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

husband and Margie’s niece direct some of the finest school musicals you’ll ever see.”
    I raised my hands. “I give up! I don’t know what I was thinking. Clearly this place is a cultural Mecca, full of Renaissance people.”
    “Precisely, so why do you live in the Cities?”
    “Huh?” The question threw me. “I guess because that’s where I landed a job.”
    “So you’re there by default?”
    “Default? I’m not sure I’d say—”
    “Besides your job, why’d you move there? Family? Friends? True love?”
    “Hardly.” Her words reverberated in my head. Did I really live in Minneapolis by “default”? That sounded terrible, as if I were taking the path of least resistance, letting life happen to me rather than designing it myself. I wasn’t doing that, was I?
    “Damn, girl,” she went on to holler, “you should move here!”
    “What?”
    She reached out and grabbed my wrists. “Move here!” She pleaded in mock desperation. “You’ve got no stake in Minneapolis. And you could make a difference up here.”
    “What would I do?”
    She let go of my arms and wiggled her fingers as if typing. “Write! Work for me. I could use the help. The woman who covers sports for me now pens romance novels on the side.”
    “What’s wrong with that?”
    “I end up with articles about boys’ basketball with lines like, ‘His body glistened with the sweat of desire as his throbbing loins pressed against the man he was guarding.’”
    I snickered, but before I could speak, she was on to a new subject. “Do you own a home?”
    “Huh?” I needed to think faster to keep up. “No, and I probably never will. You may not remember, but journalists in the Twin Cities get paid crap.”
    “Well, up here you can get a house for free.”
    “Really?”
    “Nah, I’m just shittin’ you. But you can buy one for less than the cost of a new car.” She stopped to let that tidbit of information sink in. “I know someone who recently bought a cute, two-bedroom, one-bath, for under $25,000.” She leaned across the table and whispered, “You may find this hard to believe, but there’s not a big demand for housing in these parts.”
    As she sat back, she lifted the glasses from her ample chest and peered through the retro, cat-eye lenses to read the time on her Betty Boop watch. “Oh, hell, I’ve gotta go. I have a paper to put to bed.” She shimmied seductively before sliding from the booth, and I followed suit, except for the shimmying seductively part.
    Standing, she extended her hand. “It was great to meet you, and if you get a chance, say hello to Stan for me.”
    Without taking a breath, she hollered toward the kitchen. “Hey, Margie, I tried.” Then to me, she said by way of explanation, “I’m always after people to move up here. I don’t want these little towns to die.” She paused. “Did I mention we have a lot of rich, single, farmers?”
    While shaking my head, pretending exasperation, I realized just how tired I truly was. “Do you make that same sale’s pitch to every visitor?” As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew they sounded petty. I had no desire to live in Kennedy, so I wasn’t sure why it irritated me that Barbie had asked others to make the move, but it did, though I wasn’t proud of it. “Sorry. I think my long drive has caught up to me. I’m pooped, and I’m getting crabby.”
    “Well, I meant it. If you ever need a change of pace, I could use the help. I’m not as young as I look.” She fluttered her lashes. “I should start training someone to take over for me.”
    She peeled a few dollar bills from the pocket of her tight, denim capris and tossed them on the table.
    “But why me? You don’t even know if I can write.”
    From another pocket, she retrieved a business card and placed it in my hand, folding my fingers over it. “Honestly? Because you’re here. Besides, you wouldn’t be working where you’re working if you couldn’t write.” She winked. “And