Strawberry Shortcake Murder hsm-2

by Joanne Fluke

  “Wonderful. Just what I need,” Hannah muttered, shooting a baleful look at the phone. As she crossed the floor to answer it, she reminded herself that the telephone was a convenience, but that didn’t keep her from moving Alexander Graham Bell to the bottom of her favorite inventors list. It was probably Delores. Her mother was the only one who called this early. But it could also be some sort of emergency, and a ringing phone at six in the morning had to be answered.

  “Hannah?”

  “Yes, Mother.” Hannah made a face. She should have let the answering machine get it.

  “I just heard the morning news on KCOW. Did you know that Boyd Watson is dead, and they suspect foul play?”

  “Yes Mother.” Hannah stretched out the phone cord and walked over to the cupboard that held Moishe’s food. She unclipped the bungee cord that held the door closed and took out his box of kitty crunchies. The bungee cord was a necessity. Moishe had learned to open the cupboard door the day after she’d adopted him, and he wasn’t exactly tidy when it came to getting his own breakfast.

  “I thought you didn’t listen to the radio in the morning.” Delores sounded surprised.

  “I don’t. I knew about it last night.”

  “Oh? Did Bill tell you?”

  “No.” Hannah knew exactly how Delores would react when she found out that her oldest daughter had been at the scene of another murder, and she wasn’t ready to deal with it yet. “Hold on, Mother. I have to feed Moishe.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “Not if I want my ankle intact.” Hannah set the phone down and pushed Moishe aside with her foot. It was probably the result of being on the streets for so long, but he tended to be a bit overenthusiastic when it came to getting his food. Once she’d filled his bowl with kitty crunchies and given him fresh water, she retrieved the phone. “I’m back.”

  “How did you know about it if Bill didn’t tell you? Was it Mike Kingston?”

  Hannah sat down at the table and caved in to the inevitable. She’d stuck her big foot in her mouth by mentioning that she’d known about the murder, and now she’d have to pay the price. “Mike didn’t tell me either. Danielle called me last night.”

  “Why did she call you?” Delores sounded surprised.

  “Because I’m her friend, and she didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Did she tell you that Boyd was dead?”

  “Danielle was in no shape to tell me anything. She just asked me to come over, and once I’d seen Boyd, I called in Bill and Mike.”

  “So you found another body.” Delores pronounced the words like a curse. “You have got to stop doing this, Hannah. If you’re not careful, the men in this town will think that disaster hovers over you like a storm cloud.”

  “And no one wants to court disaster?”

  “That was very clever.” Delores gave a little laugh at Hannah’s joke. “You’ve got a good sense of humor, Hannah. And you can look very attractive if you put your mind to it. I just don’t understand why you haven’t found… “

  “Give it a rest, Mother,” Hannah interrupted her. “Don’t you want me to tell you about last night?”

  There was a brief silence, and Hannah imagined her mother switching gears. Delores had been all primed for a lecture, but the prospect of hearing some fresh details that she could repeat to her friends was too much for her to resist. “Of course I do. Tell me, dear.”

  “He was down on the garage floor next to his Grand Cherokee, and his head was bashed in with a hammer. There was blood all over the place.”

  “There’s no need to be so graphic,” Delores objected, but Hannah knew her phrases would be repeated word for word. “Is Danielle taking it badly?”

  Hannah bit back a sharp retort. How did her mother think a wife would react when she saw her husband with his skull split open? “She’s in pretty bad shape. She’s got a winter cold, that’s the reason she wasn’t with Boyd at the bake-off, and the shock of seeing Boyd like that was too much for her. Bill took her to the hospital last night.”

  “The poor dear! And how about Maryann? She was so close to her brother. Their mother was working, and she practically raised him, you know.”

  “Maryann’s in the hospital, too. Mike said she got hysterical when they told her about Boyd.”

  “Do you think I should visit them? Maryann’s in my Regency Romance Club, and I sat with her at the last Dorcas Circle meeting.” Delores named two of the dozen or so clubs she’d joined after Hannah’s father had died. “I really don’t know Danielle that well, but I’d like to offer my condolences.”

  Hannah cringed at the thought of her mother room-hopping at Lake Eden Memorial, carrying tidbits of gossip back and forth from Maryann to Danielle. “I don’t know if they can have visitors, Mother. Why don’t you just send sympathy cards?”

  “Of course I’ll do that. I would have anyway. But cards are so impersonal.”

  “Then why don’t you ask some of your clubs to send flowers? I’m sure Danielle and Maryann would appreciate that.”

  “That’s an excellent idea. I’ll do it right away. By the way, you looked nice on television last night. I set my VCR, but it didn’t work. There must be something wrong with it.”

  Hannah started to grin. There was nothing wrong with her mother’s VCR that a different operator couldn’t fix. “How did you know I looked nice if your VCR didn’t work?”

  “Carrie recorded it. When we got home from the bake-off, she brought her tape over and we watched it together. Tracey was just darling.”

  “Yes, she was.” Hannah took a bracing gulp of her coffee and wondered how she could end the conversation.

  “I still can’t believe that we’ve had another murder in Lake Eden! I think television’s to blame. All that violence is a bad influence. Do they have any suspects yet?”

  Hannah crossed her fingers, an old habit that had survived her childhood, and prepared to lie through her teeth. “I don’t know, Mother.”

  “Well, let me know if you hear anything. I’ve got to go, dear. I need to call Carrie and ask her to help me with the flowers.”

  Hannah hung up the phone with a smile on her face. She’d just stumbled on an excellent tactic to cut her mother’s phone conversations short. All she had to do was give Delores something to do, and her mother couldn’t wait to hang up and get started.

  Ten minutes later, Hannah was showered and almost dressed. She glanced at the thermometer outside her bedroom window and shivered. The mercury was hovering under the ten-degree mark. It would be a cold day. She pulled on a pair of clean jeans and opened the closet to choose a long-sleeved pullover. She had plenty of selections. Most of her friends liked to give her gifts with a cookie theme, and she had a whole section of tee shirts and pullovers with legends on the front. Some were witty, others were sweet, and a couple were just plain silly. Hannah settled for a vivid blue one with gold block lettering proclaiming, “Happiness is a Chocolate Chip in Every Bite.”

  Hannah shut her closet door and glanced at her reflection in its mirrored surface. She looked tired, and there were dark circles under her eyes, but that couldn’t be helped. She brushed her hair back, clamped it with the gold barrette that Andrea had given her for her last birthday, and headed for the kitchen and the last cup of coffee in the pot.

  Moishe hopped off the bed, where he’d been watching her dress, and rubbed up against her ankles as she walked down the hall. Hannah knew that meant his food bowl was empty. again. When she’d taken him in, he’d been a scrawny orange-and-white shadow, but now he weighed in at twenty-two pounds. The town vet, Bob Hagaman, said he was healthy, and that was all Hannah cared about. With his torn ear and one blind eye, she certainly wouldn’t be entering him in any Lake Eden Cat Fanciers’ Club contests.

  Once Moishe’s food bowl had been refilled, Hannah left her pet crunching happily and poured herself the last cup of coffee. She still had fifteen minutes before she had to leave for work, and this was her favorite time of the morning. Delores h
ad called, there would be no more interruptions, and she had time to plan out her day.

  Hannah sat down at the white Formica table she’d found at the thrift shop and reached for the green-lined stenographer’s notebook that was a twin to the ones in every other room in her condo. There was something wonderful about a blank sheet of notepaper. The lines were there, just waiting to be filled, and the page could turn into anything from a grocery list to the opening of The Great American Novel. The possibilities were endless.

  She remembered her very first notebook, the red-covered tablet that she’d carried off to kindergarten with fondness. There had been a picture of an Indian chief on the front, a black line drawing of a regal, chiseled face wearing a feathered headdress.

  They didn’t make Big Chief tablets anymore. Hannah knew because she’d tried to buy one recently. It probably had something to do with the new political correctness campaign. If the politicians had their way, the Indian chief on the tablet would now be called a “Native American Community Leader”. In Lake Eden, Minnesota, “Indian” wasn’t a racially biased word. Jon Walker, the full-blooded Chippewa who manned the prescription counter at Lake Eden Neighborhood Pharmacy, had explained that “Native American” was a misnomer. He’d done some research and he believed that his ancestors had come to North America from Siberia and conquered the indigenous people.

  Hannah reached for a pen from the cracked coffee mug that had taken on new life as a penholder. Today was going to be a very full day. With her judging duties at the bake-off, her television appearance to promote Mr. Hart’s contest, and her work at The Cookie Jar, there wasn’t going to be a moment to spare.

  Hannah wrote the date at the top of the page. Now that Boyd was dead, they’d have to choose another judge for the contest. She doubted that any of last night’s contestants would shed any tears over his death. They might even think that he had deserved his fate, since he’d made such nasty comments about their desserts.

  What if one of them was an incredibly sore loser? Hannah chewed on the end of her pen. Was it possible that a contestant or a family member had followed Boyd home, confronted him in the garage, and bashed in his head? It seemed unlikely, but she couldn’t dismiss it summarily. Since all the bake-off contestants were staying in Lake Eden until Saturday night, she’d have plenty of time to check out that theory.

  Hannah jotted down a note on the top line, Check Alibis of Contestants & Family. The winner wasn’t a suspect, but she’d investigate the three who’d been eliminated. Boyd’s murder hadn’t been premeditated, Hannah was certain of that. If the assailant had gone to Boyd’s house, intending to kill him, he would have carried his own weapon and not grabbed a hammer from Boyd’s pegboard.

  The second line was waiting to be filled, and Hannah wrote down the time frame, Wednesday night 8:30 - 10:00. She thought about it for a moment and then she added, Re-interview Neighbors. Deputies from the sheriff’s department had already talked to them, but it couldn’t hurt to do it again. Sometimes people didn’t want to get involved and told the authorities as little as possible.

  A glance at the clock told Hannah that it was time to leave, but she took time to add one last item to her list. Local Grudge, she wrote. It was possible that the murder wasn’t related to Boyd’s nasty comments as a substitute judge. Someone had been angry enough to pick up his hammer and bash in Boyd’s skull, and she needed to find out if anyone else in Lake Eden had a compelling reason to want him dead.

  * * *

  Lisa had come in early again and had everything under control by the time Hannah arrived at The Cookie Jar. Hannah did a few things in the bakery, then went into the coffee shop to enjoy twenty minutes of unexpected downtime. She didn’t turn on the lights. That would have invited early customers. She just poured herself another cup of coffee and sat at one of her little round tables, enjoying the customer’s view of her gleaming mahogany counter and the shelves that held glass cookie jars filled with the day’s offerings.

  Opening The Cookie Jar had been Andrea’s idea. When Hannah had come home from college to help her mother cope with her father’s death, she’d been at loose ends. Though her family had urged her to go back to finish her thesis, the prospect of teaching English literature to a class of uninspired students had lost its appeal. There was another, private reason, one she hadn’t mentioned to her mother or her sisters; the campus was simply too small for Hannah, her former lover, and his new wife.

  Hannah sighed and cupped her hands around her coffee mug. The old platitude was true, and time did heal. On the rare occasions she thought about Bradford Ramsey and their time together, she experienced only a slight twinge of regret.

  It had been his first term teaching, and he’d been young, handsome, and brilliant. Hannah had been passionately in love and just about as naïve as a woman her age could be. She should have suspected that the reason Brad could never spend any holiday with her had less to do with his aged parents and more to do with his fiancée, who’d been staying with them at the time.

  Hannah had grown up a lot since she’d come back to Lake Eden. She loved her work, had much more self confidence, and had managed to establish a warm relationship with Andrea. She’d even learned to cope with her mother, which took some doing. The only area of her life that still gave her problems was romance. Once slammed in the face by that particular door, she was going to be careful about opening it again.

  The sight outside the huge plate-glass window was spectacular, and Hannah began to smile. The winter sun was peeping over the horizon, and pale golden rays touched the snow-covered roofs, making them glisten as if they were made of bits of colored glass. The huge old pine, directly across the street from her shop, resembled a perfectly flocked Christmas tree with its snow-laden branches. Several brilliant blue jays and bright red cardinals were perched on its branches like avian ornaments. As Hannah sat there enjoying the picture-perfect view, a car pulled up in front of her shop. Plumes of white exhaust rose up from the tailpipe, and Hannah got up and moved closer to the window to see who was inside. She didn’t recognize the car. It was a new Grand Am in a sporty red color and had dealer plates. In a town the size of Lake Eden, new cars gave their owners bragging rights, and Hannah hadn’t heard anyone say that they’d bought a new vehicle.

  The driver’s door opened and a woman emerged. She had short black hair, stylishly cut, and was wearing the expensive teal-colored winter coat that Hannah had seen in the window of Beau Monde Fashions. The woman turned and walked toward the front door of The Cookie Jar, and Hannah’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. It was Lucy Richards, a reporter for the Lake Eden Journal, and she had a whole new look.

  Mentally, Hannah added up the cost of Lucy’s new acquisitions. The coat had cost four hundred dollars. Hannah knew because she had priced it when she’d first seen it in Claire Rodgers’s window. The fur-lined leather boots that Lucy was wearing hadn’t come cheap, and Hannah couldn’t even begin to speculate on the cost of the fancy Grand Am. Lucy lived rent-free in the attic apartment of her great aunt, Vera Olsen, but that couldn’t account for all those new things. Rod Metcalf, the owner and editor of their small weekly paper, didn’t pay much over minimum wage. There was no way that Lucy could have saved up enough for a new coat, new boots, and a new car!

  Hannah sat back against the wall, hoping she wouldn’t be spotted. There was no way she’d open early for Lucy Richards. They’d crossed swords last week after Lucy’s story about the Hartland Flour Dessert Bake-Off had run in the paper. She’d put words in Hannah’s mouth that she hadn’t said, and Hannah was still doing a slow burn about it.

  Lucy hammered on the door and stood there, tapping her foot impatiently. Hannah let her tap, knowing full well that it was freezing outside. She was due to open in less than fifteen minutes, and perhaps Lucy would give up and go away.

  Then Lucy started to shiver, and Hannah took pity on her. Perhaps she’d come to apologize for the misquote. Hannah got up from her chair, hit the light switch, and headed for th
e door to unlock it.

  “It’s cold out there!” Lucy waltzed in and stamped her feet on the mat by the door. “Is the coffee ready?”

  “Of course.” Hannah gestured toward a stool and moved behind the counter to pour Lucy a cup.

  “Thanks. I’ll take a couple of those Oatmeal Raisin Crisps.” Lucy laced her fingers around the mug, shivering slightly. Then she took a deep breath, and said, “Sorry about the story. My recorder didn’t work, and I was writing it from memory.”

  It wasn’t really an apology, but the fact that Lucy had offered any kind of excuse was a first.

  “But that’s not what I came about.”

  “Oh?” Hannah served Lucy two oatmeal cookies on one of her white napkins with red block letters that advertised the name of her shop. Then she picked up a cloth and wiped down the already spotless counter. Lucy wanted something, and Hannah wasn’t about to ask what. She’d just outwait her and force Lucy to make the first move.

  “I wanted to talk to you privately, Hannah.” Lucy finished her first cookie and started in on the second. “I know we don’t see eye to eye, but I want you to understand that I have a job to do.”

  “It must be a very good job.” Hannah gestured toward the, new Grand Am. “That car must have cost a bundle.”

  “It’s a lease. And I didn’t earn the money for it at the paper. Rod pays me only a fraction of what I’m worth.”

  It was a perfect straight line, and Hannah could think of several appropriate rejoinders. She had to bite the inside of her cheek, but she didn’t give voice to any of them. Instead, she said, “I see you have a new coat. Very pretty. And new boots.”

  Once that comment was delivered, Hannah leaned back and waited. After six years of college and standing in the interminable registration lines each semester, she was very good at waiting.

  “Yes.” Lucy looked a bit uncomfortable. “Actually, my advance paid for that.”

  “Advance?”