A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes: A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery (10 page)

“Yeah, the Eagles had a dance—a live band.” He shifted away from the corner of the booth. “But how is any of this related to Raleigh’s murder?”

I searched the recesses of my mind for the answer to that question and came up with nothing concrete. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s not. But for what it’s worth, we now know your friend had a very good reason to dislike Raleigh.”

“Reason enough to kill him?”

“Again, I don’t know.” I paused to collect my thoughts. They were all over the place. “People have killed for less. But since Hunter didn’t even bother to break them up, I wonder how much he really cared for his girlfriend in the first place. On the other hand, he told you he loved her, and he popped you one for criticizing her. Still . . .”

“Maybe he went after Cummings, and I just didn’t see it or don’t remember it.”

“If there had been a ruckus, Buddy, you’d have heard about it at the very least.”

“Well, I never heard a thing.”

“Then I suspect nothing happened. There wasn’t a fight. At least not at the Eagles.” I stopped for the count of two. “We need to talk to this Hunter guy to see what we can find out.”

“I don’t know.”

I raised my eyes and silently prayed for patience. “Buddy, we don’t have much else to go on. And since you aren’t keen on questioning Wally . . .”

He appeared ready to argue but must have thought better of it. “If the weather clears up,” he said, his tone yielding, “there’ll be a fish fry tonight at the Eagles. Hunter never misses one of those.”

“Hey, guys.” Our discussion had been so intense that the sound of someone else’s voice startled me. I jerked my head to find Little Val waddling our way from the kitchen. Instead of a plate full of Rhubarb Bars, she held a fork and a deep-dish pie pan with only the slim remains of a Peaches and Cream Pie. “Where’s Wally?” she squeaked as she clutched her stomach the best she could, given that both of her hands were full.

I know she said something more, but I was focused entirely on the tiny sliver of pie that remained in the pan. Another dessert made by Margie for the beet banquet. She got the recipe from Lillian Heine, who insisted it was “the best pie ever.” But Lillian’s daughter, Elizabeth Stellon, disagreed. She claimed her Rhubarb Meringue Pie was even better. Being someone who preferred making up her own mind, I was looking forward to testing both and deciding for myself. Now I wouldn’t get the chance. I felt cheated and . . .

A scream broke my rumination. It was Little Val. She followed with another that was almost too shrill for humans to hear. And after that she dropped her fork, along with the pie pan. “I think . . . I think . . . I think I’m in labor,” she yelled just before her water broke, gushing down the legs of her father’s wool overalls.

Chapter Fifteen

A
shaft of sunlight penetrated
the
café’s front window. It was early Friday afternoon, and the storm was winding down. The rumbling of snow plows harmonized with the buzzing of snow blowers and the scraping of shovels. And together they provided background music for Little Val, who was moaning and groaning her way through labor.

She was lying on the floor in the café, next to the juke box. Everything had happened so quickly we didn’t have time to get her upstairs, much less to the hospital, even if we could have powered through the snow-blocked roads.

Initially we had considered laying her in a booth, but she wouldn’t fit. As I said, Little Val wasn’t very little anymore. She also refused to be hoisted onto the pool table, much to Buford and Buddy’s poorly disguised relief. So she was making do with the floor until the ambulance arrived, which wouldn’t be until later, when the roads were once more passable.

Margie and Vivian were attending to her, while I did what I could to help, from fetching pillows and blankets to sterilizing everything that wasn’t nailed down. As for Little Val’s husband, Wally, he shifted between kneeling next to his wife and hiding out in a booth, depending if at that particular moment, she “needed him” or wanted to “kill him” for “doing this” to her.

Buddy and his brother had excused themselves early on, claiming they had to go upstairs and get cleaned up since “they were crawling with germs.” Apparently they kept extra clothes up there because the next time I saw them, they were showered, shaved, and hightailing it out of the café in fresh shirts and jeans, professing the need to shovel out the vehicles buried in the snow.
Chickens.

Little Val’s father wasn’t any better. Ever since he and Vivian had arrived, he’d been outside, supposedly clearing the sidewalk. But as I mentioned before, the man was missing an arm, so he couldn’t shovel any better than he could drive his snowmobile. And Vivian had to do that. No lie. After Wally phoned them, it was Vivian who made record time from the farm to the café on the Arctic Cat, Vern merely hanging on for dear life. Regardless, Vern now insisted on remaining outside, scooping snow from the sidewalk so the ambulance crew could make its way into the café.
Chicken.

Inside, during some of her more intense contractions, Little Val begged for painkillers, assuring Wally he could buy them from the guy down the street—the one who’d just undergone knee replacement surgery. When Wally refused, she became furious, demanding that he perform a variety of solo sex acts that were either anatomically impossible or illegal in most states.

Later, after she’d calmed down or grown nearly numb from pain, she agreed to forego further demands for illegal drugs if Wally would sing Righteous Brothers tunes to her. Eager to win his way back into her good graces, he started off with her favorite, “Unchained Melody.” His voice was soft and sweet and full of love. Yet when he got to the line about “time going by so slowly,” Little Val screamed that if he really wanted to see time go by slowly, he should switch places with her. Needless to say, that was the end of Wally’s singing.

Still, he wasn’t ready to give up. He was bound and determined to provide his wife some comfort. And to that end, he plugged in the juke box and grabbed a handful of quarters from the cash register, feeding them into the coin slot and hitting the buttons. He was so nervous he couldn’t think straight or, obviously, see clearly. The first song up was “Goodbye Earl,” by the Dixie Chicks:

“It wasn’t two weeks after she got married that Wanda started gettin’ abused. She put on dark glasses, long-sleeved blouses, and makeup to cover her bruise.”

“Push, push, push,” Vivian urged her daughter while flashing her son-in-law the stink eye. Wally, in response, slapped more buttons, but the song played on, leading Vivian to yell, “Come on now. This isn’t rocket surgery.” And to that Little Val cried, “I’m doing the best I can, Mom!” Then the Dixie Chicks insisted that “Earl had to die.” And Vivian glowered at Wally, making me certain that Earl wasn’t the only guy in really big trouble.

After that, Margie caught Wally’s attention and calmly said, “Just pull the gall-darn plug, son. Just pull the gall-darn plug.” As if a light had finally switched on in his attic, Wally immediately rushed to the juke box, rounded the corner, and cracked his head on the wall. Dazed but not bloodied, he yanked the cord, and the song screeched to a halt. He smiled. Then staggered. And I gave him only about a fifty-fifty chance of remaining upright for the duration.

But who was I to talk? My stomach had pitched and rolled with each one of Little Val’s contractions. And as she urged that baby along, sweat trickled down my chest. On the flip side, I was totally mesmerized by the sight of a human being entering the world. And when that little boy was delivered into his grandmother’s arms, I cried at the wonder of it all. Then I rushed down the hall to the bathroom, where I threw up in the toilet.

When I returned, which may have been too early for my own good, I witnessed Vivian snip the umbilical cord with a kitchen scissor and deliver and wrap the afterbirth. Again I got woozy and had to mimic some of Little Val’s breathing techniques.

Inhaling through my nose to the count of four and exhaling via my mouth to the count of eight, I stared at Vivian. I only knew her to be pretentious and self-centered, as if she were the star of life and everyone else mere bit players. Yet during the birth of that baby, she exhibited none of that arrogance. True, she carried herself with an air of authority, but that was appreciated under the circumstances. Someone had to take charge. Someone had to know what needed to be done. Even if we weren’t always sure what she was saying.

Vivian carefully placed the baby on Little Val’s chest as Wally stretched out on the floor beside them, a soft, buttery light streaming through the window and enveloping the new family. Wally alternated between kissing Little Val’s forehead and patting the tiny boy’s head, while Vivian covered both mother and child with blankets. I took a mental picture of the entire scene. A scene bathed in rich, golden hues. A scene I’d undoubtedly recall many times throughout my life.

The snapshot faded far too quickly, although it was replaced with yet another amazing picture: one of Vivian and Margie embracing. I’m not kidding. When the two of them finally allowed themselves to consider what they had done, they were astounded and delighted by it all and cackled gloriously while hugging and slapping each other on the back.

Their actions must have signaled Wally that it was time to celebrate because he jumped to his feet and sprinted to the door, bidding the guys outside to come in and meet the newest member of the clan. They did but declined all offers to hold the little tyke, though they were quick to join the debate over what to name him.

I hung back, wanting to watch this extraordinary family happening but not wishing to intrude upon it. I was happy for the whole lot of them but felt some envy and sorrow as well. Having no real family, I knew I’d never enjoy an event like this.

Those thoughts—along with a dip in adrenaline now that the birth was over—nudged me toward a melancholy state. But I dug my heels in, refusing to go.

Despite my determination, I was relieved when Margie sidled up alongside me, providing me additional strength just by being there. “Uff-da,” she whispered as she redid the ponytail bound at her neck, “that there was incredible.” She swept her fingers across her damp cheeks. “I never helped deliver a baby before.”

“I never saw a baby being born before.” I gazed at her with admiration. “You were great, Margie.”

“Thanks, but most of the credit has to go to Vivian. And ya know that’s not easy for me to say. But it’s the truth.”

I slid my eyes to my left, where Vivian and Vern had rooted themselves on the edge of a table about ten feet away. My impression had been that Vern and Vivian weren’t especially fond of each other in spite of being husband and wife for twenty-five years. At that moment, however, Vern stood behind his wife, his only arm wrapped around one side of her waist, and cooed, “Oh, Mama, ya did good. Real good. What would we of done without ya?”

She relaxed her head against his chest. “Well, Papa, the thing of it is, ya didn’t hafta find out.” Shifting her eyes between her son-in-law and the little boy nestled against their daughter’s breast, she added, “I only hope he’s not a chip off the old shoulder.”

I captured Margie’s eyes.

“What can I say?” She continued in a hushed voice. “Somethin’ happened to them recently, but I have no clue what it was. It left them nicer to each other than ever before. Sure, Vivian’s still prickly to other folks, but she’s sweet as pie to Vern.” She leaned in closer. “The rest of us have taken to callin’ them the Mamas and the Papas because that’s the only way they refer to each other anymore.”

“Hmm.” I canted my head until it almost touched hers. “The last time I was here I thought Vivian was running around with the guy everyone refers to as the President.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I wished to call them back. Margie could get vicious with anyone who spoke disparagingly about her sister. Apparently that was her job alone. “Not that anything was going on between them,” I quickly added, doing my best at damage control. “I just heard they hung out together.”

Margie eyed her sister but spoke to me. “I haven’t seen the President around for a month or more. Sure he was busy workin’ beets at the end there. But in the past that wouldn’t of stopped him from droppin’ by the café here, especially if he thought he might bump into Vivian. And if nothin’ else, I thought he’d come by to pick up his sack lunch, being he was workin’ for Buddy and Buford. But he never came by.” She paused. “True, Dinky and Biggie didn’t stop in for theirs either. Fact is I didn’t know they were workin’ for the twins until Dinky told me last night. But like he said, they only helped out for a few days at the end, so . . .” Her words dangled mid-sentence. “Yah, it’s strange that the President never stopped by.”

The juke box suddenly came to life, startling both Margie and me. Buford was hunched over it as Johnny Cash belted out “A Boy Named Sue.”

“Anyways,” Margie said loud enough to be heard over the din but not so loud that others might hear, “now that I think about it, the President may of called Vivian at her house early last Friday night.” Her thoughtful expression played up the sharp angles of her face. “Someone called her cell phone, and after she answered it in the dinin’ room, she hurried to the livin’ room, so Little Val and I couldn’t hear.” She leaned her butt against the banquette behind us.

“See, I was over there for supper. Oh, yah, Vivian and I don’t see eye to eye much of the time, but we’re still family, so I eat there every once in a while.” She blew a wisp of hair out of her face. “Little Val was spendin’ the night ’cause Wally was workin’ late at the office. It rained last Friday, so no one hauled beets, and Wally got to get caught up with his job in town.” She rotated what appeared to be a stiff neck, probably due to the tension surrounding the birth. “Little Val and Wally live in the country. But once she started her last month, she wouldn’t stay out there by herself. And who could blame her?”

Wally and Buford joined Johnny Cash for the final stanza of the song:

“Well, I think about him every now and then.

Every time I try, and every time I win.

And if I ever have a son, I think I’m gonna name him—

Bill or George. Anything but Sue. I still hate that name!”

The two of them then joked about all the odd names they could call the baby, including “Buford,” teased Wally, and “Wall-eye,” Buford shot back.

“Though I couldn’t hear well, I could tell Vivian wasn’t happy with the person on the other end of the line,” Margie explained. “I also got the distinct impression it was a man. But it wasn’t Vern. He uses the landline when Vivian’s at home. The reception’s better. Besides, I never heard her call the guy ‘Papa.’ Not even once.”

I had a few questions, but before I could ask the first of them, the café door swung open, and the ambulance crew trudged in. The guy out front shouted to no one in particular, “Cold enough for ya?” And when no one answered, he filled the silence by stomping snow from his boots and wheeling the squeaky stretcher across the floor.

I hugged myself to keep the goose bumps at bay while watching a female member of the crew hustle toward Little Val. As soon as she reached her, she knelt down and hurriedly opened her medical bag. Then with an expression of confidence that put me at ease, she began a cursory examination of both mother and child.

Before long a man rushed to join her, his short thick legs moving like a pinwheel. As he bent over, his jacket rode up, and his pants pulled down, exposing what is universally known as “plumber butt.” It was then, I’m ashamed to say, that I recognized him, not because of some prior intimate encounter but, rather, the frequency with which that butt crack had been on display around town.

The man “behind” it all was Shitty, the local plumber. I’d met him my last time in town. He was a jovial character with a beer belly so big it forced his belt to relocate south of his hips. Hence, the additional “sunshine.”

Besides owning his own plumbing business, Shitty apparently volunteered on the local ambulance crew. Which was a good thing, though I couldn’t help but consider the irony of it as well. I’d sterilized everything that might possibly come into contact with Little Val or her baby, and now Shitty, the plumber, was going to take over.

“Say, everyone . . .” After dashing into the kitchen only minutes earlier, Margie re-emerged with what she called celebratory fudge. “The recipe’s from Peggy Pemberton, and it’s the most exotic fudge I’ve ever made. Perfect for a special occasion.”

She titled the tin in my direction, and I wasted no time choosing the largest piece and biting into it. “What makes this fudge exotic?” I asked as the chocolate melted on my tongue and oozed toward my throat.

“Well,” she replied, “I believe it’s the beef.”