“Oh, yah,” Margie added, “Wally—that’s Little Val’s husband—tries hard too. But even though he’s got all four limbs, he’s not much of a farmer. Not that I’m criticizin’, mind ya. I’m just sayin’.” She wrapped a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “And make no mistake about it, he does a good job drivin’ beet truck every year, and he works darn hard at that job of his in Hallock. He sells crop insurance, don’t ya know. And he makes decent money and gets family health benefits to boot. So, by golly, things could be a whole lot worse there.”
Margie kept on talking while she poured Father Daley a cup of coffee. “Durin’ harvest, though, we all hafta pitch in to make sure everythin’ gets done.” She handed it to him. “That means Buford and Buddy work with Little Val on her farm. Then visa versa. Like I said, even Wally helps out. And if absolutely necessary, Vivian too.” She flapped her hand in the air, motioning to the space around her. “Since I can’t leave this place, I prepare all the lunches and such.”
I set my fork on my plate and rested my forearms on the counter. “Isn’t Little Val pregnant?” During my last visit, I’d seen her perform in a band alongside her husband, Barbie’s husband, and Buford and Buddy’s sister.
“Ya betcha, she is,” Margie answered. “She’s due in less than three weeks. That’s why Vern and Vivian aren’t goin’ south till the end of next month. They wanna be here for the birth. The first of the next generation.” She smiled wistfully for a moment.
“Since Little Val’s been feelin’ fine, she just keeps on workin’,” she then went on to say. “I guess that’s not quite true. She feels good, but she’s had a devil of a time sleepin’. That darn baby has its days and nights all mixed up.” The twinkle in her eyes belied her harsh tone. “That’s why she opted for the second shift durin’ beet harvest this year.”
Father Daley shook his head at Margie, a look of exasperation lined with humor on his face. “Well, as I was saying about an hour ago—before old windbag here got going—Little Val was the first to get on the radio and give Raleigh a piece of her mind about his so-called joke. But when she finished, most of the crew followed suit. As you might expect, Raleigh got really angry and started going on about how field work wasn’t meant for women. Again, right over the radio. And I guess he made some terrible cracks about Little Val in the process. Though pretty much everyone on the crew came to her defense. Which only made the guy more furious.” The priest rocked his head in disappointment.
“I wasn’t aware of that.” Margie’s features were pinched. “But it doesn’t surprise me.” Although it clearly annoyed her that no one had bothered to inform her about the fuss in the field. Margie, you see, prided herself on being “in the know,” especially about family. “Little Val has always spoken her mind,” she then said in a manner that suggested the slight didn’t upset her, even if her pursed lips told a different story. “And now that’s she pregnant, she’s even more blunt, if that’s possible. Oh, yah, it’s as if she’s gotta set the whole world straight before her baby’s born into it.” She shook her head. “I pity the soul who doesn’t fall in line.”
Father Daley finished his coffee. “As it happens, Little Val and Vivian weren’t the only women on that crew either. One of the twins’ best truck drivers is a devoutly Christian woman from over by Lancaster. She’s been hauling for them for years. She was there too.”
Margie’s face relaxed, her aggravation easing at the mere mention of that other woman. “She’s as nice as can be. And, uff-da, what a worker!” She shook her finger at me, the movement in sync with her words. “She just had a baby two months ago, but that didn’t stop her from harvestin’. No, sir-ree. She simply took that little guy right along in the truck with her.” She nodded, as if to assure me she wasn’t telling a tall tale. “He slept in his car seat next to her. And since she did most of the diaper changin’ and nursin’ when she was waitin’ to get loaded and unloaded, it caused no problems whatsoever.”
“Yep,” the priest said, “in the words of the great poet Bob Dylan, ‘Times, they are a changin’.”
“Yah, for sure, Father,” Margie murmured. “And it’s about time.”
The priest offered his friend an agreeable nod. “When Buddy heard what had happened between Raleigh and Val, along with the rest of his crew, he called me. He wanted me to talk to Raleigh and, if possible, settle him down. With only a couple days to go in the field, he and Buford didn’t need anyone causing trouble. And since he and Raleigh didn’t get along, he figured it wouldn’t do any good for him—or Buford, for that matter—to say anything to the man.”
He pulled a napkin from the dispenser and wiped his thick hands. “When I first met Raleigh, I assumed he was simply on edge, like a lot of people get by the end of harvest from too much work and too little sleep. But the more we talked, the more he started going on about how a field radio was no place to be exchanging recipes or discussing the trials of breastfeeding and menopause.”
Margie interjected, “Barbie, that’s why you’ll never be asked to work in the field. All you ever do is whine about menopause.”
Barbie set her shoulders. “I can’t help it. Between the bloating and the hot flashes, menopause has just about done me in.” She pulled the front of her jersey away from her neck and blew down her chest. “The truth is I’m so hot right now I could strip down—”
“Enough!” Margie barked with laughter.
The priest zeroed in on me, ignoring both Margie and Barbie. And who could blame him? “I told Raleigh I’d ask the twins to get the women on the crew to refrain from that kind of chatter. But that wasn’t enough.” He plucked his toothpick from his mouth and tapped it against his plate. “He was livid with Little Val. And I couldn’t do anything to appease him.”
“I suppose Wally gave him an earful too.” Margie circled toward me. “He’s always so protective of Val.”
The priest arched his brows. “Oddly enough, from what I understand, Wally didn’t say a word. Nothing at all. Not to Little Val or to Raleigh Cummings.”
“Really?” Margie seemed shocked.
“That’s what I was told. Although when I talked to Raleigh, he had no trouble coming up with a few choice words about Wally. But none of it made much sense to me.” The priest paused. “I believe he’d been drinking. I thought I smelled alcohol on his breath.”
Barbie pulled a napkin from the dispenser and wiped her mouth. “Tell me again, Father, when did you talk to him?”
“Around noon on Tuesday. He was coming off his shift, and I was about to start mine.”
Less than a second passed between the priest’s answer and Barbie’s next question. “Do you know if he and Little Val—or he and Wally—exchanged words later?”
The priest chewed on the question as well as his toothpick. “I don’t know. Until tonight in there”—he pointed toward the middle room—“I hadn’t seen either Wally or Little Val for quite a while.” He held his hand up. “I take that back. I saw Wally in Hallock Wednesday afternoon.” He thought about that for a moment. “Yeah, that would have been yesterday. I was waiting my turn at the car wash. I was behind Hunter Carlson. He was washing that pickup of his—inside and out—and taking forever. But, no, I didn’t get a chance to talk to Wally. He was in his old Jeep. He just drove by. He appeared to be in a hurry.”
“Was he alone?” Barbie wanted to know.
“Yep.”
“Hmm.”
The priest twirled his stool around to face Barbie and me. “When it comes right down to it, I don’t think any of this matters.”
Hard lines of worry marked Margie’s face. “What makes you say that?”
“Well,” the priest replied, checking out the hallway before lowering his voice, “the sheriff came into the middle room a while ago to question Buddy.”
Margie groaned. “If that don’t take the cake.” She pounded the counter with
her fist. “He always assumes the worst of that boy. I swear that ever since Harold Halvorson became sheriff, most of the time he hasn’t known whether to wind his butt or scratch his watch.”
And with those words hanging in the air, I attempted to finish my dinner.
Chapter Eleven
I walked Barbie and Father Daley to their cars. The sky was dark. Snow was coming down hard. And because of the blustering wind, visibility was poor. Both the priest and the newspaper lady were confident they’d make it back to Hallock without any trouble. Even so, they promised to proceed in a caravan. I’m sure they only wanted to placate me, but I didn’t care. Driving didn’t seem like a good idea, particularly for Barbie, who, storm or not, was a menopausal maniac behind the wheel.
As for me, even though I hadn’t planned on traveling anywhere, my car still posed a problem. My overnight bag was in the back seat, and the sleet that had fallen earlier had formed a sheet of ice over the entire vehicle, freezing the doors shut.
With only the light slanting from a couple of street lamps, I chiseled along the door handle with a pen I’d found at the bottom of my purse. After that I scraped ice with one of my credit cards. I warmed one hand in my jacket pocket, then the other. I hadn’t thought to bring gloves. It was only October, for God sake.
True, I could have asked for help from someone in the cafe. But I didn’t want to chance a run-in with Buddy Johnson. Not a particularly friendly thought considering, at the moment, he was being grilled by the sheriff. But there it was. And, as penance, I was forced to struggle with my car door all by myself.
Finally, after swearing under my breath and jerking the handle repeatedly, the door cracked open. With hands so cold they burned, I snatched my bag and rushed across the highway, a gust of wind nearly knocking me to my knees. Recovering with the grace of a drunk, I stumbled to the sidewalk, pushed through the door, and retreated to my rented room upstairs.
It was a small and drafty space but just about perfect as far as I was concerned. With its white iron bed, antique dresser, and drop-leaf table, it reminded me of my own room growing up. This room, however, had an adjoining bath.
Before turning in for the night, I showered, mostly to warm my cold limbs. I also took a shot at combing my hair. Being it was incredibly curly—think old-time telephone cord—combing it was always a lesson in patience and, quite often, futility. Especially after subjecting it to a hard-driving wind, like the one blowing outside. I gave up shortly, choosing instead to slip into my flannel nightie and wiggle beneath the blankets on the bed. A draft was sneaking through the cracks along the windowsill, so I nuzzled deeper and pulled my quilt higher before switching off the bedside lamp.
Lying there in the dark I heard the faint murmur of voices downstairs. There were only a few of them now, the lone female voice undoubtedly being Margie’s, and the male voices, very similar to one another in timbre, surely belonging to the twins.
As they spoke, I tossed and turned, knowing full well I should have stayed in the café and showed some courage by facing Buddy. After all, did I truly believe I could spend three days in a town the size of a bus shelter and not see him?
Last time I was here I’d chalked up my jumpiness around him to the fact that he oozed testosterone and recklessness. And, admittedly, his brooding dark eyes and bad-boy smile still sent me reeling. But deep down I knew the primary reason for my current angst when near him was my failure to apologize for my part in the demise of his family. That lapse had left me feeling terribly guilty because I knew what it was like to lose family due to others. I also knew the anguish of having those responsible fail to express regret for their actions.
I threw my pillow aside and buried my face in the mattress. Apologizing was hard work though. It was much easier, even if undeniably childish, to avoid Buddy, claiming I was protecting myself from a gorgeous scoundrel, who, if allowed to get too close, would do me wrong. Which, on one hand, was true. But only on one hand. One itty, bitty hand.
I snatched my pillow and slapped it over my head, unsuccessfully hiding from the guilt that assailed me. Flipping on my back, I groaned. I had to apologize. I didn’t want to. But I had no choice.
Emme, isn’t it strange how in the dark of night truth and right can shine so brightly you can’t ignore them?
“Yeah,” I mumbled to the irritating voice in my head, “I might start sleeping with the lights on.”
* * *
I woke to an overture of clanging dishes and muffled voices accompanied by the aroma of coffee. The coffee alone should have excited me—made me glad I was alive—but it didn’t.
I leaned up on my elbow and checked the clock on the bedside table—7:30 a.m.—in glowing red. I moaned and fell back against my pillow. Who was I fooling? I wouldn’t go to sleep again. I hadn’t done much of it during the night. And daylight certainly wasn’t likely to change that.
I threw the covers back and got up, my toes cold against the hardwood floor. I tapped-danced to the window and gazed outside. The sky was dusky and the wind, spooky sounding. With high-pitched screeches, it blew the snow horizontally into banks that buffeted the buildings and vehicles and hid the highway in low drifts that reminded me of sand dunes—terribly misplaced sand dunes.
I flipped on the lamp and got dressed, starting with my socks. Next came my jeans and a navy cable-knit sweater over a red turtleneck. I finished with my trusty red tennies. I don’t adhere to the fashion rule that redheads shouldn’t wear red. I love red. It makes me happy. And that particular morning, I needed happy. My fitful sleep had left me unsettled, much like the weather.
I dug out my makeup and applied just enough to feel stronger. More put together. A swipe of mascara on my lashes and some blush along my freckled cheekbones. Then another attempt at taming my curls. But even when feeling strong, I’m no match for my hair, and I soon called it quits.
I straightened my bed covers, brushed my teeth, and checked my phone. No calls. From anyone. Not even Randy. I did, however, have another text from Boo-Boo. I deleted it without so much as a glance. Nonetheless, worry tripped along my spine. I should have been able to dissuade him by now. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I get him to leave me alone? I’d have to try harder. And I would. As soon as I returned to Minneapolis.
Chasing Boo-Boo from my thoughts, I switched off the lamp and headed downstairs, the stairs creaking, old and achy, beneath me. While still upset with Randy for what he must have said about me to Tweedledum and Tweedledumber, I found myself eager to see him and, if completely honest, a little disappointed he hadn’t reached out to me.
With a toss of my head, I shook off my discontent and hopefully the insecurities that incited it. I was being silly. There was no reason to hear from him. Our plans were made. He’d be back in the afternoon, and I’d see him then. As Margie routinely said about almost everything, “That should be good enough.”
* * *
As I entered the café, I discovered the lights on, yet the place itself empty. Margie’s voice echoed from the middle room, but I opted to postpone joining her until after an infusion of coffee. Yes, Margie’s coffee was notoriously weak, but it was sixty miles to the nearest Starbucks. And on this particular morning, the trip would require a dog sled, which I’d left at home, next to my winter jacket, gloves, and head-bolt heater.
In the kitchen, I claimed a standard restaurant-style coffee cup from the shelf above the sink before twirling around and nearly smacking into Buddy Johnson. He stood directly in front of me, only inches away. I yelped and dropped the cup.
“Mornin’,” he said. His hair was tousled. His eyes were sleepy. And his naturally sun-kissed cheeks were covered in a whisker shadow. I had to remind myself to breath—but not to pant. The man was definitely too handsome for anyone’s good.
He stooped to pick up my cup and its broken handle, tossing both into a nearby trash can. Next, he grabbed t
wo mugs from the shelf. “Sorry if I scared you.” With a heavy-lidded gaze, he offered me one of the mugs.
“Umm . . . no, you . . . I mean yes, you . . .” I seized the mug and clutched it to my chest. “Umm . . . no, that’s not right. I mean no, you didn’t scare me. And . . . umm . . . yes, thanks for the cup.”
Hey, Emme, that was almost as smooth as when you learned to drive a stick shift.
I think I actually heard the voices in my head high-five one another over that little joke.
“Shut up,” I mumbled.
“Excuse me?” It was Buddy. Thankfully he had moved to the coffee station out front, in the dining section of the cafe. “Did you say something?” His voice was slightly raised so I could hear him.
“Umm . . . no.”
He stepped back into the kitchen, the coffee pot extended. “Want to finish this off?”
“Yeah . . . umm . . . thanks.”
He poured the last of the coffee into my mug and set the pot on the metal prep table. He grabbed a stool and motioned me to follow suit. “I was surprised to see you here last night,” he said. “I didn’t know you were coming up.”
“Well . . . umm . . .” I sat down. “Well . . . umm . . . we’re doing another funeral-food spread, so . . . umm . . . I needed more of Margie’s recipes.”
He chuckled. “That could be interesting considering this new kick she’s on. ‘Expanding her horizons’ and all.”
“Uh-huh.” This wasn’t going well. I had to apologize. And I had to do it soon. It was the only way to restore my self-respect and, with it, my ability to think and speak. Sure, it would have been easier to phone it in, but I hadn’t gotten around to doing that. So now I had no choice but to look across the table and tell Buddy Johnson—face to face—how sorry I was for everything that had happened to his family.
That’s right, Emme. Apologize. If you don’t, you’ll continue to be pestered by guilt. And when that happens, you not only turn into an idiot, you search for comfort at the bottom of ice cream cartons and among the crumbs in brownie pans. And you really don’t want to do that, do you?
A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes: A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery Page 7