When I returned, which may have been too early for my own good, I witnessed Vivian snip the umbilical cord with a kitchen scissor and deliver and wrap the afterbirth. Again I got woozy and had to mimic some of Little Val’s breathing techniques.
Inhaling through my nose to the count of four and exhaling via my mouth to the count of eight, I stared at Vivian. I only knew her to be pretentious and self-centered, as if she were the star of life and everyone else mere bit players. Yet during the birth of that baby, she exhibited none of that arrogance. True, she carried herself with an air of authority, but that was appreciated under the circumstances. Someone had to take charge. Someone had to know what needed to be done. Even if we weren’t always sure what she was saying.
Vivian carefully placed the baby on Little Val’s chest as Wally stretched out on the floor beside them, a soft, buttery light streaming through the window and enveloping the new family. Wally alternated between kissing Little Val’s forehead and patting the tiny boy’s head, while Vivian covered both mother and child with blankets. I took a mental picture of the entire scene. A scene bathed in rich, golden hues. A scene I’d undoubtedly recall many times throughout my life.
The snapshot faded far too quickly, although it was replaced with yet another amazing picture: one of Vivian and Margie embracing. I’m not kidding. When the two of them finally allowed themselves to consider what they had done, they were astounded and delighted by it all and cackled gloriously while hugging and slapping each other on the back.
Their actions must have signaled Wally that it was time to celebrate because he jumped to his feet and sprinted to the door, bidding the guys outside to come in and meet the newest member of the clan. They did but declined all offers to hold the little tyke, though they were quick to join the debate over what to name him.
I hung back, wanting to watch this extraordinary family happening but not wishing to intrude upon it. I was happy for the whole lot of them but felt some envy and sorrow as well. Having no real family, I knew I’d never enjoy an event like this.
Those thoughts—along with a dip in adrenaline now that the birth was over—nudged me toward a melancholy state. But I dug my heels in, refusing to go.
Despite my determination, I was relieved when Margie sidled up alongside me, providing me additional strength just by being there. “Uff-da,” she whispered as she redid the ponytail bound at her neck, “that there was incredible.” She swept her fingers across her damp cheeks. “I never helped deliver a baby before.”
“I never saw a baby being born before.” I gazed at her with admiration. “You were great, Margie.”
“Thanks, but most of the credit has to go to Vivian. And ya know that’s not easy for me to say. But it’s the truth.”
I slid my eyes to my left, where Vivian and Vern had rooted themselves on the edge of a table about ten feet away. My impression had been that Vern and Vivian weren’t especially fond of each other in spite of being husband and wife for twenty-five years. At that moment, however, Vern stood behind his wife, his only arm wrapped around one side of her waist, and cooed, “Oh, Mama, ya did good. Real good. What would we of done without ya?”
She relaxed her head against his chest. “Well, Papa, the thing of it is, ya didn’t hafta find out.” Shifting her eyes between her son-in-law and the little boy nestled against their daughter’s breast, she added, “I only hope he’s not a chip off the old shoulder.”
I captured Margie’s eyes.
“What can I say?” She continued in a hushed voice. “Somethin’ happened to them recently, but I have no clue what it was. It left them nicer to each other than ever before. Sure, Vivian’s still prickly to other folks, but she’s sweet as pie to Vern.” She leaned in closer. “The rest of us have taken to callin’ them the Mamas and the Papas because that’s the only way they refer to each other anymore.”
“Hmm.” I canted my head until it almost touched hers. “The last time I was here I thought Vivian was running around with the guy everyone refers to as the President.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I wished to call them back. Margie could get vicious with anyone who spoke disparagingly about her sister. Apparently that was her job alone. “Not that anything was going on between them,” I quickly added, doing my best at damage control. “I just heard they hung out together.”
Margie eyed her sister but spoke to me. “I haven’t seen the President around for a month or more. Sure he was busy workin’ beets at the end there. But in the past that wouldn’t of stopped him from droppin’ by the café here, especially if he thought he might bump into Vivian. And if nothin’ else, I thought he’d come by to pick up his sack lunch, being he was workin’ for Buddy and Buford. But he never came by.” She paused. “True, Dinky and Biggie didn’t stop in for theirs either. Fact is I didn’t know they were workin’ for the twins until Dinky told me last night. But like he said, they only helped out for a few days at the end, so . . .” Her words dangled mid-sentence. “Yah, it’s strange that the President never stopped by.”
The juke box suddenly came to life, startling both Margie and me. Buford was hunched over it as Johnny Cash belted out “A Boy Named Sue.”
“Anyways,” Margie said loud enough to be heard over the din but not so loud that others might hear, “now that I think about it, the President may of called Vivian at her house early last Friday night.” Her thoughtful expression played up the sharp angles of her face. “Someone called her cell phone, and after she answered it in the dinin’ room, she hurried to the livin’ room, so Little Val and I couldn’t hear.” She leaned her butt against the banquette behind us.
“See, I was over there for supper. Oh, yah, Vivian and I don’t see eye to eye much of the time, but we’re still family, so I eat there every once in a while.” She blew a wisp of hair out of her face. “Little Val was spendin’ the night ’cause Wally was workin’ late at the office. It rained last Friday, so no one hauled beets, and Wally got to get caught up with his job in town.” She rotated what appeared to be a stiff neck, probably due to the tension surrounding the birth. “Little Val and Wally live in the country. But once she started her last month, she wouldn’t stay out there by herself. And who could blame her?”
Wally and Buford joined Johnny Cash for the final stanza of the song:
“Well, I think about him every now and then.
Every time I try, and every time I win.
And if I ever have a son, I think I’m gonna name him—
Bill or George. Anything but Sue. I still hate that name!”
The two of them then joked about all the odd names they could call the baby, including “Buford,” teased Wally, and “Wall-eye,” Buford shot back.
“Though I couldn’t hear well, I could tell Vivian wasn’t happy with the person on the other end of the line,” Margie explained. “I also got the distinct impression it was a man. But it wasn’t Vern. He uses the landline when Vivian’s at home. The reception’s better. Besides, I never heard her call the guy ‘Papa.’ Not even once.”
I had a few questions, but before I could ask the first of them, the café door swung open, and the ambulance crew trudged in. The guy out front shouted to no one in particular, “Cold enough for ya?” And when no one answered, he filled the silence by stomping snow from his boots and wheeling the squeaky stretcher across the floor.
I hugged myself to keep the goose bumps at bay while watching a female member of the crew hustle toward Little Val. As soon as she reached her, she knelt down and hurriedly opened her medical bag. Then with an expression of confidence that put me at ease, she began a cursory examination of both mother and child.
Before long a man rushed to join her, his short thick legs moving like a pinwheel. As he bent over, his jacket rode up, and his pants pulled down, exposing what is universally known as “plumber butt.” It was then, I’m ashamed to say, that I recognized him, not because of some p
rior intimate encounter but, rather, the frequency with which that butt crack had been on display around town.
The man “behind” it all was Shitty, the local plumber. I’d met him my last time in town. He was a jovial character with a beer belly so big it forced his belt to relocate south of his hips. Hence, the additional “sunshine.”
Besides owning his own plumbing business, Shitty apparently volunteered on the local ambulance crew. Which was a good thing, though I couldn’t help but consider the irony of it as well. I’d sterilized everything that might possibly come into contact with Little Val or her baby, and now Shitty, the plumber, was going to take over.
“Say, everyone . . .” After dashing into the kitchen only minutes earlier, Margie re-emerged with what she called celebratory fudge. “The recipe’s from Peggy Pemberton, and it’s the most exotic fudge I’ve ever made. Perfect for a special occasion.”
She titled the tin in my direction, and I wasted no time choosing the largest piece and biting into it. “What makes this fudge exotic?” I asked as the chocolate melted on my tongue and oozed toward my throat.
“Well,” she replied, “I believe it’s the beef.”
Although I heard her, the words didn’t make sense, so I went ahead and swallowed. Remember, it was chocolate. And it was in my mouth.
“Yah,” Margie confirmed, “it’s definitely the beef.”
It was only then that I realized the meaning of what she’d said. And the chocolate and beef mixture immediately skidded to a stop somewhere along my esophagus, seemingly uncertain if it should keep on its current course or return from whence it came.
Chapter Sixteen
When the ambulance took off for the hospital, the Mamas and the Papas, along with their son-in-law, Wally, followed in a borrowed pickup. Back in the café, the twins and I helped Margie clean up.
After we finished, we called the Eagles in Hallock to see if the fish fry had been canceled due to the inclement weather. “No,” someone told us, “it’s still on.” So the twins and I climbed into Buddy’s pickup and headed north.
By my silence on the subject, you might have guessed that I hadn’t heard from Randy. And even though a part of me was certain his lack of communication was evidence he’d dumped me, another part held out hope it was just a terrible misunderstanding. Or absent that, he was lying in a snow-filled ditch, hurt and unable to call for help because his cell phone was dead. That part urged me to stay at the café so I’d be there if he was ever found and delivered back to Kennedy. But to that, yet another part yelled, “No way, girlfriend! You have your own life to lead. And if he can’t get here on time or call to explain why he’s late or otherwise dig himself out of a damn ditch, he’ll just have to catch up with you later.” That voice was kind of feisty and seldom heard from. But on this day, when a new human being had kicked and screamed his way into the world, it seemed appropriate to listen to a little sass.
When we got to the Eagles, we pulled into the makeshift parking lot on the west side of the highway. Someone had plowed it out, the displaced snow forming a twelve-by-four-foot ridge next to the road. Many of the trucks and SUVs in the lot idled with no one inside, but when I asked Buddy about it, he merely shrugged and said, “Who likes to get into a cold vehicle?”
I shook my head. “If you left your car running unattended in Minneapolis, you wouldn’t have to worry about it being cold. Just stolen.”
“Yeah, but you aren’t in Minneapolis anymore, are you?”
I scanned my frozen and desolate surroundings. “No, Toto, I don’t believe I am.”
He chuckled as he pressed his hand against the small of my back. “Come on. Let’s go.” And the three of us ran toward the brick building on the opposite side of the road, our shoulders hitched and practically stuffed into our ears.
“Brr,” Buford shivered as we hurried through the door of the old building, “it’d be a bad night to get tied naked to a tree.”
He peeked through the eye-level opening on the wall across from us. The hole was about two feet square. Years ago, when this was a private club, that “window” must have been where folks showed proof of membership. Now it simply afforded a quick look into the main bar.
“Janice is bartending,” Buford mumbled to his brother.
“Janice?” I repeated, checking out the only woman behind the bar. While short, thin, and middle aged, she was clearly aiming for a more tantalizing look. She’d dyed her hair coal black and had it piled high on her head. And her droopy gray eyes were caked with thick liner and baby-blue shadow.
“Janice Ferguson,” Buford replied.
“Kennedy’s city clerk?”
The twins nodded as they began exchanging greetings with nearly everyone in the place, each seemingly a relative, friend, or business associate. It was plain to see they were well liked, though not particularly adept in social graces. They didn’t introduce me to a soul.
I was left awkwardly surveying the place from where I stood—the nondescript pool room to my left and the kitchen and dance floor to my right. The pool table was occupied by two young men, but rather than bustling with two-stepping couples, the dance floor was crowded with long folding tables and beige metal chairs, all filling up fast with fish-fry enthusiasts.
“Janice has to work a couple jobs,” Buford said once the three of us were alone again. “She has a nasty bingo habit.”
I shot him a quizzical look.
“Yeah, she’ll go as far as Roseau and Warroad—both more than an hour away—just to play for an evening, especially if there’s a big jackpot. When she’s in Roseau, she says she’s shopping at Carol’s Cedar Cellar. A flower shop over there. And when she’s in Warroad, she swears she’s checking out the deals at Dollar Savers. But she’s not fooling anyone. We all know what she’s really up to. Sometimes she’s on the road four nights a week.”
Buddy shook his head. “You’re such a gossip, Buford.”
I dismissed the chiding remark since the guy making it sported a black eye from sticking his nose in someone else’s business and instead asked Buford, “Doesn’t that create a problem for her at work? How can she be trusted to handle the city’s money if she has a gambling problem?”
Buford squinted at me, a befuddled expression on his face. “She doesn’t have a gambling problem. She just plays too much bingo.”
“But, Buford, bingo is . . .”
Buddy nudged me into the buffet line, muttering in my ear as we moved, “Save your breath. To him it’s not gambling unless you’re in a casino or at the track.”
Uncertain I could make sense of that, I put all thoughts on hold except those pertaining to the food heaped on the plate handed to me: deep-fried fish, French fries, and coleslaw. While the smell hanging in the air—a mix of fish, grease, and stale beer—wasn’t particularly enticing, that food looked “gall-darn tasty,” as Margie would have said.
After insisting on paying the bill, Buddy motioned me to the bar, while Buford headed toward a table full of young women, mouthing that he’d catch up with us later.
I turned to Buddy. “For a minute, I thought you and Buford had nothing in common. I see now, at a minimum, you share one trait.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Buddy prodded me along by bumping the rim of his plate against my back. “Didn’t your mother teach you that when someone does something nice, like buys you dinner, you thank him, not make fun of him.”
I laughed as I set my plate on the bar and hiked myself onto a stool.
“Hey, Janice,” Buddy called, “a Bud Light when you get a chance.” He slipped his eyes in my direction, and I nodded. “Make that two,” he called.
He laid some cash on the counter, and after Janice plopped down two longneck bottles, she grabbed it and made change, placing the excess back in front of him. “How’s your eye?” she asked in the coarse voice of a heavy smoker.
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br /> “It’s fine.” He quickly changed the subject. “Did you hear Little Val had her baby?” He didn’t wait for a response. “This afternoon. Right there in Hot Dish Heaven.”
“You’re kidding!” Janice wanted all the details, so Buddy supplied them the best he could. She especially enjoyed the part about Little Val delivering on the floor, next to the juke box. Hearing that, she let out a cackle that finished with a dry smoker’s cough.
“Yep,” Buddy said after introducing her to me, “with Emerald gathering recipes for the Minneapolis paper, Little Val giving birth in the café, and Raleigh Cummings getting murdered, it’s been a crazy few days around here.” He added without skipping a beat, “Did you know him, Janice?”
Janice barely moved her head. “Yeah, I knew him.”
“Well,” Buddy said, “I’m not all that broken up by his death.”
Janice blinked her blue-shadowed lids. “Oh?”
“We shouldn’t have hired him in the first place. He was trouble right from the start.”
With vein-fanned hands, Janice patted the sides of her updo, as if trying to keep it from falling over in either direction. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
“Huh? You mean as city clerk, you never had any issues with him?” Buddy stuffed more fish in his mouth, and I did the same.
Janice forced a chuckle, followed by an involuntary hack. “Well, I did have an argument with him this past Tuesday. Dinky might have told you about it. He caught the tail end.”
“What happened?” Buddy’s tone and countenance were equal in their innocence. No doubt about it, the guy was slick. It made me wonder why I was with him. Did he really need my help? I didn’t think so.
A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes: A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery Page 11