A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes: A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery

by Jeanne Cooney

  For his part, Buddy slouched against the back of his seat. He appeared stunned. “Like a deer in headlights,” as Margie might say. I had no idea what had caused the sudden change in him. But I did my best to help out by stepping in and asking what I presumed was the most logical follow-up question. “Who else played in that game?”

  Hunter turned my way, while sucking down the rest of his drink, the ice cubes clinking against his empty glass. “When Wall-eye showed up, Biggie bowed out. So for most of the night it was me, Dinky, the President, Wall-eye, and that asshole Cummin’s.”

  After he ticked the five names off on his fingers, he said to Buddy in a confidential tone, “We don’t usually talk about our games. But Buford just told me you were gettin’ hassled by the sheriff. So I figured you deserved to know how many other guys hated Cummin’s too. And some owed him big money.” He motioned toward Buddy’s black eye. “I figured I owed you that much.” He slapped the table. “Now I gotta go outside and have me a smoke.”

  Once Hunter left, I spoke up. “At least we now know who all played poker last Friday night.”

  Buddy remained silent. And distant. I couldn’t tell if he was even listening to me. I decided to pose a question he’d have to answer. “I can’t remember. Why is that one guy called the President?”

  Staring straight ahead, he spoke in monotone. “He thinks his ancestor and namesake, John Hanson, should have been considered the first president since he was president under the Articles of Confederation.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot. He’s nuts.”

  I was certain I’d get a chuckle out of him, but I didn’t. He merely polished off his beer, then hollered for another. “Want one?”

  “No, I haven’t even started on this one.” I pointed to the full one in front of me. “Besides, I’ve had enough.”

  He sniffed. “I haven’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He scowled.

  Now some people might have considered a scowl proof I’d pushed too far. But I was not deterred. I continued to nag. “Buddy, shouldn’t you keep a clear head about you?”

  “My head’s perfectly clear. Too clear, in fact.”

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek until it hurt before I gave up and asked, “What’s going on? What’s got you so upset?”

  Buddy’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Emerald, weren’t you listening? Didn’t you hear what Hunter said? Wall-eye was playing poker on Friday night.”

  “Yeah, I heard. And that means he lied to us. He didn’t go to his office to catch up on work when Little Val was at her parents’ house. He went to Dinky’s cabin, where he lost around $10,000 to Raleigh Cummings.”

  Buddy handed a five-dollar bill to the waitress, told her to keep the change, and guzzled about half of his fresh beer. “It’s worse than that,” he mumbled when he finally came up for air.

  “How so?”

  Buddy twisted his torso until he was sitting sideways in the booth, his arm resting on the back of the bench. “Wally’s a compulsive gambler.” He spoke so quietly I could hardly hear him over the chatter around us. “He’s been in Gamblers Anonymous for years. Before he and Little Val got married, she warned him that if he ever gambled again on anything, she’d leave him.”

  “Oh.” Images of Wally and Little Val and their baby boy flashed through my mind, the trio huddled together on the floor of the café, the afternoon sun bathing them in soft light. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, it’s not something we’re going to talk about. It’s private.” He paused. “Yeah, he’s really stuck on Little Val. I think he’d do just about anything to keep her from leaving him.”

  “But . . .” I covered Buddy’s hand with my own. “He must have known he’d never keep that card game secret. Not with a bunch of other guys involved too.”

  He once again angled himself forward and downed more beer. “You’re assuming he was thinking straight. But from what I understand, thinking isn’t his strong suit when he’s gambling.” He peeked at me. “No pun intended.”

  I gently nudged his shoulder. “Let’s get out of here. We need to talk this over somewhere quiet.”

  “I doubt there’s much left to talk over, Emerald. He lied about last Friday night. And he probably lied about where he was Wednesday afternoon too. Which could mean . . .”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Okay,” Buford said, “I’ll tell you one more joke. Then you have to leave.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Buddy answered after swallowing the last of his sixth beer.

  Buford gave me a palms up, and I offered him an eye roll in return. What a night!

  “So, anyhow,” he began, “a collector of rare books heard that Ole had an old Bible. So he went to check it out, only to have Ole tell him he’d thrown it away. The collector was appalled. But Ole assured him, ‘Oh, dat ol’ book wasn’t worth nothin’. It was printed by some guy named Guten-somethin’ or udder.’ And the collector gasped, ‘You mean Gutenberg?’ And Ole answered, ‘Oh, yah, dat’s da name.’ The collector screamed, ‘You idiot! You threw away one of the first books ever printed. A similar copy recently sold at auction for $2 million.’ Ole simply shook his head. ‘Well, mine wouldn’t of been worth a plug nickel. Ya see, some guy named Martin Luther had scribbled all over it.’”

  Buddy chuckled. “That was pretty good. You get that one from Father Daley?”

  “Yep,” Buford replied. “At the banquet last night. He and some other priests have some kind of blog where they share jokes for sermons and stuff.”

  “Well, I’ll be.” Buddy’s expression was vague.

  “Now you have to leave.” Buford said to him. “You promised to take Emme back to the café.”

  “What about you?”

  Buford looked at the women around his table, all three watching him doe-eyed.

  “Umm . . .” Buford uttered, trying to signal to his clueless brother what was going on, “I . . . umm . . . need to finish a few things here. But I’m sure I can catch a ride home later with someone.”

  Buddy shrugged. “Okay. Whatever.” He headed for the door.

  And I moved to follow, but Buford intercepted. “You’re driving, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “I’ll try.”

  He gave me a brief hug. “Don’t worry. Everything will work out fine.”

  “Buford, your brother’s a murder suspect.”

  “Only according to the sheriff. And he doesn’t count.” He winked. “But thanks for caring.”

  * * *

  “Give me your keys.” I made the request of Buddy once we’d stepped out of the Eagles, onto the sidewalk, the words forming on white puffs of Arctic air. I followed by extending my hand.

  He shoved his own hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “I’m okay to drive.”

  “Maybe, but why take any chances?” My teeth were chattering, but I suspected he got the gist of what I’d said. Still, he ignored my outstretched arm and stalked across the highway, not even checking to see if I was trailing after him.

  “No one drives my truck but me,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  I tugged on my light-weight jacket. “Then I guess I’ll see you around.”

  He spun in my direction. “What?” He planted his feet about three feet apart and his arms akimbo.

  “I’m not going with you unless you let me drive.” I mimicked him by fisting my own hands to my hips but just as fast went back to holding myself close. I was really cold.

  He stood on the far side of the highway, while I remained on the opposite curb, bouncing from one cold foot to the other. It was a standoff. And after a silent count to ten, I turned back toward the bar, either retreating or calling his bluff, I wasn’t sure which. I really didn’t care. I just wanted to go somewhere warm.

  “Okay!” he hollere
d before mumbling something I couldn’t make out. “But if you do anything to my truck, I’ll . . .”

  “What could I possibly do to your precious truck?” I rushed toward him and plucked the keys from his hand, a wide-eyed look of innocence painted on my face. “I hardly ever grind the gears or ride the brakes. Ask anyone.”

  He leaped at me. I dodged him. He snarled, and I raced for the parking lot, laughing and breathing cold air until I coughed like Janice.

  “Serves you right if you choke,” he muttered, settling into the passenger seat.

  I got behind the wheel and stuck the key into the ignition, the smell of exhaust and leather filling my nose. Buddy had started the truck remotely before we’d left the Eagles, but it was still cold, so I turned the heater on high, right along with the seat warmers.

  “You should let the engine warm up before you do that,” he warned.

  I didn’t answer. Nor did I turn anything down. And two seconds later I pulled out of the parking lot, onto the highway.

  “D-Did the President work the night shift?” My teeth were chattering worse than when I was standing outside. I blamed it on the cold leather seats, urging the seat warmer to hurry up and do its job.

  “Yeah, he drove beet truck for us the last couple weeks.”

  “H-How ’bout Hunter?”

  “Drives semi for John Deere every year. John farms the land next to ours.”

  “D-Does everyone up h-here have a nickname?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I held my breath, willing myself to stop shaking. “Well, there’s S-Shitty and Wall-eye, D-Dinky and Biggie, the President and John Deere . . .”

  “John Deere isn’t a nickname. That’s the guy’s real name. Like I said, he farms next to us, and he’s the president of the beet growers’ association.”

  “I know who he is. I met him in the café last time I came to town. But you aren’t going to convince me his real name’s John Deere. I’m not that gullible.”

  “I’m not lying.” While I couldn’t see him in the dark confines of the truck, I knew Buddy was smiling. I could hear it in his voice. “Not everyone around here is an Anderson or a Johnson. Deere’s a common last name too. And a couple of them are actually called John.”

  “Whatever.” I wasn’t sure if I believed him but decided to let it go. We had far more important things to discuss. “You know, everyone who lost big in that card game worked the night shift during beet harvest. That means they all knew when the piler was unexpectedly shut down. And they probably knew about the underground areas beneath the scales.” I stopped to categorize my suspicions. “In other words, Dinky, Hunter, or the President could have murdered Raleigh Cummings just as easily as Wally.” My breath hitched. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have phrased it like that.”

  Buddy let a lungful of air escape in a discouraged-sounding sigh. He was stressed out. He needed to clear his name. But he didn’t want to do it at the expense of his relatives. “Emerald, don’t you see? It’s really bad for Wally, even if he didn’t kill Cummings.”

  I slowed for the “S” curves, as Buddy had referred to them earlier. While the pavement appeared clear, he’d warned that the drifts near the shoulders often hid ice.

  “Buddy, why don’t you tell me more about the President. We haven’t talked much about him.” I didn’t see the point of wringing our hands over the bleak-looking future of Wally’s new family. It made far more sense to focus where we might have an impact. “From what I remember, he’s self-important and not particularly well-liked.”

  I waited for Buddy to take over. It was a long wait. For a while I was afraid he’d fallen asleep. “He’s single and lives in Hallock,” he said at last. “He owns a couple businesses there but also has interest in a few over in Karlstad. He inherited his money but has done a good job of making it work for him.” He laid his head against the head rest before adding, “And he and Vivian have been a force on the school board for years. Though something happened a month or so ago.”

  “And?”

  “No one has seen much of him lately. He didn’t golf this fall. And from what I heard, he didn’t say a word at the last school board meeting, which was really strange since he usually dominates the discussions.” I heard him fidget in his seat. “And even though he worked for us the last week or so of harvest, he never took to the radio to correct people or offer advice. Also unusual for him. Nice for everyone else. But unusual for him.” More fidgeting. “On top of that, he didn’t say a word when Raleigh went after Val over that whole joke thing. I figured he’d do that for sure, if for no other reason than to impress Vivian. Remember, she was working that night.”

  “So nobody has any idea what happened between Vivian and him? No one’s asked Vivian about it?’

  Buddy sniffed. “You don’t ask Vivian personal questions.”

  “What if her answers could save you or her son-in-law jail time?” I let him ponder that. “From what I understand, Buddy, your Aunt Vivian loves her daughter and Wally, along with you and your siblings, more than anything in the world. That’s what Margie says anyhow.”

  “Well, that may be. But most folks would rather stick a fork in their eye than question Vivian.”

  “How about talking to the President?”

  “Won’t happen. He’s a very private man. He’s never been particularly close to anyone but Vivian.”

  “But he needs to be checked out.”

  “Nope. Won’t happen.”

  “Buddy!” I was getting annoyed with him again.

  “Why should we talk to him, Emerald? What’s your theory? My aunt dropped the President for Raleigh, then the President found out and killed the guy?”

  “How can you make light of this? You’re a murder suspect!”

  “I might have heard that somewhere.”

  It was a good thing I was wearing my seatbelt. I couldn’t get close enough to slug him. Instead, I could only silently count to ten. Then do it all over again before I asked, “Are you sure Vivian and the President were romantically involved?”

  “You mean did I actually see them do it?”

  I flung my right hand out in his direction. Even if I couldn’t hit him, it felt good to try. “You’re an ass, Buddy. I understand that you’re upset about—”

  “Sorry!” He shouted the word, so I suspected it was said more to shut me up than to seek my forgiveness. “No,” he continued in a much quieter, but still frustrated voice, “I don’t know for sure. Although I have my suspicions.”

  “Yet you let him work for you?” Oops.

  It was probably a good thing he, too, was buckled up. Otherwise he might have flung the door open and jumped. “Emerald, we needed help to finish up with harvest, and he was available to drive truck. He’d never worked for us before, but he had driven for others, so he knew the routine. He didn’t really want to. But in the end, he agreed.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I suppose it could have been because he thought he might run into Vivian.”

  I sat up straighter in my seat and gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter. “So you put business ahead of family?”

  Sometimes, Emme, you just can’t help yourself, can you?

  “Sorry,” I said, and I really meant it. I had absolutely no desire to argue with Buddy Johnson. “I didn’t mean to sound so sanctimonious. It’s none of my business how you and your brother operate your farm.”

  “Believe me. It wasn’t an easy decision. We simply had no choice.”

  And with that we rode on in silence, each left to our own thoughts, mine apparently far more judgmental. Yep, just one more flaw to work on. One more flaw keeping me from . . .

  Chapter Nineteen

  Emerald? Just so you know, I called a lawyer before we went to the Eagles.”
>
  “And?”

  “I have an appointment with him first thing Monday morning.”

  I slowed as we neared town. “And until then?”

  “We continue to poke around. I’d like to have as much information as possible when I see him.”

  “Yeah, well, about that.” I swallowed hard. “I think . . . umm . . . I’m going back to Minneapolis tomorrow afternoon, after I get my recipes from Margie.”

  “What? You’re not going to stay and help me?”

  I shook my head, then remembered it was dark inside the truck. “You don’t need me. You’re perfectly capable of finding out what happened to Raleigh Cummings on your own.”

  “Maybe. But it’s nice to have someone to talk things over with. Especially since friends and family are involved. Like you said, it’s hard to be objective where they’re concerned.”

  “I . . . umm . . . I just don’t think I can stay. I don’t want to . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to finish. It was too embarrassing.

  “I get it. You don’t want to run into Randy. But you don’t even know if—”

  “Stop!” I couldn’t let the County Casanova pity me anymore than he had already. “If you say anything else about him, I’ll run your truck into the ditch.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  I swerved toward the shoulder.

  “Okay!” He held his hands in the air, their silhouettes glinting in the approaching light. “I won’t say another word. Just don’t hurt my truck.” He then muttered, “He’s an idiot.”

  “Buddy!”

  “Okay. That’s it. Not another word. I promise.”

  “Good. Now we still have the rest of tonight. Do you think Margie would mind if we brewed some coffee in the café and went over what we’ve come up with so far?”

  “No, she wouldn’t mind. She’s probably not even there. After staying over last night, I bet she was more than ready to go home tonight.”

  Kennedy’s Main Street was deserted except for my car, which was parked across from the café. Courtesy of Buford and Buddy, it had been shoveled out of the snowbank. Yet it remained all alone. And with patches of snow left on its hood and bumpers, it looked forsaken. And that made me sad. Alone and forsaken in the cold and dark. I grew sadder by the moment. Alone and forsaken, just like its owner, nosy and judgmental Emerald Malloy.