Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes

by Jeanne Cooney

  With my eyes still locked in on the old lady’s honker, I unwittingly replied, “Well, I don’t want to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but—”

  Henrietta once more ran over my words with some of her own. “Sure, he got his arm cut off, but he deserves a lot more than that.”

  “Yah, what goes around, gotta come around,” little Hester added in a sing-song voice. “Vern comes from a bad family, and none of his people ever made amends for their wrong doin’. Not until the baler incident.”

  “But justice demands way more than the loss of one measly arm,” Henrietta insisted. “Vern should go to jail too.”

  “For sure.” Hester eyed me intently. “He’s the last of the Olson men. If he don’t get everythin’ that’s comin’ to him and his, they’ll go unpunished, and that wouldn’t be right.”

  I assumed that remark was the “last word” on the subject, although the peace that followed was quickly fractured by Harriet, who whined, “The ’squiters are gettin’ me.” She flapped her arms. “They’re gettin’ me bad. Make ’em stop. Make ’em go away.”

  Henrietta patted her arm. “There, there, now. Settle down.” Leaning across her, she added for Hester’s benefit alone, “She’s been in a terrible state again lately, hasn’t she? Not sleepin’. Talkin’ nonsense. Actin’ crazy one minute, just fine the next. It frustrates me so.” She gazed into the distance, her volume dropping to a whisper. “Yeah, it’s been a bad one this time for sure.” She shook her head and added on a long sigh, “Well, I suppose, we better get her home. And we probably shouldn’t dilly-dally.”

  Little Hester nodded in agreement, sending Henrietta to her feet amid arthritic groans. Hester rose too, positioning her bag of contraband on the bench before fumbling for her sweater. It hung like a cape from her shoulders.

  Despite the temperature, still hovering around eighty, Henrietta also donned a white, acrylic sweater for the fifty-yard walk. And a moment later, cloudy-eyed Harriet got up and did the same, seemingly forgetting all about the mosquitoes.

  Once all three ladies were buttoned up, I stepped forward to assist Harriet with her bag. While she looked to be the strongest of the three—possibly because of her manly moustache—she emitted such an air of helplessness that my heart actually ached for her.

  She mumbled as I secured her bag to her shoulder. Then she studied my face as if she’d never seen me before. Her eyes were devoid of any recognition, although, as I stepped away, they seemed to offer a flitter of awareness. It was just before she cast an accusatory finger at her sisters.

  With spittle flying and her short, gray, scarecrow hair shooting out in all directions, she went on to holler at them about something that made absolutely no sense to me. I guess it didn’t matter. The tirade was over almost as quickly as it had begun. And her sisters showed little concern about what she’d said.

  With a roll of her shoulders, she tottered back in my direction. She looked docile, as if nothing had happened. And after she became fixated on a piece of lint that clung to her dress, the slight tremor of her hands was the only vestige of her outburst. She repeatedly grabbed at the offending fluff until capturing it between her fingers and flinging it into the air.

  Appearing satisfied with herself, she proceeded to smooth the wrinkles in her skirt while initiating a new monologue. This one was directed at me, or more accurately, through me, as if I wasn’t even there. Her voice was soft and introspective, not at all enraged, as it had been mere moments earlier. And this time I understood every word, which wasn’t a good thing, believe me. Her comments, you see, centered on overnight flatulence and the food from the benefit dinner that might cause it.

  You heard me right. She recited the names of all the hot dishes she’d eaten, as well as the number of helpings consumed of each, at last settling on Three-Bean Hot Dish. “Yah,” she said, “since I had more than my fair share of that one, I reckon I’ll be in for a long night.”

  Now, you may not have picked up on this, but I have a weak stomach. Margie’s detailed account of Vern’s baler accident almost did me in, and I was certain to be a goner if I had to listen to much more from Harriet. Notwithstanding my compassion for her, I had to get away.

  I opened my mouth to offer a quick goodbye but was stopped by Henrietta, who hissed, “Well, speak of the devil.”

  Yes, I needed to leave. Yet, with those words, that need was eclipsed by curiosity. Not all that uncommon for yours truly, but on this particular night, it would end up costing me dearly.

  Not knowing that at the time, however, I followed my natural inclination and tracked Henrietta’s eyes across the highway to the gravel lot next to the grain elevator. The area was practically full of vehicles—pickups of every kind, interspersed with SUVs—though no people were around other than a man and woman exiting a black luxury sedan.

  The woman was tall and skinny, but something about the deliberate way she moved reminded me of Margie. For his part, the man appeared no different from the other men I’d seen in town, except this guy was awfully thin. No beer belly. None at all. And this guy only had one arm.

  “We have to go,” Henrietta said. “If ya can get that scoundrel arrested, ya go right ahead. He oughtta be in jail. And by all means, write about him. Tell the whole world what he done. Just don’t drag our names into it. Don’t forget, we gotta live here.”

  “I understand.” I remained transfixed on the scene across the road, a slight breeze teasing my hair and sending a shiver down my neck. Okay, it probably wasn’t the breeze causing my chills. But that’s what I told myself because I didn’t want to believe it was some kind of errie premonition.

  Vern made his way around the car. And joining Vivian, he cupped her elbow and navigated her through the parking lot and across the highway. At the sidewalk, he hurried ahead to open the café door, allowing her to enter without ever breaking her stride.

  When they were out of sight, I made a one-eighty turn to find that the Anderson sisters had started down the alley. They wobbled along like a collection of vintage wind-up toys.

  They were talking about something, but I couldn’t make out exactly what was being said. At one point, though, I thought I heard Harriet warn the other two, “Whatever happens tonight, it’s your fault, not mine. Like I told ya before, ya should of stopped me.”

  Chapter 19

  I slapped my cleavage and the blood-sucking mosquito chewing away in it. Not being very busty, my target was small, and my aim had to be spot on. Glimpsing down the front of my shirt, I saw that it was. The little pest was squished. I brushed it away but had no allusions of victory. Harriet may have been confused about a lot of things, but she was right about the mosquitoes. They were vicious. No doubt, it was time to go back inside. Yet, I lingered.

  While only half visible above the horizon, the sun was massive, much larger than I’d ever seen it before. It was mesmerizing too, stunningly bright, framed in warm, silky ribbons of dusty pink and purple, only the elevator silhouetted against it.

  In awe, I gazed to the west until the staccato sound of an old engine redirected my attention.

  Down the highway, an antique John Deere tractor came into view. It chugged along, the young man behind the wheel steering into the make-shift parking lot next to the elevator. With gravel popping, he pulled into one of the few remaining open spots. Next, he and his companion, another young man who’d been sitting in a lawn chair in an open trailer towed behind the tractor, jumped to the ground and sauntered over to the café.

  As I said, the sky was captivating, but the mosquitoes were attacking with vengeance, so I too headed indoors.

  ***

  Inside Hot Dish Heaven, a few stragglers made their way through the buffet line, while a couple others lingered in booths. I didn’t see the tractor boys anywhere and assumed they were in the VFW, where the dance should have been underway. Jim, the banker and bar manager, must have had trouble finding a replacement band, however, because the only music I heard accompanied a female karaoke sing
er—an atrocious karaoke singer. She was attempting Kris Kristofferson’s “Help Me Make It through the Night.” But no mistake about it, her need for help was far more immediate.

  My eyes swept the room in search of Vern, and though I saw no sign of him, I did spot Vivian. She was standing with Margie in the kitchen, arguing about something. She shook her finger in Margie’s face, while Margie stood her ground, fists on hips. From where I was, I couldn’t tell what they were saying. To me, the entire exchange was nothing more than angry pantomime.

  When Margie noticed me, she took leave of Vivian, who kept right on waving her finger back and forth like a windshield wiper.

  “There you are,” Margie said, drawing near, two small plates of some type of creamy dish in hand. “I thought ya got lost.”

  “I was admiring the sunset and the community garden.”

  “Well, no one here can take credit for the sunset, but we’ll argue that durin’ the summer, it’s the best you’ll see anywhere.” She stopped for a beat. “The garden’s courtesy of Ole and Lena’s daughter, Rosa.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “Yeah, I wish ya could of met her. She was in earlier with fresh-cut flowers for our guest of honor. I told her you were upstairs, but she couldn’t wait around. I don’t know why.”

  I recalled the young woman I’d seen from the bedroom window. That must have been Rosa.

  Margie motioned me to a booth, where we sat opposite each other. “I forgot to put this out,” she said, placing the plates on the table. “Ya gotta try it.”

  She went on about the popularity of the dish, but I paid little attention. As difficult as this might be to believe, I wasn’t interested in eating. My stomach was upset, either from all the sweets I’d already consumed or Harriet’s ranting about colitis. “Sorry, but—”

  “Oh, come on. It’s a favorite. It’s called Snicker Salad.”

  Another misnomer. Like most of the so-called salads at the benefit dinner, Snicker Salad shared none of the ingredients of a real salad. No lettuce, no garden greens of any kind. It consisted of nothing other than green apple slices and pieces of Snicker candy bars mixed with Cool Whip. Not that I’m criticizing. The fact is I believe green M&Ms should be classified as vegetables. I’m just saying.

  “Please try a bite,” Margie pleaded.

  I had a hunch she wouldn’t give up. I’d have to try a little, so that’s what I did. And I had to admit, “this is pretty good.”

  Only a trace of a smile touched Margie’s lips before she switched topics. “Yah, I wish ya could of met Rosa. She’s real nice.” She nodded at Vivian, who was rushing toward the hallway. “Unlike that one,” she huffed. “She’s my sister, don’t ya know. But she’s so mean that even if she deserves to go to hell, the devil will never take her.”

  I was chewing a candy-bar nugget yet managed to say, “Now wait a minute. I thought you told me that Vivian was great to Ole and Lena’s kids. She took them in after Lena died and—”

  “For sure she’s a good aunt and a decent ma, but she can be a real bear to other folks.”

  I snatched a final glimpse of the woman before she disappeared. “She doesn’t look that tough.”

  “Don’t let her bony body fool ya. She’s as tough as leather.” Margie speared a couple chunks of cream-covered apple. “Anyways, she’s mad as heck at me.”

  “Why?” I ate a little more, deciding that since Snicker Salad contained fruit, it might have been the healthiest thing I’d eaten all day.

  “I didn’t tell her you were comin’. I didn’t want her to know in case it didn’t work out. I’d never hear the end of it. So, she didn’t find out you were here until she got here herself a little while ago.”

  “And that made her angry?”

  She raised her eyes to the ceiling, as if she’d find her answer there. “I’m guessin’ more jealous than angry. She said I had no business invitin’ ya or any other reporter here without talkin’ to her first.” She slowly pulled the apple pieces off her fork, licking her lips when she was done.

  “Why should she care?”

  Margie answered amid chomps. “Vivian’s self-centered. Like I said, she’s probably mad you’re not doin’ a story about her.”

  “Could be,” I replied, now very curious as to what Vivian knew about Samantha Berg’s disappearance and death. “Could be.”

  Chapter 20

  The tractor boys peeked around the corner, and I pointed them out to Margie.

  “They’re just the Donaldson brothers,” she said. “They’re always losin’ their drivers’ licenses for one reason or another, but since ya don’t need a license to operate farm equipment, they get by, though they might be pushin’ their luck drivin’ on the highway.”

  As if coming to town by tractor wasn’t that unusual and didn’t warrant a whole lot of discussion, she dropped the subject by asking, “Now, what were we talkin’ about?”

  I briefly contemplated pursuing the Donaldson brothers, figuratively speaking only, but decided instead to go in search of more information about Vivian and her possible connection to Samantha Berg’s death. In particular, I wanted to find out if she cared enough for her husband, Vern, to help him cover up the murder. But since Margie was extremely sensitive about her family, as I’d discovered earlier in the day, I would have to be cagey with my questions, like I was with Deputy Ryden. Although that didn’t work out all that well, did it?

  “Margie,” I began hesitantly, “your sister and her husband don’t have a very good relationship, do they?”

  She crimped her brow. “Now why on earth would ya care about that?”

  “Well … um,” I stammered, once more noting that “cagey” just wasn’t my thing, “I … um … I was just wondering.”

  Margie eyed me with uncertainty but answered anyway. “I suppose they’re like most couples married for thirty years.”

  “Oh,” I replied, collecting myself. “Considering what you told me, I assumed they didn’t get along.”

  “Well, like I said, Vivian’s one tough cookie.” Margie reached for my empty “salad” plate and placed it on top of her own. “But she and Vern have been through more than their share of rough patches, and that’s bound to create some kind of bond, right?”

  I didn’t answer. I was busy mentally banging my head against the wall. Why couldn’t I be more tactful? Why was that so difficult for me? One of my professors had routinely reminded me that tact was “getting a point across without stabbing someone in the eye with it.” But I, it seemed, often caused near blindness.

  “Well, um … Margie,” I said, taking another shot at it because I was too stubborn to admit defeat, “have Vern and Vivian ever experienced anything that might shatter that bond? Something like … um … Ole and Lena’s problem?”

  Margie raised her chin, and with a mix of exasperation and trepidation, I answered her perplexed expression head on. Or more accurately, eye to eye. Why not? Among my tact-related shortcomings was an undeniable inability to make my point subtly. So why pretend? “I mean have Vivian and Vern ever dealt with … um … infidelity?” I cringed and waited for her to pitch a fit.

  Rather than yelling, though, she threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, my goodness, no. Vern likes to tease, but he’s no fool. If he ever had an affair, Vivian would kill him or the woman involved or quite possibly both.”

  “You’re … um … kidding, right?”

  She leaned toward me. “No.” The sour smell of alcohol laced her breath.

  “Now,” she added as she rose from the booth, clutching our dirty dishes, “I’ll take these to the kitchen. I was nursin’ a bottle of wine back there, and I’m gonna get me another glass. Want one?”

  Vivian? A killer? It was possible, I suppose. But the killer in this instance? Not likely. It just didn’t fit. “Um … yeah, I could use some wine.”

  With a nod, Margie walked away, plates in one hand, silverware in the other.

  No, it didn’t fit for a number of reasons,
and while sitting there by myself, I ticked them off on my fingers:

  One, despite any homicidal tendencies that Vivian might harbor, she wouldn’t have avenged Lena’s death. According to Margie, her sister wasn’t the type. When it came to Lena, Margie said Vivian wasn’t that nice.

  Two, while Vivian may have been inclined to kill Vern, the “other woman,” or both if she ever learned of an affair, Margie found the idea of Vern actually having one literally laughable.

  Three, even if Vivian had concealed Samantha Berg’s murder to save face, or for some other reason, Vern alone did the deed. No one else was seen at the bungalow that night. True, the Anderson sisters were the source of that information, but reportedly, the police confirmed his presence.

  Four …

  My train of thought got derailed by the hollering from down the hall. Several guys in the bar were belting out their version of Shel Silverstein’s “Put Another Log on the Fire,” and the crowd was getting into it.

  Put another log on the fire. Cook me up some bacon and some beans. Go out to the car and change the tire. Wash my socks and sew my old blue jeans. Come on baby, you can fill my pipe and then go fetch my slippers. And boil me up another pot of tea. Put another log on the fire, babe. Then come and tell me why you’re leavin’ me.

  Margie sang along in a tone-rich, alto voice as she made her way back to me, a tray balanced on one hand. From the tray, she retrieved a plate of Chocolate Caramel Bars and set it on the table before passing me a large coffee mug. “It’s wine,” she said, as if I’d asked. “Since we don’t have a liquor license here in the café, we can’t be too obvious.”

  I sipped. “Tasty.”

  Margie sat down and nodded toward the bar, where the singers carried on about doing their women wrong. “Don’t ever push a woman too far,” she warned with a devilish smile.