Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes

by Jeanne Cooney

  I pulled a business card from my shirt pocket and pushed it across the table. “All my contact information is right there.” I scooted back my chair. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to use the restroom, then collect more recipes from Margie.”

  Vivian carefully placed my card and her pen back in her purse. “Of course.” Her tone was business-like, but the clump of red lipstick stuck to her teeth and the blue ink streaked across her upper lip undermined any attempt at looking the part.

  I gawked but remained mum.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you,” she added with no sencerity whatsoever.

  Even so, I attempted to smile because it was the right thing to do. But the damn thing kept sliding off my face. So with nothing more than a nod, I rose and steered myself down the hall, toward the bar. I’d catch the bathroom on my return.

  *

  Now, you might assume I was in dire need of an antacid or a strong drink. But I wasn’t. What I really wanted was a Chocolate Cherry Brownie. I’d seen Jim, the bartender, grab a tray of them from the café a little earlier. But as I approached the bar, I saw the tray. And it was empty.

  “Damn.” I’d have to settle for a beer. Not that I dislike beer. I’m Irish after all. My dad often said beer was proof that God loved us and wanted us to be happy. And my dad was very happy on a regular basis. But between you and me, a beer was no Chocolate Cherry Brownie.

  Employing my eye tic, I nevertheless signaled Jim for a Finnegan’s on tap. At least that’s what I hoped I’d signaled for. And after that, I retrieved some money from the pocket of my jeans and reached it across the counter. He just waved it away, telling me with a smile that my money wasn’t any good in his place. So, again with my tic, I thanked him and wrapped my fingers around the cool, brown bottle he handed me.

  Following a long drink, I played with the drops of moisture running down the glass. At the same time, Vivian’s nerve-racking voice and bizarre speech jockeyed for position in my brain. Words couldn’t describe my take on either, although shrill and mind-numbing were definite contenders.

  Several more gulps and I actually reran a portion of my exchange with the woman. And by the time the mental video had finished playing, I was mulling over a new theory. Was it possible that Samantha Berg got trapped with Vivian somewhere and stabbed herself and jumped into the Red River just to get away? Another gulp of beer. Like I said, it was just a theory.

  Chapter 22

  After emptying my beer, I used the restroom, which was way too ugly to describe, and headed back into the café. “Hey!” Margie yelled from the same booth we’d previously shared. And like before, I jumped, and she snickered. “You’re kind of jittery, aren’t ya?”

  “Yeah, I guess I am.” The result of time spent with your sister.

  Sliding in across from her, I noted just two other people in the room. A man and a woman huddled over a table near the entrance.

  “Before I forget,” Margie said, “Father Daley wants to meet ya, bein’ you’re Irish and all.” She scratched the handle of her coffee cup. This time it appeared to be filled with coffee. “He and Maureen Russell, tonight’s guest of honor, are the only Irish folks in these parts.”

  “Where is he?”

  She stopped scratching. “He’ll be along shortly.” She angled her thumb in the direction of the hallway. “He’s playin’ cards in the bar.”

  “What?” I wasn’t sure I’d gotten that right. Playing cards in a bar wasn’t common behavior for any of the priests I’d known.

  “Yah, he says if he didn’t come to the ‘V’ once in a while, he’d never see most of his parishioners.” She nodded at her cup. “Want some?”

  “Not right now.”

  Another nod. “Anyways, he was Lena’s priest, and there was a time when he and Ole were good friends too.” Her smile barely registered, yet it softened her sharp features. “Years ago I’d stop by the farm and find the three of them, Ole, Lena, and Father Daley, in the kitchen, sippin’ wine and cookin’ up a storm. Ole and the padre golfed and curled together, and they loved to fish.” She sighed wistfully. “But it all came to a screeching halt when Ole moved in with the tramp. Father Daley couldn’t abide by that.”

  “Seems odd they were friends in the first place. An Irish-Catholic priest and a Scandinavian-Lutheran farmer. Sounds more like the makings of a bad Ole and Lena joke.”

  “Well, they were, though some folks, includin’ Reverend Swenson, the former Lutheran minister, didn’t approve.” Margie rested her jaw but only for a second. “Ya know, he confronted Ole in the grocery store in Hallock one day. Warned him it was wrong for him to socialize with a priest and downright sinful to attend mass with Lena and the kids, even if only on special occasions. He said he better change his ways, or by God, he’d be punished.” A scowl briefly darkened her face.

  “Over the years, I’ve talked to Father Daley about that. He says he doesn’t believe the Lord sees things that way. He doesn’t think the Almighty cares what team you’re on as long as you’re in the game and play by the rules.” She bobbed her head to emphasize her point.

  “Now, as ya might expect, Ole didn’t take kindly to Reverend Swenson’s remarks and told him so in no uncertain terms. Not surprisingly, Reverend Swenson wasn’t used to people talkin’ to him that way and got real mad and made a nasty comment about Lena.” Margie’s thin lips stretched like a taut rubber band. “Well, of course, Ole couldn’t stand for that, and he up and punched the Reverend. That’s right. He punched that albino-looking, sanctimonious jerk smack dab in the jaw, sendin’ him backwards into the fresh fruit display.” She shook her head as if she still couldn’t believe it had ever happened.

  “Accordin’ to Bob, the butcher, when Reverend Swenson got up off the floor, his entire black suit was covered with squished raspberries and strawberries. He even had berries in his white hair and beard. I guess it was quite a sight. But the funniest part was that Bob spent the rest of the day askin’ everyone who came in the store, ‘What’s black and white, and red all over? Reverend Swenson in the berry display, down aisle three.’” She slapped the table. I jumped. And she shook her head some more.

  “Not long after, Reverend Swenson got transferred to some church in Iowa, and we got ourselves a new minister, Reverend Pearson. He’s not very outgoin’, but he’s a decent guy, and he and Father Daley have become great friends.

  “When Ole died, Reverend Pearson invited Father Daley to perform the funeral with him, so it ended up bein’ one of those ecumenical services. But, ya know, it was nice anyways.” She sounded shocked. “And followin’ the ceremony, we buried Ole right next to Lena.” She pressed her finger into her cheek, like people sometimes do when they’re mulling over something. “I suppose that means, in a way, they’re back together again.”

  Now, that must have been a revelation because it led Margie to do some silent reflection, which left me with nothing to do except listen to the karaoke music from down the hall. Two women were attempting to do justice to Waylon Jenning’s “Good Hearted Woman,” but justice was not served, although I’m certain more drinks were. Anything to deaden the senses, particularly that of hearing.

  “Margie, I take it Jim didn’t find a band?” I rubbed my temples to stave off the headache that was threatening.

  “Last I heard, he was still workin’ on it.” She made the comment while signaling to a robust man, no doubt Father Daley.

  The guy appeared to be in his late sixties. He was dressed in black slacks and a black shirt, a religious collar partially concealed behind his double chin. Doing the two-step to the karaoke music, he danced his way solo across the floor, moving quite gracefully considering his size, his age, and the warped hardwood beneath his feet.

  As he drew near, he rolled his shadowed eyes and twisted his fat finger in his ear. “Those Lindgrin girls sure can sing, can’t they?” He was boisterous. I sensed he came by it naturally. And sarcasm dripped from every word.

  Margie laughed. “Father Daley, this here is Em
erald Malloy, the reporter who’s gatherin’ recipes for the paper.”

  “It’s always a pleasure to meet someone with roots in the homeland.” With his left hand, he removed a toothpick from the corner of his mouth. With his right, he reached for my hand and brushed the back of it with a kiss. “Especially one as pretty as you.”

  “Watch out,” Margie warned as I felt my cheeks flush. “He’s full of blarney.”

  The priest groused, “She’s a reporter. I’m sure she can distinguish blarney from sincerity.”

  Margie agreed. “And that’s why she’ll remain leery of you.”

  Father Daley’s laugh rang out, and the couple near the entrance turned our way, but he didn’t seem to care.

  “Hey,” he said to Margie, leaning over the back of her booth. “I’ve got a new Ole and Lena joke for you.”

  “Oh, no.” Margie craned her neck so he could see her pained expression, but he paid it no mind.

  “Aye, and this one has a religious theme.”

  She dropped her head and closed her eyes. “Since I’m guessin’ there’s no way to keep ya from tellin’ it, go ahead and get it over with.”

  The priest chuckled as he combed his thick fingers through his curly, salt-and-pepper hair. “Okay now, ya see,” he began, glancing between Margie and me, “Ole and Lena spent every night readin’. And while Lena read lots of books, Ole only read da Bible.” He employed an outrageous Scandinavian accent—one that made the guy with the John Deere hat sound like a graduate of elocution class. “So one night Lena said, ‘Eh, Ole, why do ya read da Bible but nothin’ else?’ And Ole answered, ‘’Cause da Bible holds da answers to all tings.’” The priest continued to slide his eyes between the two of us. “Now Lena wasn’t sure she believed dat, so she said, ‘If dat’s true, Ole, den what does da Bible say about PMS?’ Well, Ole thumbed through da Good Book till he found da passage he wanted, and den he said, ‘On da subject of PMS, Lena, da Bible says, and Mary rode Joseph’s ass all da way to Jerusalem.’”

  Father Daley roared with laughter, while Margie drooped in her seat and teasingly scolded, “And you’re supposed to be a man of God.”

  “Now I don’t care who you are,” the priest fired back, his jowls jiggling, “that there was funny.” He replanted his toothpick between his lips and shot a look my way, evidently in search of support.

  I had none to offer. Until that moment, my contact with members of the clergy had been limited to the priests I’d encountered during my time in parochial school. And all of them were stodgy. I had no idea how to act around one who played cards, hung out in bars, and told PMS jokes. No idea at all.

  “Tell me, lass,” he proceeded to say, speaking through my thoughts, “you really didn’t drive all the way up here just to get recipes from this old crow, did you?”

  Margie wacked his hand.

  “Well, Father, my editor wants hot dish recipes, and what better place to get them than Hot Dish Heaven?”

  “I suppose.” A curious expression enveloped his face. “But I’m sure you could have found some much closer to the Cities.”

  Margie jumped in. “None as good as mine.”

  The corners of the priest’s mouth twitched with a smile, yet his eyes remained fixed on mine, causing anxiety to swirl around inside of me. He looked to be straining to get a peek at my soul, but for what purpose, I wasn’t sure.

  Did he also question the reason for my visit? Did he too suspect I was up to no good? Or was he after something more priestly, like the date I last attended mass? My heart immediately skipped a beat, and I rushed to speak, determined to keep him from strolling down that thorny path.

  “My editor thinks dishes common to rural Minnesota would be of interest to our readers.” You see, it had been a while since I’d darkened the doorway of any church, but he didn’t need to know that. “Most of our subscribers live around the Twin Cities, although we have some in greater Minnesota too. And many of our city readers grew up in rural Minnesota and remain connected to it.” I was rambling, but I couldn’t stop. I was running interference for my soul. “My boss thought they’d enjoy recipes for the food they grew up with. Food like hot dish, bars, and Jell-O.”

  “Jell-O” must have been the magic word because as soon as I said it, the priest shifted his focus back to Margie. “I didn’t think most people would even cross the street for Jell-O.” He struggled to keep a straight face.

  “Say now!” Margie held up her index finger in warning. “A heckuva lot of people enjoy my Jell-O. My pistachio’s a favorite.”

  The priest chortled, and I should have felt relieved. Apparently, I had just dodged a bullet—in a spiritual sense—if that’s even possible. Still, anxiety continued to swirl inside of me like butterflies caught in a net.

  Why did Father Daley unsettle me so? Did I sense he disliked or mistrusted me? Or was it just that he was an unusual priest, and for me, departures from the norm bred discomfort?

  I guess the “cause” didn’t really matter. The “effect” remained the same. Whenever uncomfortable, I chattered incessantly, especially if there was nothing to stuff into my mouth. And eyeballing the room, I didn’t spot a thing. “Yeah, my editor wants recipes,” I reiterated, knowing my mouth was about to run amuck, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. “So that’s what I’m here to do. Get recipes. And if I can, a story—”

  The priest cut me off. “A story? A story about what?”

  Margie glanced up at him. “Yours truly.”

  “No, really,” he said, his features reflecting an expression I couldn’t quite read, “what kind of story are you after?”

  “Hey!” Margie exclaimed, “I’m interestin’ enough to be the subject of a story.”

  “Of course you are,” he replied dismissively before shooting me a hard-edged glance that, despite the heat in the room, chilled me to the bone.

  Chapter 23

  Emme, you’re being paranoid.

  It was another voice from inside my head. Yeah, I know, I have a lot of them. Sometimes it’s like a damn convention in there. And while I generally ignore them, I decided I should listen to this one. As I said, my wariness of Father Daley likely had little to do with him and lots to do with my previous interactions with priests.

  For the most part, those experiences revolved around scraping gum from the bottom of desks, the favorite after-school punishment for whatever infractions were committed by the students at Saint Mary of the Lakes Catholic High School. Yes, gum scraping had given rise to my general disregard for clergy as well as my immense disdain for gum. And while an aversion to gum chewing wouldn’t pose a problem on this night, an inability to converse with a priest just might.

  Because my time with Vivian had been a complete bust and Margie was unlikely to provide any dirt on her brother-in-law, I wanted to get a scoop or two from his partner at cards. True, I couldn’t ask any tough questions in front of Margie. For them, I’d have to call on the priest when my host was otherwise occupied. But whether now or later, I was certain I’d have more success if Father Daley thought of me in a positive light. So I had to tamp down my clergy-related biases and be on my best behavior.

  I opened my mouth, but my voice faltered. Questioning a priest was going to be harder than I’d expected.

  And why is that, Emme? Could it be because you plan to lie?

  That’s one of the reasons I usually disregard the voices in my head. They’re hypersensitive. I wasn’t going to lie. I was merely going to limit what I shared. I had to. I couldn’t very well say, “Hey, Father, I believe your friend Vern is a murderer, and I want the low-down on him and the crime so I can write a newspaper article. So cough it up.” No, I couldn’t say that.

  I opened my mouth once more. Still nothing. Not good. Not good at all. I needed information. And if I couldn’t get it from Father Daley …

  It took several moments for me to consider my options but only one to choose the coward’s way out. “Margie,” I said, turning away from the priest an
d toward my congenial—and talkative—host, “I was visiting with your aunts earlier tonight. And if I’m not mistaken, they don’t care for your brother-in-law very much, do they?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Father Daley rock back on his heels. “Why?” he asked sharply. “What did they say about Vern?”

  Margie slapped the table. “Emme, you better watch out!” She looked about ready to burst. “Don’t speak poorly of Vern with his number-one defender standin’ next to you. He might damn ya to hell or purgatory or some such place.”

  “Oh, come on,” Father Daley groaned, gently wrapping his knuckles against the side of Margie’s head, “you like him too.”

  “Yah,” she acknowledged with a chuckle, “but I doubt anybody thinks as highly of him as you. Not even Vivian.”

  The priest bit down on his toothpick and talked between his clenched teeth. “Well, that’s not saying much. Vivian doesn’t think very highly of anyone.”

  “Father, be careful,” Margie warned. “You’re treadin’ on shaky ground there.”

  The priest held up his hands and backed up a pace. “It’s just that the guy’s had some tough times, and he’s come through them amazingly well. We all could take a lesson from him, Vivian included.”

  The priest smiled. “He’s also the worst card player I know. I can’t begin to count all the money I’ve won off him over the years. If nothing else, I’ve got to love him for that.”

  Father Daley skidded his eyes in my direction. “Now, what did those old crows say about him?”

  “Well, um … ,” I stammered, not sure how to reply. I was prepared for the priest to be Vern’s card-playing buddy, but I wasn’t expecting him to be president of the guy’s fan club. “Not anything specific really.”

  First, you skip mass, Emme. Now, you lie to a priest.

  I mentally ordered the little voice in my head to stuff a sock in it.

  At the same time, Margie explained, “My aunts hate Vern, which is sad since their feelin’s actually have nothin’ whatsoever to do with him.”