Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes (14 page)

Harriet nevertheless piped up, “And ya know what they say, ‘The apple don’t fall far from the tree.’”

“Did you tell the police you saw him there?”

“Oh, yah.”

I raised a finger. “But let me guess. They weren’t interested. They wouldn’t listen.”

“No, they listened.” Henrietta patted the gray sausage curls that covered her head. “But afterwards, they told us they already knew. See, Vern regularly went over there. The police said it was to tell Samantha to leave Rosa alone.”

“Why? Did she harass Rosa?”

“Oh, yah, she enjoyed gettin’ after both Rosa and Lena. She didn’t like that Ole walked out on her, ’cause she was used to doin’ all the dumpin’. So when he left, she got back at him by tormentin’ the two of ’em.”

“And he didn’t stop her?”

“Well, he had a hard time believin’ Samantha would do such a thing. Anyhow, when Lena was alive, she handled the problem herself.”

Henrietta pulled the hem of her dress down after a wisp of wind had lifted it to reveal her nylon tops. They were rolled down to just below her bulging knees. “One night Lena actually went into the ‘V’ when Samantha was workin’, climbed up on stage there, and stopped the band right in the middle of a song. Then she yelled at Samantha that she had better leave Rosa alone.”

The old hen peered down her sharp beak, making her pin-prick eyes look even closer set than they truly were. “I guess Samantha hollered back, ‘I ain’t afraid of you. You’re nothin’ but a wetback. What ya goin’ to do, knife me?’”

Henrietta raised her chin and clicked her dentures in disapproval. “That’s when all heck broke loose. Lena jumped off the stage and tackled Samantha, and the two of ’em rolled around on the floor, punchin’ and scratchin’ till a couple guys pulled Lena off and another four got Samantha under control. Yah, it took four men to get Samantha simmered down. She was a big girl, don’t ya know.”

Little Hester agreed that Samantha was quite large, but the two sisters disagreed on her exact proportions, sparking a lively debate about the comparative size of the dead woman’s rear end. I kept quiet until certain I’d rather fill my ears with dirt than listen to another word. It was at that point that I implored Henrietta to finish her story, which she did, though she appeared somewhat annoyed with me for putting an end to the great ass debate.

“As ya might expect,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, “Samantha wanted to press charges against Lena, but the folks in the bar wouldn’t substantiate her story to the police. They said she probably deserved a good beatin’, considerin’ what she’d done to Lena and her family.” She paused, not because she was through talking but because she needed another deep breath to keep going. “For a while after that, she kept clear of Lena and Rosa. Although people said it was the turnin’ point for Lena.”

“Turning point?”

“Yah, about that time Lena’s health started goin’ downhill. Before long, she was dead, and Samantha was back to harassin’ Rosa.”

I interjected, “And that’s when Vern began stopping by Samantha’s house to warn her to behave.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Supposedly,” Henrietta replied, to which Harriet added, “But ya don’t get after someone by cavortin’ with ’em.”

My shoulders jerked involuntarily. “You mean Vern and Samantha were ‘cavorting’ the night she disappeared, and the police didn’t think anything—”

The mother hen again interrupted. “Well, we didn’t actually see ’em.”

“I did,” Harriet insisted.

“After Vern knocked on the door,” Henrietta continued, ignoring her sister, “our favorite TV show started. It’s the one with that Nancy Grace. It’s on every night at nine.” She smiled. “Ain’t she great?” Henrietta and little Hester took some time for silent adoration of the talk-show host. “Oh, yah, once Nancy Grace got started, Hester and me didn’t pay any attention to what was goin’ on next door.”

“But I did!” Harriet barked, her brows knitted, her eyes turning slightly crazed. “I seen ’em carryin’ on right there on the porch. They were all over each other.”

“Yah,” Henrietta said, still failing to acknowledge her hairy sister or her urgent remarks, “the police said it was just another instance of Vern stoppin’ by to tell Samantha to leave Rosa alone, though we don’t believe it. See, whenever he was there, he stayed inside way longer than it takes to tell somebody off. And as we said, he comes from bad seed.”

“But you didn’t actually see them carrying on?”

“No,” the youngest sister reluctantly told me. “Samantha always kept her shades drawn.”

Harriet took out a mosquito. “I know what they was doin’. It was hanky-panky, and that night it spilled right onto the porch.”

“You shush now,” Henrietta ordered.

But Harriet wasn’t about to be shushed. “Yah, there they were, Carl and Elsa, cavortin’ out there in front of God and everybody. Of course it was all her doin’. Carl wanted to get away, but that hussy just kept throwin’ herself at him.”

Huh? Carl? Elsa? What was she talking about?

Harriet went on jabbering, her untenable words falling ever faster from her mouth until Henrietta again grabbed her arm and squeezed it really hard, as evidenced by the hairy lady’s wince. The mother hen then glared at Harriet until she cowered, her spine curling against the back of the bench like a question mark.

When apparently satisfied that Harriet would no longer interrupt, Henrietta proceeded, evidently feeling no need to explain her sister’s nonsensical comments or Carl and Elsa’s identity. “Oh, yah, even though the police refused to arrest Vern, we’re sure he did it. He was Samantha’s only visitor that night, and he’s the spawn of a scoundrel. To us, it’s as plain as the nose on your face. He killed Samantha Berg.”

My eyes zeroed in on Henrietta’s long, hooked beak. “Why would Vern murder Samantha Berg?”

“We believe him and her were havin’ an affair,” Henrietta stated, “whether we can prove it or not. We think Samantha threatened to tell his wife, so he got rid of her. Nancy Grace says that kind of thing happens all the time.”

With my eyes still locked in on the old lady’s honker, I unwittingly replied, “Well, I don’t want to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but—”

Henrietta once more ran over my words with some of her own. “Sure, he got his arm cut off, but he deserves a lot more than that.”

“Yah, what goes around, gotta come around,” little Hester added in a sing-song voice. “Vern comes from a bad family, and none of his people ever made amends for their wrong doin’. Not until the baler incident.”

“But justice demands way more than the loss of one measly arm,” Henrietta insisted. “Vern should go to jail too.”

“For sure.” Hester eyed me intently. “He’s the last of the Olson men. If he don’t get everythin’ that’s comin’ to him and his, they’ll go unpunished, and that wouldn’t be right.”

I assumed that remark was the “last word” on the subject, although the peace that followed was quickly fractured by Harriet, who whined, “The ’squiters are gettin’ me.” She flapped her arms. “They’re gettin’ me bad. Make ’em stop. Make ’em go away.”

Henrietta patted her arm. “There, there, now. Settle down.” Leaning across her, she added for Hester’s benefit alone, “She’s been in a terrible state again lately, hasn’t she? Not sleepin’. Talkin’ nonsense. Actin’ crazy one minute, just fine the next. It frustrates me so.” She gazed into the distance, her volume dropping to a whisper. “Yeah, it’s been a bad one this time for sure.” She shook her head and added on a long sigh, “Well, I suppose, we better get her home. And we probably shouldn’t dilly-dally.”

Little Hester nodded in agreement, sending Henrietta to her feet amid arthritic groans. Hester rose too, positioning her bag of contraband on the bench before fumbling for her sweater. It hung like a cape from her shoulders.

Despite the temperature, still hovering around eighty, Henrietta also donned a white, acrylic sweater for the fifty-yard walk. And a moment later, cloudy-eyed Harriet got up and did the same, seemingly forgetting all about the mosquitoes.

Once all three ladies were buttoned up, I stepped forward to assist Harriet with her bag. While she looked to be the strongest of the three—possibly because of her manly moustache—she emitted such an air of helplessness that my heart actually ached for her.

She mumbled as I secured her bag to her shoulder. Then she studied my face as if she’d never seen me before. Her eyes were devoid of any recognition, although, as I stepped away, they seemed to offer a flitter of awareness. It was just before she cast an accusatory finger at her sisters.

With spittle flying and her short, gray, scarecrow hair shooting out in all directions, she went on to holler at them about something that made absolutely no sense to me. I guess it didn’t matter. The tirade was over almost as quickly as it had begun. And her sisters showed little concern about what she’d said.

With a roll of her shoulders, she tottered back in my direction. She looked docile, as if nothing had happened. And after she became fixated on a piece of lint that clung to her dress, the slight tremor of her hands was the only vestige of her outburst. She repeatedly grabbed at the offending fluff until capturing it between her fingers and flinging it into the air.

Appearing satisfied with herself, she proceeded to smooth the wrinkles in her skirt while initiating a new monologue. This one was directed at me, or more accurately, through me, as if I wasn’t even there. Her voice was soft and introspective, not at all enraged, as it had been mere moments earlier. And this time I understood every word, which wasn’t a good thing, believe me. Her comments, you see, centered on overnight flatulence and the food from the benefit dinner that might cause it.

You heard me right. She recited the names of all the hot dishes she’d eaten, as well as the number of helpings consumed of each, at last settling on Three-Bean Hot Dish. “Yah,” she said, “since I had more than my fair share of that one, I reckon I’ll be in for a long night.”

Now, you may not have picked up on this, but I have a weak stomach. Margie’s detailed account of Vern’s baler accident almost did me in, and I was certain to be a goner if I had to listen to much more from Harriet. Notwithstanding my compassion for her, I had to get away.

I opened my mouth to offer a quick goodbye but was stopped by Henrietta, who hissed, “Well, speak of the devil.”

Yes, I needed to leave. Yet, with those words, that need was eclipsed by curiosity. Not all that uncommon for yours truly, but on this particular night, it would end up costing me dearly.

Not knowing that at the time, however, I followed my natural inclination and tracked Henrietta’s eyes across the highway to the gravel lot next to the grain elevator. The area was practically full of vehicles—pickups of every kind, interspersed with SUVs—though no people were around other than a man and woman exiting a black luxury sedan.

The woman was tall and skinny, but something about the deliberate way she moved reminded me of Margie. For his part, the man appeared no different from the other men I’d seen in town, except this guy was awfully thin. No beer belly. None at all. And this guy only had one arm.

“We have to go,” Henrietta said. “If ya can get that scoundrel arrested, ya go right ahead. He oughtta be in jail. And by all means, write about him. Tell the whole world what he done. Just don’t drag our names into it. Don’t forget, we gotta live here.”

“I understand.” I remained transfixed on the scene across the road, a slight breeze teasing my hair and sending a shiver down my neck. Okay, it probably wasn’t the breeze causing my chills. But that’s what I told myself because I didn’t want to believe it was some kind of errie premonition.

Vern made his way around the car. And joining Vivian, he cupped her elbow and navigated her through the parking lot and across the highway. At the sidewalk, he hurried ahead to open the café door, allowing her to enter without ever breaking her stride.

When they were out of sight, I made a one-eighty turn to find that the Anderson sisters had started down the alley. They wobbled along like a collection of vintage wind-up toys.

They were talking about something, but I couldn’t make out exactly what was being said. At one point, though, I thought I heard Harriet warn the other two, “Whatever happens tonight, it’s your fault, not mine. Like I told ya before, ya should of
stopped me.”

I slapped my cleavage and the blood-sucking mosquito chewing away in it. Not being very busty, my target was small, and my aim had to be spot on. Glimpsing down the front of my shirt, I saw that it was. The little pest was squished. I brushed it away but had no allusions of victory. Harriet may have been confused about a lot of things, but she was right about the mosquitoes. They were vicious. No doubt, it was time to go back inside. Yet, I lingered.

While only half visible above the horizon, the sun was massive, much larger than I’d ever seen it before. It was mesmerizing too, stunningly bright, framed in warm, silky ribbons of dusty pink and purple, only the elevator silhouetted against it.

In awe, I gazed to the west until the staccato sound of an old engine redirected my attention.

Down the highway, an antique John Deere tractor came into view. It chugged along, the young man behind the wheel steering into the make-shift parking lot next to the elevator. With gravel popping, he pulled into one of the few remaining open spots. Next, he and his companion, another young man who’d been sitting in a lawn chair in an open trailer towed behind the tractor, jumped to the ground and sauntered over to the café.