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

sunburns ending where their tee-shirt sleeves began, formed a buffet line along the counter, now chock full of hot dishes, salad, dinner rolls, and bars. The men were accompanied by a smattering of blonde kids, all of them surrounded by elderly people with clouds of gray hair. There were so many gray clouds, in fact, I half expected rain.
    My stomach gnawed at me, apparently trying to convince me to eat straightaway, but I needed no convincing. Famished and determined to get my food before the sewer guy, I forged ahead, side-stepping a pair of shrunken-up, stooped-over women, deciding it would be rude to hurdle them, no matter how close to the ground they stood or how quickly I wanted to eat.
    I was just about there, my eyes glued on what would be my place in the buffet line, when, out of nowhere, the Anderson sisters stepped in front of me. I pulled up just short of plowing them over.
    “Hello there. Nice to see ya again,” one of them said, after which the other two chimed in with, “Yah, we’re back, just like we promised.”
    I caught my breath and offered a fake smile. It was the best I could do. Keep in mind, they were standing between me and my dinner. There was Henrietta, the mother hen, the oldest and largest of the three; Harriet, whose moustache was undoubtedly the envy of every boy in town; and tiny, elfin Hester.
    “See what I won at bingo.” Henrietta pulled a plastic bag of cucumbers from the large canvas purse hanging from her shoulder.
    Not sure whether a prize of cucumbers warranted congratulations or condolences, I remained mum.
    Harriet, however, knew exactly what to say. “It ain’t fair. She’s too lucky. She always wins the best prizes.”
    Still unsure how to respond, I merely stated, “Oh, I’ll bet you’ll win next time.”
    To that, Harriet replied, her voice filled with yearning, “I can only hope and pray. Ya see, the cucumbers in my garden turned out just terrible this year.”
    As shocking as this might sound, I really didn’t care about Harriet’s cucumbers. Yes, I wanted to talk to her and her sisters. They were Ole’s aunts and probably knew something about Samantha Berg’s death. But at that moment, I was in no condition to carry on a decent conversation, much less conduct an interrogation. I needed food, so I suggested they join me in line.
    Little Hester eagerly accepted my invitation. “Oh, for sure,” she said. “But let’s get goin.’ Ya don’t wanna be slow to eat at one of these things. Everythin’ gets too picked over.”
    Henrietta agreed, reciting the poor food choices left for the “slow pokes” at the last community dinner. The tale led all three ladies—large, medium, and small—to hobble ever faster to the counter, with me bringing up the rear.
    I pulled a twenty-dollar bill from my pants’ pocket, slid it through the slit in the plastic ice cream bucket that served as the donation jar, and stared at the ladies. They hadn’t contributed a thing.
    Seeing me eye them, they eyed each other until, finally, they retrieved their coin purses from their large shoulder bags and picked through change. Choosing a few dimes and quarters, they dropped them into the pail and, with indignant huffs, snatched their plates and stepped in behind me.
    I began my culinary journey with a serving of Cheeseburger Hot Dish and another of Pizza Hot Dish before spying my favorite, Tater-Tot Hot Dish. Not wasting a second, I helped myself to a large spoonful of that, heavy on the tots. The pleasant aroma triggered a reverie of Saturdays during my childhood, my dad and me sitting at the kitchen table, playing Kings on the Corners, my favorite card game, while Mom served up our hot-dish lunch nearby.
    Feeling all warm and fuzzy inside, I tucked that memory away and strolled on down the line. I added a dinner roll but stopped when I got to the Jell-O. I don’t like Jell-O. I don’t like any food that wiggles after it was prepared. Orange Jell-O with marshmallows. Red Jell-O