Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes (5 page)

Margie again mumbled something, but this time I didn’t catch much other than “effin’” this and “effin’” that. And when she was done “effin’,” she signaled an end to our conversation by twisting on the squeaky faucets and noisily rearranging the dirty pots and pans.

Once she began scrubbing them, I volunteered to towel them dry, but she insisted they be left alone. Noting silently that the dishes weren’t all that needed to be left alone, I sat back down and chided myself for being too impatient.

It’s my biggest character flaw. Not my only one, mind you, just my biggest. I’m too pushy. I move too fast. I’m afraid if I take my time, I’ll be left behind, all alone. That’s what my therapist says anyway.

Yeah, my therapist. And before you get too judgmental, let me just say that I think most people would benefit from a little one-on-one counseling. But I digress.

I shuffled through the recipe cards Margie had given me. In an attempt to ease my discomfort by otherwise occupying my mind, I picked a recipe I hadn’t yet copied and began doing just that. It was Lena’s Chili Hot Dish. Margie had mentioned it was Ole’s favorite.

While jotting down the list of ingredients, I lectured myself on why I should stick to gathering Margie’s recipes and profile notes and avoid all further talk of murder. It wasn’t as if I’d ever write about the incident anyway, so why work so hard to uncover the details? Besides, if I continued to badger Margie, she might refuse to give me what I needed to complete my real assignment. Then where would I be?

The cooking instructions, like the listed ingredients, were straight forward, allowing my mind to wander some more. And no matter how hard I tried to steer my thoughts away from the murder, they veered in that direction.

I wondered why the police never arrested Ole Johnson. Sure, the best in law enforcement probably didn’t get assigned to cases in the middle of nowhere. But how could cops of any caliber overlook a killer who was standing—or staggering—right in front of them?

Following a good ten minutes of awkward silence, Margie spoke, raising her voice to be heard above the running water and the clanging of cookware. “Men are fools for helpless women, and Samantha Berg knew how to act helpless. She was always complainin’ about bein’ broke or misunderstood or somehow mistreated. Oh, she loved to play the victim. But it was all an act until the end, when she got what she deserved. She gotta be the victim for real.”

Margie stopped ranting only long enough to rinse a kettle and precariously set it on top of the others in the dish rack. “Of course a man doesn’t wanna marry a helpless woman. No, sir-ree. He wants a strong, hard-workin’ wife, but a helpless woman can really get his motor runnin’, especially when he’s older or not thinkin’ straight.”

I cautiously interjected. “You’re being awfully cynical, aren’t you?”

She dismissed my remark with a wave of her soapy fingers. “I’m not cynical. I just don’t believe in lookin’ at life through rose-colored glasses. They distort the view.”

She knocked the water taps closed, dried her hands with a clean towel, and swung it over her shoulder in place of the dirty one, which she tossed into a bucket. “Take Ole and Lena, for instance.” She lifted a stack of mismatched dinner plates from a nearby shelf.

“Want some help?”

She considered me for what felt like eternity. She wasn’t about to make this easy. I’d implied her recently deceased brother was a murderer, and she was going to make me pay.

“Margie,” I said, resolving to ease the tension by seeking immediate absolution. “I’m sorry. I guess I just got caught up in your story.”

Her eyes lingered on me before she acknowledged, “Well, I suppose we all get carried away at times.”

The corners of her mouth ticked upward in what I hoped was the beginning of a smile. “Yah,” she uttered, “go ahead and put these on the counter there. It’ll serve as our buffet table tonight.”

I exhaled in relief. My apology had been accepted, at least to some degree, and that made me feel a whole lot better. As I said, I needed to get along with Margie to finish my job. But more than that, I’d developed warm feelings toward her and didn’t want her angry with me.

Nevertheless, my opinion of her brother hadn’t changed. I was one-hundred-percent certain he was a murderer. Margie just didn’t need to know that. Yep, some things were better left unsaid, a rule of journalism I’d always had trouble following. But, hey, I was trying.

Handing me the stack of plates, Margie repeated herself. “Take Ole and Lena, for instance. No two people ever loved each other more.”

She stared off into the distance. “Years ago, Lena would sometimes take supper to Ole in the field, and she’d come back with her hair all messed up and her clothes all disheveled. I’d tease her, and she’d get so embarrassed.”

She refocused on me. “But it wasn’t all fun and games. Lena worked hard both here and on the farm. And Ole expected no less.” A few loose hairs fell against her eyelashes and twitched with each blink. “She was his best beet truck driver, don’t ya know.”

She grabbed a plastic bin of silverware and carted it to the counter. “When it’s time to harvest beets, ya need to work ’round the clock to get ’em out of the ground fast. And one of the toughest jobs is drivin’ a fully loaded truck through a field at night after a rain. Ya gotta avoid the wet patches, or the truck will sink so deep in gumbo you’ll need a tractor to pull it out. Now, that takes time, and ya don’t have time, so ya can’t get stuck. Lena never did.” Her smile was now unmistakable. “She just knew where to drive.”

Margie ambled back to the prep table. “My point is that Ole and Lena truly loved each other. They shared dreams and worked hard to make ’em come true. Yet, look what happened. Ole turned fifty and got down on himself. The tramp saw her openin’ and did her ‘woe is me’ routine, knowin’ he’d wanna help. And after he did, she thanked him by callin’ him her ‘hero’ and encouragin’ him to join her in the horizontal rumba.”

She opened the recipe box and retrieved something from behind one set of index cards. “See this picture? It’s Ole and Lena not quite six years ago, just before things went bad.” She handed me the photograph. It was wrinkled along the sides, but the center, where Ole and Lena stood in front of the café, remained undamaged.

In the picture, Ole was tall and lanky, his hair fine and light, like his sister’s. Lena, on the other hand, was dark and tiny. She only reached Ole’s chest but didn’t seem overpowered by him. No, they stood side by side, his muscular arm draped over her shoulder, and they appeared very happy.

As I stared at the photo, I found myself wanting to ask a question. Not wishing to ignite any more controversy, I carefully searched for my words.

Margie took note. “So what’s goin’ on in that brain of yours now?”

Because my search wasn’t over, I didn’t reply.

“Oh, for land sake,” she exclaimed, “speak your peace. It’s bad for your digestion to hold things in. Say what ya want. I promise I won’t bite your head off.”

She winked, putting me at ease enough to talk, even though I wasn’t certain how to ask what I wanted to know. “I just don’t understand how … I don’t get …” I paused and then tried again. “Well, um … Margie, why did Ole have an affair in the first place? He really didn’t throw his life away simply because he turned fifty, did he?”

Margie appeared to give my question thoughtful consideration. “I guess I’m not positive. But it’s not unusual for people to get frustrated when they reach a certain age—a milestone age—and see they haven’t accomplished everythin’ they set out to do.” She rested her forearms on the table. “Some blame their families and turn mean. Others, like Ole, run from themselves and their so-called failures with the help of booze or a tramp or both.” She stood up ramrod straight again. “Dr. Phil actually had a show about that very thing not too long ago.”

I returned the photograph to her. “What did Ole ever fail to accomplish?”

“I’m … not … quite sure.” She spaced her words out, as if using the time between them to come up with an explanation—even after all these years—for what had happened to her brother. “He made a decent livin’ at farmin’ but didn’t seem all that fulfilled by it. He spent lots of time tinkerin’, though nothin’ big ever came of it.” Margie stared past me. “I guess he didn’t realize ’til it was too late that he was pretty successful anyways.”

“How so?”

“Well, he had a devoted wife. He also had family and friends who loved him.” She tucked the picture back into the box.

“Margie?” I momentarily wavered. “Do you ever regret not marrying?”

She closed the lid. “I’m not the most religious person in the world, but I believe God has a plan for each of us, and for some reason, his plan for me didn’t include that.” She rested for a beat. “His plan for Ole and Lena clearly did, though. That’s why I don’t feel bad about what happened to Samantha. She got what she deserved for interferin’ with God’s intentions.”

That seemed kind of harsh, but I let it go. And after a moment, Margie switched topics.

“Ya know,” she said, “I was with Lena the night before she died.” Her voice had changed. It was lower and a bit mournful. “She’d been feelin’ bad for nearly a month but thought it was nothin’ more than a flu bug that wouldn’t go away. I wasn’t so sure.

“Ya see, Lena was always outgoin’, but she’d turned inward, like folks do when they’re gravely ill. She was lettin’ life pass her by, not noticin’ much and carin’ about even less.” Margie folded her arms across her chest, tucking them under her breasts. “She got so she’d hardly talk, but for some reason, that night she insisted on visitin’, so that’s what we did.

“After a while, we got ’round to the subject of Ole, of course, and we must have gabbed about him for darn near an hour.” She hugged herself tightly. “Lena told me he’d stopped by to urge her to see the doctor. He said he was gonna make an appointment for himself too. He wanted to find out why he’d done what he did. He said the affair was like a dream to him, nothin’ but a bad dream.” Margie’s eyes filled with tears, and she blinked them away.

“He also asked her to go out to dinner with him sometime. Not surprisingly, that got me goin’ about them gettin’ back together, but Lena warned me to ‘slow down.’” Margie sniffled. “I didn’t. I guess I couldn’t. I told her that when two people are together for a long time, they’re bound to hurt each other, so they better learn to forgive. That’s when she gave me one of those ‘don’t push it’ looks. She said she wasn’t even sure why Ole wanted her back. Did he suddenly realize he still loved her? If so, how did that happen? Accordin’ to her, nothin’ had changed since he left. Or was life with Samantha just too darn lonely? Is that why he finally walked out on her? Ya see, when Ole and Samantha were together, no one in town wanted much to do with either of ’em, considerin’ what they’d done to his family there.

“Yah, I probably should of said more.” She sounded so melancholy. “But I simply told her that Ole loved her and only her. That they were meant to be together. Though that didn’t ease her mind. She said she was tormented by the thought of him livin’ with her again but wishin’ he was with Samantha. She told me she knew that life on the farm with her was all about hard work, while life with Samantha was only about havin’ a good time. Then she confided that most of all, she couldn’t stand the idea of him makin’ love to her but imaginin’ himself with that tramp.”

Margie dropped her gaze. “Oh, I’ve probably gone and said too much again. That there is pretty personal stuff.”

Retreating to her recipe box, Margie studied one particular group of recipes. When she came upon the card she wanted, she pulled it from the box and slid it across the table. “Before I left Lena’s house that night, I made some Tuna Noodle Hot Dish. It’s a good hot dish for folks who don’t feel well ’cause it’s not too greasy or spicy.”

With her forearm, Margie wiped sweat from her brow. “Yah, I probably should of said more to Lena. I’d just read an article about infidelity and was gonna tell her about it, but she was so tired I decided to wait for another day.”

Margie busied herself with a paper towel, wiping cheese crumbs and water spots off the stainless-steel prep table. “The psychologist who wrote the piece argued that divorce is much harder on kids than previously thought. So he suggested that when a woman has trouble forgivin’ her ‘unfaithful husband,’ she should try instead to forgive the ‘father of her children.’ A bit corny, I know.”

“Children?” I echoed. “Ole and Lena had children?”

Margie registered shock. “Yah, I told ya that.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Oh, gosh, I’m pretty sure I did.”

“No, you told me your sister, Vivian, and her husband, Vern, had a daughter.”

“And my brother, Ole, and Lena had children of their own.”

“No—”

“But I’m almost positive I told ya about Buford and Buddy, Ole and Lena’s twin boys.”

“You mentioned their names, but you never said they were Ole and Lena’s kids.”

Margie dropped her head and groaned, “For cryin’ out loud, I swear I’m losin’ my mind. As I get older, my brain cells seem to die off as fast as my fat cells multiply.” She patted the little muffin top that spilled over the waistband of her jeans. Then she pulled a slip of paper from her pocket. “This here’s my checklist. I’ve done a million of these suppers, but if I don’t check everything off … Well, a few months back, I cooked for two hundred at a funeral and forgot to put coffee in the coffee makers. We ended up with nothin’ to drink ’cept hot water, if ya can imagine that.”