Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes by Jeanne Cooney Page B

room, greeting folks with a slight nod of his head or lift of his finger. If the number of smiles he received in return were any indication, the people of Kennedy liked him just fine, even if they didn’t consider him one of their own.
    Following his hellos, he turned back to me and said, “The night Samantha Berg disappeared Ole was covering for Margie here in the café.”
    “He could do that? The way he drank?”
    “He wasn’t drinking then. He quit following some problem at the fair and didn’t start again until after Samantha went missing.”
    “Don’t you find that suspicious?”
    The deputy started in on his second dessert selection, a Special-K Bar. “What I’m trying to tell you is that Ole had an alibi.” He worked his treat into his cheek. “Samantha vanished sometime after Jim talked to her but before he checked to see why she didn’t show up at the bar.”
    My mouth went dry. “And Ole?”
    “He was here in the café all evening—until close to eleven.”
    “Oh.” I swear I heard the sound of my new-found career as a top-notch investigative journalist getting flushed down the toilet.
    “Don’t be disappointed. He was a nice guy.”
    “I’m sure he was.” I inhaled a shaky breath. “It’s just that when Margie told me about the murder, I might have implied … um … that Ole was the most logical suspect.”
    “You said that?”
    I rearranged my silverware. “Well, not in those exact words.” Specifically, I moved my spoon over a fraction of an inch. “But based on what she told me …”
    The deputy leaned forward, touched my hands, and a bolt of electricity shot up my arm. “That’s not how you make friends, Emerald.”
    I dropped my fork. “Very funny.” Not much of a retort, but I wasn’t in the mood for creative thinking. What’s more, Deputy Ryden’s touch had not only shocked my hand, it had short-circuited my brain. It felt like forever before I could say anything at all, and then it was only to repeat myself. “You’re sure you can account for Ole?”
    The deputy relaxed against the back of the booth. “Most of the night, he was playing cards with those three.” He motioned to John Deere, his friend, and Shitty. “And they’re as honest as the winter nights up here are long.”
    Frustration washed over me, and the deputy took note. “Sorry, I hope Ole’s innocence won’t dampen your enthusiasm for the news business.”
    What a smart-ass! A very handsome smart-ass, but a smart-ass nonetheless.
    He lowered his head and peered into my eyes. “You don’t take teasing very well, do you?”
    Since the question was rhetorical, I didn’t answer.
    “Next,” he continued, “you’ll probably accuse the Anderson sisters of the crime because they can wield a crowbar. At least the older two can.”
    He was having a lot of fun at my expense, and I didn’t appreciate it. Usually I was a pretty good sport, but disappointment had taken its toll on my disposition.
    “And you, Deputy Ryden, can be a pain in the butt.”
    A smile played around his lips. “I guess I can be, especially when I’d rather be talking about something else—like you.”
    Nice recovery . That’s what I said in the solitude of my brain. Out loud, I merely promised to “end the inquisition” if he answered “one last question.”
    He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. I imagined he was debating whether to stay or run for the hills, which, given the local landscape, would have been far, far away. “Okay,” he eventually said, opting for the former, at least for the moment, “what’s your ‘last’ question?”
    I sat up straight. “If Ole Johnson didn’t kill Samantha Berg, who did?”
    I wanted to believe I had asked solely out of concern for the deceased. But I knew my own desperation played a role too. When I thought Ole was guilty, I felt as if I were on my way, professionally speaking. Admittedly, I was moving in the wrong direction, but at least I was