by Joanne Fluke
“Just one more thing. I ran into Rod Metcalf at the party last night, and he told me that Lucy Richards wants to do an article on my antique jewelry collection. He’s going to send her over at eleven to take pictures and I need your advice on which pieces to display. I thought I’d put them out on a piece of blue velvet and…”
“Don’t bother,” Hannah interrupted her. “Lucy’s not coming.”
“How do you know that?”
Hannah sighed. She really didn’t want to go down that particular road, but she couldn’t let her mother get out every piece in her jewelry collection for pictures that no one would take. “Lucy’s not coming because she’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes, Mother. Lucy was murdered.”
“But it hasn’t been on the radio yet! I’ve been listening. There’s no way you could know, unless…” Delores stopped speaking, and Hannah knew that her mother was gathering herself to ask the obvious question. “Hannah? Tell me you didn’t…” Delores paused to clear her throat, and when she spoke again, she sounded very tentative. “Did you?”
“I’m afraid I did, Mother. I found Lucy last night.”
“Hannah! You’ve simply got to stop doing things like this!”
“It’s not like a scavenger hunt, Mother. I don’t go around looking for murder victims on purpose.” Hannah realized she sounded defensive and she tried to moderate her tone. “It just happened. And I had to report it.”
“I suppose you’re right. But I do wish you’d be a little more careful, Hannah.”
Hannah laughed. She couldn’t help it. What did being careful have to do with finding bodies?
“It’s no laughing matter,” Delores chided her.
“I know.” Hannah bit back another chuckle. “You’re right, Mother. I promise I’ll do my best not to find any more bodies.”
“Good. Tell me what happened.”
“I don’t have time, Mother. Listen to the radio if you want the details. The news should break any minute now. I’ve got to get to work.”
Before her mother could object, Hannah hung up and drew a deep breath. She glanced down at Moishe, realized that he was staring up at her expectantly, and got out the kitty crunchies to refill his food bowl. Then she slipped into her parka for the second time, picked up the garbage for the second time, and felt to make sure her car keys were still in her pocket. “See you tonight, Moishe,” she said. Then she hurried out the door before the phone could ring again.
A blast of frigid air greeted Hannah as she rushed down the outside stairs to the garage. The stairs were snow-free, thanks to the Minnesota construction firm who’d designed them. They were open stairs made of textured cement slats with a sloping roof above them. The roof kept off the rain in the summer, and the snow and ice in the winter.
Once Hannah had dropped her garbage bag into the Dumpster that sat in what looked like a little concrete bunker in the garage, she unplugged her truck, wound the cord around her bumper and climbed in under the wheel. She fired up the engine, flicked on her headlights, drove up the ramp and exited her condo complex on automatic pilot. As she turned onto Old Lake Road and drove toward town, she thought about Craig Kimball again. She’d approach him as a friend who could help him. If Craig knew who was using steroids and he was wrestling with the problem alone, he might welcome an adult’s help.
What would she do about Mike? Hannah started to frown. If Mike knew that she intended to talk to Craig Kimball about steroid use, he’d want to come along. Mike was a good guy, but he’d end up tying her hands. Not only was he a relative newcomer to Lake Eden, Mike was a cop. Craig wouldn’t say boo about steroids in front of a cop. She had to talk to Craig alone and leave Mike out of it until she needed him.
Hannah hit the brakes and swore as a car passed her on the left and pulled back into her lane much too fast. The car was sporting Florida plates and was obviously owned by a person who knew nothing about winter driving conditions. Hannah felt like pulling up beside him and giving him a piece of her mind, but that would take time, and time was one thing she didn’t have.
A cookie would help to improve her mood. Hannah reached in the back before she remembered that Andrea had eaten them all. This was starting off to be a very bad day. She’d only had a couple of hours of sleep, she was late to work, Delores had called, she’d almost had an accident on the road, the heater on her truck was putting out even less hot air than usual, and there were no breakfast cookies. If she hadn’t had a tendency to sunburn in thirty seconds flat, she’d seriously consider hopping the first plane to Hawaii and chucking it all for a weekend on the beach.
“Hi, Hannah.” Lisa greeted her with a sunny smile as she blew in through the back door, and Hannah immediately felt better. “Take off your coat, and I’ll pour you a cup of coffee.”
“Cookies?” Hannah asked, hanging her coat on the rack.
“The Chocolate Chip Crunches are still warm. Do you want a couple?”
“More than a couple,” Hannah answered, pulling a stool up to the work island. “Bring me four to start.”
Lisa was efficient at baking as well as serving, and a few moments later Hannah was smiling as she sipped hot coffee and munched cookies. If chocolate were a mandatory part of breakfast, people wouldn’t be so grouchy in the morning.
“You asked me to think about what we should bake tonight,” Lisa reminded her. “How about cookies? You haven’t done them yet, and you’re famous for your cookies.”
Hannah’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re right! Which ones should we bake?”
“Molasses Crackles. Everybody loves them, and they look gorgeous when they come out of the oven.”
“Perfect. Will you have time to mix up the dough? I’ve got something I have to do this morning, and it has to chill before we bake.”
Lisa gave a smug grin. “I’m way ahead of you. I mixed it up last night, and it’s in the cooler. I even baked a test sheet this morning, to make sure they were perfect.”
“Were you so confident that I’d take your suggestion?”
“Not really. I figured that if you wanted to make something else, I’d bake the cookies and freeze them for the children’s Christmas party. They look really nice if you pipe green frosting around the edge and put on a red frosting bow, like a wreath.”
Hannah winced. She’d promised to bring ten dozen cookies to the Lake Eden Community Center for the party and forgotten all about it. But Lisa hadn’t forgotten. She was already planning out what to bake. Lisa was a lot more than an assistant, and it made Hannah even more convinced to offer her some kind of a partnership.
“I’ll prepare your box of ingredients for tonight. I’ve got plenty of time to do it before we open. Do you want more coffee? I’ll get it.”
“That’s okay. My legs aren’t broken,” Hannah said with a grin. She got up and walked through the swinging door to the cookie shop and blinked in astonishment. Not only had Lisa finished the baking, set up the tables, filled the large glass cookie jars behind the counter, and written the day’s cookies on the menu board, she’d also found time to decorate the shop for Christmas.
Definitely a partnership, Hannah thought, as she took in the clever pinecone-and-candy-cane centerpieces on each table, the miniature Christmas lights that framed the plate-glass window, the Christmas stockings that were tacked to the top of the wainscoting that ran around the walls, the wreath on the front door, and the Christmas tree that Lisa had set up in the corner. If I paid Lisa what she’s really worth, I’d be broke in no time flat.
Hannah walked over to the tree for a closer look and just shook her head. Lisa had outdone herself. The Christmas tree was perfect. It was decorated with miniature lights, a glittering tinsel garland, and ornaments that looked like real cookies.
“I wanted to surprise you.” Lisa stood in the doorway, a happy smile on her face. “I know I should have asked you first, but you’ve been so busy, I didn’t want to bother you. Do you like it?”
“Are you kidding?
Everything’s gorgeous, especially the tree. Are those cookie ornaments real?”
Lisa nodded. “I shellacked them. I followed the instructions in a craft book, and it said they should last for years.”
“I believe it.” Hannah chuckled as she touched one of the cookies. “They’re as hard as rocks.”
“Then you’re not upset that I just did it without asking?”
“I’m not upset, I’m impressed. The Cookie Jar’s never looked so good. Last year I just hung a string of lights, and that was it.” As Hannah gazed around her, she thought about Lisa’s abilities. Not only was she reliable and loyal, she baked like a dream, she was good with the customers, she could decorate cookies even better than Hannah could, and she’d decked out the shop for Christmas like a pro. It was time to make a move before someone else in Lake Eden discovered just how talented Lisa was. Hannah turned, walked over to Lisa and shook her hand. “Good work, partner.”
Lisa’s face was a study in contrasts. It was clear she hoped she’d heard Hannah right, but she was almost afraid to ask. Finally, she gulped and asked, “Partner?”
“Partner,” Hannah repeated it and smiled. “It’s the least I can do when you’re doing most of the work. I’ll work out the details with Howie Levine and have him draw up the papers before Christmas. There’s no way I’m going to chance losing you, Lisa.”
Lisa shook her head. “You won’t lose me. I love working here. You don’t have to make me a partner to keep me.”
“Bad move, Lisa.” Hannah couldn’t resist teasing her a little. “When someone offers you a partnership, you’re not supposed to try to talk them out of it. Just say ‘no thanks,’ or ‘I accept,’ and that’s all there is to it.”
Lisa nodded, and Hannah noticed that her eyes were shining. “You’re right, Hannah. I accept.”
After a quick phone call to Charlotte Roscoe, Jordan High’s secretary, Hannah headed for the school. She’d learned two things. Mike had called Charlotte and she’d faxed him a complete roster of The Gulls basketball team, and Craig Kimball was spending his first period, from eight-forty-five to nine-forty, in the library, where he would be studying for his midterm in English literature.
As she parked her truck in the section of the teachers’ parking lot that was reserved for visitors, Hannah remembered that she’d intended to bring her box of ingredients for tonight’s baking. She got out of her truck with a frown on her face. Why did she always remember things after the fact? She had the test sheet of Molasses Crackles that Lisa had baked. At least she’d remembered to take them. She’d give them to Craig to soften him up for her questions.
A yellow school bus was parked at the entrance as Hannah walked up. It was filled with elementary-school students, a teacher, and three parents. It was obviously a field trip of some type and as Hannah passed, several bus windows lowered and kids leaned out to wave at the Cookie Lady. Hannah waved back and hid the test batch of Molasses Crackles under her coat, wishing she had more cookies to give them.
The lobby of the school was quiet, and Hannah realized that classes must have started. It smelled the same as it always had, a combination of sweeping compound, warm bodies, and chalk. Hannah had always loved that smell. It meant that brains were at work. She walked down the hall past the principal’s office and waved at Charlotte, who had her nose deep in a filing cabinet and didn’t see her.
The library was in the same place it had always been, at the rear of the school and adjacent to the covered walkway that connected the high school to the elementary school. Hannah remembered walking from the elementary school to the high school when she was in fourth grade, clutching a note from her teacher, Miss Parry. The high-school library had been her favorite place, and Miss Parry had given Hannah permission to visit it every time her assignments had been completed early.
The main part of the library was exactly as Hannah remembered it. The only change was the computer lab that had been added after her graduation. She glanced at the long oak tables that were placed around the room and spotted Craig at a table near the stacks. He was alone, and Hannah thanked her lucky stars for that. At least she wouldn’t have to pull him away from his friends.
“Hi, Craig.” Hannah spoke softly, a habit the librarian, Mrs. Dodds, had instilled in her on her first visit. Mrs. Dodds had retired several years ago and Hannah had noticed that a very young-looking woman, surely too young to be a librarian, had taken her place behind the old curved desk at the front of the room. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure.” Craig looked surprised to see her, but he pulled out a chair for her.
Hannah sat, the smile still on her face. She’d start with a little flattery and go from there. “Congratulations on breaking the school single-game scoring record. I brought you a dozen Molasses Crackles.”
“Thanks, Miss Swensen.” Craig grinned as he reached out for the bag. “I didn’t know you came to our basketball games.”
“Every chance I get.” Hannah told a little white lie. She’d never been a big basketball fan, not even in high school, and the last basketball game she’d attended had been over a decade ago. “I need to talk to you about The Gulls, Craig.”
“Okay.” Craig placed a pencil in his book to hold the place and closed it.
Hannah managed to keep the smile on her face with difficulty. It was a good thing Mrs. Dodds had retired. She would have had heart palpitations if she’d seen Craig use a pencil for a bookmark. Her favorite phrase had been, A book is your friend, and you don’t break a friend’s back.
Craig looked at her expectantly. “I don’t mean to be rude, Miss Swensen, but I’ve only got a few minutes. I still have to study for a test.”
“English lit?”
“That’s right. How did you know?”
“I called Mrs. Roscoe to find out your class schedule, and she told me. What does your test cover?”
“Nineteenth-century English poets.” Craig made a face.
“Maybe I can help you cram for that test.” Hannah slid her chair closer. “You hit my field, Craig. I was an English lit major in college.”
“You were?” Craig looked at her with new respect. “Do you know about…uh…Byron?”
“Lord Byron. His most famous poem was Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, and he limped all over the Lake District looking soulful while the girls chased after him.”
Craig’s eyebrows shot up. “Lord Byron limped?”
“Yes,” Hannah said. Perhaps she would have made a good teacher after all. “He was born with a deformed foot, but that didn’t turn anyone off. He couldn’t go anywhere without groupies following him.”
“So he was like a rock star?”
“As close as you could get in nineteenth-century England. He married very briefly, had a daughter, got divorced, and left the country. He caught a fever in Greece and died.”
“From a fever?”
“Yes. People died from things like the flu or a really bad cold back then. They didn’t have any of the medicines we have now.”
Craig was clearly surprised. His literature teacher had obviously failed to set the scene. “Not even aspirin?”
“Only in the form of willow bark. When people got sick, there wasn’t much a doctor could do. Either they got better on their own, or they died.”
“It sure doesn’t say all that in here.” Craig tapped his literature book. “It makes Lord Byron’s life a lot more interesting, just like in a movie.”
“I know.” Hannah could sympathize. A list of dates and titles didn’t do it for her either. “You can remember a lot better if you know some personal facts.”
Craig leaned forward. “Say…do you know stories like that about Shelley and Keats?”
“You bet I do.” Hannah took Craig’s book and flipped it open, glancing at the list of poets who were covered. “And I can tell you all the dirt on Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Southey.”
Craig looked dubious. “I read about them. They’re pretty boring guys.”
“That�
�s because you don’t know anything about their personal lives. Coleridge got disowned by his family for fighting in the French Revolution, Wordsworth said that he wrote his best poetry when he was stoned, and Southey went crazy and died insane. That’s not boring, is it?”
“I guess not!” Craig shook his head.
Hannah rummaged through her purse and pulled out a pen. It was the one that P.K. had given her last night, a gold-plated Cross that had some engraving on the side. She’d forgotten to return it, but that was easily fixed. Right after she finished with Craig, she’d run out to the production truck and give it back.
“Okay, Craig. Here’s the deal.” Hannah prepared to outline her plan. “Take out a pen, open your notebook, and I’ll tell you all about the poets in your book.”
“Okay, but I got to warn you. I’m not very good at taking notes.”
“You don’t have to be,” Hannah assured him. “Just write down things to jog your memory.”
“Like what?”
“Write down Lord Byron and underline it. And then write down things like, Bum Foot, Groupies, and Died in Greece. I’ll jot down all the other stuff for you. Just give me a blank page from your notebook.”
“Here you go.” Craig tore off a blank page and handed it to her. “But what about The Gulls? You said you wanted to ask me something.”
“We’ll talk about it after I help you cram for your test.” Hannah knew she was doing the right thing. Once she’d helped Craig, he’d be more inclined to help her. “Let’s start with John Keats. Did you know that he was almost a surgeon instead of a poet?”
Craig leaned forward, his pen at the ready and the Molasses Crackles forgotten. Hannah smiled. Perhaps she should think about starting an English lit study group down at The Cookie Jar.
