A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes: A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery (13 page)

Chapter Eighteen

O
kay,” 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 hollered 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

E
merald? 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.

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.