Read Online Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes by Jeanne Cooney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeanne Cooney
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section to real news, in spite of my lack of experience. If they didn’t, I’d quit and head over to one of the other papers no doubt vying for my talent.
I stared at my mirrored image and whispered, “This could be your big break, Emme.” I glanced at my phone and back at my reflection. “But you don’t want anyone calling your editor and telling him that you’re nosing around for something other than recipes, so you’ll have to be discreet.” I looked doubtful. “Wait a minute, you can be discreet.” I splayed my hands on top of the dresser. “In fact, keep working on your real assignment, and then no one, not even Margie, will catch on to the story you’re truly after.”
I leaned against the dresser and gazed intently at my image. “Solving this case won’t be hard. It’s surprising it hasn’t been done already.” I wrinkled my face in concentration. “I suppose people just get too close to a situation sometimes to see it clearly.”
I drew myself up to my full height. “Even though everyone around here seems to be an expert with a knife, Ole Johnson is the most logical suspect. He lost everything—his family and his farm—because of Samantha. And there’s no stronger motive for murder than that.
“Now, Emme, just unearth a little more information and answer a few more questions, such as why Ole Johnson wasn’t ever arrested, and you’ll be ready to write a story so good it’ll knock the argyle socks right off your editor’s gout-swollen feet.”
I gave myself a determined look. “You can do this.” I spread my legs and put my hands to my hips, imitating Wonder Woman. “You’re going to do this.” I pumped my fist into the air. “And it’s going to be big!”
*
My super-hero impersonation was cut short by some shouting outside, which I felt compelled to check out. Hurrying to the bedroom window for a quick look-see, I spotted the two old-timers from earlier that day in the café. They had replaced their overalls and long-sleeve work shirts with blue jeans and short-sleeve plaid shirts but still donned the same caps.
They were hollering to a portly, middle-aged man with short legs. He was sliding out of a white service van. The sign on the side of the van read, “Swenson’s Sewer Works: Your Sh** Is My Bread and Butter.” Once on the ground, he adjusted the waistband of his jeans, half hidden beneath his beer belly, and extended his hand to John Deere.
I cringed. Did he come straight from work or go home first to wash up?
With their hellos out of the way, the three men waddled across the highway, briefly stopping to greet a young woman who ran past them in the opposite direction. She was clad in shorts and a dirty tee-shirt, her long, dark hair blowing in the wind. She carried a shovel among some other garden tools. And after pitching them into the bed of a restored, 1950s pickup, she gave the guys a quick wave before climbing into the truck and taking off.
I followed suit. Only I took off for the café downstairs, thoughts of hot dish competing with those of homicide. While eager to begin my investigation, I also was excited to try Margie’s Tater-Tot Hot Dish as well as something she called Cheeseburger Hot Dish.
Yes, I was looking forward to everything I thought the evening held in store for me, from home cooking to intrigue. But I was woefully ignorant as to what truly lay ahead.
Part Two - Boil the Noodles
Chapter 11
Entering the café, I spotted Margie, still dressed in her Hot Dish Heaven tee-shirt and blue jeans. She was crouched in a corner, consoling the two little girls who’d been in for ice cream. They were rubbing their eyes, as if they’d been crying.
I also saw John Deere, his friend, and the sewer guy shuffle through the doorway. They stopped to hug a middle-aged, fragile-looking woman with alabaster skin and a colorful scarf tied around her bald head. She held a bouquet of white daisies and blue delphiniums.
Across from her, several men, their
I stared at my mirrored image and whispered, “This could be your big break, Emme.” I glanced at my phone and back at my reflection. “But you don’t want anyone calling your editor and telling him that you’re nosing around for something other than recipes, so you’ll have to be discreet.” I looked doubtful. “Wait a minute, you can be discreet.” I splayed my hands on top of the dresser. “In fact, keep working on your real assignment, and then no one, not even Margie, will catch on to the story you’re truly after.”
I leaned against the dresser and gazed intently at my image. “Solving this case won’t be hard. It’s surprising it hasn’t been done already.” I wrinkled my face in concentration. “I suppose people just get too close to a situation sometimes to see it clearly.”
I drew myself up to my full height. “Even though everyone around here seems to be an expert with a knife, Ole Johnson is the most logical suspect. He lost everything—his family and his farm—because of Samantha. And there’s no stronger motive for murder than that.
“Now, Emme, just unearth a little more information and answer a few more questions, such as why Ole Johnson wasn’t ever arrested, and you’ll be ready to write a story so good it’ll knock the argyle socks right off your editor’s gout-swollen feet.”
I gave myself a determined look. “You can do this.” I spread my legs and put my hands to my hips, imitating Wonder Woman. “You’re going to do this.” I pumped my fist into the air. “And it’s going to be big!”
*
My super-hero impersonation was cut short by some shouting outside, which I felt compelled to check out. Hurrying to the bedroom window for a quick look-see, I spotted the two old-timers from earlier that day in the café. They had replaced their overalls and long-sleeve work shirts with blue jeans and short-sleeve plaid shirts but still donned the same caps.
They were hollering to a portly, middle-aged man with short legs. He was sliding out of a white service van. The sign on the side of the van read, “Swenson’s Sewer Works: Your Sh** Is My Bread and Butter.” Once on the ground, he adjusted the waistband of his jeans, half hidden beneath his beer belly, and extended his hand to John Deere.
I cringed. Did he come straight from work or go home first to wash up?
With their hellos out of the way, the three men waddled across the highway, briefly stopping to greet a young woman who ran past them in the opposite direction. She was clad in shorts and a dirty tee-shirt, her long, dark hair blowing in the wind. She carried a shovel among some other garden tools. And after pitching them into the bed of a restored, 1950s pickup, she gave the guys a quick wave before climbing into the truck and taking off.
I followed suit. Only I took off for the café downstairs, thoughts of hot dish competing with those of homicide. While eager to begin my investigation, I also was excited to try Margie’s Tater-Tot Hot Dish as well as something she called Cheeseburger Hot Dish.
Yes, I was looking forward to everything I thought the evening held in store for me, from home cooking to intrigue. But I was woefully ignorant as to what truly lay ahead.
Part Two - Boil the Noodles
Chapter 11
Entering the café, I spotted Margie, still dressed in her Hot Dish Heaven tee-shirt and blue jeans. She was crouched in a corner, consoling the two little girls who’d been in for ice cream. They were rubbing their eyes, as if they’d been crying.
I also saw John Deere, his friend, and the sewer guy shuffle through the doorway. They stopped to hug a middle-aged, fragile-looking woman with alabaster skin and a colorful scarf tied around her bald head. She held a bouquet of white daisies and blue delphiniums.
Across from her, several men, their
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