A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes: A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

B
arbie and I pulled up
in front of Hot Dish Heaven shortly after lunchtime. We met Margie at the door. She was holding the small white dog I’d encountered when I first got to town. The one Barbie almost ran over.

“Oh, for cute.” I petted the pooch. “You’ve got a new friend.”

“I found him out here almost frozen to death. I took him in to get him somethin’ to eat, but he started to whine. So I brought him back out. And now that he’s done spray paintin’ the snow, we’ll go in and try some food again.”

“Who’d leave a dog out in this weather?”

Margie cocked an eyebrow. “I think he belonged to Raleigh Cummin’s. I phoned a few folks, and none of them remembers seein’ this little guy prior to a few days ago. So I’m pretty sure he belonged to Raleigh. He must of gotten out of the house somehow and has been roamin’ around ever since. See, he’s got a collar but no tags.”

The pup winched his head to lick my hand. “May I hold him?”

Margie handed him over, and he cuddled in my arms, his dark-brown eyes peeking through matted white fur. “Are you hungry, pup? Want some dinner?” He snuggled closer, his tiny pink tongue hanging from the corner of his mouth. He couldn’t have weighed more than ten pounds. “Margie, after he eats, we should give him a bath. He’s kind of stinky.”

Barbie lifted her arms and proclaimed, “People pamper their pets way too much. If anyone’s to get fed and bathed by someone else this afternoon, I think it should be me. And I have in mind just the person to do it. Only problem is he’s unavailable.” She extended her bottom lip into a pout.

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” Margie grumbled, “I thought ya got all that out of your system on date night?”

Barbie opened the café door, and we all shuffled in to the sounds of Faith Hill and Tim McGraw on the juke box. They were singing “It’s Your Love.”
Ugh!

As I said, I was happy for Margie. Really I was. Still, I didn’t want to be subjected to the musical interpretations of her romantic needs and sexual desires every time I walked into the café. “It’s your love,” McGraw purred. “Does somethin’ to me. Sends a shock right through me. I can’t get enough.”
Double ugh!

“I missed date night,” Barbie reported. “The weather was so bad that by the time I got home, my sweetie was fast asleep, and I couldn’t wake him up no matter what I did. And believe me, I tried.” She swiveled her hips and opened her mouth.

“Please, Barbie,” I begged, my hands covering my face, “no details!”

She regarded me with dismay. “You’re a party pooper, you know that?”

“Call me whatever you want. Just keep your exploits to yourself.”

“Your loss.” She fingered her spiked hair. “Anyhow, because he’s such a dedicated band instructor, he was busy at school all day yesterday. And this morning he was out the door early, taking some ensemble somewhere for something or other. I didn’t really listen after he told me he wouldn’t be able to meet up with me until later tonight, at the costume party. So in answer to your question, no, I haven’t gotten any lovin’ in several days, and it’s left me a bit needy.”

“Well,” Margie replied, “I suppose that can happen.”

“Really?” I asked. “How do you know?” I winked, and Margie scowled.

Barbie circled back around. “Did I miss something?”

Margie pleaded with me. She didn’t say a word, but she pleaded all the same. It was plain to see in her expression.

“No,” I answered, “you didn’t miss a thing. I was just asking about the costume party.”

Gratitude washed over Margie’s face. “I told ya about it a couple weeks back, when we were talkin’ on the phone. I said the ‘V’ was hostin’ a masquerade party on Halloween night, just like every year, so ya needed to bring a costume.”

For someone who wanted something from me—namely, my silence—she wasn’t offering much in return. “I don’t remember that, Margie. Though I may have heard you mention something along those lines this morning, when you were talking to—”

“No!” She clamped a hand on my shoulder and spoke with new understanding. “Come to think of it, I
meant
to tell ya but forgot.”

Satisfaction warmed my face. Of course, I knew about the party. But I hadn’t bothered with a costume because I had no intention of dressing up and pretending to be someone I wasn’t. I hated doing that. “Oh, that’s okay, Margie. Don’t worry about it.” I was barely able to contain my joy. “Maybe next year.”

Barbie, it seems, didn’t see the point of waiting. “Oh, Emme, I brought my costume trunk with me. It’s in my car. I know we can find something for you in there.”

“What?” Just like that—my joy vanished, replaced by a dull ache behind my eyes. “No, Barbie, there’s no need for you to go to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble.” She clapped her hands. “None whatsoever.”

“Wait!” The ache was quickly becoming an intense throb. “We shouldn’t even be talking about going to a party, should we? We have work to do. We have to dig up all the information we can about the murder, so we can pass it on to Buddy’s lawyer.”

Oddly enough Barbie agreed. “And there’s no better place to learn stuff than at a Halloween party.” She did a quick dip of her head for emphasis. “Practically everyone in the county drops by, and they drink more than they should, and since they’re in costume, they feel anonymous, which leads them to be less inhibited. More talkative. About all kinds of things.”

“Ya know,” Margie said, “that makes a lot of sense.”

I glared at her until she muttered, “Sorry, Emme, but it does.”

I hated to admit it, but she was right. It did make sense—in a strange sort of way. Just the same, I didn’t want to dress up!

“Emme?” Margie’s tone was extra sweet. No doubt she was worried I might reveal her secret about John Deere—or whatever his name was—now that she had sided with Barbie on the costume issue. “Maybe we can find somethin’ in Barbie’s case that you’ll actually like. Something that isn’t too provocative. Okay?”

Barbie giggled. “What’s the point of dressing up if you’re not going to be provocative?”

Margie pressed her thin lips together. “Ya aren’t helpin’ here, Barbie. Do ya want Emme in costume or not?”

Barbie scoffed. “It’s just dress up. What’s the big deal?”

I bristled. “I don’t like it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Even as she said the words, her grin stretched across her face. “Two years ago I won first prize.”

“As?”

“Lady Godiva.” She performed a pirouette.

“She rode a horse and everythin’.” Margie attempted to sound disgusted by the whole thing, but the underlying tone of her voice revealed just how impressed she really was by Barbie’s stunt.

“You rode a horse into the ‘V’?”

Barbie huffed. “Of course not. I rode a horse ‘through’ the ‘V.’ Then I tied it up out back. It was much warmer than today.”

Margie headed for the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a large tray in hand. It held a carafe of coffee, a plate of sliced Pumpkin Roll, another with what she called Strawberry Pretzel Squares, three coffee cups, and a short stack of dessert plates. I also spotted a saucer of white rice and one of water. And next to them, a bone-shaped treat. At that I arched a brow.

“The rice and water are for the dog,” Margie explained. “The treat too.” Her smile was teamed with pride. But just a tad. “I make the dog treats, and the banker gives them out to all the dogs in town. See, they tend to hang out at the bank.”

That made absolutely no sense. And because of the costume dust-up, I was feeling just contrary enough to reply, “Well, of course they do. Where else would dogs congregate?”

Ignoring my sarcasm, Margie went on to inform me that she got the recipe for the doggie treats from Mary Dodge of Park Rapids. Mary was known throughout central Minnesota as “the pie and bread lady.” But apparently she could also find her way into a dog’s heart. “As with men,” Margie said, “it’s through their stomachs.”

Snickering at her joke, she headed for the stairs, her tray balanced high above her right shoulder. “Hey, Barbie,” she yelled back over her head, “if it’s not too much trouble, why don’t ya go and get your costume trunk and meet us up in my bedroom. Maybe we can find somethin’ in there for Emme that won’t get her arrested.”

Barbie put her hands to her hips. “I assumed she’d want to get arrested. Especially if the deputy doing the cuffing and pat-down was Randy Ryden.”

Ugh!

*   *   *

As I entered Margie’s room
, I noticed it was similar to the one I rented, though from what I’d gathered the night before, hers came with an option for extracurricular activities.

The room was defined by a black wrought-iron bed and an oversized wood dresser with attached mirror. The small cloth-covered table next to the bed held a Tiffany-style lamp along with a clock-radio and CD player, most likely the source of the song stylings of Barry White. In the corner, next to the lace-draped window, sat an antique wooden chair, while the far wall featured a full-length mirror and two open doors, one to a walk-in closet and the other to a private bathroom.

Margie placed the kitchen tray on the dresser and poured us each a cup of coffee. Meanwhile, I put the dog on the floor, next to his rice and water. And Barbie dropped her trunk on the bed with a thump.

“When you find a costume you like, we’ll need to make a few alterations.” She opened the hard-sided case. “But that’s easy to do with safety pins and Velcro.”

I helped myself to a Strawberry Pretzel Square and climbed onto the bed, scooting up against the headboard. “I really don’t—”

“Shhh!” She pointed her finger at me, prompting the nearly irresistible urge to offer her a finger of my own. “We already decided that a costume was necessary,” she said. “Now it’s just a matter of determining which one. I’ll try on a few, so you can get an idea of the possibilities.” She was still wearing that stupid grin. “I just love dressing up for Halloween! Always have.”

Margie cleared her throat. “And while you’re doin’ that, we can share what we learned today about the murder. Then we’ll know what we hafta find out tonight.”

Margie collected a small notepad and pen from the top drawer of the dresser and settled in the corner chair, while Barbie picked through flimsy tops and tiny bottoms from haphazard piles in her costume trunk. As for me? I pondered my visit thus far.

I wasn’t in jail, like Buddy, so that was a good thing. But between being dumped by Randy and cajoled into wearing a degrading costume in order to participate in an investigation I’d pledged to avoid, I wasn’t having a great time either. In fact, it pretty much stunk. And that realization led me to mutter an old adage often uttered by my dad.

“What was that, Emme?” Margie asked when I was done.

Before I could answer, Barbie whistled. She was holding a piece of shiny black material about the size of a dish towel. “Oh, yeah, this will work.” She glanced at me, her grin nearly wrapped around her head. “This should be great!”

“Emme?” Margie repeated. “What did you just say?”

I stared at the small slip of fabric and answered in a voice lined with gloom. “I said, ‘Nothing is ever so bad that it can’t get worse.’”

Margie let out a hardy laugh, her coffee sloshing over the rim of her cup, while Barbie complained, “You Irish are a cynical bunch, aren’t you?” She added black fishnet stockings to the clothing collection clutched in her hand.

“Oftentimes for good reason.”

“Oh, come on.” She picked up a clear plastic zip-lock bag full of costume accessories. Among the many items inside was a feather duster. “I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you think.”

I shuddered while considering what that duster might have wiped off in the past. “It hardly could be.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

T
aking a break
from rummaging
through her trunk, Barbie briefed Margie about what we’d learned from Guy and Jarod as well as what we’d seen in the scale pit. When she was done, she headed into the bathroom, costume pieces in hand. She flicked on the light but left the door halfway open in order to hear us better.

I turned to Margie and cleared my throat. “Before we get too far along, I need to say something.” I’m sure she expected me to make another pitch for going to the party in street clothes. So I probably surprised her when I said, “I realize that some of what we have to discuss may be difficult for you since it involves your family. But we need to talk about it. And we need to talk freely. Are you going to be okay with that?”

She barely moved her head. “Yah, I’ll be fine, Emme.”

Considering the sadness in her eyes, I wasn’t so sure.

Nevertheless she positioned her notepad on her lap and stoically said, “Now, ya seem to think the most likely suspects are the men who played poker with Raleigh last Friday night. Is that right?”

I nibbled on the piece of Strawberry Pretzel Square stuck to the tip of my fork. “It’s all we really have at this point.”

Margie shook her head. “Not necessarily. What about Janice?”

I nibbled some more. “I suppose it’s possible. But—”

“But,” Barbie shouted from the bathroom, “she doesn’t have a motive. Not a strong one in any case. Likewise with Little Val.”

Margie blanched and Barbie peeked out from behind the bathroom door. “Sorry, Margie, I shouldn’t have blurted that out. Though I’m sure you realize that since Little Val had a public argument with Raleigh shortly before he died, she’s a suspect of sorts.”

Margie sighed. “Yah, yah. We hafta consider everyone.”

I finished my bar. “Those are really good.” I licked every last speck of sugary goodness from my fork. “Margie, remember, Little Val is only a suspect of sorts. Yes, she had an argument with Raleigh. And he was really angry with her.”

“But,” Barbie once more shouted from the bathroom, “she was eight months pregnant when Raleigh was killed. And while she’s strong, she was . . . umm . . . well, eight months pregnant. She couldn’t have pulled him through that scale pit. What’s more, if Raleigh was killed during the night, Little Val has an alibi. Unlike our four card players, all of whom drove beet truck and, therefore, could have slipped away from everyone else now and again, she worked in the field alongside other people.”

“So,” I continued, giving Barbie a breather, “if we eliminate Janice from our suspect list because garbage isn’t much of a motive, and we do the same for Little Val because of her condition at the time of the murder, not to mention her possible alibi, we’re left with the guys who played poker at Dinky’s cabin last Friday night. That game provided a pretty good motive. And the timing seems right.”

Barbie walked out of the bathroom, arms held wide, hips swaying. She was dressed as a sexy French maid, wearing a shiny little black dress with a plunging neckline and a full skirt that barely covered her bottom. She complemented it, you might say—but only if you were into trashy clothing—with black pumps, those fishnet stockings, a frilly apron, and a maid’s cap.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Among its many outrageous features, the dress had a neckline that exposed a canyon of cleavage—the grand canyon of cleavage.

Even the little dog seemed flabbergasted. He actually left his plate to stare at the plus-size version of Frou-Frou Barbie, the Trampy French Maid.

“You’ve really worn that in public?” I knew the answer, but I felt compelled to ask just the same.

Barbie twirled around. “Cute, huh?”

“Actually,” Margie said quite hesitantly, “that may be one of her more reserved costumes.”

“Well, don’t reserve it for me.”

With a shrug, Barbie returned to her trunk undeterred and began sorting through a pile of spandex. Margie and I watched wordlessly. And the dog? He whimpered and scampered under the bed.

Two or three minutes later Barbie found something that met with her approval. “Let’s see what you think of this.” Her face glowed with anticipation as she grabbed another bag of accessories and headed back into the bathroom.

“Ya know,” Margie said, her voice slightly raised so Barbie could hear, “Dinky couldn’t of murdered Cummin’s either. Based on what ya two said about that scale pit, he wouldn’t of been able to move around down there any easier than Little Val. Not with his bad back and knees.” She squinted at me. “Both Dinky and his brother have problems along those lines.”

Barbie shouted, “And since those two only rely on each other, the idea of them hiring someone else to pull the body through the scale pit for them seems farfetched.” I heard the snap of elastic. “I think you’re right, Margie. We can rule out Biggie and Dinky.”

I wasn’t so sure. “It still bothers me that Dinky implicated Janice. Why would he do that unless he wanted to shift attention away from himself? Sure, Buddy says it was just Dinky being a gossip. But that doesn’t feel right to me.” I returned to the dresser, serving myself a slice of the Pumpkin Roll.

“I’ll admit what he said does seem to go beyond plain old gossip,” Barbie hollered. “Still, I don’t think Dinky’s a likely murderer. I’m not so sure about Hunter Carlson, though. He’s an odd duck.”

Barbie strode into the bedroom. This time she was dressed as a sexy nurse in a white spandex uniform. Again the hemline was high and the neckline was low—so low it easily could have induced a heart attack, even in a relatively healthy man.

“Barbie,” I said, “I’m sensing a theme here.” I placed my empty plate on the nightstand, knelt on the bed, and picked through the costumes in the trunk, careful not to touch anything with more than my fingertips. After all, God only knew where these things had been. “Sexy judge, sexy librarian, sexy soldier, sexy school girl.” I leaned back against the headboard. “I don’t think so.”

Barbie swung her stethoscope around in the air. “You have to wear something.”

I looked to Margie. “Emme,” she said, “I . . . umm . . . agree with Barbie. Folks will be far more willin’ to talk if you’re in costume, just like them.”

I pressed the heel of my hand against my aching forehead. “Okay, I’ll find something. But I’ll do it myself.”

Barbie flicked her wrist. “That’s fine. Go for it.” She made her way to the dresser to get herself a bar, but it took practically forever since her dress was so tight she could barely move her legs.

Meanwhile, I searched the trunk. And I did it quickly, hoping I’d get done before the cooties came after me. I uncovered a couple items that didn’t totally gross me out and laid them on the bed. “Barbie, what did you mean about Hunter Carlson being an odd duck?”

Bar in hand, she inched herself to the wall, planting her ample hip against it. “I’ve never been out to his house, but my hubby has—once. And that was enough. I guess he lives in a rickety old trailer in the country. It’s such a hell hole that Janice won’t even stay there. Of course, he’s here in town with her most of the time, but he insists on keeping the trailer house.”

Margie ventured to supply the reason why. “He probably needs a place to go when the two of them are on the outs, which is pretty darn often.”

“I suppose.” She nibbled on her bar. “But you’d think he’d keep the place up then. From what Tom told me, it’s a disaster. Dirty dishes. Clothes all over. Broken windows. Stained furniture.” She wrinkled her nose. “Tom said that while he was sitting on the couch, a weasel ran across the floor. So he said to Hunter, ‘I didn’t know you had a pet weasel.’ And Hunter replied, ‘Well, it’s not exactly a pet.’” She wrinkled her nose again, this time adding a gagging sound. “He had to go to the bathroom but didn’t dare and ended up squatting alongside the road on his way home.”

I twisted my hair around my finger. “I assumed he had money. I got the impression from Buddy he was pretty good at poker.”

Margie answered, “He might be good at cards. But like most gamblers, he probably loses way more than he wins.”

“Whatever the case, he’s strange, and I think he’s getting stranger.” Barbie finished off her bar. “Take last Saturday night at the Eagles, for instance. He knew full well that Janice was sucking face with Raleigh right down the hall, yet he didn’t do anything to stop it.” She took itty bitty steps back to the dresser, where she picked up her coffee cup. “And what about Janice? Why was she being so indiscreet about her . . . umm . . . indiscretions? Sure, she’s cheated on Hunter pretty much since the beginning of time, and everybody knows it, including Hunter, but she’s never done it right under his nose before. What was up with that?”

“Maybe she was mad at him,” Margie volunteered, “and wanted to make him jealous.”

I understood what she was getting at, but there was a flaw in her reasoning. “Margie, are you suggesting that all the other times she cheated she was actually happy with Hunter?”

With her notepad and pen on her lap, Margie pulled the binder from her hair and redid her ponytail. “Maybe those other times had nothin’ to do with him. Maybe she was with those other guys because she wanted to be with them, pure and simple.” She patted the sides of her hair and picked up her pen. “But last Saturday night she practically shoved her behavior in his face. That tells me she was really angry with him.”

“Boy, Margie,” Barbie playfully said as she set her cup back on the dresser, “you’re getting so perceptive that pretty soon you’ll probably find us too obtuse to be your friends.”

“Just tryin’ to broaden my horizons is all.”

“A good thing,” Barbie replied. “Better than what I’ve been doing lately, which is broadening my ass.” She yanked on the bottom of her spandex nurse’s uniform. “This thing is getting a little too tight.”

Margie shuffled in her seat. “Honey, that thing passed ‘too tight’ years ago.”

I leaned over the bed and discovered that the puppy was still hiding out. I was tempted to join him. “So why would Janice get so angry with Hunter?” I absently asked the question as I pulled the little guy out from under the bed, picked him up, and nuzzled him. “And is it at all possible that it somehow led to the murder of Raleigh Cummings?”