“But she must have had some good traits. Everybody does.”
“You really think so?”
“Don’t you?”
He again shuffled in his seat, and for a second time, the vinyl responded with a groan. I suspected he wanted to do the same. But instead, he chose to speak. “I guess it’s possible that everyone’s born good, but shit happens. And while that makes some folks wiser, it turns others into assholes.”
“And Samantha Berg was one of the latter?”
“Her kid wouldn’t even come back to claim her body. What does that tell you?”
I had no answer.
“It doesn’t matter anyhow.” The deputy’s eyes flickered at his near-empty plate. “Even if the kid had been around—or had cared at all—we wouldn’t have started our investigation any sooner than we did.”
“Why not?”
He stabbed his final forkful of Pizza Hot Dish. “Samantha took off all the time, sometimes for a week or more.”
“Without telling anyone?”
“Yep, even when her kid was young.”
“Really?” What kind of mother would do that? I pictured my own mom. She’d spent almost all her free time with me and my dad. She called us the three musketeers. She never would have left me voluntarily.
“That’s why we didn’t think much about her being gone at first.” His words yanked me back from thoughts best left buried with my parents. “Then by the time we began our search, evidence was scarce.”
“But you must have found some clues.”
Even as that sentence tripped over my tongue, I knew it sounded incredulous—so incredulous it prompted the deputy to serve up another frown and me another apology. “Sorry, like I said, I’m not very tactful. That’s probably why I cover food, not people.”
“Exactly, you cover food, so why the interest in Samantha? She wasn’t a chef.”
I vacillated. While a part of me wanted to share my story idea, another was convinced I should hold my tongue since it wasn’t an offical assignment. In the end, part two won out. “I’m merely fascinated by the case. And since Margie’s too busy right now to talk to me about cooking—”
“You’re killing time with me.”
“Something like that,” I fudged. “Now humor me. Tell me what you know.”
“Well, that’s not much.” His eyes softened like dollops of chocolate pudding. “And I’d much rather talk about you.” His voice had turned shy. “Are you … are you single?”
Again I felt self-conscious, though now I was also craving chocolate pudding. “Yeah, I’m single.”
“And how did you wind up in the armpit of the state? Lose a bet?”
I laughed nervously. “I thought you liked this place.”
“I do, but you’re a city girl.”
“Not really. I spent my early childhood in a small town. Not this small, mind you. We actually had a zip code.” It was his turn to laugh. “And as I said before, when I was a kid, I dreamed of visiting the country. I dreamed of a bucolic life.”
He rested his forearms on the table and fingered his napkin. “But now you’re all grown up and live in Minneapolis. You work for a major newspaper and love the excitement of city life.”
“Well, I work for a major newspaper. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Oh, no. We can’t ‘leave it at that.’” He drummed his fingers on the table. “The way I read the situation, Emerald Malloy, you’re after something—something far beyond recipes.” More drumming. “Yeah, I suspect you hope to score a big story while you’re here in town—a story that will propel you from writing about food to what?” He squinted at me. “Hard news?”
My shoulders hitched. “I never said that.”
“Not in so many words. But that’s why you’re asking about Samantha, isn’t it?”
With insight like that, he should have solved the murder long ago. But being polite, I didn’t point that out. “I find the case interesting. Nothing more.”
I thought I sounded convincing, but the deputy’s eyes conveyed disbelief in the whole “nothing more” thing.
As for me? Well, even if, deep down, I was rattled by the guy’s perceptiveness, on the surface, where I normally hung out, I was too enamored with him to give it much thought.
Chapter 14
I picked at the pink wiggling mass on my plate. I was anxious again but couldn’t get a fix on why. Yeah, the deputy was probably on to me, but I didn’t get the impression he’d try to stop me from making inquiries about the murder. Nor would he complain to my editor. Deputy Ryden was his own man. I was pretty sure of that.
I poked at the Jell-O some more as the jitters wreaked havoc on my stomach. Throughout the day, I’d also been doubting my skills as a writer, but that couldn’t have prompted my current angst either. I regularly bashed my professional capabilities. Usually daily between brushing my teeth and ordering my morning coffee. On bad days, I could stretch it out till noon. No, these nerves were caused by something else.
I put my spoon down. Then it struck me. The source of my agitation. Earlier, Deputy Ryden had voiced what sounded like genuine interest in me. And because the guys in my past were rarely sincere, his words had apparently awakened my feelings of vulnerability. Yep, even after all my therapy, my vulnerabilities tended to be light sleepers.
Relationship insecurities had definitely caused me a number of problems over the years. Case in point, Boo-Boo. But I was working with my therapist on those personal issues. And now I’d stumbled upon an opportunity to improve my professional life. If I could put aside my skill-related doubts and concentrate on unraveling the Samantha Berg murder mystery, I could possibly go from “glorified gopher” to full-fledged investigative reporter. I could become “somebody” at the paper and in the news community. And that would go a long way toward boosting my confidence in my personal life as well, wouldn’t it?
“So,” I said to the deputy, “are you going to tell me more about Samantha’s death?”
He sighed. “I’ll say it again, there’s not much to tell.”
“Oh, come on. You must have some information. Why won’t you share it?”
He held his hands up in defeat. “Well, I suppose I can talk about what’s on the public record.”
“Including what exactly?”
He shifted in his seat. “Oh, for one, we know Samantha was at home before she disappeared because—”
“How do you know that?”
He sighed again, evidently unimpressed by my enthusiasm. “Jim, the guy who runs the VFW, called her right after eight. He asked her to fill in for him behind the bar. He’d met someone online and wanted to go out. Samantha said she’d do it at ten o’clock, when the Hallmark movie she was watching got over. But she never showed up.”
“And you didn’t find any clues at her house?”
“Nope. No sign of struggle. No peculiar fingerprints.”
“What about on her body? Any clues there?”
“No. None.”
“But she was naked when she was discovered, which means—”
“She was partially naked. Her clothes got ripped away by the ice and the debris in the river. And before you ask, there was no evidence of sexual assault.”
That aside, a number of questions dangled from my brain. Most related to Ole, though a few pertained to other possible murder scenarios. But since I was certain Ole was the culprit, I didn’t believe any of them to be credible. Even so, the words of my graduate school advisor kept me from dismissing them outright.
“Explore all possibilities,” he’d routinely instructed me and my classmates, “even those you doubt. Ask questions and seek opinions, especially from experts. And always obtain corroboration. Then, and only then, disclose your findings. That’s what serious, contemplative journalists do.”
It seemed like overkill to me. Again, no pun intended. I knew the identity of the murderer and wanted to let the deputy know I knew. But more than that, I wanted to be considered a “serious” journa
list. So I asked what I was supposed to ask, pointless as it seemed. “Deputy Ryden, is it conceivable that Samantha Berg was abducted on her way to the bar? By a stranger? Someone just passing through town?”
The deputy wiped his mouth with the back of his closed fist. “Call me Randy.”
“Well, Randy? What do you think?”
Again, he sighed. He did that a lot.
“Samantha lived out back,” he said, “in a small rental house on the other side of the alley, twenty yards from the rear entrance of the bar. There’d be no reason for a stranger to be back there. But if some guy was, he would have been spotted. People from town use the alley all the time.” He took a three-beat rest. “And if she’d been grabbed, Jim and the folks in the bar would have heard her scream. No band was playing that night. The place was quiet. And Samantha had a big mouth. Yet no one heard a thing.”
I propped my elbows on the table and rested my chin on my palms as I mulled over his remarks. See? I could also be a “contemplative” journalist. “What if the guy stabbed her right away? From behind? Then she wouldn’t have had a chance to scream.” I was doing my utmost to remain open minded—or at least give that impression.
“She faced her killer. We know that from the tests done on her chest wound. As for the blood? Someone would have noticed it that night or right away the next morning.”
“Not if it got covered by the snow.”
He rolled his eyes. “A killer’s not going to stab someone and stop to shovel snow over the blood.”
I shot him a cold, hard look. He deserved no less for being rude. “I meant it might have snowed later in the evening. Or the wind may have picked up and caused the snow to drift.”
The corners of his mouth drooped. “Sorry about that. You’re right, it did snow, but we only got a dusting. And while the wind regularly blows hard up here, it wasn’t strong enough that night to move all the snow necessary to cover the blood that would have flowed from that wound. It was a nasty one.”
I tried to maintain my glower. He’d been rude, and I didn’t want to let him off the hook too easily. But when it came to eyes, I was no match for Randy Ryden. His eyes were hypnotizing. At that precise moment, they had me imagining I was swimming in a pool of melted chocolate. And it’s damn hard to glower while floating in chocolate. “Well, um …” I stuttered, “is it possible she was murdered elsewhere?”
Unlike me, the deputy spoke without sputtering. “It’s possible. Even probable. We just don’t have any evidence along those lines.”
The deputy then put his coffee cup to his lips, providing me the opportunity to take control of the conversation. And for that, I was thankful. Because I’d become increasingly distracted by the man, I prayed that by talking more about the case, I’d avoid going completely ga-ga over him.
“Deputy Ryden … I mean Randy, based on what you said, the person who killed Samantha Berg must have been someone who didn’t prompt her to scream. Someone she left with voluntarily and on the spur of the moment.” I made an effort to read him, but it wasn’t easy. He didn’t give much up. Though after a few minutes, I thought I saw a flicker of what I’d hoped to find. “That’s it, isn’t it? I was right!”
He set his cup down. “What do you mean, you were right?”
I folded my hands studiously. “Well, to my way of thinking, Samantha Berg was killed by someone she knew well. Someone with ties to both her and Lena Johnson. That makes the most sense given she disappeared exactly one year to the day after Lena’s death.”
He raked his top teeth over his bottom lip. “If that’s what you suspected, why all these questions?”
“Just covering my bases.”
He smiled a lopsided smile, as if he couldn’t help himself. “Well, most likely, you’re right, Sherlock. But since no one’s been arrested, let’s move on.”
“No! Not yet.” Sure, I had to be cautious. I didn’t want him any more suspicious about what I was up to than he already was. But questions remained, the most important being, did Ole Johnson kill Samantha Berg? While I knew the answer, I still needed verification.
Granted, the deputy was unlikely to come right out and finger Ole given that he and his police buddies never even arrested him, which raised a bunch of other questions. But they would have to wait. First thing’s first.
I fiddled with my napkin as I deliberated my approach. What was the best way to get the deputy to verify my murder theory?
The longer I thought about it, the more convinced I became—or the more I convinced myself—that I’d have the greatest chance of obtaining the affirmation I sought if I took a circuitous route. Certainly the road less traveled for me—the woman with an expressway between her brain and her mouth—but what the hell. “Tell me, Randy, do you have any theories of your own about Samantha Berg’s death?”
He squirmed. “It doesn’t really matter what I think.”
I dropped my napkin and sat up straight. “Yes, it does. Please tell me. I’d really like to know.” I was being extremely professional, and for that, I gave myself a couple mental pats on the back.
“Like I said, my personal opinion doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, but it does.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does. So please tell me. Pretty please. Pretty please with sugar on it” I clasped my hand over my mouth. Pretty please with sugar on it? Did I just say that? Ugh!
The deputy leaned back and, with his lips twisted in amusement, stretched his arms high above his head.
I was terribly embarrassed. Yet, when he lowered his arms, I still managed to admire how nicely his beefy shoulders filled out his uniform. Double ugh!
“We never had more than a handful of suspects.”
“Such as?” I squeaked out, my throat now tight with shame. At least I assumed it was shame. Although it may have been something else, like lusty desire. That sometimes made my throat tight too.
The deputy failed to answer me. Rather, he snatched one of two different bars from the edge of his plate, bit into it, and licked his lips. “Mmm, these are good. You should try them.”
My throat just about closed up completely. Yep, it was desire, all right. And it forced me to cut to the chase. If I wanted to be regarded as a serious journalist, I couldn’t wait for this guy to disclose what he knew about the case. Our lazy back-and-forth allowed too much down time—time for him to lick his lips and the devil in me to concoct all kinds of ideas—some of them real doozies. At present, for instance, it was trying to convince me to climb over the table and jump the nice officer’s bones.
“Okay … um. Well, um … I’ll start.” I coughed in an effort to clear my hormone-clogged throat. “Ole Johnson … Well, he … um … seems to be the most logical suspect.”
Deputy Ryden didn’t utter a word, choosing instead to give all his interest to his Halfway Bar.
I knew it was a Halfway Bar because I’d asked Margie about them when I was arranging the dessert platters. She’d pointed out that while a Halfway Bar was similar to a Blondie, a Halfway Bar was topped with a brown-sugar meringue.
His looked moist and delicious. And when he popped the last of it into his mouth, I couldn’t help but wonder which would taste better, the bar or the man?
Okay. Okay. As a professional, I was—and no doubt remain—a work in progress.
Chapter 15
Deputy Ryden glanced around the room, greeting folks with a slight nod of his head or lift of his finger. If the number of smiles he received in return were any indication, the people of Kennedy liked him just fine, even if they didn’t consider him one of their own.
Following his hellos, he turned back to me and said, “The night Samantha Berg disappeared Ole was covering for Margie here in the café.”
“He could do that? The way he drank?”
“He wasn’t drinking then. He quit following some problem at the fair and didn’t start again until after Samantha went missing.”
“Don’t you find that suspicious?”
The deputy started in on his second dessert selection, a Special-K Bar. “What I’m trying to tell you is that Ole had an alibi.” He worked his treat into his cheek. “Samantha vanished sometime after Jim talked to her but before he checked to see why she didn’t show up at the bar.”
My mouth went dry. “And Ole?”
“He was here in the café all evening—until close to eleven.”
“Oh.” I swear I heard the sound of my new-found career as a top-notch investigative journalist getting flushed down the toilet.
“Don’t be disappointed. He was a nice guy.”
“I’m sure he was.” I inhaled a shaky breath. “It’s just that when Margie told me about the murder, I might have implied … um … that Ole was the most logical suspect.”
“You said that?”
I rearranged my silverware. “Well, not in those exact words.” Specifically, I moved my spoon over a fraction of an inch. “But based on what she told me …”
The deputy leaned forward, touched my hands, and a bolt of electricity shot up my arm. “That’s not how you make friends, Emerald.”
I dropped my fork. “Very funny.” Not much of a retort, but I wasn’t in the mood for creative thinking. What’s more, Deputy Ryden’s touch had not only shocked my hand, it had short-circuited my brain. It felt like forever before I could say anything at all, and then it was only to repeat myself. “You’re sure you can account for Ole?”
The deputy relaxed against the back of the booth. “Most of the night, he was playing cards with those three.” He motioned to John Deere, his friend, and Shitty. “And they’re as honest as the winter nights up here are long.”
Frustration washed over me, and the deputy took note. “Sorry, I hope Ole’s innocence won’t dampen your enthusiasm for the news business.”
What a smart-ass! A very handsome smart-ass, but a smart-ass nonetheless.
He lowered his head and peered into my eyes. “You don’t take teasing very well, do you?”
Since the question was rhetorical, I didn’t answer.
“Next,” he continued, “you’ll probably accuse the Anderson sisters of the crime because they can wield a crowbar. At least the older two can.”
Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes Page 8