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

inside my head. Yeah, that’s right. Sometimes I hear voices. The whole therapy thing makes much more sense now, doesn’t it?
    With their shoulder bags already bulging, they shoveled in more food.
    Emme, look what they’re doing. They’re absolutely nuts. Can you trust anything they say?
    If I didn’t talk to them, though, I’d be done as an investigative reporter before I even got started. Margie wasn’t going to volunteer anything about Ole. She liked him too much. Neither was the newspaper editor. And I didn’t know anyone else.
    A glob of Jell-O fell out of Hester’s bag and splattered on the floor. As she kicked at the slimy mess, my confidence in the women as information sources grew shakier, and before long, it was as shaky as the pink stuff on my plate.

Chapter 12
    Now, Emme,” Margie said, waving to a man in a short-sleeve sheriff’s uniform, “I want you to meet someone.”
    The guy steered toward us, and I took a visual inventory. I had to. I was a reporter—a trained observer. What’s more, he was hot. Tall, no less than six-three, and well built. My guess? Around thirty. His eyes were dark brown, his hair a shade lighter and unruly, making for an interesting look on a cop.
    “This here is Deputy Randy Ryden,” Margie explained when he reached my booth. “He’s from the Twin Cities too. Randy, this is Emerald Malloy, the reporter I told ya about.”
    “Glad to meet you.” The deputy tipped his head, his hands otherwise occupied, a cup of coffee in one, a plate piled high with food in the other. “It’s getting crowded in here. Mind if I join you?”
    “No, not at all.” I took another bite of Pizza Hot Dish. “Sit down.”
    While Deputy Ryden sidled in across from me and laid out his silverware, Margie excused herself, claiming she had to check on things in the kitchen.
    “Margie tells me you’re writing a story about her.” The deputy raised his eyes to find me using my fork to break a string of cheese that stretched from my plate to my mouth. He smiled … or was it a smirk?
    I felt myself blush. Then I got perturbed. I don’t like anyone—cute or not—judging my manners. It’s my biggest pet peeve.
    I put my fork down and tore the string apart with my fingers. “Yep.” I defiantly sucked the cheese into my mouth. “I’m gathering Margie’s favorite recipes and writing about her life as a rural café owner.”
    He grabbed his own fork—overhand—and pushed hot dish onto it with his free thumb. No mistake about it, he was mocking me. I’d been nice enough to share my booth, and he was repaying me by making fun of how I ate. What a jerk!
    Determined to teach him a lesson, I consumed my remaining tater-tots without saying a word. But as I munched, I had to admit that while not talking, I still was gawking.
    Well, not exactly gawking. It was more like examining him on the sly. Whenever he looked elsewhere, I checked him out. I attempted to discern if his eyes were chestnut brown with flecks of green or chestnut brown with flecks of gold. No matter, they were striking. And his mouth was the kind featured in toothpaste ads. His lips were full, his teeth, brilliantly white and perfectly straight.
    He grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling all sexy-like, and heat instantly rose along the nape of my neck, making me regret that I’d opted for coffee instead of water. I couldn’t very well cool off by pouring hot coffee down my shirt.
    He stuffed his mouth with hot dish and wolfed down a roll. Another smile split his face, and my stomach did a somersault. I reminded my stomach that the guy was making fun of me, and that it needed to hold steady on my behalf.
    He stabbed another clump of hot dish, aimed it at his mouth, and as he parted his lips, our eyes met and held. A double somersault. My stomach wasn’t a very good listener.
    Perhaps he isn’t mocking you, Emme. It was another one of the voices inside my head. Perhaps he, too, is just a messy eater.
    A second voice piped