by Joanne Fluke
“Cory?! But I thought he was with you when Wayne was murdered.”
“That’s what he wanted us to think. Will you call Mike for me? I’ve got Cory netted up here at Bergstrom’s Christmas tree annex, and I need him taken into custody before someone hangs lights and tinsel on him and props him up in the living room.”
Chapter Thirteen
Hannah was on top of the world. Not only had she caught Wayne’s killer, Jenny had insisted on giving her Teensy’s Penthouse so that Tracey would have it for Christmas. It was currently sitting under Andrea’s Christmas tree, wrapped in gold paper and tied with a huge red bow. It was the night after Cory had been taken into custody and they were all gathered at Andrea’s house for coffee and dessert.
“This is just wonderful, Andrea,” she said, even though she was seated on the couch between Norman and Mike. It was a small couch and she couldn’t help but feel like the filling in a Norman and Mike Oreo.
“It’s a gorgeous tree,” Michelle said, admiring the huge Norway pine that sat in front of the picture window.
“Thanks. Bill picked it out at Bergstrom’s. I love to get trees there. They’re so careful with the netting.” Andrea stopped and made a face. “Sorry, Hannah. I forgot for a second.”
“That’s okay. I’m just glad their netting machine could take a few extra pounds!”
“That reminds me…” Norman leaned forward to talk to Mike. “How’d you get that netting off Cory?”
“We rolled him on his back and used scissors.”
Norman shook his head. “It’s a good thing I’m not a cop.”
“Why’s that?” Bill asked him.
“Because I might have been temped to hit him with a stun gun for what he almost did to Hannah.”
Hannah turned to smile at Norman. He looked perfectly serious.
“What makes you think I didn’t?”
Hannah turned to look at Mike. He looked perfectly serious, too.
“Time for coffee,” Andrea announced, getting up to take the tray from Grandma McCann, who’d just come in from the kitchen. “I hope you left room for dessert. Hannah brought her Candy Cane Bar Cookies.”
“Because Cory’s behind bars?” Norman asked.
“Of course.” Hannah turned to Bill. “I just wish we could have gotten Melinda for something or other. I know she didn’t poison Wayne, but I wish she wouldn’t inherit all that money.”
“She won’t. Want to tell her, Mike?”
Mike turned to Hannah. “I did a little checking after we talked. I kept thinking about how his former wife was the one who was grieving. And she was getting nothing. And Melinda, who didn’t seem to care about Wayne at all, was inheriting everything. So I ran her.”
“Jenny?”
“No, Melinda.”
“And you came up with something?” Hannah crossed her fingers, a leftover habit from childhood.
“It turns out she’s Melinda Ann Ames Reynolds Bergstrom.”
“Melinda Ann Ames?” Hannah asked, remembering the photo album with the initials M.A.A. on the cover.
“Ames was Melinda’s maiden name. Reynolds was the name of her first husband. And she never bothered to get a divorce from Cornell Reynolds.”
“Cory?”
“One and the same. They had a good thing going, living in luxury at Wayne’s expense. They had it made until Wayne told Melinda that he was divorcing her so he could remarry his ex-wife.”
“Then they had to do something quick if they wanted the good life to continue,” Bill picked up the story. “So Cory killed Wayne right before he was ready to leave for his Santa appearance, put his body in the trunk of his car, and drove out to the Lake Eden Inn. When he got there, everyone was already inside, so he dumped Wayne’s body behind the snow bank, left the trail of candy canes that you found in the road, and went inside to play Wayne as a Santa with laryngitis.”
“And I bought it,” Hannah muttered. “I was standing right next to him and I didn’t know he wasn’t Wayne.”
Norman patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t feel bad. He had us all fooled.”
“Can you charge Melinda for conspiring with Cory to murder Wayne?” Michelle asked.
Mike shook his head. “I wish we could, but the D.A. says there’s not enough evidence. Cory won’t talk and Melinda’s being very careful not to implicate herself.”
“So she’s going to get off with no charges at all?” Andrea looked highly disappointed.
“That’s right,” Bill answered her, “but she’ll also get off with no money. Cory and Melinda were still married when Melinda tied the knot with Wayne. According to Stan Levine, that’s bigamy and it makes any claim she has on Wayne’s estate invalid. Thanks to you and Hannah, we know about Wayne’s daughter. She’s his closest living relative and she’ll inherit.”
“That’s perfect!” Hannah was pleased. “Maybe now Jenny will move back here with her friends.”
Grandma McCann appeared in the doorway, carrying baby Bethany. Tracey walked beside her, bearing the tray that Hannah had brought with Candy Cane Bar Cookies.
“Sorry,” Tracey said, setting the platter on the coffee table. “Bethany and I had two from the middle.”
Hannah laughed. It was true. There were two bar cookies missing from the middle of the platter. “That’s okay. How did you like them?”
“I’m not sure,” Tracey said, reaching out for another. And then when Andrea gave her a censorious look, she pulled her hand back. “May I have another one, please?”
“Yes.” Andrea struggled to keep a straight face.
“Chock-it!” Bethany said, reaching out toward the platter. And then, when everyone turned to look at her, she repeated, “Chock-it!”
“Did she just say chocolate?” Bill asked Andrea.
“I think so. I don’t know what else it could be.”
Bill started laughing. “But she hasn’t even said Daddy yet!”
“That’s my niece,” Hannah said, grabbing a bar cookie and holding out her arms for another niece after her own heart.
CANDY CANE BAR COOKIES
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position.
1 cup butter (2 sticks, ½ pound)
1 cup white (granulated) sugar
1 egg (just whip it up with a fork in a glass)
¼ teaspoon peppermint extract
½ teaspoon salt
2⁄3 cup finely crushed miniature candy canes (measure after crushing)
6 drops red food coloring
2 cups flour (not sifted—pack it down when you measure it.)
1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips (that’s a 6-ounce bag)
2 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips (that’s a 12-ounce bag)
Melt the butter in a microwave-safe bowl for 1 minute 30 seconds on HIGH. Set it on the counter to cool.
Place the sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer (you can also do this by hand, but it’ll take some muscle,) add the egg, and beat it until it’s a uniform color.
Add the peppermint extract, salt, and finely crushed miniature candy canes. Mix it all up.
Add the 6 drops of red food coloring. Mix it in thoroughly.
Feel the bowl with the butter. If you can cup your hands around it comfortably, you can add it to your mixing bowl now. Mix it in slowly at low speed. (You don’t want it to slosh all over!) If it’s still too warm to add, wait until it’s cooler and then do it.
Add the flour in half-cup increments, beating after each addition.
Take the bowl from the mixer and stir in one cup chocolate chips by hand.
Spread the batter evenly into a greased (or Pammed) 9-inch by 13-inch pan. Bake it at 350 degrees F. for 25 minutes or until it feels firm on the top.
Remove the pan from the oven and sprinkle it with the remaining two cups of chocolate chips. Immediately cover the pan with a piece of heavy-duty foil or a cookie sheet. (That keeps the heat in.) Let it sit for three minutes. Then take off the cookie sheet, or foil, and spread out the melt
ed chips like frosting with a rubber spatula or frosting knife.
Cool completely and then cut into brownie-sized pieces.
Index of Recipes
Baking Conversion Chart
These conversions are approximate, but they’ll work just fine for Hannah Swensen’s recipes.
VOLUME:
WEIGHT:
OVEN TEMPERATURE:
Note: Hannah’s rectangular sheet cake pan, 9 inches by 13 inches, is approximately 23 centimeters by 32.5 centimeters.
THE DANGERS OF CANDY CANES
LAURA LEVINE
For my loyal theater companion and technical advisor,
Michele Serchuk
Chapter One
Ah, Christmas in Los Angeles. There’s nothing quite like it. Chestnuts roasting on an open hibachi. Jack Frost nipping at your frappucino. Santa in cutoffs and flip-flops. It’s hard to get in the holiday spirit when the closest you get to snow is the ice in your margarita, but I was trying.
On the day my story begins, I was attempting to take a picture of my cat Prozac for my holiday photo card. I thought it would be cute to get her to pose in a Santa hat. Prozac, however, was not so keen on the idea. And I still have the scars to prove it.
The only holiday Prozac gets excited about is Let’s Claw A Pair of Pantyhose to Shreds Day. Not a national holiday, I know, but one celebrated quite often in my apartment.
I kept putting the Santa hat on her head, only to find it on the floor by the time I picked up my camera.
“Oh, Prozac!” I wailed after about the thirtieth try. “What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you wear a simple Santa hat?”
She glared at me as if to say, I refuse to look like a fool for the amusement of your friends and relatives. I’ve got my dignity, you know.
This from a cat who’s been known to swan dive into the garbage for a chicken McNugget.
I was beginning to think E. Scrooge may have had the right idea about Christmas when the phone rang. I recognized the voice of Seymour Fiedler of Fiedler on the Roof Roofers, one of the not-so-long list of clients who use my services as a freelance writer.
“Jaine, you’ve got to come over to the shop right away.”
I wondered if he wanted me to punch up the Yellow Pages ad I’d just written for him. Although for the life of me I couldn’t see how I could possibly top Size Doesn’t Matter. We Do Big Jobs and Small.
But he wasn’t calling about the Yellow Pages ad.
“I’m in big trouble,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m being accused of murder!”
Mild-mannered Seymour Fiedler, a man I’d never once heard utter an angry word, accused of murder? Impossible!
“Hang on, Seymour. I’ll be right over.”
I grabbed my car keys and headed for the door, just in time to see Prozac celebrating a whole new holiday—Let’s Poop on A Santa Hat Day.
Chapter Two
Seymour’s shop was in the industrial section of Santa Monica, a no-frills box of a building whose only concession to whimsy was a huge plaster fiddle on the roof.
His wife, Maxine, who doubled as his bookkeeper, sat at her desk out front, weeping into a Kleenex.
“Oh, Judy!” she cried, looking up at me with red-rimmed eyes. “It’s all too awful!”
Maxine was a fifty something woman with fried blond hair and a fondness for turquoise eye shadow, most of which had now rubbed off on her Kleenex. For as long as I’d been working for Seymour, she’d been calling me Judy. Every paycheck she’d ever written had been made out to Judy Austen, often in the wrong amount. Not exactly the sharpest blade in the Veg-O-Matic.
“Seymour’s waiting for you,” she said, gesturing to his office.
I found Seymour behind his desk, guzzling Maalox straight from the bottle. Normally a jovial butterball of a guy, Seymour showed no hint of joviality that day. His pudgy face was ashen, and sweat beaded on his balding scalp.
“Seymour,” I said, “what on earth happened?”
He took a swig of Maalox and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“One of my customers was putting up Christmas decorations on his roof last week and fell. He landed on the driveway. Cracked his skull and died instantly.
“And now,” he groaned, “they’re blaming me.”
“But why?”
“I’d just finished re-roofing his house. And apparently some of the shingles were loose. They say that’s why he fell. His wife is hitting me with a wrongful death lawsuit. I might even be arrested on criminal charges.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“The police are conducting an investigation,” he said, “but they’re just going through the motions. They’re pretty much convinced it was my fault.”
“Any chance one of your workmen screwed up?” I asked, wondering if maybe the cops were right.
“No way. I personally inspected the job when they were through.
“Oh, Jaine!” he said, mopping his scalp with an already-damp hankie, “I’m going to be ruined.”
“Don’t you have insurance for things like this?”
He let out a big sigh.
“That’s just it. Maxine’s been distracted lately. Our daughter’s getting married, and she’s been so busy planning the wedding, she forgot to mail in the last two premiums.”
Holy Tarpaper. Poor Seymour was in deep doo doo.
“I swear, Jaine, when I left that roof, every shingle was nailed down tight as a drum. Something fishy’s going on here and I want you to investigate.”
“You think somebody was trying to kill your client?”
“That’s exactly what I think. The only way those shingles could’ve gotten loose was if somebody went up there and loosened them.”
Now those of you who picked up this book for Hannah Swensen’s latest recipes are probably wondering: Why was Seymour Fiedler asking a freelance writer to investigate a murder? Shouldn’t he be talking to a private eye?
Well, it just so happens I’ve solved a few murders in my time. It’s a life-threatening hobby, I know, but it adds zest to my days and breaks up the monotony of writing about No-Leak Roof Warrantees.
“Of course, Seymour,” I said. “I’ll be happy to investigate.”
“How can I ever thank you, Jaine?” His eyes shone with gratitude.
Money might be nice, I couldn’t help thinking.
“Of course, I’ll pay you your going rate,” he said, as if reading my thoughts.
Now my eyes were the ones shining with gratitude. My job docket was a tad on the empty side, and I desperately needed the money for Christmas gifts.
“In fact,” Seymour said, “let me pay you something right now.”
He whipped out his checkbook and wrote out a check with a heartwarming number of zeroes.
I was sitting there thinking of the lavish gifts I could buy my parents and, not incidentally, a new cashmere sweater I’d been lusting after at Nordstrom, when Seymour broke into my reverie.
“I, um, wouldn’t try to cash that check right away.” He looked at me sheepishly. “I don’t exactly have enough in my account to cover it. Between our daughter’s wedding and my lawyer’s retainer, I’m sort of strapped.”
Bye-bye, cashmere. Hello, polyester.
“But I’m sure the check will clear some time in February,” he added hopefully. “Or March. Maybe April.”
I told him not to worry and scooted out of his office before he had me cashing the check in July.
I stopped at Maxine’s desk on my way out to say good-bye.
“So long, Judy,” she sniffled, her Kleenex by now pulverized in her palm.
“Try not to worry.” I gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m sure everything will be okay.”
I was sure of no such thing, but she looked so damn pathetic sitting there with mascara tracks down her cheeks, I had to say something.
“I hope so. I don’t know what I’d do if they ever arrested Seymo
ur.”
My attention was momentarily diverted from Maxine’s grief by the sight of an untouched cheeseburger at her side.
Gosh, it smelled good.
“Would you like my cheeseburger?” she asked, following my gaze.
“Oh, no, thanks,” I said, eyeing the cheese oozing out from the sides.
“You sure? I’m so upset about what happened with those insurance premiums, I’ve totally lost my appetite.”
One thing I’ve never lost is my appetite, and that burger smelled like heaven on a bun. But I couldn’t possibly say yes, not if I expected to squeeze into a bathing suit by Christmas.
And squeezing into a bathing suit was definitely on my Holiday To Do List. That’s because every year I spend Christmas with my parents in their retirement condo in Tampa Vistas, Florida—much of that time on display at the Tampa Vistas pool. True, I’m not rich or wildly successful like some of the other kids on display, but I’m all they’ve got, and my parents are determined to show me off.
It’s a trip I dread every year. And not because I don’t love my parents. I do. If it were just the three off us, I’d be fine. But it’s not just the three of us. Every year my parents invite my Aunt Clara and Uncle Ed and my cousin Joanie to join us, along with Joanie’s husband Bradley and son Dexter. All of us bunking in a two-bedroom condo.
My mom calls it “cozy.” I call it hell.
Joanie and her family get to sleep in the guest bedroom. Uncle Ed and Aunt Clara camp out in the den. And lucky me—I get to sleep on the living room sofa right next to the Christmas tree. You haven’t lived till you wake up Christmas morning with pine needles up your nose.
