Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes by Jeanne Cooney Page A
Authors: Jeanne Cooney
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makes the most sense given she disappeared exactly one year to the day after Lena’s death.”
He raked his top teeth over his bottom lip. “If that’s what you suspected, why all these questions?”
“Just covering my bases.”
He smiled a lopsided smile, as if he couldn’t help himself. “Well, most likely, you’re right, Sherlock. But since no one’s been arrested, let’s move on.”
“No! Not yet.” Sure, I had to be cautious. I didn’t want him any more suspicious about what I was up to than he already was. But questions remained, the most important being, did Ole Johnson kill Samantha Berg? While I knew the answer, I still needed verification.
Granted, the deputy was unlikely to come right out and finger Ole given that he and his police buddies never even arrested him, which raised a bunch of other questions. But they would have to wait. First thing’s first.
I fiddled with my napkin as I deliberated my approach. What was the best way to get the deputy to verify my murder theory?
The longer I thought about it, the more convinced I became—or the more I convinced myself—that I’d have the greatest chance of obtaining the affirmation I sought if I took a circuitous route. Certainly the road less traveled for me—the woman with an expressway between her brain and her mouth—but what the hell. “Tell me, Randy, do you have any theories of your own about Samantha Berg’s death?”
He squirmed. “It doesn’t really matter what I think.”
I dropped my napkin and sat up straight. “Yes, it does. Please tell me. I’d really like to know.” I was being extremely professional, and for that, I gave myself a couple mental pats on the back.
“Like I said, my personal opinion doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, but it does.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does. So please tell me. Pretty please. Pretty please with sugar on it” I clasped my hand over my mouth. Pretty please with sugar on it? Did I just say that? Ugh!
The deputy leaned back and, with his lips twisted in amusement, stretched his arms high above his head.
I was terribly embarrassed. Yet, when he lowered his arms, I still managed to admire how nicely his beefy shoulders filled out his uniform. Double ugh!
“We never had more than a handful of suspects.”
“Such as?” I squeaked out, my throat now tight with shame. At least I assumed it was shame. Although it may have been something else, like lusty desire. That sometimes made my throat tight too.
The deputy failed to answer me. Rather, he snatched one of two different bars from the edge of his plate, bit into it, and licked his lips. “Mmm, these are good. You should try them.”
My throat just about closed up completely. Yep, it was desire, all right. And it forced me to cut to the chase. If I wanted to be regarded as a serious journalist, I couldn’t wait for this guy to disclose what he knew about the case. Our lazy back-and-forth allowed too much down time—time for him to lick his lips and the devil in me to concoct all kinds of ideas—some of them real doozies. At present, for instance, it was trying to convince me to climb over the table and jump the nice officer’s bones.
“Okay … um. Well, um … I’ll start.” I coughed in an effort to clear my hormone-clogged throat. “Ole Johnson … Well, he … um … seems to be the most logical suspect.”
Deputy Ryden didn’t utter a word, choosing instead to give all his interest to his Halfway Bar.
I knew it was a Halfway Bar because I’d asked Margie about them when I was arranging the dessert platters. She’d pointed out that while a Halfway Bar was similar to a Blondie, a Halfway Bar was topped with a brown-sugar meringue.
His looked moist and delicious. And when he popped the last of it into his mouth, I couldn’t help but wonder which would taste better, the bar or the man?
Okay. Okay. As a professional, I was—and no doubt remain—a work in progress.
Chapter 15
Deputy Ryden glanced around the
He raked his top teeth over his bottom lip. “If that’s what you suspected, why all these questions?”
“Just covering my bases.”
He smiled a lopsided smile, as if he couldn’t help himself. “Well, most likely, you’re right, Sherlock. But since no one’s been arrested, let’s move on.”
“No! Not yet.” Sure, I had to be cautious. I didn’t want him any more suspicious about what I was up to than he already was. But questions remained, the most important being, did Ole Johnson kill Samantha Berg? While I knew the answer, I still needed verification.
Granted, the deputy was unlikely to come right out and finger Ole given that he and his police buddies never even arrested him, which raised a bunch of other questions. But they would have to wait. First thing’s first.
I fiddled with my napkin as I deliberated my approach. What was the best way to get the deputy to verify my murder theory?
The longer I thought about it, the more convinced I became—or the more I convinced myself—that I’d have the greatest chance of obtaining the affirmation I sought if I took a circuitous route. Certainly the road less traveled for me—the woman with an expressway between her brain and her mouth—but what the hell. “Tell me, Randy, do you have any theories of your own about Samantha Berg’s death?”
He squirmed. “It doesn’t really matter what I think.”
I dropped my napkin and sat up straight. “Yes, it does. Please tell me. I’d really like to know.” I was being extremely professional, and for that, I gave myself a couple mental pats on the back.
“Like I said, my personal opinion doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, but it does.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does. So please tell me. Pretty please. Pretty please with sugar on it” I clasped my hand over my mouth. Pretty please with sugar on it? Did I just say that? Ugh!
The deputy leaned back and, with his lips twisted in amusement, stretched his arms high above his head.
I was terribly embarrassed. Yet, when he lowered his arms, I still managed to admire how nicely his beefy shoulders filled out his uniform. Double ugh!
“We never had more than a handful of suspects.”
“Such as?” I squeaked out, my throat now tight with shame. At least I assumed it was shame. Although it may have been something else, like lusty desire. That sometimes made my throat tight too.
The deputy failed to answer me. Rather, he snatched one of two different bars from the edge of his plate, bit into it, and licked his lips. “Mmm, these are good. You should try them.”
My throat just about closed up completely. Yep, it was desire, all right. And it forced me to cut to the chase. If I wanted to be regarded as a serious journalist, I couldn’t wait for this guy to disclose what he knew about the case. Our lazy back-and-forth allowed too much down time—time for him to lick his lips and the devil in me to concoct all kinds of ideas—some of them real doozies. At present, for instance, it was trying to convince me to climb over the table and jump the nice officer’s bones.
“Okay … um. Well, um … I’ll start.” I coughed in an effort to clear my hormone-clogged throat. “Ole Johnson … Well, he … um … seems to be the most logical suspect.”
Deputy Ryden didn’t utter a word, choosing instead to give all his interest to his Halfway Bar.
I knew it was a Halfway Bar because I’d asked Margie about them when I was arranging the dessert platters. She’d pointed out that while a Halfway Bar was similar to a Blondie, a Halfway Bar was topped with a brown-sugar meringue.
His looked moist and delicious. And when he popped the last of it into his mouth, I couldn’t help but wonder which would taste better, the bar or the man?
Okay. Okay. As a professional, I was—and no doubt remain—a work in progress.
Chapter 15
Deputy Ryden glanced around the
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