Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes

by Jeanne Cooney

  It was my turn to lean in. “That was hypocritical of him, don’t you think? According to the police, he spent a lot of time at Samantha’s house. So why shouldn’t Vivian—”

  “He only went there to demand that she leave Rosa alone. You see, Samantha got a kick out of mocking the girl. And Vern despised her for it. He even threatened her. Because of that, he was the cops’ prime suspect when Samantha’s body was first discovered. But I never thought he was guilty.”

  She tilted her chin toward the ceiling and spoke with authority. “If he had killed her, he would have been inconspicuous about it. Yet that night he stopped in the ‘V’ before going to her house and hung out here in the café afterwards. Those aren’t the actions of a guilty man. Still, the cops put him through the wringer.” She twisted her lips. “Just goes to show that no good deed goes unpunished. He helped Rosa and ended up paying a hefty price for it.”

  “But, Barbie, doesn’t it bother you that the murder was never solved? Don’t you wonder who did it and if they’re still around?”

  She again ran her finger along the rim of her coffee cup, allowing close to a minute to go by before answering, “I guess I try not to think about it.”

  I was about to jump all over her for making such a comment but got interrupted by another question. It was posed over a microphone down the hall, in the bar. “Where’s Emerald Malloy? Emerald Malloy, our guest from the Twin Cities? Where is she?”

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “Well, I believe it’s you.” Barbie snickered.

  “Very funny.” My voice was filled with sarcasm. “I mean who’s asking?”

  “It sounds like Father Daley. And if I’m not mistaken, he’d like you to join him in the bar.”

  “For what?”

  She pushed her plate away. “I don’t know. But he’s stubborn. If you don’t go, he’ll just keep hollering.”

  “How mortifying.” I covered my face.

  “Oh, go on. See what he wants.”

  I spread my fingers apart, peeking out between them. “No way. As I said before, he doesn’t trust me. I don’t think he likes me.”

  She brushed away my concern along with some of her dessert crumbs. “You’re being paranoid. Father Daley’s a good guy. He probably just wants to introduce you to everyone.”

  I wanted to believe her but was afraid. “I don’t know.”

  “Miss Malloy, where are you?” The priest’s voice was loud without a microphone. With one, it was booming.

  “Oh, come on, I’ll go with you.”

  “Okay. But if he accuses me of having nefarious reasons for being in town, I’ll …” I let the sentence fade. He was a priest. What was I going to do?

  Barbie spun around on her stool. “He won’t accuse you of anything ‘nefarious.’ But we aren’t stupid. We all know you’d love to get a story about Samantha Berg’s murder while you’re here.” She got up and headed toward the hallway.

  “That’s not true.” I slid off my stool and trudged after her. “I don’t want to be an investigative reporter anymore. I’m not sure I want to be a reporter of any kind. Hell, I may not even stay in the news business.”

  “Oh, right, I almost forgot,” she replied over her shoulder. “You’re going to open a convent.”

  With a laugh, she entered the banquet room and headed for the stage. “Well, come on, Sister Emme, let’s go see what Father Daley wants.”

  Chapter 27

  “Everyone,” Father Daley announced, “in addition to showing our love and support to Maureen Russell, our guest of honor, I’d like you to welcome another Irish lass. She’s visiting from the Twin Cities, where she’s a newspaper reporter. She’s here to write an article about one of our own, Margie Johnson. That’s right, isn’t it, Emerald? You’re here to do a story about Margie?”

  I barely nodded, seeking to remain anonymous in a crowd where everyone knew everyone else. Needless to say, all eyes were on me, and for a moment, I contemplated running into the coatroom. I doubted the wooden bride and groom would even notice.

  Father Daley continued. “Her name is Emerald Malloy.” He waved his arm like a TV pitchman, giving rise to a smattering of applause and a shoulder squeeze from Barbie.

  “See, he’s just being friendly,” she whispered. “You have nothing to worry about. Nothing at all”

  I wasn’t so sure. His words were pleasant enough, but I thought I heard an ominous undercurrent in his tone. And there was something in his eyes. What? I couldn’t tell. Mistrust? Caution? An eyelash?

  “With the help of my trusty fife,” the priest went on to say, “I’m going to sing a Tom Russell number to Maureen and Emerald. And when I’m done, the band will take over. So here we go, a one and a two and …”

  Maureen Russell walked up and shook my hand as Father Daley began, “When Irish Girls Grow Up,” a folk song about the evils that await innocent Irish farm girls who move to the city. I knew the song because my dad often sang it when I was an adolescent. Afterward, I’d promise to live at home forever, and he’d laugh and pick me up and twirl me around.

  In a strong, Irish-tenor voice, Father Daley sang, “Now, Darling, don’t go to the city, you’ll get lost there in the crowd. All the boys there in the city, they drink and smoke and talk too loud. And the women in the city, they sneak their whiskey from a cup. Oh, isn’t it a pity when Irish girls grow up.”

  I’m not sure if it was the song and the memories it triggered or the fact that I was standing arm in arm with a woman who, by all accounts, was fighting a dreadful disease with great dignity. But something touched me deep inside, and a tear or two rolled down my cheeks.

  Barbie nudged me, a tissue in hand. I accepted it and wiped my face as the three of us—Barbie, Maureen Russell, and me—swayed to the music. “Have you heard about the Cooneys, the Russells and Malloys? Their girls all left the farm and went to chase those city boys. Their mothers pray to Mary that the girls won’t turn corrupt. Oh, isn’t it a pity when Irish girls grow up.”

  Father Daley played his fife and sang two more verses. And when he was through, he stepped from the stage and joined us.

  I thanked him for the “serenade” while silently scolding myself yet again for ever having been suspicious of him.

  The priest replied that he was “honored” to sing to us “fine Irish lasses.” Then he asked to speak with Maureen privately, and they strolled away, arm in arm.

  Meanwhile, the band had begun its next number, a boogie that featured a brief instrumental solo by each member of the group. Wally led off on guitar, followed by Little Val on the keyboard. After that, Rosa took a turn, swiftly sliding her fingers along the bass fiddle, plucking the strings with such intensity that she actually looked possessed by the music.

  Unlike Lena, who was reportedly outgoing, Rosa, her daughter, came across as guarded. She played with passion, but it wasn’t willingly shared with her audience. Her face remained rigid, her focus entirely on her bass.

  Yes, Rosa Johnson was beautiful in an exotic way, yet there was something mysterious about her too. “Rosa’s quite a musician,” I whispered to Barbie. “She’s attractive too.” As an afterthought, I added, “She must have lots of guys interested in her.”

  “That’s what you’d expect,” Barbie said, “but it’s not the case. Deputy Ryden went out with her for a while, but it didn’t work out.”

  I winced, though I thought I hid it well by pretending to scratch my shoulder. Damn afterthoughts!

  “She doesn’t perform with the band very often,” Barbie explained. “I’m surprised she’s even here tonight. But I suppose she wanted to be a part of the evening since Maureen was her classroom assistant until she had to quit because of the cancer.”

  Margie approached us from behind, draping her arms over our shoulders and hanging her head between our own. She dangled three open beer bottles from her hands. “Take one,” she instructed, so that’s what we did.

  I sipped my beer and did my best to downplay what Barbie
had just said. I barely knew the deputy, and I’d probably never see him again. So it didn’t really matter who he dated. What’s more, it sounded like they broke up. He probably turned out to be a jerk. Yeah, most likely, I was lucky he left the café when he did.

  While I tried desperately to assure myself of all that, the band transitioned into an up-tempo country song that led folks to the dance floor, among them, burnt Buford and one of the women who’d been mooning over him during his duet with his brother.

  I checked the rest of the room, praying that his twin had gone home or had otherwise forgotten all about me. I couldn’t get past the uneasiness I felt around him. Nope, I had no desire to be his dance partner, even if the band was really good, as confirmed by my tapping foot and swaying hips. Of course I put the kibosh on my hip action before anyone noticed, but my foot continued to do its thing.

  Thankfully, I didn’t see Buddy anywhere, although I did spot Father Daley. He was back playing cards, seated next to Vern, with the Precious Moments minister still standing guard. I also saw Vivian and Maureen Russell. They were at a nearby table, paging through Vivian’s cake album, while Mr. President sat at the far end of the bar, next to the Nelson girls’ mother. He was ogling Vivian. The Donaldson brothers were at the bar too, surrounded by several people who were hollering and exchanging money. Someone yelled something about woodtick races, but I didn’t ask for details. I had no desire to know.

  I circled back to Barbie and Margie, my head bopping to the music while the steady hum of conversation filled my ears. Notwithstanding the prospect of games involving blood-sucking insects crawling on the bar, near the food, I was having a pretty good time. Well, at least as good as I could expect considering my career plans were pretty much in the shitter, and my prospects—professional and personal—were nil.

  Getting depressed all over again, I tried to lose myself in the insistent beat of the drum and the bass guitar. But I guess I didn’t try hard enough, because Buddy found me. In fact, he stepped in front of me, mere inches from my face, causing me to yelp.

  He shot his hands into the air. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to know if you were ready to shake a leg?”

  My leg was already shaking. The guy certainly made me nervous. But for Margie and Barbie, he prompted an entirely different response. “Oh, go on,” they cajoled. “Get on out there. Have some fun.”

  I had to admit, if only to myself, the song the band was playing was perfect for dancing. The rhythm was pulsating. Sensual even. Still, uncertainty poked at me. Either that or Barbie and Margie were prodding me into the guy’s arms. “Oh, go on. Get on out there,” they repeated.

  “What do you say?” Buddy gestured at the dance floor. “Should we give it a try?”

  An internal debate ensued, the cautious me versus the risk taker. Usually caution wins, hands down. But as I said, the band was great, and it had been a long time since I’d done any dancing. The music tempted me, and as others took to the floor, my resistance waned. It wasn’t long before desire won out over common sense, and I handed my beer to Margie for safe keeping. No harm in just a dance or two, right?

  “Do you swing dance?” Buddy asked as he escorted me to the powder-prepped dance floor.

  “Yeah,” I answered uncertainly, “but I’m surprised—”

  He finished my sentence. “That a farm boy does?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “My mom taught us. Music was important to her.”

  He placed his hand on the small of my back, and I jerked. He expressed bewilderment, and me, embarrassment. “Ticklish,” I lied. Nothing bad can happen while dancing.

  He again settled his hand on my back and tapped out an unhurried beat with his right foot before starting us across the floor. He moved effortlessly, leading me through a series of side steps and back rocks. Soon he integrated more complicated moves, swinging me out and pulling me in, all to the count of six against a four-beat rhythm. “Hey, you aren’t half bad,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I dead-panned. “But don’t flatter me like that. It’ll go to my head.”

  He laughed, his dark eyes glimmering. “Seriously, where did you learn to dance so well?”

  We rocked back and forth. “Music was important to my folks too.”

  He propelled me into a double turn, twirling me several feet out. I did the “sugar foot” back into his arms, and he uttered, “Damn,” in appreciation.

  I didn’t know what to make of Buddy Johnson. Perhaps I’d misjudged him. Perhaps there was nothing sinister about him after all. I might have simply seen and felt the arrogance and certainty possessed by many handsome and talented men. He certainly was handsome. And he definitely had talent. He could really move! And out there on the dance floor, his moves counted for a lot. As I said, it had been a while since I’d danced with anyone and even longer since I’d danced with anyone who knew what he was doing. Matter of fact, my last good dance partner was Boo-Boo.

  Truth be told, Boo-Boo was good at a lot of things. He turned out to be a jerk, but before that, he opened my eyes to a host of new experiences. He even encouraged me to explore my wild side, a side I didn’t even know existed until I met him. And guess what? I kind of liked it. Of course, as I discovered that morning in Chicago, Boo-Boo was a little too wild for me.

  The band segued into its next song, a blues cover, and those on the dance floor began a sexy version of the electric slide, with Buddy pulling me along until we fell into step behind his brother. Apparently it was Rosa’s number to do with as she desired, and she desired to make it her own. Her fingers seduced brooding tones from her bass fiddle, while her voice soulfully caressed the lyrics. Like her or not, Rosa Johnson was a remarkable musician and a beautiful woman, all of which led me to “like her not.” Okay, so I can be petty. Big deal.

  Out on the floor, most of the dancers kept to the standard linedance moves, but Buddy and Buford put on a show. They substituted the “fan” or a complicated “hitch and slide” whenever possible. And while no one else could follow along, I managed to stay right with them. I mimicked their every move, and before we were through, I even showed off a few of my own.

  They were visibly impressed. When the music died, burnt Buford actually slapped my back and gave me an “atta girl.” That was just before he began explaining to everyone within earshot the finer points of cooking Egg-Bake Hot Dish. I had no idea why. Nor did I catch much of what he said. His voice frequently got swallowed up by the noise in the room. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t especially interested in cooking advice from a burnt barbecue anyway.

  His dance partner, however, was utterly captivated, or so it seemed. She literally hung on his every word as well as his arm, easing her concentration and her grip only long enough to wave to a young woman who’d sashayed over.

  The woman was blonde, buxom, and insistent that Buddy dance with her. When he stole a glance at me, ostensibly to get my reaction, the woman went so far as to step between us, with me getting her rear view. I’d seen better. Not necessarily in my own mirror. But I’d seen better.

  Naturally, part of me wanted to tweak her for being so insolent—and having such a nice ass. And I figured the best way to do that was to claim Buddy as my dance partner for the rest of the evening. Yet, I was leery. I didn’t want to send him the wrong message. I’d almost convinced myself that my earlier take on him was off base. Almost. But not quite. With my feet once again firmly planted on the ground, that nagging sensation had returned, the one that whispered, There’s something amiss with Buddy Johnson.

  Chapter 28

  Pressing through the crowd, I worked to rid myself of all thoughts of Buddy Johnson. He was a great dancer. But I had to stay clear of him. He was a bad boy. I was positive of that. I just wasn’t certain how bad.

  I found Margie and Barbie in a dark corner. They’d highjacked a table toward the back of the room. I plopped down on a chair, and Barbie complimented me on my dance moves while Margie handed me my beer.

  As
I drew a long pull from the bottle, Margie warned, “Now, don’t choke.” She couldn’t disguise her smile. “I know how much trouble ya have handlin’ your booze.”

  With a clunk, I set the bottle down. “You think you’re pretty funny, don’t you?”

  “On occasion,” she replied with a snort of laughter. “On occasion.”

  I fanned my hands in front of my face. “God, it’s hot in here.”

  Barbie leaned forward, a goofy grin on her face. “And it’s about to get a whole lot hotter.” She nodded toward the door.

  Margie and I twisted around to see the object of her focus. It was Deputy Ryden.

  Margie splayed her hands on the table. “Do ya hear that, Barbie? I do believe it’s our cue to leave?”

  “Don’t you dare!” I aspired to sound threatening, though I must have fallen short because both women merely chuckled as Barbie waved her arms over her head until she got the deputy’s attention and motioned him over.

  “What are you doing?” The tone of my voice had changed to an odd mixture of apprehension and anticipation. “I told you what a mess I made out of my dinner with him. I don’t think I’m ready to talk to him again.”

  Barbie ignored me while the deputy closed in on our table. “Hi, Randy,” she said, pulling out the empty chair between us. “Take a load off.”

  “Thanks.” He spun the chair around and threw his leg over the seat, like he was mounting a horse. As he sat down, he smiled at me by way of hello.

  “Was the accident serious?” I wanted to sound cool and classy, but my voice may have been in “Olive Oyl” range.

  “No, not serious at all.” He rested his forearms on the back of the chair. “How’s everything here?”

  Barbie answered for me, an impish look on her face. “The night started off as a slow burn, but I think it’s about to heat up.”

  Margie added something equally ridiculous, causing me to kick her under the table. “Ouch,” she whimpered.

  “What’s wrong?” the deputy asked.