A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes: A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery (8 page)

Ya betcha, Emma. Just wait and see.

Chapter Twelve

B
uddy laughed as he
patted
my back. “I was kidding, Emerald. Just kidding.”

With my coughing winding down, I wiped the corners of my mouth with my fingertips. I wasn’t sure if I believed him.

“In all seriousness,” he continued, not appearing especially serious, “I want something from you. But it’s not what you think.” He stopped for a two count. “I’m not interested in you in that way.”

I dropped my eyes. I couldn’t look at him.
First he comes on to me, only to deny it. Then he assures me he doesn’t find me the least bit desirable. What a jerk!

“Emerald,” he said, “I need your help.”

Unless it involves me shoving my foot so far up your ass I’m able to tie my shoes through your nostrils, you shouldn’t count on it.

“See,” he continued, oblivious to the snide commentary running through my mind, “I’m having a problem with the sheriff.”

“What?” Although I heard him, I was still too humiliated and confused to make sense of his words.

“He’s decided that I killed Raleigh Cummings.” He combed his fingers through his hair. “Margie told me you know the story. She said you and Barbie were out at the piler, talking to Guy and Jarod while they stood guard, waiting for the body to be picked up.”

My breath hitched, prompting another coughing episode.

Once again Buddy patted me on my back.

“The body . . . was still . . . down there?” With all my hacking, my words ended up staggered in phrases that sounded like really bad rap.

Buddy seemed perplexed. “Well, yeah.”

Oh, God!
I was standing on top of a dead guy!
Another shiver ran along my backbone, while several others fanned out to my legs and arms.

“Anyhow,” he said while scratching the whisker stubble that covered his chin, “despite what you claim, I know you’re good at solving mysteries. So how ’bout it?”

“Huh?” I couldn’t process his words.

“Emme, I don’t want to go to jail, particularly for something I didn’t do.”

I massaged my temples and concentrated on slow, steady breathing. Eventually his words resonated, causing me to lurch forward. “Whoa!” My hands instantly made the international sign for “no way.” And when I was certain I’d gotten my point across, I added out loud, “I’m not a detective. You need to hire a professional.”

He canted his head toward the front window. “It’s storming. I wouldn’t be able to get anyone out here for at least a couple days. By then the sheriff will have me bound and gagged. Once I’m in jail, I won’t be able to do much.” His eyes pleaded with me. “I need to figure things out now. And to do that, I need your help.”

“But I can’t.” I had to stay strong. I couldn’t get tangled up in another murder investigation. “I don’t know how—”

“Emerald.” He leaned across the table, a curly lock of his hair falling across his forehead. “What happened to wanting to do whatever you could to make things up to me?”

“I wouldn’t be aiding your cause. You need . . .” An idea limped forward from the back of my brain. “You need . . . the BCA guys. Yeah, they can help you.”

Buddy set his right elbow on the table and rested his chin against his fist. “Maybe, when they get here. But who knows when that’ll be. The interstate’s closed at Alexandria. There’s no air travel between here and St. Cloud. And unless we do something soon, the sheriff will tie the crime to me. Then by the time the BCA guys do show up, it’ll take them forever to sort everything out. And all the while, I’ll be stuck in jail. And I can’t handle that.”

I twisted my hair around my finger. “What about Buford?” Even as I said it, I knew it was a dumb idea. Buford knew farming, but otherwise he wasn’t a deep thinker. Barbie had once told me he could only identify major cities by their professional hockey teams.

“Emerald, I don’t want my freedom dependent on Buford.”

I didn’t want his freedom dependent on me either. I couldn’t be responsible for him. I could barely manage my own life.

“I’m not asking you to strike out on your own.” He spoke as if he understood my concern. “I’m just asking you to work with me. Let me bounce ideas off you.”

“But it’s already Friday. And I’m scheduled to go home on Sunday.” I gathered some much-needed gumption to add, “And . . . umm . . . I have plans beginning this afternoon.”

A bemused expression overtook his face. “There’s no way lover boy’s going to make it back today, if that’s what you’re thinking. This storm’s out of the northwest. He’s stuck in Williston.”

My heart sank so low that if not for my stomach it would have ended up in my lap. Sure, Randy and I needed to work through the whole Tweedledum-Tweedledumber thing. But I was pretty sure we could. At least that was what I was hoping.

“Wait a minute.” Buddy studied my face, his own features slowly revealing understanding. “He hasn’t called or texted you, has he?”

He may have wanted an answer, but I wasn’t about to volunteer anything. See, I had tried to assure myself that Randy’s failure to call was no big deal. But in truth, his disregard hurt. Apparently, while not as needy as I’d been earlier in my life—or even earlier in the year—I still required reassurances. Then again, a measly phone call wasn’t exactly “reassurance.” It was just common courtesy, right?

I gazed at my reflection in the surface of the metal prep table. My distress was apparent to me, and Buddy must have recognized it too because he switched gears, now speaking in a passive voice—the kind you use with a child or an adult you find pitiful. “Hey, the more I think about it, phone reception out there might be spotty with the storm and all. Hell, it’s spotty here when the weather’s good.” He waited, possibly hoping I’d laugh at his attempt at humor. When I didn’t, he rocked back on the rear legs of his stool. “Yeah, he probably called and just couldn’t get through.”

I bit down on my bottom lip. I was a loser of such monumental proportions that even the grand poobah of the local womanizer’s club felt sorry for me. Tears stung my eyes. But I refused to let them fall.

“So?” He settled his stool, stood up, and stretched his arm across the table. He lifted my chin with the tip of his finger. “How about working with me?” He sat back down, his eyes showing so much compassion that it almost made me sick with humiliation. “You’d be helping me out.” He waffled, obviously hunting for something more to say. “And it would keep your mind off . . . I mean . . .” The words stalled on his lips. He hadn’t intended on mentioning Randy or his apparent decision to forget all about me. As a result, he now found himself at a loss. “Well . . . umm . . .” he sputtered. “Who knows? It might be fun.”

I deadpanned, “You’re accused of murder, Buddy? What part of that might be fun?”

He smiled that half-smile of his—the nice one—the one that makes his dark eyes shine like polished stones. “Oh, come on. Do this for me.” He once more bent across the table, this time invading my personal space. He covered my hands with one of his own. “Please.”

While his palm was calloused and his fingers, rough, his touch was soft and soothing. And for someone who had undoubtedly slept in his clothes and hadn’t yet cleaned up, he smelled good. I caught the scent of musk along with a hint of something else. Baby powder perhaps?

I pulled my hand free as soon as I realized I had absolutely no desire to do so. “Did you sleep on the pool table last night?” A change of subject was definitely in order.

“What? Where did that come from?”

“Well, you smell like baby powder. You know, like people use when shooting pool. Plus, I’m guessing you didn’t go home.” I wagged my finger up and down, pointing out his rumpled appearance, which included the same clothes he’d worn the previous day. “And since I slept in one of the bedrooms upstairs, and I assume Margie took the other, you and Buddy were left with the booths or the pool table. And you’re too tall to stretch out in a booth, so you must have slept on the pool table. Am I right?”

He regarded me with appraising eyes. “You are good at deduction.”

He arched what must have been a sore back. And as his torso stretched and his tee-shirt climbed, I couldn’t help but sneak a peek at his abs. “I flipped Buford for it,” he said, relaxing his midsection. “I got the pool table. He got stuck on the bar.”

“The bar?” I mentally scratched my head, determined to keep my thoughts trained on his words and nothing else. “Isn’t that a little narrow for sleeping?”

“Well, you don’t want to do a lot of tossing and turning, that’s for sure.” He settled back on his stool, his half-smile again in place. “On the flip side, you’re close to all the bottles if you get thirsty before morning.”

I found myself chuckling. It was easy to do around Buddy Johnson. My impression was he didn’t take himself too seriously.

“So what do you say?” He tilted his head. “Will you hang out with me for a while? At least until Dudley Do-right shows up?”

I stopped chuckling so I could scowl.

“Sorry, no more snide comments about the esteemed deputy.” He flashed me the Boy Scout hand signal. “I promise.”

“Yeah, right.” A grin betrayed my terse tone. “Like I’m going to believe you were ever a Boy Scout.”

He adjusted the cuffs on his flannel shirt. “How dare you doubt me!” He was going for indignant, but it didn’t work. “Okay, come on,” he added, pretending total exasperation by my misgivings. “Let’s go to my place, and I’ll show you all my badges.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“Does that line really work for you?”

“No, but it made you smile.” He dipped his head toward me. “So? What’s it going to be?”

His expression was full of expectations, which scared me, leaving my mind to jump around until, for some reason, it landed on Pudding Shots. Margie had made some to serve as an after-dinner treat for the adults at the beet banquet. From what I understood, they were nothing more than dollops of pudding in various flavors, all infused with alcohol. She said there were extra servings in the fridge. And I wondered, as I checked the time, if nine o’clock in the morning was too early to taste test a few.

“Emerald? Are you going to help me out or not?”

I sighed. I couldn’t get drunk. I was on the job. Besides, I owed Buddy, given what I had done to his family. So with yet another sigh, I replied, knowing full well I’d more than likely regret my words, “Yeah, I’ll help. I don’t know what kind of assistance I can provide, but I’ll try—at least for the time being.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” He pushed his stool back, the legs scraping the wood floor. “How about some breakfast while we talk things over?”

“Sounds good.”

He started for the refrigerator, while the chimes at Maria Lutheran began to play, just like they did every morning. On this day, though, I could have sworn the tune was something of a funeral march.

Oh, Emme, did you just make a horrible mistake?

Part Two: Survey the Buffet Table To See What’s Left

Chapter Thirteen

W
hile Buddy was in
the
kitchen, scrounging up breakfast, I ambled to the front of the café and grabbed a seat in one of the booths. The Community News section of
The Enterprise
was on the table, and I pulled it closer. A notation across the top of the front page encouraged folks to submit information regarding social events, group meetings, and other “happenings.”

The first entry in “Social Events” read,

Sue Kulbeik and friends drove from Elbow Lake, Minnesota, to Oakwood, North Dakota, last Wednesday for taco night at the bar.

It was followed by,

The Hennen sisters had lunch at Bauer’s Flowers, Gifts & Coffee Corner in Warren after visiting the Willow and Ivy Gift Shop and their urologist in Crookston. The lunch was pleasant. As was shopping. The urologist, not so much.

The next was a bit more dramatic:

Unexpected guests stopped by Lyndon Johnson’s rural-Hallock home last Saturday afternoon. Having nothing prepared to go with the coffee he served, Lyndon whipped up Fork and Pan Cake, which takes very little time and, as suggested by its name, requires only a fork and a pan to prepare.”

Hmm.
The recipe wasn’t included, but I made a mental note to ask Margie about it.

I then skimmed the rest of the event entries as well as two ads, one urging folks to visit Drayton Drug for their prescription and gift needs and the second encouraging them to shop at Anderson’s Pharmacy in Hallock for the same.

Buddy walked into the room and, from the large tray balanced on his forearm, retrieved plates of what he called Breakfast Pie. After setting them on the table, along with a pot of coffee, a carafe of orange juice, and a plate of buttered toast, he tossed the empty tray onto the table in the next booth and slid in across from me. “Tell me what you’ve got so far.”

“Didn’t Margie already do that?”

He held up his hand, signaling he’d respond as soon as he’d finished a mouthful of eggs. “I’d like to hear it from you,” he said on the swallow.

“Well . . .” It was my turn to do the hand thing. I’d never been especially concerned about my manners, but I was making an effort to change my ways. “Well,” I repeated after washing down my food with a sip of coffee, “I don’t have a lot.”

My thoughts stumbled over the few tidbits I’d gathered, and I relayed them to him. I explained how I’d learned about Raleigh’s early-morning “joke” from Father Daley. And I reported Margie’s account of Dinky Donaldson’s afternoon encounter with Raleigh and the city clerk. “Plus, there’s the story the deputies shared with us about you and Raleigh having it out at the Caribou in Hallock.” I pointed at his black eye. “So what’s your side of that?”

An engine whined outside, distracting both of us. The sound grew louder and louder before it stopped altogether.

“First,” Buddy answered after the quiet had been restored, “it’s not much of a black eye.” He held up one finger, followed by another. “And, second, I saw Raleigh in the Caribou around six on Tuesday night, when I stopped in for supper. He was well on his way to getting hammered. When he spotted me, he started going on about how Buford and I had it so easy. I reminded him he didn’t even know us. But he said he knew our kind, and that was enough.” He rubbed his hands down his face, apparently already tired of dealing with the death of Raleigh Cummings. “I wasn’t in the mood to listen to that shit, so I told him that since he couldn’t work drunk, he may as well consider himself done. We only had a day or so left anyhow.”

He picked up his fork and poked at his Breakfast Pie. It was a mixture of eggs, sausage, potatoes, cheese, and seasoning. “Then because I’d finished my meal, I paid my bill and left. But like some damn shadow, Raleigh followed me outside, yakking about how he wasn’t drunk and I couldn’t fire him.” He raised his eyes to mine, his expression subdued. “I tried to ignore him. But when I opened the door to my truck, he took a swing at me. He missed, but I reacted.” He shrugged. “What can I say? I shoved him. He fell against another truck and slid to the ground.” He loaded up his fork. “I didn’t stick around to help him up.”

I had lots of questions, but in the end, curiosity dictated what I asked. “So where’d you get the shiner?”

He hesitated, his fork midway to his mouth. “I told you. It’s nothing.”

Before I could offer a rebuttal, the café door creaked open to an odd-looking pair. They clomped inside, leading the way for a lot of cold air. Despite wearing a turtleneck and a sweater, I had to rub my arms to stave off the chills.

The taller of the two wore a black nylon snowmobile suit, black boots and gloves, and a matching helmet, complete with a dark face shield. The shorter one also wore clunky boots, thick gloves, and a helmet with a face shield. But the other clothes were different. Very different. They consisted of plaid bib overalls that looked to be wool, a knit turtleneck, and a down jacket that refused to zip more than a few inches, leaving a protruding belly exposed.

The two removed their gloves and helmets, as Buddy and I shifted to get a better look at them. It was Wally and a very pregnant Little Val. I easily recognized him from my previous visit. But she had changed considerably over the past few months.

“It’s getting so damn cold around here,” Little Val hollered, “we’ll soon be growing nothing but snow peas and iceberg lettuce.”

“What in the hell are you two doing out in this weather?” Buddy asked by way of hello.

Wally offered a resigned sigh. “She’s craving Rhubarb Bars.” He hooked his thumb toward his wife, who was clumsily shedding her jacket. “We didn’t have the ingredients to make any at home, but she knew Margie had some down here, already done.”

Without realizing it, I muttered, “Must be some good bars.”

Little Val waddled by. “They are. Margie got the recipe from Heidi Auel, who’s great at making up new dishes.” She fluffed her curly blonde bob. “And these particular bars are gluten free, so I can eat ’em.” She patted her large belly. “At this point, stomach problems wouldn’t be good.” She lumbered into the kitchen, each step of her heavy boots sounding like the pounding of a hammer. “I’m grabbing a plate of ’em, and if there’s any left when I get done, I’ll give ’em to you.”

I rummaged through my brain until locating the image I had of Little Val from my last visit. She was petite back then, with just a tiny baby bump. Now, in addition to her ginormous belly, she had a plump face, sausage arms, and a butt that crowded the backside of what appeared to be men’s pants.

Buddy commented on them after Wally plopped down next to him. “I haven’t seen overalls like that since—”

“Don’t go there,” Wally warned. “She couldn’t come close to fitting into her snowmobile suit. Or for that matter, any of her maternity pants. And it’s too cold for the dress she wore last night.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “She found those overalls in the back of the hall closet. They’re her dad’s. He must have forgotten ’em.” Still more tapping. “She tried ’em on, and they fit after she cuffed ’em up. And since they’re wool, they’re warm. So now she says she won’t wear anything else till the baby’s born.” He wouldn’t stop tapping! “As soon as the storm passes, we’re driving over to Young’s General Store in Middle River to buy another pair. One for church, according to her.”

“If you can’t get it at Young’s, you don’t need it,” Buddy replied and slurped his coffee.

Wally slumped against the booth and unzipped his snowmobile suit. Right away it rose as if attempting to swallow his head. “Whatever it takes to get through the next three weeks.” He folded his collar over.

Buddy chuckled. “That bad, huh?”

Wally sighed heavily. “I guess I’ve got no business bitching. The wife’s got it a lot worse. But since you asked, yeah, it’s been hell.” He thought things over for quite some time. “The pregnancy and harvest and . . . umm . . . you know, just everything.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and extended his long legs in front of him, slouching down a bit farther and dropping his head back.

Wally wasn’t a handsome man, especially from my new vantage point, which entailed seeing right up his nose. Much of the hair that had disappeared from the top of his head had found its way into his nostrils as well as his ears and along his eyebrows. And if that wasn’t bad enough, his Adam’s apple protruded something awful, while his eyes bulged like those of a fish.

“So, Wall-eye,” Buddy said, “have you met Emerald Malloy?” I guess I wasn’t the only one who saw the fish resemblance. “She’s the reporter from the Minneapolis paper. The one who did that piece on Margie. The one who . . .” His voice trailed off. There was no need to finish. Everyone in the tri-county area knew what had happened while I was here last.

Wally sat up, the nylon from his snowmobile suit rustling, and stretched his hand in my direction. “No, I haven’t met her, but I’ve heard a lot about her.”

Fearing where this conversation was headed, I tensed. “I can only imagine.”

A slight grin cracked the tight line of Wally’s mouth. “What can I say? Vivian Olson is my mother-in-law.” He let go of my hand. “And while you made mention of her and her cake-decorating business in that newspaper article you did on Margie a few months back, you didn’t focus on her. So, of course, she wasn’t entirely pleased.”

I relaxed. Of all the things he could have said, that wasn’t so bad. I seriously doubted Vivian was ever “entirely pleased” about anything.

“So, what are you two up to this morning?” Wally wanted to know.

“Well,” Buddy answered, “Emerald’s here to get more recipes from Margie for another newspaper article, which should thrill Vivian.”

Wally grunted.

“And since she’s in town, I’ve asked her to help me dig into Raleigh Cummings’ death.”

“What?” Wally’s face registered concern. “Why would you do that?”

“Well,” Buddy said, “after you and Little Val left the dinner last night, the sheriff stopped by. He made it clear I was his number-one suspect.”

Wally shuffled in his seat, his snowmobile suit swishing. “Based on what?”

Buddy picked up his knife and rocked it between the fingers of his right hand, his eyes holding steady on what he was doing. “A beef Cummings and I had on Tuesday night.”

“You mean when you fired him?”

“Yeah, if you want to call it that. It was going to be one of his last nights anyhow.”

“Well . . .” Wally wavered. “You certainly weren’t the only guy who bitched about Raleigh Cummings.” He stopped for another second or two. “He was an asshole.”

I took that as my cue to wade into the conversation. “I heard he made some nasty remarks to your wife after she called him out on the field radio Tuesday morning.”

Wally swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bouncing around like a tennis ball. “Umm . . . Well . . . Yeah . . .” He glanced at Buddy. “You already know all about that.”

“Uh-huh.” Buddy squinted at me, clearly wondering what I was up to.

I leaned toward Wally. “He really got upset with her, huh?”

Wally appeared thoughtful, as if weighing what he should say. “Yeah . . . umm . . . he was mad at her, but . . . umm . . . I think he was mad at a lot of people. See, she wasn’t the only one to get after him.”

“Even so, I imagine you really lit into him.” I knew better but wanted to see how forthcoming he’d be with me.

“No.” He peered at me sideways, with just one eye, like fish do. “I didn’t say anything to him.”

“Really?” I did my best to act surprised. I’m not sure if I pulled it off. “Why not?”

Buddy kicked me under the table, no doubt commenting on my acting ability. But I wasn’t in the mood to listen to critics.

“Val was doing fine on her own,” Wally said. “She . . . umm . . . didn’t need me buttin’ in.” He pressed his fingertips together, and he must have found the resulting steeple mesmerizing—perhaps soothing—because he stared at it.

While I continued to fire questions. “Didn’t you want to voice your support for her like the other crew members did?” I considered it a legitimate question. But when I peeked at Buddy, I noticed his jaw muscles tighten. Just to be safe I curled my legs up onto my seat, out of striking distance.

“She knows I support her.”

“Yeah, I suppose she does.” I wasn’t really getting anywhere, so I decided to come at him from a different direction. “Besides, you probably talked to the guy later, after work, when you didn’t have everyone listening in on the radio, right?”

“I . . . umm . . . didn’t see him after work. When we got done, Val and I dropped Vivian off at her house, then went home ourselves.”

“And you didn’t go out again?”

He looked at me straight on, frustration seasoned with a pinch of anger simmering in his eyes. “No. Not until we went back to work that night.”

“How about the next day? Wednesday?” I again peeked at Buddy. He appeared to be squirming on Wally’s behalf. “Did you go out then?”

Wally slapped his hands against the table. “What’s going on here, Buddy? Why is she asking me all this stuff?”

Buddy planted his hand on Wally’s forearm. “She’s only trying to help me.”

He jerked his arm away. “How? By pinning Cummings’ murder on me?”

“Of course not.” Buddy glared at me, his jaw muscles getting a good workout.

I guess he wanted me to dial it back. Be more discreet. But that had never been one of my strengths. Still, because I’d probably pushed these guys as far as I dared, I gave it a shot. “Wally, I’m sorry if I came on too strong. I’m only . . . umm . . . attempting to get a handle on how folks reacted to Cummings. So . . . umm . . . I can do what I can for Buddy.”

Wally expelled a deep sigh and shuffled in his seat. He wasn’t happy. But he was going to give me a break. After all, Buddy was family. “No, I didn’t go out on Wednesday either. Val and I got home from the field around one o’clock, ate lunch, showered, and went to bed. That was our routine most days during harvest. Pretty much the same thing day in, day out.”

“What about your job in Hallock?”

He shuffled in his seat. “Every year I take vacation during beet harvest. Lots of people do that.” He glimpsed at Buddy. “That’s what Raleigh did, right?”