Wedding Cake Murder

by Joanne Fluke

  There was perfect silence in the crowded church for a few brief seconds, and then Grandma Knudson rose to her feet. “Relax,” she said, addressing the congregation. “That’s our Hannah for you!” And the moment she said it everyone including the members of the Food Channel film crew, burst out into laughter.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Hannah apologized, “but Chef Duquesne’s killer tried to attack me and I had to hide from him in a Dumpster, and then the garbage truck came, and . . .”

  “Not now, Hannah,” Grandma Knudson interrupted her. “Claire? Take Hannah to the parsonage and get her into the shower, clothes and all. I don’t even want to think about what’s in her hair.” She turned to Hannah. “Go, Hannah. Your sisters will bring you your wedding gown.”

  As Hannah meekly followed Claire to the side door of the church, she heard Grandma Knudson address the congregation again, “Come with me, everyone. We’re going down to the basement for refreshments before the wedding ceremony, instead of after. We’ll drink coffee and eat cookies while Hannah gets herself presentable. I made plenty of cookies and that’s good. From the looks of Hannah’s hair, it’s going to take a while.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  In less than fifteen minutes, Hannah was squeaky clean. She’d dropped her clothes in a garbage bag, and they were now agitating in Grandma Knudson’s washer.

  Hannah had just dressed in the lovely underclothes that Claire had chosen for her to wear, and she was sitting in a chair in front of Claire’s dressing table while Andrea applied her makeup and Michelle blow-dried her hair.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “Relax,” Claire said. “We’re almost through. And before you even think to ask, I called and told Sally’s assistant chef that the wedding was delayed, and we wouldn’t be out there until ten-thirty. He said not to worry, that everything would hold, so you can put that right out of your mind. And I called Bob on his cell and he promised me that he’d keep the wedding service short and sweet.”

  “Thank you,” Hannah said, grateful that she had such a good friend and such loving sisters. “Do you think everyone’s terribly mad at me?”

  “Not at all,” Claire said. “You just gave everyone the most exciting wedding they’ve ever attended.”

  Michelle laughed. “That’s right. The Lake Eden Gossip Hotline is going to have something to talk about for months to come.”

  Hannah looked up at Andrea. “How about Mother? Is she terribly angry with me?”

  “I’m sure she’s not,” Andrea answered. “She’s probably the center of attention at the church right now, and you know how Mother loves to be the center of . . .”

  “What’s wrong?” Hannah asked her sister, who was staring out the window toward the church.

  “It’s Mother. She just came out the side door of the church and she’s on her way over here.”

  “Where’s my Hannah?” Delores called out, the moment she came in the back door.

  “In here,” Claire called out. Then she turned to Hannah. “She certainly doesn’t sound mad. She sounds . . . like a mother who’s been worried about her daughter.”

  Delores burst into the room and rushed over to Hannah. “Oh my!” she exclaimed. “You look just perfect, Hannah!”

  “I had a little help,” Hannah told her, smiling at Claire and her sisters. “I’m almost ready, Mother.”

  “Good! I’ll help Grandma Knudson round up everyone and get them back in the pews.” Delores took a step toward the door, but she turned back to give Hannah a kiss on the cheek. “That’s from Ross. He told me to say he loves you so much, he can’t see straight.”

  “That’s so sweet!” Claire gushed.

  “And this is from me.” Delores bent down to kiss the top of Hannah’s head. “I love you, Hannah. If your sisters weren’t here, I’d tell you that you were always my favorite.”

  All three Swensen sisters burst into laughter. Delores laughed too, but Claire looked completely puzzled.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked.

  “Mother told each of us that we were her favorite,” Hannah explained. “She knew we’d end up comparing notes and we’d get a good laugh out of it.”

  “That’s true,” Delores admitted. “But when I said it to each of you, I meant it. All three of you are my favorites.” She stopped, grabbed a tissue from the box on Claire’s dresser, and dabbed at her eyes. “I’d better get back to the church before I ruin my makeup. Weddings always make me cry.”

  As Hannah took Doc Knight’s arm and walked down the aisle, a phenomenon happened, something that had never occurred in the one-hundred and twenty-six-year history of the Holy Redeemer Lutheran Church. Heads swiveled to look at the bride, smiles appeared on every face, and the congregation broke into spontaneous applause.

  Hannah smiled at everyone there, and then her eyes swept up to the altar, where her sisters, the bridesmaids, were standing on the bride’s side, and Ross, Norman, and Mike were standing on the groom’s side. She was here, she was ready, and as the traditional wedding march swelled in volume from the organ, she basked in the warmth of Ross’s smile. He loved her. She loved him. This was the perfect day for her perfect wedding.

  The church and everyone in it were covered with a golden glow of happiness for Hannah as Doc Knight escorted her down the aisle and presented her to her groom. Hannah and Ross took their places in the center, and Reverend Bob began the wedding service.

  The service was short and sweet, just as Reverend Bob had promised, and much sooner than usual, the bridal couple was ready to speak their vows.

  “Do you, Ross Jeffrey Barton, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do you part?”

  “I do,” Ross said, smiling at Hannah.

  “And do you, Hannah Louise Swensen, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do you part?”

  Hannah felt a chill run through her body. It had almost happened. Death had almost parted them. She’d almost died before their wedding!

  Images ran through Hannah’s mind at the speed of light. If the bowl of oil hadn’t been under the counter in Sally’s kitchen, and if Rodney hadn’t slipped on the oil and fallen, and if the driver hadn’t been right there loading the Dumpsters, and if she hadn’t hoisted herself up and tumbled in, she would be dead right now and parted from Ross forever.

  And then her eyes found Mike and she realized that he’d guessed what was running through her head. He was giving her the okay sign with his thumb and his index finger curled together in a circle. And then he winked and she winked back. They exchanged a look that meant complete understanding. Hannah turned and looked up at the man she loved and gave him a radiant smile.

  “I do,” she said, in a loud, clear voice.

  Wedding Cake Murder Recipe Index

  Easy Lemon Pie 9

  Hannah’s Whipped Crème Fraiche 12

  Chips Galore Whippersnapper Cookies 33

  Chocolate Almond Crisps 44

  Green Tomatillo Stew 67

  Cheesy Chili Corn Muffins 72

  Soft Chewy Milk Chocolate Cookies 96

  Magic White Chocolate Soufflé 116

  Vanilla Nutmeg Sauce 120

  Milk Chocolate Sauce 122

  Double Rainbow Swirl Cake (Hannah’s Wedding Cake) 139

  White Chocolate Butter Cream Frosting 145

  Breakfast Puffs 156

  Butterscotch Sugar Cookies 180

  White Chocolate Mocha 192

  Chocolate Coffee Cake 209

  Lunchbox Cranberry Oatmeal Cookies 224

  Peanut Butter Potato Chip Cookies 241

  Angel Crunch Cookies 269

  Honey Drop Cookies 279

  Blue Banana Muffins 307

  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

  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 Degrees British (Regulo)

  Fahrenheit Centigrade 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.

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of

  Joanne Fluke’s next suspense novel

  EYES

  coming in May 2016 wherever print and e-books are sold!

  Dear Reader,

  In the early 1990s, I published a suspense novel called Eyes under the name Chris Hunter. Now I’m thrilled that it’s going to be available again, this time under my own name and with a striking new cover!

  A mild-mannered car salesman . . . a womanizing bartender . . . a beloved minister with a devoted family. Except for the fact that each of the murder victims is male, Minnesota police can’t find a connection between the crimes. But that’s because what links them can’t be seen with the naked eye . . .

  Losing everything can make a person do crazy things. No one knows that better than Connie Wilson. The shock of suddenly losing her fiancé, Alan, in a car accident, is almost too much bear . . . Until Connie comes up with a plan to stay close to Alan forever. And she’s finally found just the man to help her. There’s only one thing standing in her way: his wife. She’s smart, beautiful, and has exactly what Connie desperately needs. Connie will just have to be smarter, more seductive—and stay one step ahead of a detective who’s as determined to save her as Connie is to destroy her . . .

  If you’ve enjoyed my earlier novels like Final Appeal and Fatal Identity then I believe you’re going to love reading Eyes!

  Joanne Fluke

  Prologue

  Alan Stanford’s smile disappeared with his last bite of turkey. It had been a pleasant Thanksgiving meal with his parents and his younger sister, but Alan’s time was about up. He’d promised his girlfriend, Connie Wilson, he’d make the big announcement when dinner was over, and the traditional dessert was about to be served.

  Alan’s hands started to shake as the maid carried in the pumpkin pie. It was lightly browned on top and still warm from the oven, the way his father, the senior Mr. Stanford, preferred. When the maid presented it to his mother to slice, just as if she’d baked it herself, a wry smile flickered across Alan’s face. It was doubtful that Mrs. Stanford had ever ventured as far as the kitchen, and the thought that his impeccably groomed, silver-haired mother might put on an apron and roll out a pie crust was patently ridiculous.

  Rather than think about the words he’d soon have to utter, Alan considered the hypocrisy of etiquette. One praised the hostess for a delicious dinner, even if it had been catered. And one always called the daughter of a colleague a lady, whether she was one or not. The term “gentleman” referred to any man with enough money to make him socially desirable, and an estate was simply a home with enough land to house a condo complex. All the same, etiquette might save him some embarrassment tonight. There would be no scenes, no tears, no recriminations. After Alan had informed the family of his decision, his father would suggest he and Alan retire to the library where they’d discuss the matter in private.

  “This is lovely, Mother.” Beth, Alan’s younger sister, was dutifully complimentary. “And I really do think it’s much better warm, with chilled crème fraiche.”

  Alan’s mother smiled. “Yes, dear. Your father prefers it this way. Another piece, Ralph?”

  “Just a small one.” Alan’s father held out his plate. “You know I’m watching my cholesterol.”

  Alan waited while his mother cut another piece of pie. Nothing ever changed at the Stanford mansion. His father always said he was watching his cholesterol, and he always had a second serving of pie. Every Thanksgiving was exactly the same, but Alan was about to change the order of their lives. By this next Thanksgiving, there would be two more guests at the oval table. The rules of etiquette were clear. They’d be obligated to invite his wife and his son.

  There were three bites remaining on his father’s plate, perhaps four if he ate all the crust. Alan knew how a condemned man felt as his father’s fork cut and carried each bite, one by one, to his mouth. The white linen napkin came up, to dab at the corners of his father’s lips, and Alan took a deep breath. He’d promised Connie. He couldn’t delay any longer.

  “I have an announcement to make.” Alan’s voice was a little too loud because of his effort not to sound tentative. “Connie and I are getting married.”

  There was complete silence around the table. It lasted for several seconds, and then Beth gave a hesitant smile. “That’s wonderful, Alan. Isn’t that wonderful, Mother?”

  “Oh . . . yes.” His mother’s voice was strained, and Alan noticed that all the color had left her face. He could see the lines of her makeup, the exact spot where the edge of the blush met the foundation. “Yes, indeed. That’s wonderful, dear.”

  Was it really going to be this easy? Alan turned to look at his father. The older man was frowning as he pushed back his chair. “Superb dinner, Marilyn. Alan, why don’t you join me in the library for a cognac?”

  It wasn’t an invitation; it was an order. Alan slid his chair back and stood up. Then he walked to the end of the table to kiss his mother on the cheek. “Thank you, Mother. Dinner was excellent.”

  “Coming, Alan?”

  His father looked impatient, so Alan followed him to the second-floor library. He accepted a snifter of cognac, even though he wasn’t fond of its taste, then waited for all hell to break loose.

  “Sit down.” Alan’s father motioned toward the two wing chairs in front of the fireplace. A fire had been laid. As it burned cheerfully, it gave off the scent of cherry wood. Naturally, the fire was real. The fireplace was made of solid river rock; no expense had been spared when his grandfather had built the Stanford mansion.

  Alan’s father took a sip of his cognac and set it down on the table. He then turned to Alan, frowning. “Now that we’re away from the ladies, suppose you tell me what that was all about.”

  “Connie and I are getting married.” It was difficult, but Alan met his father’s eyes. “Don’t worry, Father. I don’t expect you to approve, or even understand, but I love Connie and I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

  Ralph Stanford sighed and then shook his head. “Now, son . . . I’m sure she’s a fine girl, but you can’t be serious about actually bringing her into our family.”

  “I’m very serious.” Alan managed not to drop his eyes. “We’re getting married next week, Father. It’s all arranged. Of course we’d be delighted if you’d come to the wedding, but Connie doesn’t expect it and neither do I.”

  Alan’s father sighed again. “All right, son. I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to resort to this, but I see that I have no other choice.”

  Alan watched as his father walked to the antique desk and opened the center drawer. Ralph Stanford’s mouth was set in a grim line as he handed Alan a typed report in a blue binding.

  “Read this. There may be some facts about your intended that you don’t know.”

  Alan’s hands were steady as he opened the binder and started to read. Everything was here, from Connie’s illegitimate birth to her mother’s years on welfare. The investigator hadn’t mentioned the name of Connie’s father. That was too bad. Connie would have liked to know. But the report went into detail about the man Connie’s mother had m
arried, how he’d abused her and forced her into prostitution to support his drug habit, how she’d been an alcoholic.

  It was a wonder that Connie was so kind and loving, coming from a background like hers. Alan sighed as he read about how her stepfather had repeatedly molested her, had even offered her to his friends.

  Alan knew all about Connie’s past, how she’d run away the night of her fifteenth birthday, lived with a series of men, worked in a topless club as a dancer, and finally saved enough money to finish a secretarial course. Alan had met Connie at work, when she’d come in as a temporary replacement for one of the secretaries. She’d agreed to move in with him only after she’d told him the story of her life.

  When he’d finished the last page and closed the report, Alan handed it back to his father. Then he waited. The ball was in his father’s court.

  Ralph Stanford cleared his throat. “Well, son?”

  “Don’t pay him, Father.” Alan managed not to grin.

  “What?”

  “Don’t pay this detective. He left out the part about Pete Jones, the truck driver Connie lived with for almost a year. And he didn’t find out about the job Connie took in a massage parlor on lower Hennepin.”

  “You knew about all this? Still you want to marry this woman?”

  Alan smiled. His father looked utterly deflated, the first time Alan had seen him like this. “It’s not a question of wanting to marry Connie. I’m going to marry her. And nothing you can say will stop me!”