by Joanne Fluke
“That’s sweet,” Hannah said, smiling at him. And then, just as she was about to step inside, Moishe licked her cheeks with his rough tongue and started to purr.
Hannah hugged him to show that the feeling was mutual, and carried him inside. She placed him on the back of the couch in his favorite spot and rubbed the base of his ears. Only then did she turn to greet Norman and Mike.
“Hi, guys,” she said, still smiling from Moishe’s unexpected show of affection.
Mike nodded to acknowledge her presence, and then he said, “Sit down, Hannah.”
Alarm bells clanged in Hannah’s mind, and she hurried to sit down on the sofa. Norman took the seat next to her, and she was glad he was here. Mike had used his command voice, and that meant something was happening. “What’s wrong?” she asked him.
“We found Ross,” Mike told her. His voice was flat, and that didn’t bode well. “It’s bad news, Hannah.”
Hannah could feel her tightly controlled composure slip alarmingly. “Is he . . . ?” she stopped to swallow, her throat suddenly dry. “Is he . . . dead?” She managed to force out the word.
“No.”
Hannah drew a deep breath of relief, but then another dreadful possibility occurred to her. “Injured?”
“No, he’s perfectly okay.”
Hannah started to smile, but Mike wasn’t smiling and neither was Norman. That left her completely puzzled and her fear began to build again. “But . . . if Ross isn’t dead, or injured, why did you tell me that it was bad news?”
Mike nodded to Norman and Norman sighed. “Mike meant that it’s not bad for Ross, but it is bad news for you, Hannah.”
“What? Mike needs an interpreter?” Hannah felt her irritation grow by leaps and bounds. Getting bad news should be like ripping off a Band-Aid. If you dragged it out, it hurt more than if you gritted your teeth and yanked it off quickly. She turned to look directly at Mike. “What is it, Mike?”
“Well, Hannah . . .” Mike winced slightly. “I’m not quite sure how to tell you this . . .”
“Just spit it out, Mike!” Hannah’s irritation took wings. “Don’t drag it out! Tell me!”
Norman reached out for her hand, and even though she had the urge to yank it back, Hannah let him hold it. She knew that Norman was only trying to help her get through whatever it was that Mike was about to tell her.
“It’s like this, Hannah . . .” Mike stopped and an expression of pain crossed his face. “The reason Ross left you is because. . .” Mike took a deep breath and let it out again. “Ross went back to his wife.”
Hannah shut her eyes. Of course she was dreaming. She must be dreaming. It had to be another crazy nightmare like Florence and the oranges and the perfect pear, and . . . but she could feel Norman holding her hand. She could actually feel it. And Michelle wasn’t baking because Michelle wasn’t here. She had to wake up somehow. This couldn’t be happening to her. It didn’t make sense. It was a dream and she had to open her eyes and wake up!
Through a supreme effort of will she hadn’t known she possessed, Hannah managed to open her eyes. But they had been open all along, hadn’t they? There were tears on her face and they were falling from her eyes. Was it raining in her living room? That’s where she was. She could see it. She was sitting on the couch and Norman was holding her hand. And her whole face was wet. It must be raining. And that meant this was just another crazy dream.
“Wha . . . what did you say?” Hannah asked Mike.
“I said Ross went back to his wife,” Mike repeated.
Oh yes, Hannah decided, this was definitely a dream because that was crazy. She had to tell Mike she knew that she was dreaming. Then she would wake up from this nightmare.
“That’s not right,” she said. “It’s just not right, Mike. It makes no sense at all. Ross couldn’t go back to his wife because I’m his wife!”
“Hannah. Please listen to me and try to understand.” An expression of sympathy crossed Mike’s face and for one brief moment, Hannah thought she saw unshed tears in his eyes. “Hannah . . . you’re not married. Ross was never your husband. He’s married to someone else.”
Raspberry Danish Murder Recipe Index
Raspberry Danish 10
Cherry Chocolate Bar Cookies 22
Neverfail Fudge Frosting 26
Pineapple Crunch Cookies 36
Mixed Berry Muffins 54
Chili-Cheese Omelet Squares 58
Pineapple Raisin Whippersnapper Cookies 75
Oatmeal Lemon Cookies 86
Irish Potato Cookies 98
Jambalaya 106
Cheesy Garlic Crescent Rolls 110
Ultimate Fudgy Chocolate Bundt Cake 117
Cool Whip Fudge Frosting 121
Upside Down Pear Coffee Cake 135
Maple Crunch Cookies 148
Sweet and Salty Strawberry Bar Cookies 158
Chocolate Cashew Bar Cookies 186
Milk Chocolate Fudge Frosting 190
Chocolate Butterscotch Crunch Cookies 201
John’s Hockey Playoff Pizza Dip 211
Crunchy Salty Cheesy Prosciutto and
Asparagus Rolls 224
Almond Custard Pie 235
Raspberry Jam Glaze 239
Raisin and Almond Crunch Cookies 261
Butterscotch Marshmallow Bar Cookies 281
Piccadilly Cheese Mini Muffins 284
Orange Marmalade Filled Oatmeal Muffins 297
Chocolate Caramel Bar Cookies 309
Baking Conversion Chart
These conversions are approximate, but they’ll work just fine for Hannah Swensen’s recipes.
VOLUME
U.S. Metric
½ teaspoon 2 milliliters
1 teaspoon 5 milliliters
1 Tablespoon 15 milliliters
¼ cup 50 milliliters
⅓ cup 75 milliliters
½ cup 125 milliliters
¾ cup 175 milliliters
1 cup ¼ liter
WEIGHT
U.S. Metric
1 ounce 28 grams
1 pound 454 grams
OVEN TEMPERATURE
Degrees Fahrenheit Degrees Centigrade British (Regulo) Gas Mark
325 degrees F. 165 degrees C. 3
350 degrees F. 175 degrees C. 4
375 degrees F. 190 degrees C. 5
Note: Hannah’s rectangular sheet cake pan, 9 inches by 13 inches, is approximately 23 centimeters by 32.5 centimeters.
A SMALL TOWN . . .
The moment Marian Larsen sees the patrol car stop outside her house, she feels a shiver of foreboding. The news is even worse than she feared. Marian’s husband and young daughter have been in a snowmobile crash. Dan is paralyzed and Laura is dead, her body broken on the icy ground.
. . . WITH A CHILLING SECRET
Friends and colleagues in Marian’s Minnesota hometown rally around to try and ease her grief. But soon there are more horrible accidents. Then the rumors start—that these are not coincidences at all, that someone is picking off victims one by one. And as winter deepens, the search for answers will reveal a killer whose blood runs colder than the blinding snow . . .
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Joanne Fluke’s WINTER CHILL now on sale wherever print and e-books are sold!
Chapter One
“Lord, we commit unto Thee this body . . . ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .” Marian shuddered, turning her face away from the small white coffin. Freshly falling snow left her face wet with the tears she could not shed. She leaned against Sally Powell’s supporting arm and shut her eyes tightly. This wasn’t real. It was only a dream, and she would wake soon to put on the coffee and call Laura and Dan for school.
Last night she had driven home from the hospital after hours of watching Dan in his merciful coma. As she turned past the small cemetery, she saw with horror that one section was in flames. The men at the fire department were kind. They explained haltingly, embarrassed at her ignorance. The ground was froz
en; it had to be thawed before a new grave could be excavated.
In the darkness of her living room she had peered through the windowpane, watching the banked fire cast a flickering red glow on the fresh snow. She had hugged herself there in the empty house, pretending that Laura was upstairs sleeping in her yellow-curtained room, that it was all a terrible mistake. But when she looked again, the fire was still there, thawing the ground for her baby’s grave.
“Hang on, Marian. . . . It’s almost over.” Sally’s arm tightened around her shoulders. Tears were running down her friend’s face, and Marian felt a stab of resentment. She should be the one to cry, not Sally. She had lost her baby, and Jenny was still alive. But it wasn’t right to resent Sally. Her grief was real. Sally had loved Laura, too.
It popped into her mind with sudden clarity, her high school’s production of Our Town. She had played the part of Rebecca, Emily’s sister-in-law. The night of the performance was a revelation. These were the same friends she had shared sandwiches and class notes with. Then, in costumes and stage makeup, they were total strangers.
It was the same feeling she had now, the same sense of unreality as she faced her neighbors and coworkers. She was playing the part of a grief-stricken mother, delivering the correct lines, making the proper gestures to an audience of nameless strangers. She was incapable of honest emotion. This was merely a performance. It was not real. She was not real.
* * *
He had been aware of the voice for some time now, but he was too tired to care.
“Vital signs are normal, Doctor. Are there any further instructions?”
“Continue with the IV, and turn him once an hour. The funeral’s this afternoon. Marian’s coming in later. Run the blood work again, and call me immediately if there’s any change.”
He tried to open his eyes, but there was something heavy on his eyelids. All he could do was listen, barely breathing, as footsteps receded. There was a stabbing pain in his arm and the realization that the voices had been talking about him!
This time it worked. He opened his eyes and stared at the white-clad figure leaning over him.
“It’s Joyce Meiers.” The nurse leaned closer. “Just relax, Mr. Larsen. You’re doing fine. I’ll get the doctor.”
He was in a hospital. It was clear now, the small room with white furnishings. He was in a room at the Nisswa Clinic, on the far edge of town. But what was he doing here?
“Well, well . . . you finally decided to join us!” Dr. Hinkley’s face swam into focus. “One more little pinprick and we’ll talk . . . all right?”
There was another stab in his arm, and Dan flinched. “What am I doing here? What happened?”
As he asked the questions, he knew. The snowmobile. The sudden storm. The accident. And Laura. What had happened to Laura!
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” His voice was slow and thick as the shot took effect. Tranquilizer. “You said something about a . . . a funeral. Laura’s dead.”
“I’m afraid so, Dan.” Dr. Hinkley reached for his hand, practiced fingers taking his pulse. “Would you like something to put you back to sleep?”
“No.” Even though his voice was weak, the word was definite. “I’ve slept enough. How long?”
“You’ve been in a coma for three days.” The doctor’s voice was kind. “You had a nasty blow to the head, Dan. Now that you’re awake, we’ll do some tests.”
Laura was dead. His baby was dead. Dan tried to think, but his mind was fuzzy. “Marian?” he asked. “Where’s Marian?”
“She’ll be here in a few hours.” Dr. Hinkley released his wrist and wrote something on the chart at the foot of his bed. “Don’t try to think about anything now, Dan. Just concentrate on getting well.”
Was he dying? His body was numb. His legs felt like lead. He tried tentatively to move, but nothing happened.
“My legs!” Dan’s eyes widened. “They’re gone!”
“No . . . It’s all right, Dan,” Dr. Hinkley said soothingly. “Your legs are fine . . . nothing wrong at all. You’re just experiencing some difficulty in moving, that’s all. It’s probably a simple blockage caused by the accident. Nothing to worry about. Now, relax and let us take care of you.”
Just as panic started to set in, there was another prick in his arm and a wave of soft grayness settled down over his mind. Another shot. Don’t think. It was all a bad dream.
* * *
The sun reflecting against the highly polished desktop hurt her eyes, and Marian shut them for a moment. She wished the sun weren’t shining. Something should be changed, in honor of her grief. The scene outside the plate-glass hospital window was straight out of a Currier & Ives Christmas card, but her baby was dead. How could this afternoon be so beautiful when Laura was lying in the frozen ground?
“Marian?” Dr. Hinkley pushed a box of Kleenex across the desktop, and Marian realized that tears were running down her cheeks. Why now? And not at the funeral?
“Do you want a tranquilizer for tonight? It helps sometimes, just to get a good night’s sleep.”
“No, thank you.” She had the insane urge to giggle. He sounded as if he were offering her a pastel mint at a party. Would you like a mint, Marian? No? Then perhaps you’d care for an after-funeral pill.
Marian realized with a start that she wasn’t paying attention. Dr. Hinkley was trying to tell her something.
“We think it might be conversion hysteria, Marian.” She tried her best to concentrate. “That’s a term for acute anxiety converted to dysfunction of parts of the body. In Dan’s case the problem is his legs. He regained consciousness briefly this morning, and we immediately ran tests. There’s no sensation in the lower extremities. Even though the paralysis is only in his mind, it has the same effect as a break in the spinal column.”
“Wait a minute.” Marian tried hard to understand. “Are you saying Dan can’t walk?”
Dr. Hinkley nodded slowly. “I’m afraid so, Marian.”
It was just too much to take. Laura was dead now, and Dan was paralyzed. The bright room was closing in on her. There was a sound growing around her, a thin, high-pitched wail. She was shocked to find it was coming from her own throat. And then the afternoon sun began to darken alarmingly, and she was pitching forward, falling into Dr. Hinkley’s arms.
* * *
There was a metallic taste in her mouth as Marian struggled to open her eyes. She must have made some sort of sound, because suddenly a nurse was there beside her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Larsen. We had a wonderful night’s sleep.”
The nurse was holding a glass of water to her lips. Marian gulped thirstily. Her lips were stiff. The words formed slowly in her mind.
“Dr. Hinkley? I need to see him.”
“He’ll be here in a few minutes.” The nurse smiled. “You can doze off again, if you want. Dr. Hinkley said to give you the royal treatment.”
She must have responded somehow, for the nurse left and she was alone again. Marian made herself sit up straighter. She knew she had to play a part again, the part of an alert, competent woman. Then the doctor would let her go home. It was important that she didn’t let anyone guess how helpless and frightened she was inside.
Things were better when she applied the light makeup she carried in her purse. The hospital coffee was weak, but it helped. She was ready when Dr. Hinkley came. This time she would not faint.
“The X-rays show no spinal damage, Marian.” Dr. Hinkley was sitting in the chair by the bed, and Marian nodded alertly. “In Dan’s case, the paralysis is definitely a form of hysterical neurosis. Only his lower extremities are affected. That means he can use a wheelchair, Marian. And he can go home tomorrow, if you think you’re up to it.”
“Yes . . . of course I am.” Marian drew a deep breath. “But when will he recover? You said it wasn’t physical. When will Dan be able to walk again?”
“No one knows, Marian.” Dr. Hinkley reached out to pat her hand. “Dan’s body is punishing him for the accide
nt. He blames himself for Laura’s death. In some cases of Dan’s type, spontaneous remission has occurred almost overnight. But, Marian . . . Dan may remain paralyzed for the rest of his life.”
“I have to help him.” Marian straightened her shoulders. “What can I do, Dr. Hinkley?”
“Good girl!” Dr. Hinkley nodded. ‘’You’re a fighter, Marian, and that’s precisely what Dan needs. Take him home with you tomorrow. There’s no reason why he can’t go back to work in a week or so. He has a commitment to that hockey team of his, and that might just pull him out of this. I talked to Jim Sorensen at the Conoco station, and he says he can rig your van for a wheelchair. You drive it down there this afternoon, if you feel up to it, and Jim’ll work on it tonight. And don’t stay alone in that house of yours. I’ve had calls from half the women in town, offering to stay with you until Dan gets home. You take somebody up on that, Marian. Or I can move an extra bed into Dan’s room, if you’d rather stay here.”
“I’ll stay here with Dan.” Marian’s voice was strong. “He’ll need me if he wakes up. And thank you, Dr. Hinkley. Thank you for being so kind.”
* * *
She sat in the chair by the window, looking out at the gathering darkness and hearing the deep, even sound of Dan’s breathing. He had opened his eyes once and had seen her sitting there. It seemed to satisfy him, for he had gone straight back to sleep without a word. Marian turned to study her husband’s sleeping face. He was a handsome man, rugged and muscular. They’d called him “the Viking” when he’d played hockey in college. But Dan had never wanted to be a professional hockey player. He’d wanted to teach history and coach hockey on the side. He took the job in Nisswa because of Harvey Woodruff’s persuasion.
Harvey was a principal in danger of losing his school. There was talk of dissolving the Nisswa district and busing the students to Brainerd or Pequot Lakes. Dan’s job was to add prestige to the school and make the community proud to have a winning hockey team. There was no way Harvey wanted the local kids bused away. The Nisswa School was his life. He’d built it into a fine academic institution, and Dan could help him save it.
