A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes: A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery (3 page)

Chapter Four

T
he dead guy’s Raleigh Cummings
,”
Barbie said. “He drove beet truck for Buford and Buddy.” She sent Margie a quizzical look.

Margie responded, “I don’t believe I knew him.”

“He was Harvey’s cousin from Fargo. His only surviving relative. He stepped in at the last minute, after Harvey’s heart attack.”

Margie clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I’m still shook up over Harvey.” She was referring to her nephews’ long-time beet hauler. She’d told me about his death during one of our recent phone conversations. “I always thought he drove his snowmobile way too fast to hafta worry about cholesterol. I guess I was wrong.”

Barbie plucked a spoon from the silverware bin. “Yeah, everyone really misses him. And from what I understand, Raleigh wasn’t much of a replacement. He was a pain in the ass from the get-go. Always telling Buddy and Buford how to do their business.” She jabbed the air with the spoon. “As we all know, farmers don’t like being second-guessed. They get enough of that from Mother Nature.” She ambled toward the stove. “By Raleigh’s third day on the job, the twins were ready to fire him but couldn’t. They were already shorthanded because of that flu bug that’s going around.”

“Oh, now I think I remember the guy.” Margie nodded like a bobblehead doll. “Tall drink of water in his mid-thirties? Broad shoulders? A wicked smile and eyes to match?”

“Well, when I saw him, his eyes were closed, and he didn’t have much to smile about, being dead and all.”

I broke in. “You actually saw the body?” I’d never seen a corpse, and the thought of it made me squirm. Even so, I couldn’t help but ask for details. Pathetic, huh?

Well, Emme, as we’ve often said, your curiosity may very well be the death of you
.

It was one of the voices in my head. That’s right. I occasionally hear voices. And there was a time in my life when I suspected it was a sign of mental instability. But my therapist said it was far more likely the result of being alone so much.

I was an only child, and following the death of my parents, when I was just thirteen, I moved in with my only relatives, an aunt and uncle who were neither demonstrative nor talkative. To fill the void, I supposedly developed an active imagination, complete with voices. Either that or my therapist was wrong, and I was just plain crazy.

“Yeah, I saw the body.” Barbie reached for a hot pad and lifted the cover from the large skillet that sat on the left rear burner. “But only for a minute. Then the sheriff pushed me away, yapping about how I was contaminating his crime scene.” She stirred the hot dish before scooping up a spoonful and replacing the cover. “He wouldn’t know a crime scene if he fell into it face first.”

I raised my eyebrows.

She waved the hot pad dismissively. “I’ll explain some other time.” She blew on her food.

“So how was the body discovered?” I couldn’t help myself. Asking questions was as natural to me as breathing.

Barbie touched the tip of her tongue to the food on her spoon. “Well, at two o’clock this morning the piler was shut down because of the cold, and it didn’t reopen until a little while ago. It then got really busy with everyone hauling the last of their beets. There were extra-long lines of trucks and lots of waiting. I guess one driver got bored, started texting his girlfriend, and ended up rear-ending the truck in front of him, which was on the outgoing scale. It messed up the scale, so some guys had to go down into the pit to check things out. That’s when they found Raleigh Cummings.”

“Well,” Margie said, her eyes trained on Barbie, “if he’s the same guy I have in mind, he not only thought he was God’s gift to agriculture, he also fancied himself quite a ladies’ man.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“I saw him in the ‘V’ a couple times.” She bobbed her head toward the hallway that connected the café to the VFW. “And Buddy mentioned a few things about him.”

“And Buddy should know,” Barbie muttered.

Margie shot her a glint of disapproval, and the newspaper lady immediately got defensive. “Oh, Margie, you know I like Buddy. And he’s definitely hot. Hell, if I were twenty years younger and single, I’d offer to rock him like a porch swing in a wind storm. But you’ve got to admit, he’s a hound. He’s used to getting whatever he wants when it comes to women.” She again blew on her spoonful of hot dish. “And if the stories are true, he’s even contracted a few things he didn’t want.”

After a wink in my direction, she tipped the hot dish into her mouth. “Nummy.” She drew out the “e” sound. “This is really good.” She once more pivoted in the direction of the stove.

“Don’t you dare double dip,” Margie growled.

Barbie lifted her hands in the air like a criminal caught in the act. “I’m not. See?” She backed away, easing over to the sink and dropping her spoon into the deep basin. It landed with a ping. “Now I’ve got to go and see what else I can learn at the piler. Hopefully the sheriff’s gone.” She glanced at me. “And hopefully you’ll come with me.”

I had no desire to get embroiled in another murder. Asking Barbie a question or two was one thing. Actively pursuing an investigation was something else entirely. Been there. Done that. It hadn’t ended well. In fact, I still was having nightmares. “Thanks, but I think I’ll stay here and help Margie.”

“Wait a minute. You’d rather work in a kitchen than investigate a crime?” Barbie knitted her brow. “Emme, you’re a terrible cook. But you’ve proven yourself a damn good investigator. And I could use the help.”

As nice as her words sounded, I didn’t allow myself to be flattered. Barbie had an ulterior motive. She wanted me to move up here and work for her at the paper. That’s why she complemented me every chance she got. Her plan was that I’d take over once she retired. But I wasn’t sure about being a small-town journalist. Nor was I sure about living in a county where the largest town had fewer than a thousand residents. It would mean a sixty-mile commute for gourmet coffee or shopping. Not that I’m a snob. But sixty miles? Really?

And when it came right down to it, I only stumbled along as a reporter, in spite of how it may have appeared. Sure, I’d solved a homicide, but my efforts had little to do with investigative prowess and lots to do with an insatiable appetite for snooping, not to mention plain old dumb luck. As my dad used to say, even a blind squirrel occasionally finds a nut or, in my case, a killer.

On top of that, I still felt awful about my part in
outing
the people entangled in that earlier crime. True, Barbie knew those same folks. But her role hadn’t been as prominent as mine. And apparently she could separate her personal feelings from her professional work, and her professional work didn’t cause her sleepless nights. I wasn’t that lucky.

“I may be a bad cook, but that doesn’t mean I can’t lend a hand.” Yep, I wanted to avoid any more homicides. And that wasn’t such an outlandish goal. I imagined it was near the top of most people’s wish lists. Yet, most people hadn’t dreamed of being a reporter who’d unearth the cold hard truth no matter the danger. On the flip side, most hadn’t come face to face with a murderer.

“What’s more,” I said to Barbie as my internal debate waged, “I don’t want to miss supper. I’m famished.” It wasn’t a total fib. I really was hungry. Then again, I was always hungry.

“Emme,” Margie replied, “if you wanna go with Barbie, grab a plastic bowl and spoon from the cupboard, scoop up some hot dish, and take it with ya.”

Regardless of what she may have assumed, the café owner wasn’t helping me, so I hedged. “We shouldn’t even be considering going out, should we? Isn’t it supposed to storm?”

“Oh, it won’t get bad for a while,” Margie assured me.

“And it’s not like we’re headed into the boonies.” Barbie immediately amended that remark. “Well, not any farther than we are already.” She giggled.

I didn’t. I was busy picking my brain for a better excuse for keeping clear of the murder scene. Since I was a bit worn out from my long drive, I wasn’t doing my best thinking and settled for, “I’m sure Margie could use an extra pair of hands to get ready for this big shindig of hers.”

“Goodness gracious, it’s not my shindig.” Margie glimpsed at the clock. “It’s Buford and Buddy’s. And they should be along any minute to set up.”

She caught my eye and evidently confused my sudden panic with some form of anxiety-laden exhaustion because she added, “Of course, if you’re too wound up from your trip to go with Barbie, ya can certainly stay here and rest.”

I swallowed hard. It was a conundrum. I certainly didn’t want to visit a murder scene. At the same time, I had no desire to remain in the café, where I’d meet up with Buddy Johnson and his brother.

If only there was another option—like a pap smear or root canal.

Chapter Five

A
s I said, I was
aware
the twins were hosting the beet banquet, but I’d assumed they’d waltz in at the last moment, deliver a couple remarks, eat, and leave, never noticing me hiding out in the kitchen. I certainly didn’t expect them to do any prep work. They didn’t seem the type.

Not that I really knew their type. In truth I knew just two things about the Johnson brothers. One, Buford was a goofball. When it came to farming, he was smart enough, but beyond that, not so much. And, two, Buddy was extremely good looking and could sing, dance, and charm the pants off of almost any woman he met. Naturally that scared me. I didn’t want to tempt fate—or my pants.

During my last trip to Kennedy, I’d spent a little time with Buddy Johnson, dancing at the VFW. I love to dance. My parents taught me, and I’m pretty good at it. Buddy’s no slouch either. As a matter of fact, we tore up the floor doing the country swing. But before and after, I was totally flustered by the guy. And it wasn’t just because of his bedroom eyes and sexy ways. No, there was something else. A sense of danger or risk I found compelling, notwithstanding—or perhaps because of—the stories I’d heard regarding his occasional run-ins with the law.

Yes, that’s right. While always a law-and-order kind of gal, I regularly fell for “bad boys”—the guys who appeared mysterious and a bit naughty. Needless to say, those relationships left me feeling lower than a chocolate-induced hangover and routinely led to costly therapy sessions focused on my lack of self-esteem.

I was tired of it. But since I’d proven less than resolute in rejecting gorgeous bad guys, I had to steer clear of temptation from the start. And in this instance, temptation went by the name of Buddy Johnson. He was nothing but misery in an attractive package. And I didn’t need any more misery, no matter how appealing the package might look—wrapped or unwrapped.

What’s more, there remained the matter of murder. Not that of the piler guy but the earlier one. Because some of Buddy and Buford’s relatives had been involved, I didn’t expect them to be quick to forgive the people who’d cracked the case—me included. Margie insisted they understood. She assured me, “Time heals all wounds.” But I knew from personal experience that some wounds simply festered.

“Margie?” I said as I considered yet another idea—one that might actually save me from an awkward encounter with Buddy Johnson and his brother. “Since Raleigh Cummings, the dead guy, worked for the twins, you guys aren’t going ahead with the banquet tonight, are you?” My hope was she’d call her nephews and insist that decency dictated the dinner be postponed until some future date. That way I’d get to spend the evening with her without worrying about her nephews making an appearance. I considered it a great plan.

Margie thought otherwise. “Oh, it would be a cryin’ shame to put it off. I’ve made food enough to feed a hundred. What in the world would I do with it all? With a storm brewin’, business could be slow for the next couple days. The electricity could go out. Everythin’ could spoil. Uff-da, that wouldn’t be good. Not good at all.” She hesitated for only a second before deciding to call the boys to make sure they were “plannin’ on movin’ forward with the meal.”

I exhaled in defeat as Margie wiped her hands on the towel that draped over her shoulder. “No, I don’t see why we oughtta put off the dinner,” she repeated. “No one really knew Cummin’s all that well anyways. And who knows? By gettin’ together and talkin’, someone might think of somethin’ that could help the investigation.” She picked up her cell phone and began pushing buttons.

“Yeah,” Barbie added in a tone that confirmed her support for Margie’s plan, “if you listen closely tonight, you might learn something important. For instance, did Cummings get into altercations in the beet field? At the bar? Or maybe he got caught doing something terrible. If he thought he was a ladies’ man, he might have crossed a line. Whatever the case, it led someone to get angry enough to bonk him over the head.”

“Is that how he died?” I asked the question out of idle curiosity, nothing more. I certainly wasn’t genuinely interested in the case. “Was it blunt-force trauma to the head?”

“Yeah,” Barbie said, “it was repeated blunt-force trauma to the back of the head. The lack of blood at the scene suggests he was killed elsewhere and moved to the scale pit.”

Margie set her phone on the counter. “The boys aren’t answering.”

Barbie put her fists to her ample hips. “What’s it going to be, Emme? You staying here or coming with me?”

Before I could answer, the café door swung open, and Buddy and Buford entered on a blast of freezing air.

My breathing stalled. But I couldn’t blame it on the wind or the cold. I’d expected them. And I should have expected the twins too. Perhaps intellectually I had. But emotionally I wasn’t at all prepared. Consequently, I stood there like a potted plant. A cold potted plant.

“Woah!” Buford hollered to no one in particular. “It’s windier out there than a sack full of farts. And it’s getting damn nippy too.”

“Buford!” Margie scolded. “Do ya actually eat with that mouth?” She shook her head. “You’re always so gall-darn vulgar.”

“Why?” he wanted to know, a confounded expression on his face. “What did I say?”

The last time I’d seen Buford, he was recovering from burns sustained in an alcohol-related grilling accident. He was bald, pink, and scaly. And upon my return to Minneapolis, my editor had described him perfectly without ever having met him. “Emme,” he’d said, “while most people learn by observation, some can only learn through experimentation. And among them there are a few, unfortunately, who have to stick their faces right into the fire before they understand they’re going to get burned. Your Buford, it seems, is one of those guys.”

He wasn’t “my” Buford. Nor was he any longer pink and scaly. His dark hair and eyebrows were growing in nicely, and his face was tan and healthy looking. Another couple months and he’d be a handsome man, undoubtedly biding his time until the next fire, real or figurative. After all, as my editor had surmised, Buford Johnson was just that way.

Buddy, conversely, was drop-dead gorgeous—then and now—despite the pale purple and green smudges presently marking the underside of his left eye.

The twins’ late father was Scandinavian, while their mother was Hispanic. And when it came to looks, the boys and their sister took after their mom.

Buddy’s hair was dark and wavy and a couple weeks past a needed trim. His skin resembled caramel—the kind you could barely resist tasting. And his brown eyes sparked with mischief, an expression also captured by the half smile usually at home on his lips. He was tall and lean but toned, and he looked fine standing there in a white tee-shirt covered by a blue flannel shirt that hung open over fitted jeans.

“You called as we were pulling up,” he said to his aunt just prior to catching sight of me.

At that he stopped and stared, causing me a sudden attack of hysterical paralysis. That’s right. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak either. So the only thing left to do was try and read the guy.

I got the sense that Margie was wrong. I was the last person on earth Buddy Johnson wanted to see. And Buford reinforced that notion by shuffling in behind his brother, clearly ready to follow his lead, whatever that might be.

A few possible scenarios played through my mind. Buddy may merely holler at me for what happened to his family and my role in it. Or he could strike out across the floor and actually punch me in the nose. Then, too, there was the outside chance he’d throw his arms around me and kiss me tenderly.

Okay, there was absolutely no chance of that kissing thing. I didn’t even like the idea. I was involved with Deputy Randy Ryden, or at least I was attempting to get involved with him. So I don’t know why the thought of kissing Buddy Johnson had even popped into my head. And I dismissed it as nothing more than a natural reaction to the appearance of an incredibly good-looking man and the agony I was suffering due to my aforementioned romantic dry spell.

I ordered myself to get a grip. And to that end, I drew in a slow deep breath. On the exhale, I directed myself to speak. After several false starts, I managed to push a sound from my throat. I was going for, “Hi,” but it came out part greeting, part frog croaking.

Nice, Emme, real nice. That is if you lived on a lilypad and ate flies for lunch.

I silently told the voices in my head to muzzle it.

“Hello,” Buddy replied. The word rumbled from deep within him like a growl.

It scared me or, at a minimum, caused me dread. And soon that dread was weighing heavily on me, seeping deep into my bones, where it mingled with desire. But not the kind of desire you probably assume. No, this was the desire to “skedaddle,” as Margie would say.

Trusting my instincts, I cleared my throat and took a crack at an excuse to leave. “Sorry to rush off.” My voice sounded strange, even to my ears. “I . . . umm . . . Barbie and I are . . . We have to . . . I mean . . . umm . . .” Talking was pointless, so I gave up and yanked on Barbie’s arm.

I pulled her toward the door as Margie hollered, “Eh, Emme, I thought ya were hungry. If ya wait a minute, I’ll serve ya up some Vegetable Hot Dish. Ya can take it with ya.”

“No, that’s okay.” I shouldered the door. “I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble. It’s already done. It’s an ‘express’ hot dish. I got the recipe from Deb Kapinos. Didn’t ya meet her last time ya were here?”

“No, Margie, I don’t think so.” I shoved Barbie outside. She stumbled, barely catching herself before falling to the sidewalk. “And I’m not that hungry after all.”

The door slammed as Margie called out, “Okeydokey then. See ya later.”

To which my stomach responded with a growl of its own.