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

through the door, and retreated to my rented room upstairs.
    It was a small and drafty space but just about perfect as far as I was concerned. With its white iron bed, antique dresser, and drop-leaf table, it reminded me of my own room growing up. This room, however, had an adjoining bath.
    Before turning in for the night, I showered, mostly to warm my cold limbs. I also took a shot at combing my hair. Being it was incredibly curly—think old-time telephone cord—combing it was always a lesson in patience and, quite often, futility. Especially after subjecting it to a hard-driving wind, like the one blowing outside. I gave up shortly, choosing instead to slip into my flannel nightie and wiggle beneath the blankets on the bed. A draft was sneaking through the cracks along the windowsill, so I nuzzled deeper and pulled my quilt higher before switching off the bedside lamp.
    Lying there in the dark I heard the faint murmur of voices downstairs. There were only a few of them now, the lone female voice undoubtedly being Margie’s, and the male voices, very similar to one another in timbre, surely belonging to the twins.
    As they spoke, I tossed and turned, knowing full well I should have stayed in the café and showed some courage by facing Buddy. After all, did I truly believe I could spend three days in a town the size of a bus shelter and not see him?
    Last time I was here I’d chalked up my jumpiness around him to the fact that he oozed testosterone and recklessness. And, admittedly, his brooding dark eyes and bad-boy smile still sent me reeling. But deep down I knew the primary reason for my current angst when near him was my failure to apologize for my part in the demise of his family. That lapse had left me feeling terribly guilty because I knew what it was like to lose family due to others. I also knew the anguish of having those responsible fail to express regret for their actions.
    I threw my pillow aside and buried my face in the mattress. Apologizing was hard work though. It was much easier, even if undeniably childish, to avoid Buddy, claiming I was protecting myself from a gorgeous scoundrel, who, if allowed to get too close, would do me wrong. Which, on one hand, was true. But only on one hand. One itty, bitty hand.
    I snatched my pillow and slapped it over my head, unsuccessfully hiding from the guilt that assailed me. Flipping on my back, I groaned. I had to apologize. I didn’t want to. But I had no choice.
    Emme, isn’t it strange how in the dark of night truth and right can shine so brightly you can’t ignore them?
    “Yeah,” I mumbled to the irritating voice in my head, “I might start sleeping with the lights on.”
     
    *   *   *
     
    I woke to an overture of clanging dishes and muffled voices accompanied by the aroma of coffee. The coffee alone should have excited me—made me glad I was alive—but it didn’t.
    I leaned up on my elbow and checked the clock on the bedside table—7:30 a.m.—in glowing red. I moaned and fell back against my pillow. Who was I fooling? I wouldn’t go to sleep again. I hadn’t done much of it during the night. And daylight certainly wasn’t likely to change that.
    I threw the covers back and got up, my toes cold against the hardwood floor. I tapped-danced to the window and gazed outside. The sky was dusky and the wind, spooky sounding. With high-pitched screeches, it blew the snow horizontally into banks that buffeted the buildings and vehicles and hid the highway in low drifts that reminded me of sand dunes—terribly misplaced sand dunes.
    I flipped on the lamp and got dressed, starting with my socks. Next came my jeans and a navy cable-knit sweater over a red turtleneck. I finished with my trusty red tennies. I don’t adhere to the fashion rule that redheads shouldn’t wear red. I love red. It makes me happy. And that particular morning, I needed happy. My fitful sleep had left me unsettled, much like the weather.
    I dug out my makeup and applied just