Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes

by Jeanne Cooney

  I wrinkled my forehead so tightly I saw my eyebrows.

  “See, Deputy Ryden and Rosa began dating shortly after he moved here. Even when she went off to college, she’d come home every weekend just to be with him. Everyone assumed they’d end up married. They were really happy.”

  Another pang of jealousy, but I tried to brush it off. “What happened? Why’d they break up?” I kept brushing. My jealousy, it seemed, was stuck to me like cat hair.

  “I guess the strain of her mom’s death proved too much for the relationship. Well, that and the fact that Randy didn’t intercede on her behalf after Samantha was murdered.”

  We made our way to a garden bench and sat down. “When Rosa and her brothers were repeatedly questioned by law enforcement, the relationship fell apart,” Barbie said. “Or, more precisely, Rosa dumped him.”

  I was developing a strong dislike for Rosa Johnson and was proud that it wasn’t entirely based on her incredible looks and sultry voice. “He was only doing his job. Couldn’t she see that?”

  “He allowed his girlfriend and her brothers to be grilled over and over by FBI agents. That doesn’t make for a good romance.”

  “Why? Did she have something to hide?”

  Barbie meowed loudly and clawed at the air.

  Okay, maybe I was being a little catty. Big deal.

  “Rosa didn’t have anything to hide,” Barbie stated. “She just didn’t like that he refused to stand up for her and the twins. Margie didn’t like it either. After a while, Margie got over it, which was quite surprising actually. Rosa never did.”

  She paused. “The breakup was really hard on Randy. He only recently started dating again. But he’s still awfully leery about any relationship that might have serious potential.”

  “What about Rosa?”

  The truth is I wanted to follow up on the whole “he’s leery of any relationship with serious potential” thing but refrained from doing so because I didn’t want to come across as desperate. Of course some might argue that train had already left the station, given the kiss I laid on him.

  “Rosa became somewhat of a recluse,” Barbie went on to say. “If she’s not at school or in the garden, she’s at home. Tonight’s the first time I’ve seen her out in ages.”

  “I meant what about her on the night of Samantha’s disappearance? Where was she? Did she have an alibi?”

  Barbie stretched her arms across the back of the bench. “You’re itching for a fight, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, shut up. I’m asking legitimate questions.”

  She grinned as she took a deep breath. “Well, let’s see. For part of that night, Rosa was in the café. She knew Ole was filling in for Margie. She also knew that since it was the one-year anniversary of Lena’s death, he’d be having a tough go of it.” She clasped her hands behind her head and extended her legs out in front of her. “If I remember correctly, she got to the café around eight-thirty and parked in the alley, which the locals routinely do. She spotted Vern as he was leaving Samantha’s house, and they entered the café together.” Barbie spoke in a modulated tone, as if reading from a police report, something I suspected she’d done several times during the formal investigation. “They stayed until ten before going their separate ways.”

  The music stopped inside the bar, and Barbie got to her feet. I remained seated. “The band’s taking a break,” she said. “I’m going in to spend some time with my honey. You coming?”

  I shook my head. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “You wouldn’t be. I’d really like you to meet him, especially since you’ll probably be working for me someday.” Again, that confident smile.

  I let that go too. Even though I was just getting to know Barbie, I already understood it was pointless to correct her or try to change her. “No, you go on ahead. I’ll be along shortly.”

  “Okay. I guess I’ll see you later then.” And with that, she was gone.

  *

  Alone, I leaned against the bench and reached back into my mind, fully intending to retrieve the questions I had regarding Deputy Ryden’s interest in keeping me safe or, in the alternative, keeping me from digging any deeper into the murder case. But somehow I instead latched onto those pertaining to his apparent desire to play the field.

  Did I come across as easy? Was that why he asked me out? An “easy” date with no “serious potential”? I checked my blouse. Not too many buttons undone. Not much cleavage showing. No matter how badly I wanted it, not much cleavage would ever be showing.

  I reviewed our conversations. Okay, I flirted a little, and I may have said a few embarrassing things. But easy? Well, there was the kiss. But that was at the end, when he was about to leave. And he kissed me first. And I had to kiss him. No woman with a pulse could have resisted. He had some great-looking lips. And it’d been a very long time.

  With the band on break, people spilled out of the bar, making the garden less than ideal for reflection. So giving up another sigh, I packed my thoughts away, stood up, and started down the path, not at all sure where I was headed.

  I angled behind the shed, stepping around the other side just in time to see Father Daley and Rosa. They’d entered the garden from the main sidewalk, their heads bowed. I watched them for two or three seconds. Then, not wanting them to notice me for some inexplicable reason, I ducked inside.

  “Wait a minute.” My eyes made a sweep of the dark, cramped space. “What in the hell am I doing in here? What on earth possessed me to jump into the garden shed?”

  I held the door latch and listened to the people milling about outside. What would I say if they discovered me? How would I explain hiding in the shed? I waited for an answer.

  I expected the little voices in my head to speak up—to tell me what to do—but none of them uttered a word. Figures. The one time I was willing and even eager to listen to their advice, and they were out to lunch. Nope, I didn’t hear a thing. Absolutely nothing except for the talking and laughing outside and Deputy Ryden’s bumper-sticker wisdom, which echoed through the recesses of my mind. Movement doesn’t always mean progress, Emerald. Movement doesn’t always mean progress.

  “No shit,” I muttered. And then my stomach growled. Yes, despite my predicament—or perhaps because of it—my stomach wanted to remind me of its need for food. It always needed food in stressful situations. It growled again, this time making it clear it wouldn’t settle for just any food either. From the images that flooded my mind—images of rich, melt-in-your-mouth chocolate—I knew exactly what it was after—the Traditional Brownies I’d seen at the community dinner. Nothing else would do.

  Chapter 32

  I held the door latch with one hand while bracing the other against the adjoining wall. At the same time, I promised my stomach I’d give it whatever it desired when we got back to the café if it would simply agree to pipe down now. It didn’t respond, which I took as acquiesence.

  The shed was dark, pretty much black on black, although I did spot the gray form of a small table in front of me. It was topped with empty flower pots and bags of dirt. And above it, a window tilted open just a smidge.

  Again I reminded my stomach to remain still, at least until the priest and the musician had passed. But it didn’t happen. My stomach was quiet, yet even after several minutes went by, the pair never did.

  I pushed onto my toes and leaned across the table to get a better view. I didn’t see them. Not to my right. Or to my left. No sign of them at all. Not until I glanced at the bench below me. The one outside, just beneath the window. There they were, settling in.

  I lurched back and collected myself before creeping forward again. I craned over the potting table, the dense smell of moist soil filling my nose. I peered through the window and spotted the top of Father Daley’s graying head angled toward Rosa. She was seated right next to him.

  I prayed that my sweaty fingers wouldn’t slip from the door latch and that the two of them wouldn’t stay long. But only part one of that prayer got a
nswered. I suppose I couldn’t expect more, given my spotty church record.

  I glanced in both directions. Surely other people would happen by, causing the pair to move on, right?

  Wrong. No one came near. The bar patrons had cleared the area, migrating to the sidewalk that ran alongside the highway. I guess the presence of a priest will do that. So here in the garden, Father Daley and Rosa were now all alone—except for yours truly. And here in the garden, all was quiet except for the sound of their voices.

  “Rosa,” the priest said, “you may get angry with me for saying this, but I’m going to say it anyway. You need some professional help.”

  Rosa didn’t respond, and the priest continued, his words tough but his tone loving. “I believe you’re hanging on to the anger you have over your parents’ deaths because it somehow helps you feel closer to them. I suspect you don’t want to offer forgiveness because, to you, that would be tantamount to abandoning them, maybe even betraying them. But Rosa, dear, that’s not a healthy way to live.”

  “So you think it’s okay that my parents were, in effect, murdered, and the person responsible didn’t pay for her crime?”

  I pushed higher on my toes, not wanting to miss a word.

  Through the streaked window, I saw the priest sway. “I never said that. But Samantha Berg is dead. Isn’t that punishment enough?”

  I watched as a pensive expression found Rosa’s face. “She never took responsibility. Not under the law.

  “Rosa,” the priest continued, “are you telling me that because Samantha never was charged with a crime, you’re going to spend the rest of your life in your own private hell? That doesn’t make sense. You have to come to terms with everything that happened to your family. Believe me, I know.” He paused thoughtfully. “You need to do it for the good of your soul, of course. But you also have to do it for your future. You can’t move on if you hold on to all that hatred. It takes too much energy. You’ll be too drained to do anything else. On top of that, it’ll eat away at you.” He paused again. “It might be doing that already. Every time I see you, I see less of the old Rosa, the one I know and love.”

  “Father, if Samantha had killed my parents with a gun or a knife, she would have gone to jail. But since she only killed their spirits and shattered their hearts, she didn’t have to pay for her actions. And that’s not right. People have to take responsibility for their wrongdoing, whatever form it takes. It’s that simple.”

  I shook my head, momentarily questioning if I was listening to Rosa or a recording of myself. I’d voiced many of those sentiments about my own parents’ passing. I’d uttered some of the same words. And while I didn’t care to be in lock-step with Rosa on any subject, we appeared to be in sync on this one.

  “Samantha Berg is dead,” Father Daley repeated, shuffling in his seat.

  “And here I took you for a family friend.” Rosa’s words were uttered on a wave of emotion.

  “I am a family friend. I loved both your parents very much. But—”

  She cut him off. “But they’re gone. So get on with it, right?” She leaned back, defiantly raised her chin, and spoke in a caustic tone. “No big deal. Just forget about them and move on.”

  He lowered his voice. “I didn’t mean that, and you know it.”

  I got goose bumps. Their conversation sounded very much like one of my therapy sessions, where I routinely railed against the state for leading my parents to their watery graves. In this current production, however, I didn’t much care for Rosa’s portrayal of me. She was whiny, and I never was. Or was I?

  “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean what I said. I’m just stressed out.” She absently deadheaded several shriveled blooms from the plant next to the bench.

  “All the more reason you should talk to someone.”

  “I’m talking to you, Father. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

  “Well, probably not. I’m not very objective when it comes to you and your family. I’m too close.”

  She sniffed with laughter. “You had no trouble whatsoever telling me to see a shrink.”

  He chuckled while pulling her into a one-arm hug. “That’s true. And I want you to think about it.” He took a two-beat rest. “In the meantime, I suppose you can talk to me if that will help.” Another beat. “Come to think of it, I’d like to know what got you so riled up this afternoon. Yelling at the garden girls? Rosa, that’s not your style.”

  She visibly stiffened. “I’m out of sorts. That’s all. I don’t like that reporter snooping around here.”

  I sucked in my breath and strained toward the window, determined to listen more closely.

  “Oh, you don’t need to be concerned about her. I have it on good authority that she’s heading back to the Cities in the morning.”

  “I still don’t like that she’s here.”

  The priest shifted, and the bench squeaked. “Why, Rosa? Why does it bother you?”

  My question exactly. She didn’t even know me.

  “Are you keeping something from me, dear?”

  The priest and I were thinking along the same lines.

  “Oh, Rosa, you’re crying. Here. Take my hanky. Wipe those tears and blow your nose.”

  She did. She blew hard. So hard he’d never ask for his hanky back.

  “There now.” He patted her shoulder. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  I tilted my head and saw Rosa’s face illuminated by the light cutting across the garden. “I just don’t want her asking a lot of questions. It could cause all sorts of problems.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  We both waited—the priest and me—but again, Rosa said nothing.

  “Rosa, did you hear that she was asking about Samantha’s death? Is that what’s troubling you? Do you know something about the murder? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Her mouth opened, forming an “O,” yet she continued to play mute.

  The priest lifted her chin with his finger until her eyes met his. “If you know anything at all, my child, you need to tell me.”

  I held my breath. I didn’t want to miss her response. Yes, I was well aware I was eavesdropping on what amounted to a confession, and that was wrong on so many levels, yet I couldn’t help myself.

  “Father, I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I slowly exhaled, more than a little disappointed in her answer and in me for feeling that way. But, then again, I was getting used to being disappointed in myself. Disappointment had often kept me company and certainly had been my companion much of this day.

  “I do know her death was an accident, Father,” Rosa said in a whisper. “There was no real malice. Not like when she killed my parents. And no, it’s not enough that she’s dead.” The whisper was gone, replaced by huskier-sounding resentment. “I wish it were. Maybe then I’d be able to sleep at night. But it’s not. She should have paid for what she did. Under the law. In public. Subject to everyone’s scorn.”

  “Rosa!”

  Cymbals crashed inside the bar, and Rosa edged forward. Again the cymbals sounded, and she cast her eyes toward the building. “Father, I’ve got to go. That’s my cue.”

  “No,” he replied, dipping his head close to hers. “You need to stay here and tell me what you know about Samantha Berg’s murder.”

  “I can’t. I have to get back inside for the next set.”

  She abruptly stood, and I stepped away from the window, arching back as far as I could. As I said, a street lamp showered soft light on the garden, and I didn’t want to get caught up in it.

  “Rosa—”

  “Father.” She spoke with exasperation. “Maybe later. Maybe I’ll tell you more later.”

  “When?” The man was insistent.

  “Tomorrow,” she answered far too quickly, most likely saying only what she thought he wanted to hear. “I’ll come by the rectory tomorrow.”

  From the corner of the window, I watched as Father Daley got up and braced Rosa’s shoulders wi
th his thick paws. “I’m holding you to that.”

  “Father, please don’t push.” Her voice warbled. She was on the verge of crying. “I’m trying. But I have to do this my way. And in my own time.”

  He wrapped her in a bear hug. “Okay, we’ll drop it for tonight. But tomorrow …”

  She bobbed her head. “Tomorrow, Father.”

  And with that, they ambled down the garden path, the priest’s arm casually draped over Rosa’s shoulders. He spoke as they walked, and I could tell from his tone he was attempting to lighten her emotional load. At one point, he even let loose with a belly laugh, but she remained mum. A short time later, though, he made a remark about Green Bean Casserole that actually led her to chuckle, albeit half-heartedly.

  Chapter 33

  Once Father Daley and Rosa were out of sight, I counted to a hundred before opening the door. Since I couldn’t explain my presence in the garden shed, I didn’t want to take a chance on being seen.

  Peeking outside, I sucked in a sharp breath. Rosa was still there. Not right outside the door, like before, but just beyond the garden, on the other side of the alley. She must have circled back after parting company with the priest.

  I gently pulled on the door, leaving it open only enough to watch as she stealthily moved toward her pickup truck. It was parked in the alley, between Samantha’s bungalow and the Anderson sisters’ house.

  Reaching the vehicle, she surveyed her surroundings, evidently checking to see if anyone was on to her. Seemingly satisfied that no one was, she removed something from the truck bed. In the dark, I couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but it appeared to be a tool of some kind. She tucked it under her arm, eased beyond the truck, and jogged across the Andersons’ front yard.

  I slipped from the shed to follow her. But first I too grabbed a quick look around. A few people lingered on the front sidewalk, next to the highway, but most had returned to the bar. I had every intention of doing the same. Although that was before Rosa lied to Father Daley about needing to hurry inside. Now I was curious. Now I wanted to find out what she was up to.