A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes: A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery (7 page)

Chapter Eleven

I
walked Barbie and Father Daley
to their cars. The sky was dark. Snow was coming down hard. And because of the blustering wind, visibility was poor. Both the priest and the newspaper lady were confident they’d make it back to Hallock without any trouble. Even so, they promised to proceed in a caravan. I’m sure they only wanted to placate me, but I didn’t care. Driving didn’t seem like a good idea, particularly for Barbie, who, storm or not, was a menopausal maniac behind the wheel.

As for me, even though I hadn’t planned on traveling anywhere, my car still posed a problem. My overnight bag was in the back seat, and the sleet that had fallen earlier had formed a sheet of ice over the entire vehicle, freezing the doors shut.

With only the light slanting from a couple of street lamps, I chiseled along the door handle with a pen I’d found at the bottom of my purse. After that I scraped ice with one of my credit cards. I warmed one hand in my jacket pocket, then the other. I hadn’t thought to bring gloves. It was only October, for God sake.

True, I could have asked for help from someone in the cafe. But I didn’t want to chance a run-in with Buddy Johnson. Not a particularly friendly thought considering, at the moment, he was being grilled by the sheriff. But there it was. And, as penance, I was forced to struggle with my car door all by myself.

Finally, after swearing under my breath and jerking the handle repeatedly, the door cracked open. With hands so cold they burned, I snatched my bag and rushed across the highway, a gust of wind nearly knocking me to my knees. Recovering with the grace of a drunk, I stumbled to the sidewalk, pushed through the door, and retreated to my rented room upstairs.

It was a small and drafty space but just about perfect as far as I was concerned. With its white iron bed, antique dresser, and drop-leaf table, it reminded me of my own room growing up. This room, however, had an adjoining bath.

Before turning in for the night, I showered, mostly to warm my cold limbs. I also took a shot at combing my hair. Being it was incredibly curly—think old-time telephone cord—combing it was always a lesson in patience and, quite often, futility. Especially after subjecting it to a hard-driving wind, like the one blowing outside. I gave up shortly, choosing instead to slip into my flannel nightie and wiggle beneath the blankets on the bed. A draft was sneaking through the cracks along the windowsill, so I nuzzled deeper and pulled my quilt higher before switching off the bedside lamp.

Lying there in the dark I heard the faint murmur of voices downstairs. There were only a few of them now, the lone female voice undoubtedly being Margie’s, and the male voices, very similar to one another in timbre, surely belonging to the twins.

As they spoke, I tossed and turned, knowing full well I should have stayed in the café and showed some courage by facing Buddy. After all, did I truly believe I could spend three days in a town the size of a bus shelter and not see him?

Last time I was here I’d chalked up my jumpiness around him to the fact that he oozed testosterone and recklessness. And, admittedly, his brooding dark eyes and bad-boy smile still sent me reeling. But deep down I knew the primary reason for my current angst when near him was my failure to apologize for my part in the demise of his family. That lapse had left me feeling terribly guilty because I knew what it was like to lose family due to others. I also knew the anguish of having those responsible fail to express regret for their actions.

I threw my pillow aside and buried my face in the mattress. Apologizing was hard work though. It was much easier, even if undeniably childish, to avoid Buddy, claiming I was protecting myself from a gorgeous scoundrel, who, if allowed to get too close, would do me wrong. Which, on one hand, was true. But only on one hand. One itty, bitty hand.

I snatched my pillow and slapped it over my head, unsuccessfully hiding from the guilt that assailed me. Flipping on my back, I groaned. I had to apologize. I didn’t want to. But I had no choice.

Emme, isn’t it strange how in the dark of night truth and right can shine so brightly you can’t ignore them?

“Yeah,” I mumbled to the irritating voice in my head, “I might start sleeping with the lights on.”

*   *   *

I woke to an overture
of clanging dishes and muffled voices accompanied by the aroma of coffee. The coffee alone should have excited me—made me glad I was alive—but it didn’t.

I leaned up on my elbow and checked the clock on the bedside table—7:30 a.m.—in glowing red. I moaned and fell back against my pillow. Who was I fooling? I wouldn’t go to sleep again. I hadn’t done much of it during the night. And daylight certainly wasn’t likely to change that.

I threw the covers back and got up, my toes cold against the hardwood floor. I tapped-danced to the window and gazed outside. The sky was dusky and the wind, spooky sounding. With high-pitched screeches, it blew the snow horizontally into banks that buffeted the buildings and vehicles and hid the highway in low drifts that reminded me of sand dunes—terribly misplaced sand dunes.

I flipped on the lamp and got dressed, starting with my socks. Next came my jeans and a navy cable-knit sweater over a red turtleneck. I finished with my trusty red tennies. I don’t adhere to the fashion rule that redheads shouldn’t wear red. I love red. It makes me happy. And that particular morning, I needed happy. My fitful sleep had left me unsettled, much like the weather.

I dug out my makeup and applied just enough to feel stronger. More put together. A swipe of mascara on my lashes and some blush along my freckled cheekbones. Then another attempt at taming my curls. But even when feeling strong, I’m no match for my hair, and I soon called it quits.

I straightened my bed covers, brushed my teeth, and checked my phone. No calls. From anyone. Not even Randy. I did, however, have another text from Boo-Boo. I deleted it without so much as a glance. Nonetheless, worry tripped along my spine. I should have been able to dissuade him by now. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I get him to leave me alone? I’d have to try harder. And I would. As soon as I returned to Minneapolis.

Chasing Boo-Boo from my thoughts, I switched off the lamp and headed downstairs, the stairs creaking, old and achy, beneath me. While still upset with Randy for what he must have said about me to Tweedledum and Tweedledumber, I found myself eager to see him and, if completely honest, a little disappointed he hadn’t reached out to me.

With a toss of my head, I shook off my discontent and hopefully the insecurities that incited it. I was being silly. There was no reason to hear from him. Our plans were made. He’d be back in the afternoon, and I’d see him then. As Margie routinely said about almost everything, “That should be good enough.”

*   *   *

As I entered the café
, I discovered the lights on, yet the place itself empty. Margie’s voice echoed from the middle room, but I opted to postpone joining her until after an infusion of coffee. Yes, Margie’s coffee was notoriously weak, but it was sixty miles to the nearest Starbucks. And on this particular morning, the trip would require a dog sled, which I’d left at home, next to my winter jacket, gloves, and head-bolt heater.

In the kitchen, I claimed a standard restaurant-style coffee cup from the shelf above the sink before twirling around and nearly smacking into Buddy Johnson. He stood directly in front of me, only inches away. I yelped and dropped the cup.

“Mornin’,” he said. His hair was tousled. His eyes were sleepy. And his naturally sun-kissed cheeks were covered in a whisker shadow. I had to remind myself to breath—but not to pant. The man was definitely too handsome for anyone’s good.

He stooped to pick up my cup and its broken handle, tossing both into a nearby trash can. Next, he grabbed two mugs from the shelf. “Sorry if I scared you.” With a heavy-lidded gaze, he offered me one of the mugs.

“Umm . . . no, you . . . I mean yes, you . . .” I seized the mug and clutched it to my chest. “Umm . . . no, that’s not right. I mean no, you didn’t scare me. And . . . umm . . . yes, thanks for the cup.”

Hey, Emme, that was almost as smooth as when you learned to drive a stick shift.

I think I actually heard the voices in my head high-five one another over that little joke.

“Shut up,” I mumbled.

“Excuse me?” It was Buddy. Thankfully he had moved to the coffee station out front, in the dining section of the cafe. “Did you say something?” His voice was slightly raised so I could hear him.

“Umm . . . no.”

He stepped back into the kitchen, the coffee pot extended. “Want to finish this off?”

“Yeah . . . umm . . . thanks.”

He poured the last of the coffee into my mug and set the pot on the metal prep table. He grabbed a stool and motioned me to follow suit. “I was surprised to see you here last night,” he said. “I didn’t know you were coming up.”

“Well . . . umm . . .” I sat down. “Well . . . umm . . . we’re doing another funeral-food spread, so . . . umm . . . I needed more of Margie’s recipes.”

He chuckled. “That could be interesting considering this new kick she’s on. ‘Expanding her horizons’ and all.”

“Uh-huh.” This wasn’t going well. I had to apologize. And I had to do it soon. It was the only way to restore my self-respect and, with it, my ability to think and speak. Sure, it would have been easier to phone it in, but I hadn’t gotten around to doing that. So now I had no choice but to look across the table and tell Buddy Johnson—face to face—how sorry I was for everything that had happened to his family.

That’s right, Emme. Apologize. If you don’t, you’ll continue to be pestered by guilt. And when that happens, you not only turn into an idiot, you search for comfort at the bottom of ice cream cartons and among the crumbs in brownie pans. And you really don’t want to do that, do you?

I wasn’t about to admit it, but the voices in my head were right. At that very moment I was practically consumed by cravings for Black Bottom Cupcakes. I’d spotted some on the kitchen counter the night before. Margie said the recipe was from Nancy Peterson Lundberg. She also said, “They’re gall-darn tasty.” I gave the room a quick once-over but didn’t see any.
Damn! I mean darn!

With a resigned sigh, I folded my hands and rested them on the steel table in front of me. “Buddy?” I attempted to inhale deeply, but my chest was too tight for anything more than a shallow breath. “I’m sorry about your family.” I pushed the statement out fast, on a single exhale, afraid I’d chicken out if I paused at all. “I didn’t mean for things to turn out the way they did.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Buddy shifted uncomfortably. Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about the incident either. But now that I’d committed myself to this particular act of contrition, I couldn’t turn back, even if that’s what he would have preferred.

“Well . . . umm . . . in truth,” I stuttered, “I was only supposed to gather hot dish, Jell-O, and bar recipes. Nothing more. I wasn’t . . . umm . . . assigned to dig into an old murder case. Even so, that’s what I did.” I swallowed over the lump in my throat. “See, I wanted to be . . . umm . . . a hero. I wanted to become an investigative reporter. I really didn’t give much thought to how my ambitions might hurt other people.”

In spite of what folks may claim, unburdening yourself doesn’t feel all that great. At least not initially. And Buddy was no help. He didn’t say a word. He merely raised his head and stared at me, his intense dark eyes giving nothing away. And the silence stretched on between us.

I hate silence. It leads to obsessive thinking. Usually about painful experiences: My parents’ death, my uninspiring job, my past relationship with Boo-Boo, this frightful confession. So I fill silence whenever possible.

“See, Buddy, I tried to . . . umm . . . crack the case to advance my career. But I’m not particularly good at investigative work. The truth is I only stumble along. Solving that murder was a fluke.”

“Emerald, I understand. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?” Nope, he wasn’t any more thrilled about rehashing that other murder case than Margie had been.

Maybe Barbie was right. When I’d asked her to explain Margie’s reluctance to “talk things out,” she said that Scandinavians usually keep their problems and disappointments to themselves. Which was probably true. But I was Irish. Stubborn. A talker. And I was going to finish what I’d started.

“Well . . . umm . . . I just wanted to apologize, Buddy, and say that I’d do anything to make it up to you.” I glanced all around the room but not at him. “Truly I would.”

I sucked in a deep breath and waited. But believe it or not, the world didn’t end. I’d done a very hard thing. I had taken responsibility for my actions. I’d even apologized for them. Still, the earth kept spinning. So I summoned all the courage I had left in me and forced my eyes to meet his. And when that didn’t tilt the planet right off its axis, I indulged in a big gulp of coffee, feeling awfully smug.

At the same time, Buddy flashed me one of his half smiles, where just the right corner of his mouth ticked upward. Then, with a wink, that same smile morphed into what could only be described as a leer. “Really?” he said. “You’d do anything?”

I gagged on my coffee. There was enough suggestive inflection in his voice to choke a horse. “What did you say?” I knew full well what he’d said, but I had to ask again because I didn’t want to believe my ears. Buddy Johnson had propositioned me! Just when I was ready to cut him some slack, he proved what a creep he actually was.

I was angry and embarrassed. And I was pretty sure I wanted to go home. This trip had been doomed from the start. First, Randy had called to say he wouldn’t get back until Friday afternoon, so I’d have to stay with Margie Thursday night. Then, I was late leaving Minneapolis because one of my tires sprang a leak. On top of that, there was this new murder investigation, which I desperately wanted to avoid. And now, Buddy turned out to be the sleaze Randy had warned me about. Could things possibly get any worse?