Oh, my God, Emme, get a grip!
I swung around the corner, shadows tripping across the dashboard as we passed under one street light, then another. “I think my blood sugar’s low. I better have something to eat with my coffee.”
“Why? Are you diabetic?”
“No, moody. And I’m starting to feel really sorry for myself.” I turned down the alley. “I need some sugar to raise my spirits.”
“You eat a lot for a skinny girl.”
I angled into the parking lot shared by the café and the VFW. “I have a high metabolism.”
I switched off the truck and asked Buddy about the other three cars in the freshly plowed space. He informed me that the rusted-out Ford pickup was Jim’s, the bartender at the “V,” though he couldn’t imagine why he was still there since the place was dead. And the two sedans, parked off to the side, belonged to Margie and John Deere.
“They’re at the ‘V’ too?”
I could see Buddy just fine now because of the light glowing from the fixture high above the back door of the café. He appeared smug. “I doubt it.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged noncommittally. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
I stared at him, deliberating what he had said as well as what he had refrained from saying. I worked to make sense of it all. It was kind of like a riddle. Though the solution was way more exciting. “Really?” My voice may have been a bit shrill. “There’s something going on between Margie and John Deere?”
He rubbed the area alongside his nose, doing his best to hide a grin. “I didn’t say that.”
“When did all this happen?”
“Emerald, I didn’t say—”
I slapped the steering wheel. “That explains the whole ‘expanding her horizons’ thing, doesn’t it?”
Buddy puffed out his cheeks before letting a long breath pass between his lips. “Well, John did graduate from MIT or someplace like that. And he was a big shot at Boeing. He’s traveled all around the world. And he only came back home about twenty years ago to take over the farm after his dad died.”
“And,” I continued for him, “Margie’s never left Kennedy for anything more than a short vacation. As a result, she’s feeling insecure.”
“That about sums it up.”
“Who told you?”
“Little Val. She said Margie came clean with her and Vivian last Friday night, when she had dinner with them out at her folks’ place.”
I glanced at the cars. Then at the café. And finally back to Buddy. “What do we do now?”
He scratched his upper lip. “I doubt they’re up to anything, knowing you rented a room for the night.”
“She gave me a key and everything.” I handed Buddy his truck key and dug into my jeans’ pocket for the key to the café’s back door. “But . . . I really don’t want to walk in on them.”
Buddy opened his door. “Come on. I’m sure we won’t.”
I made an effort to reassure myself. “Yeah, if they were going to do anything, they’d go to her house or even his house, right?”
“Well, I doubt Margie would want John’s car in her driveway overnight. And he lives in town too . . .”
“So what do we do?”
He eased from the truck. “Don’t worry. It’s not like they’re hormone-crazed teenagers.”
I couldn’t help but add, “She’s related to you, isn’t she?”
He slammed his door. “You’re a regular comedienne.”
“I try.”
“To be on the safe side, close your door really hard. Let them know we’re here.”
I did. “If they’re inside, I suppose we can’t have a snack. That would be too intrusive, huh?”
The corners of his mouth tilted up in a barely suppressed grin. “They won’t care if we make something to eat.”
“Good, because after some dessert, I’d like more of that Breakfast Pie, if there’s any left.”
He slung his arm around my shoulder, and we headed toward the building. We were just about there when a humungous pickup thundered down the alley. It was unlike any other I’d ever seen. It stood tall, the chassis riding at least four feet off the ground. And it was extra wide, like a Hummer. The cab featured four heavy-looking doors, while the truck bed was covered by a windowless topper that appeared as if it could withstand Armageddon. And if that wasn’t enough, it moved along on rubber tracks instead of tires.
“What in the world is that?”
Buddy shook his head. “The sheriff got some anti-terrorism money from the federal government. He used it to buy that truck and track system. They’re manufactured in Karlstad, at a company called Mattracks.”
“What’s the purpose?”
Buddy had to think about that. “According to the sheriff, those tracks allow him to chase terrorists and other desperados regardless of the terrain.” There was vibrato in his voice, enough to make clear to me that he considered the sheriff an idiot.
“And there’s a big need for that up here?”
He sighed. “He insists we ‘remain vigilant.’” More vibrato.
The truck rumbled into the parking lot, its bright lights now shining directly in our faces. While impossible to see anything, I heard the truck door open and a voice call out in one decibel shy of a roar, “Buddy Johnson!”
“Oh, shit,” Buddy muttered before raising his own voice to be heard over the truck’s grumbling engine. “Yeah, sheriff, what do you want?”
“You!” The sheriff slammed his door and trooped through the light, into view. “Hands against the building and feet spread, mister. And, miss, step over there, out of the way.”
I did as he said. After all, he looked as if he’d spent every free minute during the past decade lifting weights. Not that I had any illusions of fighting him. I’m just stating a fact. The man was built. And did I mention his gun? Yeah, he had a gun. It remained in its holster. But his right hand was wrapped around it.
He swaggered toward Buddy, his feet crunching against the snow. At the same time, another truck door opened. Again the person was invisible, hidden by the blinding light.
“Buddy, don’t get any ideas,” the sheriff warned. “I have backup.” Really? As if that actually mattered. Remember, he had a gun. My guess? That’s all the backup he truly needed.
Without a word, Buddy raised his hands and slowly turned toward the building. He pressed his palms against the clapboard exterior, spread his feet about a yard apart, and stared straight ahead.
Meanwhile, I shook with fear, although a little part of me rebelled by saying over and over in my mind, Buddy’s right. The guy’s an idiot.
Part Three: Spoon a Discreet Amount of The Dish You Want Most of All
Chapter Twenty
After Buddy got carted away in handcuffs, I called his lawyer in Crookston, like he had asked. The guy assured me he would talk to Buddy first thing in the morning. Beyond that, he said, there wasn’t much anyone could do until Monday, when Buddy would make his first appearance in court. If he needed an investigator, he’d hire one then.
I disconnected, stuffed my cell phone into my purse, and entered the café. The place was pitch black and eerily quiet except for the hollow pounding of the furnace as it kicked in against the cold. I was pretty sure no one was around. If they were, the noise and lights accompanying the arrival of the gestapo would have rousted them. Just the same, I slipped off my shoes and stealthily climbed the stairs and padded down the hall to my room.
I got undressed, shimmied into my nightshirt, and tucked myself in bed. With my teeth chattering and my thoughts on the loose, I attempted to warm myself while developing a plan of action. It was tough going on both fronts. I raised my knees to my chin and wrapped my arms around my ankles, while my mind jumped around a
s if I’d spent the evening downing cappuccinos.
I may have drifted off. I’m not sure. But sometime during the night, I heard commotion, first downstairs, then in Margie’s bedroom. Whispering and laughing. Followed by bedsprings creaking. And after that, the crooning of Barry White.
I didn’t trust my ears at first, certain it was nothing more than a Motown dream, prompted by one of those late-night, thirty-minute television ads for CD collections. But it wasn’t a dream, though undoubtedly a CD, from which Barry White sang in his sexy baritone, “Can’t get enough of your love, babe.”
For a moment I considered pounding on Margie’s door and blurting out everything. But for what purpose other than to silence Barry White and the giggling and bed squeaking? And I didn’t really want to ruin Margie’s night, did I? After all, we couldn’t do anything about Buddy till morning. Besides, I was finally warm, all cuddled up in bed. And while I wasn’t sleeping soundly, I was resting. So I simply clicked on my bedside radio and cranked up the volume. Giggle, giggle. Squeak, squeak. “Can’t get enough of your love, babe.” Really loud.
* * *
The sun was rising when I woke to the commodities’ report and a terrible headache. Despite my fitful sleep, the ruckus down the hall, and the blaring radio, I’d managed to come up with a plan. It wasn’t a great plan. But considering the conditions I’d been operating under, it wasn’t a bad plan either. It consisted of two parts. Part One: I’d remain in town for another day or so to do what I could for Buddy, even if it meant running into Randy Ryden. Part Two: I’d ask Barbie for assistance because she’d know more about the case than anyone other than the police. And . . . Well . . . That was it. My entire plan.
Switching off the radio, I was confident in the knowledge that wheat prices were holding steady, while corn and beans were dropping. Beyond that, I wasn’t confident about much, especially solving this murder. I wasn’t a real investigator. What did I truly know about finding a killer? Thankfully, when I called Barbie, she said she had some ideas, and she’d share them with Margie and me when she arrived, within the next hour or so.
By eight o’clock, I was washed, dressed, and sitting on the edge of my bed, writing some notes about the case and waiting for Margie’s overnight guest to take his leave. The two of them were in the hallway. I wasn’t eavesdropping. Yet I heard him say he’d call her later. I also caught her reminding him about the Halloween party. She explained that she’d be in the café, cooking for the supper crowd and handing out candy to the kids until around eight o’clock, when she’d lock up and head next door to the bar. He wanted to know what she was wearing for a costume. But she wouldn’t give him so much as a hint. And with him still guessing, they headed downstairs.
Now don’t get me wrong, I liked John Deere—if, indeed, that was his name—but encountering him “the morning after” would have been awkward. So I remained tucked away in my room until I was positive he was gone. Only then did I venture downstairs.
I spotted Margie on a stool at the metal prep table in the kitchen. She was sorting through recipes, her old, wooden, recipe box positioned in front of her. A couple notebooks were scattered off to the side. And near the far edge of the table rested a hammer, a few small nails, and a beautifully painted plaque about four feet wide and one foot tall.
Margie hummed along as Kenny Rogers and Sheena Easton sang “We Got Tonight” on the juke box. “We got tonight. Who needs tomorrow? We got tonight, babe. Why don’t you stay?” Oh, brother, Margie was in love.
When she noticed me, she lowered her eyes. But that didn’t stop her cheeks from pinking up. “Umm . . . I thought . . . umm . . . I oughtta get these recipes together for ya before I forget.”
“Thanks.”
“Yah, I have Tammie Cuddihy’s Pudding Shots recipe and Nichol Berg’s Breakfast Pie recipe. I also have one from Wendy Wheeler for Pineapple Cheese Hot Dish. Have you ever heard of that? She got the recipe from an old romance novel written by Heather Graham Pozzessere.”
I pulled out the other stool and sat down. I wasn’t sure how to begin telling her about Buddy. I’d auditioned several lines upstairs, but none of them sounded right. So I’d decided to wait until I got down here, then open my mouth and see what spilled out. Sure, it was a risky way to proceed, but since it required no forethought, I’d resorted to it on numerous occasions and was familiar with what to expect. “Umm . . . you’re not open for business this morning?” Okay, that wasn’t even close to what I thought I’d say.
“Nah, I’m not openin’ till late this afternoon. And then, just for supper.”
“Oh.”
“Because of the storm, I ended up stayin’ closed last night too.”
“I see.”
“Yah, it’s given me a chance to collect your recipes, along with time to start my cookbook there.”
“What? You’re writing a cookbook?”
Margie did one of those non-committal shrugs. “I’m not positive, but I think so. That’s why I’ve been gatherin’ all these different recipes. Remember, man cannot live on Tuna Noodle Hot Dish alone.” She snickered. “Yah, I’ve already settled on a name. I’m goin’ to call it Fifty Shades of Hot Dish.” She worked her mouth from side to side while searching my face for approval.
“Catchy,” I replied. I really didn’t think so, but who was I to say?
“Oh, yah, it worked for that other lady, so I figured it might work for me.”
“But, Margie, her book was all about sex.”
“Yah, I know. I read it.”
“And yours will be about—”
“Hot dish.” She fanned the recipe cards she held in her hand. “I considered weavin’ in some sex. But I couldn’t figure out how.”
I opened my mouth but let my criticism die on my tongue. Margie was so happy I didn’t want to dampen her spirits.
“So . . .” she went on to say, “did ya ever hear from Randy?”
Ugh! Margie was in love, and a part of me wanted to bite her head off because of it. Of course, I didn’t really begrudge her romantic happiness. Mostly I was irritable because of the news I had to break to her. And because of my lack of sleep. Oh, yeah, and because people in new relationships always seemed compelled to pry into everyone else’s love life—or lack thereof. “No, Margie, I never heard from him. And I don’t—”
“I think the weather’s still pretty darn bad out there. And bad weather often causes chaos with the phone service.”
“Margie, I don’t want to talk about Randy.”
“What? Why not?”
I pursed my lips. “Well, I don’t know. Do you want to discuss your personal life?” I raised my eyes to the ceiling, in the general direction of her bedroom.
Margie blushed. “Emme, I really like him. But I’m not ready to answer a bunch of questions.”
“Fair enough.” I fiddled with a recipe card. “Just give me the same consideration. That’s all I’m asking.”
She hesitated but finally said, “Fine then. But I’ll tell ya one thing. If Randy ends up missin’ the party tonight, he’ll be none too happy. He really likes our Halloween parties.”
“And I’ll tell you another thing. You’re great just the way you are. You don’t need to re-invent yourself for anyone.”
That got her flustered. “Well . . . umm . . . I’m not so sure about that.”
“I am.”
She screwed up her mouth thoughtfully. “Sometimes challenging yourself can be a good thing, Emme. Otherwise you might fall in a rut.”
“True enough. As long as you’re doing it for yourself.”
She shook her head. “All this readin’ and studyin’ has made me feel more alive than ever. If that makes any sense.” She hesitated. “Even so, I’m not ready for the teasin’ I’m goin’ to get from Barbie. Teasin’ about my new interests as well as you-know-who.”
> “Well, she won’t hear about either from me.”
“Good.”
I nervously wiggled my toes in my shoes. Then I sat on my hands. There was no point delaying the inevitable. While Margie didn’t need any more grief in her life—and who did?—she deserved to know what had happened to her nephew. “So . . . um . . . Margie . . . um . . . tell me about that plaque?” Okay, I’m pitiful. I’ll do just about anything to avoid hurting my friends or causing myself any anguish.
“Well,” she replied, retrieving the wooden panel from the table, “this is an art piece from Ingebretsen’s Scandinavian Gift Shop down in Minneapolis there.” It featured a flowing flower design painted in shades of blue, orange, and green. “It’s called rosemalin’. It’s a form of folk art. For sure you’ve seen—“
“Yeah, I’m aware of what it is. I was just wondering if it was a gift or . . .” I didn’t need to finish my question. Margie’s flushed cheeks had provided her answer.
“I’m not sure where to hang it,” she rushed to say in a clear attempt to talk away yet another embarrassment. “I might take it home. But it’s so pretty. And since I spend most of my time here, I . . . well . . . I dunno.”
“I’m sure you’ll find the perfect place for it.”
“Yah, I suppose I will.” She set the piece down and fell silent.
I did the same. There wasn’t anything more to add to our discussion about rosemaling, self-improvement, or cookbooks. There wasn’t even anything else to say about good old what’s-his-name. Yep, we’d talked about everything except the one subject I had no desire to broach. But there wasn’t any way around it. So with a dry swallow, I began, “Margie . . . umm . . . I’ve got something important to tell you.”
A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes: A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery Page 14