Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes Read Online Free

business.’ Still, Ole kept quiet, so the editor told ’em, ‘Now, if it’s the money you’re worried about, Ole, don’t forget the first five words of any obituary are free.’ Of course, that got old, tightwad Ole tinkin’, and soon he said, ‘Well, in that case, write, “Lena died; walleye on sale.”’”
    John Deere’s friend belly-laughed, while Margie groaned, and I couldn’t help but smile. These guys weren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer, but I found them charming in a “Beverly Hillbillies” sort of way.
    “Heard that one before?” John Deere asked.
    “No, don’t think so.” Margie ambled back to our booth. She winked at me, picked up her recipe box, and returned to the prep table.
    “Now I better get cookin’,” she said to no one in particular before calling out, “Hey, Emerald, why don’t ya come on over here and keep me company. Or better yet, give me a hand. You can cook, can’t ya?”
    “Nothing you’d want to charge money for.”
    Margie snorted. “How on earth did ya get to be a food writer if ya can’t cook?”
    I slid from my booth and strolled to the kitchen, a pen and several blank note cards in hand. “My aunt has connections, and I’m a pretty good eater.”
    “Ya don’t look it.” Margie’s gaze traveled from my head to my toes. “You’re kind of skinny.”
    “High metabolism,” I muttered self-consciously.
    “Just like me.” John Deere rose from his stool and patted his Santa-like paunch. “I have a high metabolism too. I just don’t know where I put it.” His sidekick laughed some more as John Deere wiped crumbs from the bib of his overalls.
    When the laughter died, John Deere added in the direction of his friend, “Say, now, we better be goin’.” He shoved the last of his carrot bar into his mouth and washed it down with coffee.
    Returning his cup to the counter, he tossed a few dollars alongside it. “Tanks, Margie.” He then tipped the bill of his cap in my direction. “And Miss Malloy, it was a pleasure to meet ya.”
    He lumbered toward the door on the heels of his companion, Margie calling out after him. “Ya comin’ back later?”
    He answered across his shoulder, “That all depends. Ya servin’ Wild Rice Hot Dish?”
    Margie huffed, “Of course I am.” Her tone implied she could hardly believe he’d ask such a question.
    “Then, ya betcha, we’ll be back.”
    The two men stepped outside, though John Deere peeked right back in again, his red face backlit by the afternoon sun. “Eh, Margie, that there was a humdinger of a joke, wasn’t it?”
    “Oh, get out of here!” she teasingly ordered, causing the sidekick to snicker as the door banged shut.
    With a shake of her head, Margie returned to her recipes. “Those two old coots stop in every afternoon. They went to high school with Ole. The three of them were best of friends.”
    “They seem nice enough.”
    “Oh, yah, and they’re as common as snow in January. You’d never guess that once upon a time, the guy with the John Deere cap was a big-time engineer at Boeing.”
    “Really? An engineer at Boeing?”
    “Yah, but when his pa got sick, he had to come home and take over the farm.”
    I must have been in shock about the whole engineering thing because all I could utter was, “Well, that’s too bad.”
    Margie handed me the recipe for carrot bars. “Oh, don’t go and feel too sorry for him. He may be the valley’s worst joke teller, but he’s one of its biggest farmers. He works more’n fifteen hundred acres of beets, and I don’t know how much wheat and soybeans. On top of that, he’s president of the beet growers’ association. The growers own the beet plants, which means they decide how many tons get processed each year. In other words, they regulate the price of sugar.” She shook her head. “Yep, like a lot of farmers up here, he’s worth millions.”
    I jerked my head so fast I almost broke my neck. “Millions?”
    Margie looked embarrassed. “Oh,