A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes: A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery (6 page)

Being no dummy, when Margie looked at me, I played the role of Switzerland by saying, “I don’t want to cause any problems, so I’ll just have whatever you think is best.” In truth, while hungry, I really didn’t want to hang around the café for fear of meeting up with the twins—Buddy in particular. Nevertheless, I added, “Overnight Hot Dish would suit me just fine.”

As I said, Margie was an easy-going person, at least where I was concerned, but I’d annoyed her once already, and I wasn’t about to press my luck.

Chapter Nine

M
argie went to the kitchen
to dish up some hot dish for Barbie and me. And while she was gone, Barbie sat quietly, most likely mulling over everything we—I mean she—had learned about Raleigh Cummings and his death. As for me, I was thinking about food. Yeah, I did that a lot. Some might say too much. And I was making a concerted effort to change. At present, for example, I had a second portion of my brain fretting about the possibility of running into Buddy Johnson, while a third was stewing over what Randy must have said about me to Tweedledum and Tweedledumber.

Oh, yeah, I was also upset about this latest murder. I enjoyed this area and, for the most part, the people in it, so I didn’t want bad things to happen here. And because I’d always been a fair-minded person, I didn’t want anyone—including Buddy Johnson—prosecuted for a crime unless actually guilty. But from what I’d gathered, Sheriff Halverson wasn’t like minded on that particular subject. He wanted to solve this case quickly, and he’d prefer to do it on the back of Buddy Johnson. Naturally that bugged me.

When it came right down to it, though, unraveling this murder wasn’t my cause. I was a mere guest in town. Tomorrow forenoon I’d get my new recipes. Then I’d meet up with Deputy Randy Ryden. And if he could adequately explain away the attitude of his fellow deputies, we’d go on to have a great weekend at his place, despite the weather or Kennedy’s current crime wave. At least that’s what I’d hoped.

“Hey, Emme Malloy!”

The force of the bellow practically blew me off my stool. And while I didn’t need to raise my eyes to verify its source, I did just the same.

It was Father Daley, the Irish priest who ministered to the few Catholics who resided in this corner of the state. Like me, he was an oddity here. Then again, he probably would have been an oddity anywhere.

He was a sixty-something clergy who enjoyed beer and wine and was a fierce competitor at bowling, golfing, and curling, not to mention poker and whist. He laughed hard and often and was known to frequent the VFW in Kennedy as well as the Eagles in Hallock. He wasn’t particularly tall, but what he lacked in height, he made up in girth and volume. His hair was black, curly, and streaked with gray. He always wore black pants and shirts, his religious collar barely peeking out from under his double chin. As customary, a toothpick was lodged between his jaws. Tonight his normally bright blue eyes were tired, rimmed in red, with dark shadows beneath them.

“Hello, Father.” I stood for his embrace. Father Daley was a hugger. A big hugger.

“I heard you were planning to visit us, lass.” He stepped back after nuzzling me. “I just wasn’t sure you’d make it in light of the weather.” He spoke with an Irish brogue that sometimes was more prominent than others. I suspected it changed to suit his needs.

“The threat of a storm couldn’t keep me from dropping in on all of you.”

Margie placed a plate of food in front of me and another next to Barbie, while the priest squeezed my arms with his big bear paws and asked, “So how are you feeling?”

When I was laid up here, Father Daley had stopped by every day. I’m sure he did it primarily because of his friendship with Margie. Since he spent considerable time with her in the café, I suppose it didn’t take too much effort to trudge upstairs to “visit the sick.” Still, it was nice of him to break the monotony of my days, even if I was exceedingly uncomfortable around him at first.

I had no idea what an older priest and a young wayward Catholic woman with a bump on her head would discuss. But it didn’t end up being a problem. As Margie often said, “We talked up a storm.” He also recited poetry and told pitiful jokes. And not once did he question my religious practices, although, in the end, that also caused me guilt. You see, while not a particularly good Catholic, I’m a Catholic nonetheless, and we’re born with more than a lifetime worth of guilt, especially about our faith.

“I’m doing fine, Father. Just fine.”

He narrowed his eyes while using his tongue to slide his toothpick to the opposite corner of his mouth. “Are you sure, Emerald?”

When I’d first met Father Daley, I feared he—and all priests, for that matter—could see into my soul. It was a notion imparted on the students at my elementary and middle school by Sister Helen, the most frightening person to walk the face of the earth. Even in the lower grades, I knew better than to put any faith in what she said. Yet I found myself steering clear of clergy whenever possible. And when not possible, I did my best to avoid eye contact. The practice flourished in high school. And now, while I was doing my utmost to put a halt to the silly habit, it was tough going, mostly because Father Daley was extraordinarily perceptive. Despite an inability to see into my soul, he seemed to have little trouble otherwise reading me, as he was doing at that very moment.

“Well, I suppose I’m still struggling.” I forced myself to meet his gaze. “But I’m certainly doing better than I was.”

“Aye,” he replied, “and now that you’re among friends, you’ll grow even stronger. See, Emerald, the support of others is important to overall well-being.” He winked at Margie. “As is laughter from a good joke.” He eyed Barbie. “And believe it or not, I happen to have one!”

Both Margie and Barbie dropped their heads and groaned, but the priest grinned, exposing a set of square white teeth that resembled so many piano keys.

Now trust me, Father Daley wasn’t the only person in the area who told jokes. Ole and Lena jokes, recited in memory of two of the town’s most beloved residents, were as common as “snow in January,” as Margie said. And given the number I’d heard during my last visit, I could attest to that.

“Emme,” the priest said, his weary eyes conjuring up a tiny sparkle, “don’t pay any attention to those two. Just sit and enjoy.”

He steered me back onto my stool while remaining standing at my side. “I got this one from Jodi Johnson. She and her husband farm just west of Hallock. True, they’re Protestants. But they’re nice folks just the same.” He chuckled at that.

And Margie repeatedly cleared her throat.

“Okay, okay,” he said, dismissing her impatience with a wave of his hands before hitching up his pants. “One day Ole was driving along, when he got hit by a truck. So he sued. And while in court, the truck driver’s lawyer asked him, ‘So, Ole, did you report to the police officer at the scene that you were just fine?’ And Ole replied, ‘Well now, I’ll tell ya what happened. See—’

“The lawyer interrupted. ‘Your honor, I’m trying to establish that Ole’s a fraud. First he said he was uninjured, but now he’s suing. So please instruct him to answer my question!’

“The judge, obviously intrigued by Ole, said instead, ‘I’d like to hear more.’ And Ole replied, ‘Tanks, your honor. Well, I’d just gotten my favorite cow, Bessie, into my truck and was drivin’ down da road, when dat udder truck came thunderin’ through da stop sign and hit me. I was thrown into one ditch, while Bessie was thrown into da udder. I was hurt bad. But worse den dat, I could hear old Bessie moanin’ in pain. And when da officer showed up, he went on over to Bessie, saw her sufferin’, took out his gun, and shot her right between da eyes. Den he crossed da road, his gun still in his hand, and said to me, ‘Now, fella, how are ya feelin’? So I ask ya, what would ya of said?’”

Margie and Barbie moaned, while Father Daley snickered as he scratched his belly.

I did the same—the snickering, not the scratching. “Hey, Father, what are you doing here on such a terrible night?” I asked the question after concluding I didn’t dare encourage another joke, even though I got a kick out of them. “I assumed you’d be tucked away at home in Hallock.”

Snatching his toothpick between his stubby fingers, he picked his teeth. “I had to come to the beet dinner.”

Margie echoed, “Had to?”

“Yes,” the priest replied emphatically. “I wasn’t about to let bad weather keep me from getting a free meal out of you and your nephews. I deserved this banquet. I worked hard.”

“What?” I repeated the remark to myself before I spoke out loud. “You worked in the beet fields?”

“Of course. I may be old—”

Margie cut him off. “Eh, there’s no maybe about it. You’re so old your Social Security number is ‘one.’”

The priest bit his lip, visibly working to stifle a grin. Just as I’d remembered, Father Daley and Margie thrived on kidding each other.

“Yes, Emerald,” the priest said, playfully turning his back on his friend, “I operated a beet cart on the day shift. I’ve done it for years. And the good Lord willing, I’ll do it for many more. Working the earth is good for the soul.” He expelled a lung-clearing breath. “However, at my age, doing both farming and preaching on a daily basis is tough on the body. Thankfully beet harvest only lasts a few weeks. Although because of the rain and the cold, it dragged on much longer this year.”

Barbie, who’d been eating, let her fork clamor against her plate. “Father, since you were on the day shift, I suppose you didn’t get to know Raleigh Cummings, the guy who was murdered, did you?”

While a question, she asked it as if she already knew the answer, so the priest surprised her with his reply. “I met him once. This past Tuesday, as a matter of fact. Right after his shift ended. And I suppose you could say we talked.” He settled on the stool next to me.

“How did that come about?” Margie wanted to know.

Indecision flickered in the priest’s eyes. “I don’t know if I should say . . .” He wrung his thick hands as he sputtered, “But . . . umm . . . since he’s deceased . . . And . . . umm . . . considering I’ve already told the sheriff . . . Still . . .”

“Hey, Padre,” Margie squawked, “let me know when you’re done arguin’ with yourself.” She stepped into the kitchen, only to return about five minutes later with four plates of Lemon Meringue Pie. She placed one in front of each of us, keeping the last for herself.

I was awestruck by what looked to be confectionary perfection. Margie had made a variety of pies for the beet banquet. When she told me this particular Lemon Meringue Pie was the best she’d ever tasted, I knew I had to try it. “The recipe’s from Irene Stellon, over there in Drayton,” she had said. “It’s been a family favorite of theirs for generations.”

“So what did you mean you ‘could say’ you talked to Raleigh Cummings?” It was a good question on Barbie’s part, but I wished she’d waited with it. I didn’t want anything affecting my pie experience. I was hoping to engage all my senses.

“Well,” the priest replied, “he was so angry I couldn’t really get a word in edgewise. He just kept on ranting.”

“Ranting? About what?”

Father Daley picked up his fork. “Margie’s niece, Little Val.”

Chapter Ten

T
he priest forked a sizeable
chunk of Lemon Meringue Pie into his mouth. “Buddy asked me to speak with Raleigh about his . . . umm . . . inappropriate use of the field radio.” He licked his lips. “Margie, this is delicious. Definitely one of your best.” He helped himself to another big bite. “He thought a warning from me might carry some extra weight.” He glanced down at his paunch, then up at Margie and winked.

I turned back to my own slice of heaven. And after finishing it off in record time—thank you very much—I ate more of my dinner, alternating mouthfuls of hot dish and Jell-O.

Normally I avoided Jell-O salads and desserts. But I was hungry. And this Jell-O salad was good, even if it consisted of little more than Jell-O and Cool Whip. It was called Lime Jell-O Salad.

Earlier, Margie had handed me the recipe card, noting that the dish was perfect for the paper’s next spread on “church cuisine.” And now, while perusing the short list of ingredients, penned in her barely legible handwriting, I eagerly took another bite of the final product, only to stop short of swallowing.

The priest was staring at me. I felt his eyes boring into the side of my head. The sensation left me with no choice but to rest my fork on my napkin and meet him eye to eye.

“See,” he said, once he had my full attention, “each machine used during harvest has a radio so everyone on that particular farm can communicate. You know, the guys driving the trucks can talk to the person manning the lifter back in the field and so on. But whatever is said by one is heard by all. And there’s the rub.”

“What’s that got to do with Raleigh being mad to Little Val?” Barbie pushed aside her empty dinner and dessert plates.

“Well, even though the radios are mainly for work, folks also use them to shoot the breeze. And usually that’s not a problem. But this past Tuesday morning Raleigh Cummings used it to tell a joke that was totally inappropriate. And he did it while Vivian was operating the rota-beater, and Little Val was on the lifter.”

“Huh?” I’m sure my eyes nearly popped out of my head. “Did you say Vivian?” That was almost impossible for me to fathom. I’d met Vivian. She was Margie’s younger sister and the mother of Little Val. She talked nonsense—literally. She routinely mixed metaphors and jumbled her words. Half the time no one had a clue what she was saying. On top of that, she was utterly full of herself. I couldn’t imagine her consenting to work anywhere, much less in the beet fields.

“Oh, she didn’t do all that much,” Margie was quick to point out. “She only helped those last few nights ’cause Vern got the flu.” Margie seldom gave Vivian credit for anything, in spite of being quick to come to her defense if anyone else criticized her. “She wanted to keep on his good side.” She said for my benefit, “She’d finally convinced him to drive down to Arizona early this year, and she didn’t want him havin’ any second thoughts. They’re scheduled to leave right after Thanksgivin’. Other years, they’ve waited ’til after the first of the year. But Vivian says that’s too late. She gets too cold.”

Margie cocked her head. “Yah, they’re snowbirds. Every winter they stay in one of those RV camps near Phoenix.” She shuddered. “I don’t care how nice the weather is down there, I’d go crazy with so many people crowded into such a small area.”

She switched back to the subject of farm work without so much as a breath. “Anyways, while Vivian doesn’t really do diddly squat on the farm, Little Val has pretty much run the place—the whole kit and caboodle—just as good as any man, ever since her dad lost his arm in that farm accident a few years back. Oh, for sure, he offers her ‘a hand’ every now and again.”

She chuckled at her “one arm” joke. They were her favorite jokes to tell. And oddly enough, Vern didn’t seem to mind being the butt of them. To the contrary. He actually was flattered when she renamed her signature meal at the cafe “One-Arm Hot Dish,” noting on the menu, “It’s so easy to make even Vern can do it!”

“Oh, yah,” Margie added, “Wally—that’s Little Val’s husband—tries hard too. But even though he’s got all four limbs, he’s not much of a farmer. Not that I’m criticizin’, mind ya. I’m just sayin’.” She wrapped a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “And make no mistake about it, he does a good job drivin’ beet truck every year, and he works darn hard at that job of his in Hallock. He sells crop insurance, don’t ya know. And he makes decent money and gets family health benefits to boot. So, by golly, things could be a whole lot worse there.”

Margie kept on talking while she poured Father Daley a cup of coffee. “Durin’ harvest, though, we all hafta pitch in to make sure everythin’ gets done.” She handed it to him. “That means Buford and Buddy work with Little Val on her farm. Then visa versa. Like I said, even Wally helps out. And if absolutely necessary, Vivian too.” She flapped her hand in the air, motioning to the space around her. “Since I can’t leave this place, I prepare all the lunches and such.”

I set my fork on my plate and rested my forearms on the counter. “Isn’t Little Val pregnant?” During my last visit, I’d seen her perform in a band alongside her husband, Barbie’s husband, and Buford and Buddy’s sister.

“Ya betcha, she is,” Margie answered. “She’s due in less than three weeks. That’s why Vern and Vivian aren’t goin’ south till the end of next month. They wanna be here for the birth. The first of the next generation.” She smiled wistfully for a moment.

“Since Little Val’s been feelin’ fine, she just keeps on workin’,” she then went on to say. “I guess that’s not quite true. She feels good, but she’s had a devil of a time sleepin’. That darn baby has its days and nights all mixed up.” The twinkle in her eyes belied her harsh tone. “That’s why she opted for the second shift durin’ beet harvest this year.”

Father Daley shook his head at Margie, a look of exasperation lined with humor on his face. “Well, as I was saying about an hour ago—before old windbag here got going—Little Val was the first to get on the radio and give Raleigh a piece of her mind about his so-called joke. But when she finished, most of the crew followed suit. As you might expect, Raleigh got really angry and started going on about how field work wasn’t meant for women. Again, right over the radio. And I guess he made some terrible cracks about Little Val in the process. Though pretty much everyone on the crew came to her defense. Which only made the guy more furious.” The priest rocked his head in disappointment.

“I wasn’t aware of that.” Margie’s features were pinched. “But it doesn’t surprise me.” Although it clearly annoyed her that no one had bothered to inform her about the fuss in the field. Margie, you see, prided herself on being “in the know,” especially about family. “Little Val has always spoken her mind,” she then said in a manner that suggested the slight didn’t upset her, even if her pursed lips told a different story. “And now that’s she pregnant, she’s even more blunt, if that’s possible. Oh, yah, it’s as if she’s gotta set the whole world straight before her baby’s born into it.” She shook her head. “I pity the soul who doesn’t fall in line.”

Father Daley finished his coffee. “As it happens, Little Val and Vivian weren’t the only women on that crew either. One of the twins’ best truck drivers is a devoutly Christian woman from over by Lancaster. She’s been hauling for them for years. She was there too.”

Margie’s face relaxed, her aggravation easing at the mere mention of that other woman. “She’s as nice as can be. And, uff-da, what a worker!” She shook her finger at me, the movement in sync with her words. “She just had a baby two months ago, but that didn’t stop her from harvestin’. No, sir-ree. She simply took that little guy right along in the truck with her.” She nodded, as if to assure me she wasn’t telling a tall tale. “He slept in his car seat next to her. And since she did most of the diaper changin’ and nursin’ when she was waitin’ to get loaded and unloaded, it caused no problems whatsoever.”

“Yep,” the priest said, “in the words of the great poet Bob Dylan, ‘Times, they are a changin’.”

“Yah, for sure, Father,” Margie murmured. “And it’s about time.”

The priest offered his friend an agreeable nod. “When Buddy heard what had happened between Raleigh and Val, along with the rest of his crew, he called me. He wanted me to talk to Raleigh and, if possible, settle him down. With only a couple days to go in the field, he and Buford didn’t need anyone causing trouble. And since he and Raleigh didn’t get along, he figured it wouldn’t do any good for him—or Buford, for that matter—to say anything to the man.”

He pulled a napkin from the dispenser and wiped his thick hands. “When I first met Raleigh, I assumed he was simply on edge, like a lot of people get by the end of harvest from too much work and too little sleep. But the more we talked, the more he started going on about how a field radio was no place to be exchanging recipes or discussing the trials of breastfeeding and menopause.”

Margie interjected, “Barbie, that’s why you’ll never be asked to work in the field. All you ever do is whine about menopause.”

Barbie set her shoulders. “I can’t help it. Between the bloating and the hot flashes, menopause has just about done me in.” She pulled the front of her jersey away from her neck and blew down her chest. “The truth is I’m so hot right now I could strip down—”

“Enough!” Margie barked with laughter.

The priest zeroed in on me, ignoring both Margie and Barbie. And who could blame him? “I told Raleigh I’d ask the twins to get the women on the crew to refrain from that kind of chatter. But that wasn’t enough.” He plucked his toothpick from his mouth and tapped it against his plate. “He was livid with Little Val. And I couldn’t do anything to appease him.”

“I suppose Wally gave him an earful too.” Margie circled toward me. “He’s always so protective of Val.”

The priest arched his brows. “Oddly enough, from what I understand, Wally didn’t say a word. Nothing at all. Not to Little Val or to Raleigh Cummings.”

“Really?” Margie seemed shocked.

“That’s what I was told. Although when I talked to Raleigh, he had no trouble coming up with a few choice words about Wally. But none of it made much sense to me.” The priest paused. “I believe he’d been drinking. I thought I smelled alcohol on his breath.”

Barbie pulled a napkin from the dispenser and wiped her mouth. “Tell me again, Father, when did you talk to him?”

“Around noon on Tuesday. He was coming off his shift, and I was about to start mine.”

Less than a second passed between the priest’s answer and Barbie’s next question. “Do you know if he and Little Val—or he and Wally—exchanged words later?”

The priest chewed on the question as well as his toothpick. “I don’t know. Until tonight in there”—he pointed toward the middle room—“I hadn’t seen either Wally or Little Val for quite a while.” He held his hand up. “I take that back. I saw Wally in Hallock Wednesday afternoon.” He thought about that for a moment. “Yeah, that would have been yesterday. I was waiting my turn at the car wash. I was behind Hunter Carlson. He was washing that pickup of his—inside and out—and taking forever. But, no, I didn’t get a chance to talk to Wally. He was in his old Jeep. He just drove by. He appeared to be in a hurry.”

“Was he alone?” Barbie wanted to know.

“Yep.”

“Hmm.”

The priest twirled his stool around to face Barbie and me. “When it comes right down to it, I don’t think any of this matters.”

Hard lines of worry marked Margie’s face. “What makes you say that?”

“Well,” the priest replied, checking out the hallway before lowering his voice, “the sheriff came into the middle room a while ago to question Buddy.”

Margie groaned. “If that don’t take the cake.” She pounded the counter with her fist. “He always assumes the worst of that boy. I swear that ever since Harold Halvorson became sheriff, most of the time he hasn’t known whether to wind his butt or scratch his watch.”

And with those words hanging in the air, I attempted to finish my dinner.