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

when the smoke cleared, there stood Buford minus his eyelashes, eyebrows, and most of his hair.
    “The doctor says he’ll be fine, but he’s darn lucky he wasn’t seriously hurt.” She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “He claims he hadn’t been drinkin’ much, but I don’t believe him. Sometimes he drinks way too …” She narrowed her eyes. “Well, let’s just say that if he doesn’t start usin’ his head, he may as well have been born with two asses.
    “I suppose, though, boys will be boys. Plus, we’ve all had some fun with the fiasco.” She drew her lips back into a timid smile while pointing to a homemade sign on the wall that read, “For blackened catfish, contact Burnt Buford, at 1-800-YOU-FOOL.”
    “That reminds me.” She sifted through the recipe cards. “Ya oughtta write down the recipe for Buford’s favorite bar. I baked some for him the day after the catfish incident. They’re Blondies, meanin’ they’re nothin’ more than blonde brownies with chocolate chips, but Buford loves ’em all the same.”

Chapter 9
    The café door opened and in walked a woman with a husky build. She strutted to the kitchen. “Hi, Margie.” She reached for a mug from a shelf above the sink and wheeled back around. “You must be Emerald Malloy. I’m Barbara Jean Jenson, but everyone calls me Barbie.”
    Barbie looked to be about ten years younger than Margie. But unlike Margie, she wore lots of makeup, including berry eye shadow and maroon lipstick. She also had a deep, tanning-bed tan and hair dyed henna red, cut short, and spiked with gel. A gaudy, gold chain hung from her neck, resting on a white, spandex, tank top that struggled to conceal her large breasts. The chain secured purple-rimmed eye glasses. Sunglasses, framed in pink, were perched on top of her head. Amazon Barbie.
    “I told Barbie you’d be here,” Margie informed me. “I thought ya might enjoy talkin’ to her. She’s the editor of our local paper, The Enterprise , but used to write news in the Twin Cities.”
    Since the fresh coffee wasn’t ready, Barbie filled her mug with the last of the lunch-time brew and made tracks to the end of the counter, where the bars were waiting. “I wrote for the St. Paul paper a long time ago,” she said. “A hell of a long time ago. It’s been almost twenty years.”
    “You two should sit,” Margie suggested. “I have to throw together a few more hot dishes.”
    Barbie selected two frosted pumpkin squares and motioned me to a booth. “I’ve only got a few minutes, but definitely, let’s talk.”
    We sat down, and she immediately asked, “Do you know Stan Trendell? He was an up-and-coming reporter at your paper when I was at the one in St. Paul.”
    I rested my glass of lemonade on the table. “I don’t know him personally, but I certainly know of him.” He was one of our most popular columnists.
    Barbie unfolded her napkin, laid it on the table, and placed her Pumpkin Bars, side by side, on top of it. “We were competitors back then, but I liked him and really admired his work. I had a feeling he’d make it big. Whenever I’m in the Cities, we get together.”
    I was bewildered, a fact not lost on the newspaper lady, as evidenced by her giggle. “I know what you’re thinking.” She flipped her hands, palms up. “How in the hell did she go from writing for a daily metropolitan newspaper to being the editor of a weekly way up here?”
    “Well …”
    “I was raised here. I got my bachelor’s degree at the University of North Dakota in Grand Forks and moved to Minneapolis to get my master’s in journalism at the U of M. While there, I wrote for the college paper, and the folks at the St. Paul paper liked what they read.” She picked up one of her bars and took a bite. “I ended up working for them for nearly ten years.” She talked with her hands, and her Pumpkin Bar went along for the ride.
    “What made you come back here?”
    “My parents began having trouble getting