapped in a towel for both my shower and my nap.

  As I yanked at the snarls, I reminded myself that my assignment didn’t include writing about an old murder case, even if it would be far more exciting than a story about a day in the life of a small-town café owner—a story that most likely would never see print.

  Setting my brush on the dresser, I swiped on some mascara and lip gloss. I don’t wear much makeup, but I try to highlight my lips and eyes. They’re my best features, and to my way of thinking, drawing attention to them limits focus on my frizzy, red mane.

  I’d have preferred my hair be silky and Irish-setter red, but it wasn’t. It was curly and flame colored, prompting my dad to nickname me “Torch” when I was a kid. No one else dared call me that, but he loved the moniker, and I loved him, so he got away with it. And now that he was gone, I’d probably never do anything differently with my hair.

  I shoved the makeup tubes back into my bag and pulled out my phone. No messages, not even from my editor. His apparent lack of interest annoyed me, which, in turn, drove me to speculate what he and the other big shots at the paper would do if I returned with a story about an old murder case.

  I tossed the phone onto the bed. If I did something extraordinary, like actually solve the crime, they’d have to take notice. Hell, they’d have to give me a by-line. What choice would they have? And if my story was good—and it would be—they’d be obliged to move me from the “Food” section to real news, in spite of my lack of experience. If they didn’t, I’d quit and head over to one of the other papers no doubt vying for my talent.

  I stared at my mirrored image and whispered, “This could be your big break, Emme.” I glanced at my phone and back at my reflection. “But you don’t want anyone calling your editor and telling him that you’re nosing around for something other than recipes, so you’ll have to be discreet.” I looked doubtful. “Wait a minute, you can be discreet.” I splayed my hands on top of the dresser. “In fact, keep working on your real assignment, and then no one, not even Margie, will catch on to the story you’re truly after.”

  I leaned against the dresser and gazed intently at my image. “Solving this case won’t be hard. It’s surprising it hasn’t been done already.” I wrinkled my face in concentration. “I suppose people just get too close to a situation sometimes to see it clearly.”

  I drew myself up to my full height. “Even though everyone around here seems to be an expert with a knife, Ole Johnson is the most logical suspect. He lost everything—his family and his farm—because of Samantha. And there’s no stronger motive for murder than that.

  “Now, Emme, just unearth a little more information and answer a few more questions, such as why Ole Johnson wasn’t ever arrested, and you’ll be ready to write a story so good it’ll knock the argyle socks right off your editor’s gout-swollen feet.”

  I gave myself a determined look. “You can do this.” I spread my legs and put my hands to my hips, imitating Wonder Woman. “You’re going to do this.” I pumped my fist into the air. “And it’s going to be big!”

  *

  My super-hero impersonation was cut short by some shouting outside, which I felt compelled to check out. Hurrying to the bedroom window for a quick look-see, I spotted the two old-timers from earlier that day in the café. They had replaced their overalls and long-sleeve work shirts with blue jeans and short-sleeve plaid shirts but still donned the same caps.

  They were hollering to a portly, middle-aged man with short legs. He was sliding out of a white service van. The sign on the side of the van read, “Swenson’s Sewer Works: Your Sh** Is My Bread and Butter.” Once on the ground, he adjusted the waistband of his jeans, half hidden beneath his beer belly, and extended his hand to John Deere.

  I cringed. Did he come straight from work or go home first to wash up?

  With their hellos out of the way, the three men waddled across the highway, briefly stopping to greet a young woman who ran past them in the opposite direction. She was clad in shorts and a dirty tee-shirt, her long, dark hair blowing in the wind. She carried a shovel among some other garden tools. And after pitching them into the bed of a restored, 1950s pickup, she gave the guys a quick wave before climbing into the truck and taking off.

  I followed suit. Only I took off for the café downstairs, thoughts of hot dish competing with those of homicide. While eager to begin my investigation, I also was excited to try Margie’s Tater-Tot Hot Dish as well as something she called Cheeseburger Hot Dish.

  Yes, I was looking forward to everything I thought the evening held in store for me, from home cooking to intrigue. But I was woefully ignorant as to what truly lay ahead.

  Part Two - Boil the Noodles

  Chapter 11

  Entering the café, I spotted Margie, still dressed in her Hot Dish Heaven tee-shirt and blue jeans. She was crouched in a corner, consoling the two little girls who’d been in for ice cream. They were
rubbing their eyes, as if they’d been crying.

  I also saw John Deere, his friend, and the sewer guy shuffle through the doorway. They stopped to hug a middle-aged, fragile-looking woman with alabaster skin and a colorful scarf tied around her bald head. She held a bouquet of white daisies and blue delphiniums.

  Across from her, several men, their sunburns ending where their tee-shirt sleeves began, formed a buffet line along the counter, now chock full of hot dishes, salad, dinner rolls, and bars. The men were accompanied by a smattering of blonde kids, all of them surrounded by elderly people with clouds of gray hair. There were so many gray clouds, in fact, I half expected rain.

  My stomach gnawed at me, apparently trying to convince me to eat straightaway, but I needed no convincing. Famished and determined to get my food before the sewer guy, I forged ahead, side-stepping a pair of shrunken-up, stooped-over women, deciding it would be rude to hurdle them, no matter how close to the ground they stood or how quickly I wanted to eat.

  I was just about there, my eyes glued on what would be my place in the buffet line, when, out of nowhere, the Anderson sisters stepped in front of me. I pulled up just short of plowing them over.

  “Hello there. Nice to see ya again,” one of them said, after which the other two chimed in with, “Yah, we’re back, just like we promised.”

  I caught my breath and offered a fake smile. It was the best I could do. Keep in mind, they were standing between me and my dinner. There was Henrietta, the mother hen, the oldest and largest of the three; Harriet, whose moustache was undoubtedly the envy of every boy in town; and tiny, elfin Hester.

  “See what I won at bingo.” Henrietta pulled a plastic bag of cucumbers from the large canvas purse hanging from her shoulder.

  Not sure whether a prize of cucumbers warranted congratulations or condolences, I remained mum.

  Harriet, however, knew exactly what to say. “It ain’t fair. She’s too lucky. She always wins the best prizes.”

  Still unsure how to respond, I merely stated, “Oh, I’ll bet you’ll win next time.”

  To that, Harriet replied, her voice filled with yearning, “I can only hope and pray. Ya see, the cucumbers in my garden turned out just terrible this year.”

  As shocking as this might sound, I really didn’t care about Harriet’s cucumbers. Yes, I wanted to talk to her and her sisters. They were Ole’s aunts and probably knew something about Samantha Berg’s death. But at that moment, I was in no condition to carry on a decent conversation, much less conduct an interrogation. I needed food, so I suggested they join me in line.

  Little Hester eagerly accepted my invitation. “Oh, for sure,” she said. “But let’s get goin.’ Ya don’t wanna be slow to eat at one of these things. Everythin’ gets too picked over.”

  Henrietta agreed, reciting the poor food choices left for the “slow pokes” at the last community dinner. The tale led all three ladies—large, medium, and small—to hobble ever faster to the counter, with me bringing up the rear.

  I pulled a twenty-dollar bill from my pants’ pocket, slid it through the slit in the plastic ice cream bucket that served as the donation jar, and stared at the ladies. They hadn’t contributed a thing.

  Seeing me eye them, they eyed each other until, finally, they retrieved their coin purses from their large shoulder bags and picked through change. Choosing a few dimes and quarters, they dropped them into the pail and, with indignant huffs, snatched their plates and stepped in behind me.

  I began my culinary journey with a serving of Cheeseburger Hot Dish and another of Pizza Hot Dish before spying my favorite, Tater-Tot Hot Dish. Not wasting a second, I helped myself to a large spoonful of that, heavy on the tots. The pleasant aroma triggered a reverie of Saturdays during my childhood, my dad and me sitting at the kitchen table, playing Kings on the Corners, my favorite card game, while Mom served up our hot-dish lunch nearby.

  Feeling all warm and fuzzy inside, I tucked that memory away and strolled on down the line. I added a dinner roll but stopped when I got to the Jell-O. I don’t like Jell-O. I don’t like any food that wiggles after it was prepared. Orange Jell-O with marshmallows. Red Jell-O with bananas. I didn’t want any but feared I’d be asked if I’d tried at least one, so I scooped up a small amount of something that appeared to be—and hopefully was—more Cool Whip than Jell-O.

  While shaking the pink concoction onto my plate, I noticed the steady stream of people now entering the building. I’d planned to do some serious eating, and for that, I needed to be seated, so I quickly claimed my silverware and a cup of freshly brewed coffee and scanned the room for a spot to squat. Spying an empty booth in the far corner, I turned to inform my elderly companions, only to find them still way back in line. I considered waiting for them, but my hunger and desire to rest my rear won out.

  Promising to track them down later, I wove through the burgeoning crowd, dodging elbows and beer bellies while struggling to keep my plate and cup upright. My moves were tentative, accompanied by a low, monotone chant of, “Pardon me. So sorry. Excuse me.” My chant was accompanied by another fake smile. What can I say? Genuine charm is difficult when near faint from hunger.

  Reaching the booth, I settled down and dug in. Pizza Hot Dish first. Cheeseburger Hot Dish after that. Both were delicious, yet I knew I was only using them to tease my taste buds, and when I couldn’t hold out any longer, I devoured the object of my afternoon fantasies—Tater-Tot Hot Dish. I savored every bite, soft moans of delight actually escaping my lips. Okay, that was a little embarrassing.

  Later, with my stomach full, I strained to see the desserts on the counter, but from where I sat, I couldn’t tell a Lemon Treat from a Date Bar. What I could tell, however, was that the Anderson ladies were still dawdling in line, even though everyone who’d accompanied us along the buffet route was seated and eating.

  Curious, I thought, until I realized what the old girls were really doing. I blinked to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me. They weren’t. The Anderson sisters were pilfering food.

  That’s right. In addition to filling their plates, they were stuffing hot dish, dinner rolls, and dessert bars into zip-lock freezer bags partially concealed in their big purses. Little Hester was even trying to smuggle Jell-O, but discreetly spooning that into a half-hidden plastic bag was proving difficult.

  “How despicable,” I muttered under my breath. “How reprehensible. How … funny!”

  Sure, it was wrong of me to think that way, but I couldn’t help myself. There was something darkly amusing about a trio of elderly, prim-and-proper-looking women stealing food from a benefit dinner. And while no one else appeared taken by the scene, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Were these three Kennedy’s biggest criminals? Its most notorious gang? True, they didn’t sport traditional gang colors or tattoos, but they did dress alike, in gingham house frocks and black orthopedic shoes.

  Of course I was being silly, but given what was playing out in front of me, silly seemed appropriate, prompting me to go with it until a hand squeezed my shoulder and startled the silliness right out of me. I’m pretty sure I catapulted a foot before jerking around to discover Margie laughing at how she’d made me jump.

  After patting me on the back, she motioned to her elderly aunts. “They do that all the time. Everyone knows and simply ignores ’em.”

  I smoothed the front of my shirt, doing my best to downplay that my heart had relocated to my throat. “Well,” I uttered with a dry swallow, “at least I now understand why they didn’t want to be last in line.”

  Margie snickered and passed me a few more cards. “These are the recipes for the rest of what’s up there. I didn’t have time to make everythin’. Father Daley helped me out some.”

  The recipe on top looked to be for the pink stuff on my plate. I meant to read it over but again got distracted by the Anderson sisters.

  Emme, do you really want to ask them about Ole? It was a voice from inside my head. Yeah, that’s right. Sometimes I hear voices. The whole therapy
thing makes much more sense now, doesn’t it?

  With their shoulder bags already bulging, they shoveled in more food.

  Emme, look what they’re doing. They’re absolutely nuts. Can you trust anything they say?

  If I didn’t talk to them, though, I’d be done as an investigative reporter before I even got started. Margie wasn’t going to volunteer anything about Ole. She liked him too much. Neither was the newspaper editor. And I didn’t know anyone else.

  A glob of Jell-O fell out of Hester’s bag and splattered on the floor. As she kicked at the slimy mess, my confidence in the women as information sources grew shakier, and before long, it was as shaky as the pink stuff on my plate.

  Chapter 12

  Now, Emme,” Margie said, waving to a man in a short-sleeve sheriff’s uniform, “I want you to meet someone.”

  The guy steered toward us, and I took a visual inventory. I had to. I was a reporter—a trained observer. What’s more, he was hot. Tall, no less than six-three, and well built. My guess? Around thirty. His eyes were dark brown, his hair a shade lighter and unruly, making for an interesting look on a cop.

  “This here is Deputy Randy Ryden,” Margie explained when he reached my booth. “He’s from the Twin Cities too. Randy, this is Emerald Malloy, the reporter I told ya about.”

  “Glad to meet you.” The deputy tipped his head, his hands otherwise occupied, a cup of coffee in one, a plate piled high with food in the other. “It’s getting crowded in here. Mind if I join you?”

  “No, not at all.” I took another bite of Pizza Hot Dish. “Sit down.”

  While Deputy Ryden sidled in across from me and laid out his silverware, Margie excused herself, claiming she had to check on things in the kitchen.

  “Margie tells me you’re writing a story about her.” The deputy raised his eyes to find me using my fork to break a string of cheese that stretched from my plate to my mouth. He smiled … or was it a smirk?