Free A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes: A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery by Jeanne Cooney

suppose you could say we talked.” He settled on the stool next to me.
    “How did that come about?” Margie wanted to know.
    Indecision flickered in the priest’s eyes. “I don’t know if I should say . . .” He wrung his thick hands as he sputtered, “But . . . umm . . . since he’s deceased . . . And . . . umm . . . considering I’ve already told the sheriff . . . Still . . .”
    “Hey, Padre,” Margie squawked, “let me know when you’re done arguin’ with yourself.” She stepped into the kitchen, only to return about five minutes later with four plates of Lemon Meringue Pie. She placed one in front of each of us, keeping the last for herself.
    I was awestruck by what looked to be confectionary perfection. Margie had made a variety of pies for the beet banquet. When she told me this particular Lemon Meringue Pie was the best she’d ever tasted, I knew I had to try it. “The recipe’s from Irene Stellon, over there in Drayton,” she had said. “It’s been a family favorite of theirs for generations.”
    “So what did you mean you ‘could say’ you talked to Raleigh Cummings?” It was a good question on Barbie’s part, but I wished she’d waited with it. I didn’t want anything affecting my pie experience. I was hoping to engage all my senses.
    “Well,” the priest replied, “he was so angry I couldn’t really get a word in edgewise. He just kept on ranting.”
    “Ranting? About what?”
    Father Daley picked up his fork. “Margie’s niece, Little Val.”

 
    Chapter Ten
    T he priest forked a sizeable chunk of Lemon Meringue Pie into his mouth. “Buddy asked me to speak with Raleigh about his . . . umm . . . inappropriate use of the field radio.” He licked his lips. “Margie, this is delicious. Definitely one of your best.” He helped himself to another big bite. “He thought a warning from me might carry some extra weight.” He glanced down at his paunch, then up at Margie and winked.
    I turned back to my own slice of heaven. And after finishing it off in record time—thank you very much—I ate more of my dinner, alternating mouthfuls of hot dish and Jell-O.
    Normally I avoided Jell-O salads and desserts. But I was hungry. And this Jell-O salad was good, even if it consisted of little more than Jell-O and Cool Whip. It was called Lime Jell-O Salad.
    Earlier, Margie had handed me the recipe card, noting that the dish was perfect for the paper’s next spread on “church cuisine.” And now, while perusing the short list of ingredients, penned in her barely legible handwriting, I eagerly took another bite of the final product, only to stop short of swallowing.
    The priest was staring at me. I felt his eyes boring into the side of my head. The sensation left me with no choice but to rest my fork on my napkin and meet him eye to eye.
    “See,” he said, once he had my full attention, “each machine used during harvest has a radio so everyone on that particular farm can communicate. You know, the guys driving the trucks can talk to the person manning the lifter back in the field and so on. But whatever is said by one is heard by all. And there’s the rub.”
    “What’s that got to do with Raleigh being mad to Little Val?” Barbie pushed aside her empty dinner and dessert plates.
    “Well, even though the radios are mainly for work, folks also use them to shoot the breeze. And usually that’s not a problem. But this past Tuesday morning Raleigh Cummings used it to tell a joke that was totally inappropriate. And he did it while Vivian was operating the rota-beater, and Little Val was on the lifter.”
    “Huh?” I’m sure my eyes nearly popped out of my head. “Did you say Vivian?” That was almost impossible for me to fathom. I’d met Vivian. She was Margie’s younger sister and the mother of Little Val. She talked nonsense—literally. She routinely mixed metaphors and jumbled her words. Half the time no one had a clue what she was saying. On top of that, she was utterly