Read Online Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes by Jeanne Cooney - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jeanne Cooney
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specifically, his rendition of “Me and Bobby McGee.” The song had made its way from the restaurant downstairs up through the floorboards. “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose …”
Squinting at the clock-radio on the dresser, I saw that my ten-minute rest had stretched into a thirty-minute nap. I contemplated rising but was too comfortable to make any sudden moves and remained curled crossways on the double bed, one towel wrapped around my head, another around my torso. “And nothin’ ain’t worth nothin’ but it’s free.”
From that vantage point, I studied the room. It was similar to the one I had when I was a little girl. The bed was crowned with a white, iron headboard and covered in a colorful, patchwork quilt that smelled fresh, as if recently brought in from the clothes line. Next to the door, a green drop-leaf table straddled two wooden chairs, and on the opposite wall, the antique low-boy dresser stood alone. The furniture pieces and colors weren’t identical to those in my old room, but the style was the same, as was the music wafting through the floor. “She’s lookin’ for the home I hope she’ll find.”
I was weaned on country rock. My parents were passionate about country dancing. Every Saturday night they joined their dance group down at the American Legion, where they perfected old moves and tried out new ones. During the week, they practiced at home, often persuading me, their only child, to join in.
Our house was always filled with the sounds of Kris Kristofferson and Willie Nelson. And while many kids undoubtedly hated that music, if for no reason than their parents liked it, I always enjoyed it. And I still feel connected to it. Probably because my folks died when I was young, and that music helps me stay close to them, or at least their memory.
When Kristofferson faded away, my thoughts shifted from days gone by to earlier that day and my conversation with Barbie. She’d said that Samantha Berg’s murder didn’t amount to much. It wasn’t worth talking about. But how often did a journalist speak that way about an unsolved homicide, especially one committed in a place where murder must hardly ever occur?
Pondering that, I rose and got dressed, tugging on a pair of blue jeans and slipping into a paisley, button-down, sleeveless blouse. I followed with a half-hearted attempt at brushing my hair. While not wet, it was terribly tangled from the wind outside and being wrapped in a towel for both my shower and my nap.
As I yanked at the snarls, I reminded myself that my assignment didn’t include writing about an old murder case, even if it would be far more exciting than a story about a day in the life of a small-town café owner—a story that most likely would never see print.
Setting my brush on the dresser, I swiped on some mascara and lip gloss. I don’t wear much makeup, but I try to highlight my lips and eyes. They’re my best features, and to my way of thinking, drawing attention to them limits focus on my frizzy, red mane.
I’d have preferred my hair be silky and Irish-setter red, but it wasn’t. It was curly and flame colored, prompting my dad to nickname me “Torch” when I was a kid. No one else dared call me that, but he loved the moniker, and I loved him, so he got away with it. And now that he was gone, I’d probably never do anything differently with my hair.
I shoved the makeup tubes back into my bag and pulled out my phone. No messages, not even from my editor. His apparent lack of interest annoyed me, which, in turn, drove me to speculate what he and the other big shots at the paper would do if I returned with a story about an old murder case.
I tossed the phone onto the bed. If I did something extraordinary, like actually solve the crime, they’d have to take notice. Hell, they’d have to give me a by-line. What choice would they have? And if my story was good—and it would be—they’d be obliged to move me from the “Food”
Squinting at the clock-radio on the dresser, I saw that my ten-minute rest had stretched into a thirty-minute nap. I contemplated rising but was too comfortable to make any sudden moves and remained curled crossways on the double bed, one towel wrapped around my head, another around my torso. “And nothin’ ain’t worth nothin’ but it’s free.”
From that vantage point, I studied the room. It was similar to the one I had when I was a little girl. The bed was crowned with a white, iron headboard and covered in a colorful, patchwork quilt that smelled fresh, as if recently brought in from the clothes line. Next to the door, a green drop-leaf table straddled two wooden chairs, and on the opposite wall, the antique low-boy dresser stood alone. The furniture pieces and colors weren’t identical to those in my old room, but the style was the same, as was the music wafting through the floor. “She’s lookin’ for the home I hope she’ll find.”
I was weaned on country rock. My parents were passionate about country dancing. Every Saturday night they joined their dance group down at the American Legion, where they perfected old moves and tried out new ones. During the week, they practiced at home, often persuading me, their only child, to join in.
Our house was always filled with the sounds of Kris Kristofferson and Willie Nelson. And while many kids undoubtedly hated that music, if for no reason than their parents liked it, I always enjoyed it. And I still feel connected to it. Probably because my folks died when I was young, and that music helps me stay close to them, or at least their memory.
When Kristofferson faded away, my thoughts shifted from days gone by to earlier that day and my conversation with Barbie. She’d said that Samantha Berg’s murder didn’t amount to much. It wasn’t worth talking about. But how often did a journalist speak that way about an unsolved homicide, especially one committed in a place where murder must hardly ever occur?
Pondering that, I rose and got dressed, tugging on a pair of blue jeans and slipping into a paisley, button-down, sleeveless blouse. I followed with a half-hearted attempt at brushing my hair. While not wet, it was terribly tangled from the wind outside and being wrapped in a towel for both my shower and my nap.
As I yanked at the snarls, I reminded myself that my assignment didn’t include writing about an old murder case, even if it would be far more exciting than a story about a day in the life of a small-town café owner—a story that most likely would never see print.
Setting my brush on the dresser, I swiped on some mascara and lip gloss. I don’t wear much makeup, but I try to highlight my lips and eyes. They’re my best features, and to my way of thinking, drawing attention to them limits focus on my frizzy, red mane.
I’d have preferred my hair be silky and Irish-setter red, but it wasn’t. It was curly and flame colored, prompting my dad to nickname me “Torch” when I was a kid. No one else dared call me that, but he loved the moniker, and I loved him, so he got away with it. And now that he was gone, I’d probably never do anything differently with my hair.
I shoved the makeup tubes back into my bag and pulled out my phone. No messages, not even from my editor. His apparent lack of interest annoyed me, which, in turn, drove me to speculate what he and the other big shots at the paper would do if I returned with a story about an old murder case.
I tossed the phone onto the bed. If I did something extraordinary, like actually solve the crime, they’d have to take notice. Hell, they’d have to give me a by-line. What choice would they have? And if my story was good—and it would be—they’d be obliged to move me from the “Food”
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