Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes (18 page)

“Say now!” Margie held up her index finger in warning. “A heckuva lot of people enjoy my Jell-O. My pistachio’s a favorite.”

The priest chortled, and I should have felt relieved. Apparently, I had just dodged a bullet—in a spiritual sense—if that’s even possible. Still, anxiety continued to swirl inside of me like butterflies caught in a net.

Why did Father Daley unsettle me so? Did I sense he disliked or mistrusted me? Or was it just that he was an unusual priest, and for me, departures from the norm bred discomfort?

I guess the “cause” didn’t really matter. The “effect” remained the same. Whenever uncomfortable, I chattered incessantly, especially if there was nothing to stuff into my mouth. And eyeballing the room, I didn’t spot a thing. “Yeah, my editor wants recipes,” I reiterated, knowing my mouth was about to run amuck, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. “So that’s what I’m here to do. Get recipes. And if I can, a story—”

The priest cut me off. “A story? A story about what?”

Margie glanced up at him. “Yours truly.”

“No, really,” he said, his features reflecting an expression I couldn’t quite read, “what kind of story are you after?”

“Hey!” Margie exclaimed, “I’m interestin’ enough to be the subject of a story.”

“Of course you are,” he replied dismissively before shooting me a hard-edged glance that, despite the heat in the room, chilled me to the bone.

E
mme, you’re being paranoid
.

It was another voice from inside my head. Yeah, I know, I have a lot of them. Sometimes it’s like a damn convention in there. And while I generally ignore them, I decided I should listen to this one. As I said, my wariness of Father Daley likely had little to do with him and lots to do with my previous interactions with priests.

For the most part, those experiences revolved around scraping gum from the bottom of desks, the favorite after-school punishment for whatever infractions were committed by the students at Saint Mary of the Lakes Catholic High School. Yes, gum scraping had given rise to my general disregard for clergy as well as my immense disdain for gum. And while an aversion to gum chewing wouldn’t pose a problem on this night, an inability to converse with a priest just might.

Because my time with Vivian had been a complete bust and Margie was unlikely to provide any dirt on her brother-in-law, I wanted to get a scoop or two from his partner at cards. True, I couldn’t ask any tough questions in front of Margie. For them, I’d have to call on the priest when my host was otherwise occupied. But whether now or later, I was certain I’d have more success if Father Daley thought of me in a positive light. So I had to tamp down my clergy-related biases and be on my best behavior.

I opened my mouth, but my voice faltered. Questioning a priest was going to be harder than I’d expected.

And why is that, Emme? Could it be because you plan to lie?

That’s one of the reasons I usually disregard the voices in my head. They’re hypersensitive. I wasn’t going to lie. I was merely going to limit what I shared. I had to. I couldn’t very well say, “Hey, Father, I believe your friend Vern is a murderer, and I want the low-down on him and the crime so I can write a newspaper article. So cough it up.” No, I couldn’t say that.

I opened my mouth once more. Still nothing. Not good. Not good at all. I needed information. And if I couldn’t get it from Father Daley …

It took several moments for me to consider my options but only one to choose the coward’s way out. “Margie,” I said, turning away from the priest and toward my congenial—and talkative—host, “I was visiting with your aunts earlier tonight. And if I’m not mistaken, they don’t care for your brother-in-law very much, do they?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Father Daley rock back on his heels. “Why?” he asked sharply. “What did they say about Vern?”

Margie slapped the table. “Emme, you better watch out!” She looked about ready to burst. “Don’t speak poorly of Vern with his number-one defender standin’ next to you. He might damn ya to hell or purgatory or some such place.”

“Oh, come on,” Father Daley groaned, gently wrapping his knuckles against the side of Margie’s head, “you like him too.”

“Yah,” she acknowledged with a chuckle, “but I doubt anybody thinks as highly of him as you. Not even Vivian.”

The priest bit down on his toothpick and talked between his clenched teeth. “Well, that’s not saying much. Vivian doesn’t think very highly of anyone.”

“Father, be careful,” Margie warned. “You’re treadin’ on shaky ground there.”

The priest held up his hands and backed up a pace. “It’s just that the guy’s had some tough times, and he’s come through them amazingly well. We all could take a lesson from him, Vivian included.”

The priest smiled. “He’s also the worst card player I know. I can’t begin to count all the money I’ve won off him over the years. If nothing else, I’ve got to love him for that.”

Father Daley skidded his eyes in my direction. “Now, what did those old crows say about him?”

“Well, um … ,” I stammered, not sure how to reply. I was prepared for the priest to be Vern’s card-playing buddy, but I wasn’t expecting him to be president of the guy’s fan club. “Not anything specific really.”

First, you skip mass, Emme. Now, you lie to a priest.

I mentally ordered the little voice in my head to stuff a sock in it.

At the same time, Margie explained, “My aunts hate Vern, which is sad since their feelin’s actually have nothin’ whatsoever to do with him.”

I sat up straight, avoiding Father Daley’s gaze. My middle school teacher, Sister Helen, had claimed that priests could spot a lie merely by looking in a person’s eyes. I never believed her, but this man’s eyes were so piercing I didn’t want to take a chance.

Instead, I watched Margie as she wiggled around in an attempt to get comfortable. And once she was, she squared her shoulders and rested her folded hands on the table. I’d been with her for less than a day, yet I knew those actions meant just one thing. Margie Johnson was about to tell a story. And I was deeply grateful for the distraction.

“Vern’s dad, Carl, left my aunt Harriet at the altar darn near seventy years ago,” she said. “Harriet’s the middle sister. The one who looks like she just ate a lemon. The one with the hairy upper lip.”

I nodded.

“Anyways, accordin’ to the story my ma used to tell, everyone was at the church for the weddin’. It’s the church in the country. The one with the tall steeple. Ya must of passed it on your way into town.”

Again I nodded, recalling the small, white church with the adjacent cemetery, where women tended flowers on the graves.

“Well, like I said, everyone was there ’cept Carl, the groom. He was late, real late, and Harriet was beside herself with worry. She didn’t let on, though. No sir-ree. She just sat on the steps of the altar in her weddin’ dress and stared at the door.”

Margie pulled a wayward strand of hair away from her face and twisted it around her finger, clearly dragging out the narrative for effect. “Finally, there was some commotion outside, and Harriet got all excited. She started goin’ on to the guests about how Carl’s car must of got stuck in the snow, but he was there now, so the ceremony would get underway shortly. Yet, when the church doors opened, Carl was nowhere in sight. Only his best friend, Donald Donaldson, stood there in the foyer.”

Margie bent toward me and spoke in a soft, confidential voice. “He’s the Donaldson brothers’ great grandpa, don’t ya know. He must be ninety-five by now, but believe it or not, he still gets around. He drives a golf cart all over town. And I mean all over—the right side of the street, the left side.”

She settled back against the booth. “Anyways, Donald went ahead and told everyone that Carl had eloped the night before with Elsa Erickson. Yah, that’s what he did, all right. He recited the story as if it was nothin’ more than the daily commodities’ report.”

Annoyance puckered Margie’s lips. “That man’s got no sense. Never has. I swear he could be in a crowded bus headed straight for the river, and he’d waste time bitchin’ about where he was goin’ to sit.”

I gave that some thought while Margie continued. “Naturally, Harriet was devastated. Elsa moved onto the Olson farm with Carl. That’s the farm Vern operates now. And Aunt Harriet and her two unmarried sisters went on livin’ with their folks, my grandparents, on the farm next door. That’s the place the twins own.

“Well, wouldn’t ya know, about nine months later, maybe a little less, Elsa gave birth to Vern, and twenty-five years after that, Vern and Vivian got married in that very same church. But neither Harriet nor those other two would go near the place, even though Vivian’s their niece, their own sister’s daughter, and Carl and Elsa were long dead.”

Margie again leaned across the table, this time speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “They got killed by a tornado. It picked ’em up and threw ’em darn near a hundred yards.” She bent her head to one side. “Carl landed in the cemetery behind the church. And that’s the God’s honest truth. Some folks found it sorta creepy, but most reckoned it was fittin’ since he was the tightest man in the county and would of appreciated the savin’s on the hearse.”

I had nothing to say to that.

“Anyways, my aunts wouldn’t go to the weddin’, and to this day, they bear only ill will toward Vern.”

The priest steepled his fingers. “So the moral of the story is you can’t put any stock in what those old ladies say.” He shifted his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “They’re so bitter and spiteful they could alienate a saint.”

“But mostly they’re just confused,” Margie countered. “Harriet in particular. She never got over Carl. Ma said she was always moody and, at times, eccentric, but after that whole weddin’ mess, she got a lot worse. Now she’s so bad that sometimes she has trouble tellin’ what’s real and what’s not. I don’t know if it’s Alzheimer’s or dementia or … Well, whatever it is, it causes her to live part time in a make-believe world.”

“Inhabited by Carl and Elsa?” I asked.

“Ya got a peek at that?”

“Yeah, just a peek.”

“It happens sometimes.” Her shoulders stooped slightly, a burden obviously weighing her down. “More often again lately.”

Margie’s expression cycled from sad to frustrated before she changed the subject altogether. “Hey, Father, Rosa was in earlier. She gave Maureen some flowers from the garden. I told her to stay and meet Emme, but she said she couldn’t wait around.

“Uff-dah, she was crabby.” Margie shook her head. “Ya know she made the little Nelson girls cry this afternoon. Hollered at them for diggin’ in the wrong place in the community garden, if ya can imagine that.”

“I’m sorry I missed her,” the priest replied. “I can’t remember the last time I saw her.”

Margie winked at me. “Father Daley likes to keep tabs on Ole and Lena’s kids.”

“That’s right.” He wadded up a napkin and shot it like a basketball, aiming for but missing Margie’s coffee mug. “Though that gets harder and harder to do.”

“See, he was the twins’ high school hockey coach,” Margie explained, “so he used to see ’em almost every day. Plus, years ago, Rosa played organ and sang at the Catholic Church in Hallock. But when she went off to college, she gave all that up.”

The priest took over. “Now she’s back, but I can’t get her to come to mass very often, much less sing or play when she does.” He rubbed the upper deck of his double chin. “And as far as the twins are concerned, well let’s just say I’m concerned.”

“Oh, come now,” Margie squawked, “they’re good boys. They just take after the Lutheran side of the family. We aren’t very consistent about our church goin’ either.”

Margie clearly had a soft spot in her heart for Father Daley. It was evident by her tone, a combination of thoughtfulness and playfulness, no doubt meant to show she cared while, at the same time, raising the man’s spirits through a little teasing.

And it worked. The priest flicked his finger against Margie’s shoulder and joked, “Well, you Lutherans are just a bunch of heathens.”

Margie’s lips hinted at a grin. “Don’t ya have a poker game to get back to, Saint Daley?”

“Yeah,” he answered, glimpsing down the hallway. “I suppose I should go. I’m sure those poor souls are just itching for me to take their money.”

“Hold on a minute,” Margie said, clutching the priest’s forearm. “Before ya leave, I wanna make sure it was okay that I gave Emme your recipe for Irish Hot Dish.”

“Of course. With her ancestry, she’ll actually appreciate it, unlike you folks.”

His tone was jovial and his smile pleasant, causing guilt to simmer inside of me for having mistrusted him. Being an errant Catholic, however, I was accustomed to the sensation. It was a lot like acid reflux.

“Keep in mind,” the priest followed up by saying, “if you’re article about Margie ends up lacking—and it probably will—you can always write about me.”

“Yah, ’cause nothin’ is more excitin’ than a story about a priest,” Margie teased.

Father Daley bit his upper lip in an apparent attempt to stifle his amusement. “Yes, Emerald, my lass”—He spoke with a fake Irish brogue—“you could write about the life of an Irish-Catholic priest forced to minister to a community of Scandinavian Lutherans. Tell your readers about the poor mass attendance and the dreadful St. Patrick’s Day parades.”