Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes Read Free

neck. The chocolate-cone girl then explained that the two of them would be weeding the community garden much of the afternoon.
    Margie frowned. “I know it’s your job, and ya have to do it, but take lots of water breaks,” she warned. “It’s so hot out there I swear I just saw my thermometer run into the shade.”
    “Don’t worry,” the chocolate-cone girl replied with a giggle, “the hose is on.” And with that, the duo padded barefoot toward the exit, licking their ice cream along the way.
    “Hey, Margie,” the same girl said, twirling on her heels when she reached the door, “don’t forget to charge these to Ma.” She saluted with her cone before using her butt to open the solid metal door, allowing a wave of heat to sneak into the room.
    “Do a lot of people charge food here?” I asked after the door slammed, shutting out the girls as well as the stifling air.
    “A few of the regulars do.” Margie returned the ice cream pails to an upright, stainless-steel freezer. “But their ma’s no regular, at least not in this part of the building. She spends most of her free time and darn near every dime she makes on pull tabs down the hall.” She motioned toward the hallway that apparently connected the café to the VFW.
    “I feel sorry for the girls. I like to treat ’em to ice cream or a meal once in a while, but since they won’t accept charity, I tell ’em I’ll charge their ma’s account. They don’t need to know she doesn’t have one.”
    Margie freshened up our coffee and fixed a plate of chocolate-frosted mint bars, placing it on the table between us. “Now,” she said, sliding back into the booth, “where were we then?”
    “Well, you told me your sister quit working here when she got married.” I snatched a bar. The scent of rich chocolate and cool mint made my mouth water. Still, I managed to ask, “How about your brother? Does he ever help you out?”
    Margie’s eyes turned sad. “My brother, Ole, died a few weeks back.”
    I recalled the article in The Enterprise about the “untimely death of Ole Johnson” and the sister who’d cooked the “pretty good” funeral luncheon. “I’m sorry. I knew and simply forgot.”
    “Oh, that’s okay. It’s just hard to believe he’s gone. Liver failure, don’t ya know.” Margie stared out the window until the rumbling of a passing train brought her back from wherever her thoughts had taken her.
    After the noise died down, she went on to explain, “Ole never worked here much anyways. And he quit altogether when he joined the army, right out of high school. But when he came back home, his wife, Lena, helped me out a lot.”
    My eyebrows shot up to my hairline. “Ole married a woman named Lena?”
    A smile once more brightened Margie’s face. “Lena wasn’t her real name. Everyone just called her that ’cause she was Ole’s better half. He met her down in Texas, when he was in the service. They got married, and after Pa died and Ole got discharged, they moved back here to take over the farm. Her name was Maria, but no one called her anything but Lena.” She bracketed one side of her mouth with her hand and whispered, “She was Mexican and Catholic, don’t ya know.”
    Several moments later, as if I needed to digest that information before she could proceed, Margie added, “We don’t have many different races up here, but we’re used to Mexicans. Before all this fancy equipment, Mexican migrant workers came up from Texas every year to help with harvest. But they seldom stayed on after the crops were in, and they never married locals. So when Ole came home with a Mexican wife who was Catholic to boot, lots of folks, includin’ my sister, Vivian, thought the marriage was doomed. But they were wrong. Ole and Lena were happy for many years. I often told them they were like a pair of old slippers. They just fit right.”
    Margie fingered the cards behind one of the wooden dividers in her recipe box, while I used the lull in the