Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes

HOT DISH HEAVEN

A MURDER MYSTERY WITH RECIPES

Jeanne Cooney

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

St. Cloud, Minnesota

Copyright © 2013 Jeanne Cooney

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-87839-927-0

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First Edition: June 2013

Published by

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

P.O. Box 451

St. Cloud, MN 56302

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This book is dedicated to my mother, who showed by example that you are never too old to pursue new interests and ideas. She also instilled in me the work ethic needed to foster the dedication it took to write this book. For all of that, I love her and thank her.

Acknowledgements:

Books are hard to write. First books are almost “killers.” I must thank my sister Mary for being with me every step of the way, debating ideas, telling tales, slogging through drafts, and never losing faith; Gary and Myron for taking me seriously enough to answer all my questions about farming; all the relatives who read various versions of this story and cheered me on when I doubted myself; my mentors and peers at The Loft and Sisters in Crime for helping a novice find her way; the people at North Star Press for giving me this chance; and everyone in the Red River Valley. No matter where I live, I’m proud to say I grew up in the Valley. I will always be a “Valley girl.”

Part One - Brown the Meat

It all began with hot dish. That’s right. Hot dish.

As the most junior writer for the “Food” section of the Minneapolis paper, I, Emerald Malloy, was directed to scour rural Minnesota for popular “church cuisine.” Since funerals and other church functions were major social events in rural communities, my editor thought the recipes for the dishes served at those get-togethers would be of interest to our readers, many of whom lived in the country or, at least, had grown up there. “No country funeral is complete until everyone has waded through a buffet of tuna-noodle hot dish, red Jell-O salad, and frosted pumpkin bars,” he said, handing me his notes. “Now don’t look so glum. Our readers will eat this stuff up.” He flashed me a snaggle-toothed grin. “Get it?”

I got it, but I didn’t think he did. You see, I considered myself a serious journalist. I’d earned a master’s at Northwestern and had interned at the
Chicago Tribune
. I deserved more prestigious assignments than copying down recipes. I wanted to be an investigative reporter. But since my work experience was limited, and no other paper was clamoring for my services, I swallowed my pride and began my research.

I pulled several weekly newspapers from around the state, skipping the front-page articles and turning to “Community News,” where weddings and funerals were described in detail. I wasn’t sure what I was searching for but hoped I’d know it when I saw it.

Sure enough, while combing through several editions of the
The Enterprise
, I found something. Margie Johnson, the owner of a café called Hot Dish Heaven, seemed to be in charge of most of the church dinners in that area. And at the end of each article about one of those gatherings, she was congratulated for preparing another “pretty good” meal. Even the piece about the untimely passing of her brother, Ole Johnson, age fifty-five, closed with, “Thankfully, funeral guests found solace in the pretty good lunch served by Margie and the church ladies.”

Margie sounded like an interesting subject, so I pleaded with my editor to let me write about her while compiling her favorite recipes.

He contemplated my request, the florescent lights in his office reflecting off his long, shiny forehead. Finally, with a shrug, he agreed but warned that the piece might never make it to print. “Emme,” he said, “‘Food’ section readers want recipes, not stories!”

Excited to do some real writing, I dismissed his reservations, lined up the interview, and spent the next day reading about northwestern Minnesota, where Margie Johnson lived. I was raised in the southern part of the state and knew little about the north other than it was “lake country.” My destination, however, was well beyond most lakes. In fact, it practically bordered Canada. Nonetheless, the following Friday, I dragged myself out of bed at the ungodly hour of 6:00 a.m., eased behind the wheel of my Ford Focus, and headed out, a Diet Coke and a one-pound bag of M&Ms in hand.

After six hours of Willie Nelson music, one stop for the bathroom, and another for more pop, I’d passed through lake country and had entered the Red River Valley.

While hypnotized by the flat, seemingly endless road, I exchanged one thought for another until settling on my initial phone call with Margie. She had loved the idea of sharing her recipes and being the subject of an article that could appear in Minnesota’s leading newspaper. “Uff-da,” she had said, “this is pretty darn excitin’.” We must have talked for an hour. I learned she was in her early sixties, had never married, and lived in a town of 193 people.

Upon exiting Interstate 29, I crossed the Red River, which seperated North Dakota and Minnesota, and journeyed on. The wind blew hard, the grain in the fields rippling like waves in a chain of green and gold lakes. Gravel roads dissected occasional oak groves and led to the type of farmhouses featured in the books I read in my early teens. They were big, square, and white, and I imagined they, like those in my books, were inhabited by grandmothers who baked bread and cured the ills of visiting grandchildren with hugs and homemade apple pie.

I always wanted to be one of those kids, lucky enough to spend time with loving grandparents on a picturesque farm. I hadn’t recalled that fantasy for years. Pleased it still comforted me, I clung to it, letting it go only after I spotted a water tower in the distance. As I got closer, I saw from the name on it that I’d arrived at my destination, Kennedy, Minnesota.

I parked the car and checked my watch. Right on time. Margie had asked that I wait to meet with her until one o’clock, “after the lunch rush.” I surveyed my surroundings. A grain elevator sat on one side of the highway, a bank and post office on the other. The VFW, Hot Dish Heaven, and the Senior Citizens Center were lined up alongside the bank. I counted just three parked cars, two men outside the elevator, and a lone boy biking down the train tracks, a golden retriever trotting behind.
Lunch rush? Hard to believe.

I unfolded myself from my seat, broke the silence by slamming the car door, and crossed the sidewalk, heat shimmering off the concrete. Northern Minnesota was much hotter than I’d expected.

Opening the steel door of the clapboard restaurant, I met the chill of air conditioning and the smell of french-fry grease mixed with the sounds of John Prine on the jukebox. He was singing, “In a Town This Size.” No lie. That’s what he was singing. “In a town this size, there’s no place to hide.”

I stepped inside and pulled the door closed behind me. When my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw the patrons—all five of them—gaping in my direction. John Prine was right—there was no place to hide.

A shiver ran down my arms, though I couldn’t tell if it was from the cool air or my self-consciousness. Whatever the case, a tall, sturdy, middle-aged woman quickly rescued me with a warm smile. “You must be Emerald Malloy,” she said. “I’m Margie Johnson.”

Scuttling out from behind the counter, Margie extended her red, chapped hands and briefly cupped mine before pointing to the men sipping coffee on the stools beside her. One was the mayor, she said, the other, the local banker. They greeted me and then took off, joking that they had to get back to work before the whole town fell apart.

Margie also introduced her aunts, the Anderson sisters, who shared a nearby booth. The collective age of the three ladies was at least 250, yet they were full of life. Talking over one another, they said their hellos and explained how they’d like to stay but couldn’t because bingo was about to begin at the Senior Center. So with promises to return, they too went on their way, stiff and hunched over, like a trio of traveling garden gnomes.

Once we were alone, Margie unplugged the juke box, poured us both some weak-looking coffee, and took hold of what I assumed was a recipe box. It was the size of a shoe box but shaped like a treasure chest, its finish worn. Margie handled it with great care, gently setting it on the table in a booth before retrieving our coffee and inviting me to join her.

Sliding across the cool, black, Naugahyde seat, I inspected the place. No doubt, it had been around for a while. The wood floor was warped, and the Formica counter was chipped and badly stained. Chrome-legged tables cluttered the middle of the room, while booths hugged the outside edges. The walls were plastered and cracked but hidden in large part by dark wainscoting, faded advertisements, and community flyers.

“How long have you owned this place?” I clicked on my tape recorder and placed it on the table between us.

“Oh, gosh,” Margie replied, glancing at the tiny machine, “it’s been in my family for years.”

She hesitated, clearly nervous, so I urged her to take her time. I had all day.

Nodding, she continued, “My sister and I grew up waitin’ tables and washin’ dishes, and my brother did some of the cleanin’. Ma ran things and served as cook for over twenty years. When she died, I took over.”

Margie came across as a no-nonsense woman. Her long, angular face was absent any makeup, and her fine, shoulder-length hair, obviously blonde at one time, was now heavily streaked with gray. She kept it pulled back with a plastic clip, though a few uncooperative strands hung loose over her forehead.

“Has it always been called Hot Dish Heaven?”

“Ever since Ma had it. Hot dishes were her specialty.” Margie cocked her head to one side. “They’re mine too, but I’ve also branched out some.” She opened the wooden box.

“Does your sister still work with you?”

“Oh, gosh, no. The day Vivian got married she threw her apron on the counter and walked out. Workin’ in here was never good enough for her. No, sir-ree.”

Glimpsing at the tape recorder, she hastily added, “Now don’t get me wrong, I love my sister, and God knows she’s had a tough row to hoe these last few years, with Vern’s accident and all.”

“Vern?”

“Vern’s her husband. I’m sure ya heard about him. He got his arm chopped off in a baler accident a few years back. The story was all over the news. It even made the front page of that big paper of yours.”

I didn’t recall it. “It must have happened before I moved back from Chicago.”

“Oh,” Margie replied in a disappointed tone before a pencil-thin smile made its way across her face. “In that case, let me tell ya.”

She wiggled around in an apparent attempt to get comfortable. “See here,” she began, settling her arms on the table, “Vern was alone in the field. Oh, yah, his daughter and nephews helped him out some, but that day he was all by himself. Anyways, he was balin’ when somethin’ in the baler up and went ka-put. Now, Vern’s a darn good mechanic, so he climbed right on down there to check things out. Well, wouldn’t ya know, the knotter was jammed, so he reached in to fix it and … WHAM!”