Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes (13 page)

I waited for a response. If I wanted them to open up, I had to allow them to set the pace of our conversation. Not easy for me to do, but I managed.

“Oh, my goodness, no,” Henrietta answered after a couple moments that felt much longer, “we didn’t know her well at all.”

Harriet, the middle sister with the mustache, followed. “She wasn’t very friendly, at least not to women. She was plenty friendly to men, though, if ya catch my drift. We seen men over there all the time.”

Without thinking, I blurted out, “Men like Ole?”

All three women lowered their eyes, like chickens in search of feed in the dirt.

Shit! I’d once again pressed too hard, too fast.

I had to apologize and was about to do just that when Henrietta, the mother hen, said, “Yah, men like Ole. He was our nephew, don’t ya know. Our sister’s son, God rest their souls.”

And little Hester repeated, “God rest their souls.”

Out of respect, I observed a moment of silence. Then, reminding myself to engage my brain before my mouth, I spoke with as much care as I could muster. “Well, with your close ties to Ole, you must have been … um … upset when authorities questioned him about Samantha Berg’s death.”

To my astonishment, Henrietta lifted her head and responded in a full-throated voice, “Oh, not at all. They talked to lots of folks. I’m sure Margie told ya they called on her a half dozen times, which made no sense at all.”

“No sense whatsoever,” little Hester echoed.

“Why?” I wanted to know. “Margie doesn’t hide her hatred for Samantha Berg.”

Hester agreed. “But she didn’t kill her.” She shifted in her seat, careful not to upset her big purse. It stood tall on her lap, concealing the lower half of her tiny face. “She didn’t have ‘opportunity,’ and when it comes to murder, ya need ‘opportunity’ as well as ‘motive.’”

If only I’d kept that in mind earlier in the day.

Little Hester went on, her mouth hidden behind her bag, her flickering, pale-blue eyes, the only visible sign she was speaking. “See, the night Samantha disappeared, Margie was curlin’ at the women’s bonspiel in Drayton. That’s where the beet plant’s located. Just on the other side of the Red River. They host a lot of bonspiels. And they always have pretty good food and prizes.” She stole a breath. “Anyhow, Margie’s team won, and the trophies were awarded between eight-thirty and nine. She was there for the ceremony as well as the pictures and party that followed. So, in the end, the FBI concluded she couldn’t of committed the murder. But it took those agents a half dozen interviews with her before makin’ that determination. Very disheartenin’. I’d assumed they’d be better at their jobs.”

She adjusted her shoulder bag, and I wondered how the Jell-O was holding up. That question was quickly shoved aside, however, by more pertinent ones, including, who in the hell killed Samantha Berg? And why wasn’t he—or she—ever arrested?

Miss Malloy, do you curl?” Henrietta asked.

“Call me Emme, and no, I never have.” I bit into my other Lemon Bar.

“Oh, my, you should try it. Us three, along with our sister, Hortense, God rest her soul, used to curl all the time. It’s a good way to pass the long winters. And if I do say so myself, we were pretty fair at it. We actually took second at nationals back in the ’70s.” She shifted her dentures with her tongue. “We don’t curl anymore, of course. We don’t go out much at all durin’ the winter. It’s just way too cold.”

I knew very little about curling. Even so, I had a hard time imagining the old birds perched in front of me being proficient at the game. While they were much younger during the 1970s, I still envisioned them hunched over, sliding across the ice in belted house frocks and comfortable shoes, fiercely trying to sweep their rocks onto victory as they clutched bags full of food stolen from the concession stand. Amusing myself with those images, I finished my bar.

Meanwhile, Henrietta and little Hester exchanged knowing glances, those wordless conversations shared by people who’d been together a long time.

When done, Hester asked, “Well, um … Emme, what do ya think about this here garden?”

From Henrietta’s scowl, I gathered it wasn’t the question she had wanted or expected her youngest sister to pose.

“It’s pretty,” I answered blandly, sucking all traces of lemon flavoring from my forefinger and thumb.

“Yah, Rosa really outdone herself this year.”

“Rosa?” That piqued my curiosity. “You mean Ole and Lena’s Rosa?”

“Yah, but how do ya know about her?”

“Well, Margie told me.”

Hairy Harriet sat up straight or as straight as her curved back would allow. “Did she also tell ya I helped Rosa start that garden? It was a tribute to Lena, her ma, God rest her soul.”

“No, she said nothing about that.” I dried my fingers on my jeans.

“Then let me,” Harriet replied.

Henrietta nudged her. “I’m sure Emme don’t wanna hear about the origin of the garden.” She drove her point home by squeezing Harriet’s arm and staring into her cloudy eyes. “Understand?”

Harriet frowned and pulled at her mustache while sagging against the back of the bench.

I felt sorry for the old girl because, among other things, she was the mustached sister. Not an easy cross to bear, I’m sure. “It’s okay,” I said before realizing my lips were even moving. “I wouldn’t mind learning more about the garden. My mom was an avid gardener, and when I was little, I often helped her.”

Henrietta waved her hand like she was shooing mosquitos. “You’re just saying that. Ya, it’s pretty, but it’s just a garden.”

I hated to admit it, but she was right. While my heart went out to Harriet, I really didn’t want to discuss flowers. Currently, I was far more interested in murder and all things related.

“Now,” Henrietta said, “what were we talkin’ about?”

Despite Harriet’s depressed state, I shifted my attention to her older sister, causing a stab of guilt to pierce my chest, though it didn’t hurt bad enough to keep me from answering, “Samantha. We were talking about Samantha Berg. I’m curious as to your take on what happened to her.”

“Our take?”

“Yeah, you ladies seem very much in the know.” I was proud of how that statement exited my mouth, since, while taking shape in my head, it went something like,
Yeah, according to Deputy Ryden, you three are very nosy, almost as nosy as me
.

“Well, we try,” Henrietta responded, her tone implying she knew the full measure of her worth.

“And I understand forensics,” little Hester added, informing me of her own importance. “I used to be a science teacher, and I watch a lot of Court TV.”

I twisted toward the lady with the translucent skin. “Well then, with your expertise, you must have some definite impressions about Samantha Berg’s death. I’m curious to hear them.”

“Ya know what they say,” Harriet interjected, “curiosity killed the cat.”

“Harriet, you shush now,” the mother hen scolded before whispering to me, “I ain’t sure we should tell ya. With you bein’ a reporter and all, it may not be prudent.”

I flagged my hand. “I’m here to do a story about food, nothing more.” While officially that was true, I crossed my fingers behind my back just the same. “I’m merely interested in what people thought about the whole affair.” Not a good choice of words I realized only after I’d spoken.

But I guess it didn’t matter. Henrietta jabbered on, evidently not hearing me anyway. “And that ain’t the only reason we’re leery about talkin’.” She stiffly glimpsed over both her shoulders. “Ya see, we think her murderer’s still right here.”

Now that got me to sit up straight. “Really?”

“Oh, yah.”

“And you told the police?”

“Naturally, but they didn’t care.”

“Didn’t care?”

“No.” She scratched the waddle of skin that hung from her sharp chin. “Them and the FBI didn’t listen to nothing we said.”

“Not a thing,” Hester repeated. “They just sent us on our way.”

“Hmm.” Even though the Anderson sisters were loony, it bothered me that the police didn’t hear them out. Since most folks in town were reluctant to come forward with information about Samantha Berg, investigators should have eagerly listened to the few who did. Not to mention, these three lived right next door to the murdered woman and may have seen something important. So why did the police give them the brush-off?

I was stumped. I couldn’t figure it out until I recalled Margie saying that Ole started drinking again after Samantha disappeared because he felt bad that the people in town were ambivalent about finding her. Initially, I didn’t buy it, convinced Ole drank for one reason alone—to drown the memory of killing the woman. But now, after learning of his innocence, I had to reconsider his claim.

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps no one in Kennedy really cared if Samantha was ever found. After she went missing, she may not have been missed enough by any one person to ensure a thorough investigation. Sure, there was Ole. But from the sound of it, he wasn’t in any shape most of the time to champion anyone’s cause. No, Samantha’s lack of friends and family, along with her lowly standing in the community, may have led the townspeople and the cops to do little to solve her murder.

The prospect disturbed me. I had definite ideas about death, born of my own experience and pain. In my book, death always required answers. In every case, no matter the circumstances, the identities of the perpetrators, as well as the motivation for their actions, had to be exposed. It was the only way to ensure they’d pay for their wrongdoing. It was the only way to make sense out of something so senseless. That was my creed. At least it was back then.

I inhaled deeply, filling myself with resolve. Of course, now that I’d gotten to know Deputy Ryden, I didn’t want to believe he and his colleagues were bad at their jobs. Then again, it really didn’t matter what I wanted. As a journalist, I had an obligation to write stories based on facts, setting aside my personal feelings. And even if this story ended up being nothing more than a recap of the investigation to date, I couldn’t—and wouldn’t—gloss over shoddy police work.

At the same time, I didn’t want to jump to any more conclusions. No, I wouldn’t do that again. It wasn’t fair to anyone. And it made me look like a fool. This time I’d be more diligent. This time I’d dig deeper for answers. And the garden seemed like the perfect place to start.

“Ladies,” I said to the Anderson sisters, “tell me everything you know about the disappearance and death of Samantha Berg. I really want to hear it.”

“Well,” the little sister replied, catching a few strands of her mousy-gray hair, escapees from the thin bun that sat atop her head, “if ya really wanna know.” She carefully tucked the loose hair behind her ears and extended her brittle-looking hands to grasp the handles of her canvas bag.

In my mind, I made a rolling motion with my own hand, signaling her to get on with it, but in reality, I said and did nothing, leaving her to move at her own pace—her own excruciatingly slow pace.

She inched forward to the end of the bench and dropped her mouth open, only to snap it shut again, reminding me of an old turtle. She then released her grip, allowing her big purse to tilt unclasped in my direction.

I expected Jell-O and dessert bars to spill all over the ground, creating a banquet for the neighborhood ants and squirrels. But nothing tumbled out except the unpleasant odor of sun-heated cream of mushroom soup mixed with cherry gelatin. It emanated from partially open plastic bags and filled my nose. No further need to wonder how the Jell-O was holding up.

“Well,” little Hester uttered, seemingly unfazed by the stench, “we think Samantha Berg was killed by … Vern Olson.”

My nose instinctively wrinkled from the smell. “Vern Olson?”

Hester’s expression suggested she fully appreciated my apparent disdain for the man. “My feelin’s exactly.” She wrinkled her nose too. “He’s Margie’s brother-in-law. He’s married to Vivian, her sister, our niece.”

“You mean the guy with one arm?”

“Oh, you’ve met him?” She again took hold of the woven handles of her bag and, in doing so, closed the top, sealing off much of the pungent smell.

“No, I haven’t met him.” I’d been holding my breath without realizing it. “But Margie told me about his accident.” I gulped fresh air.

“Well, he still had two arms when Samantha died,” the little lady said, “and we think he used both of ’em to kill her and throw her body into the river.”

Oh, this was getting good. Now that I could breathe again, I only wished I had something more to eat.

Why do you believe Vern Olson killed Samantha Berg?”

The mother hen answered me. “We seen him at her house the night she disappeared.”

“And that ain’t the first time,” Harriet added, “if ya know what I mean.”

Forming a “T” with my hands, I motioned for a time out. “Are you suggesting something was going on between the two of them?”

Before Harriet could respond, Henrietta squeezed her hairy sister’s arm in another less-than-subtle attempt to silence her. The oldest of the three women then said, “Misbehavior of that sort runs in his family. Always has.”