by Joanne Fluke
Five minutes later, Hannah had all the information she needed. After assuring Marcia that she wouldn't blow the whistle on them, she hung up Kurt's cell phone and handed it back to him. "You're in the clear. But just to satisfy my curiosity, why was Connie Mac so mad at you?"
'I guess it can't hurt to tell you." Kurt hesitated and Hannah noticed that he looked highly embarrassed. "I refused to sleep with her."
Hannah could feel her mouth drop open, and she closed it before she looked like the village idiot.
"The last guy who had my job warned me that Mrs. Macintyre was sleeping around, but I thought that was just a rumor. And then she came on to me."
"What did you do?"
"What could I do? I love Marcia and there's no way I'd cheat on her, not even to keep my job. I tried to be diplomatic, but Mrs. MacIntyre didn't buy it. Right before she stomped off, she said she was going to call Marcia's father in the morning and have me fired."
"And that's why you drove to Minneapolis to see Marcia?"
"Marcia was wonderful about it. We decided that when the ax fell, we'd elope. She was willing to put college on hold so we could both work until I got established with another publishing firm."
"When did you find out that Connie Mac was dead?"
"Not until this morning. I drove back here early and got a couple hours of sleep. When I went down to breakfast, everybody was talking about it."
"Do you have any idea who killed her?"
Kurt shrugged. "Not really. Mrs. MacIntyre got to the top by climbing over a lot of other people. It could have been anybody she stepped on over the years."
Hannah thanked Kurt, assured him again that she wouldn't tell anyone about Marcia, and walked back out to her truck. It was only four-thirty in the afternoon, but night was falling and she switched on her headlights as she drove home to her condo. She'd eliminated some of her suspects without technically breaking her promise to Mike, but there were still a whole lot to go.
-17- When Hannah inserted her key in her condo door, she heard an irate yowl from inside. She immediately went into defense mode, dropping her shoulder bag so she wouldn't be encumbered, and zipping her parka all the way up to her chin. Then she opened the door and held out her arms to receive the twenty-three-pound bundle of orange and white fur that hurtled itself at her chest.
"Hi, Moishe. Did you miss me?" Hannah cuddled him a moment before she dragged in her purse and shut the door. "What's the matter?"
Hannah figured that one of two things could have happened to upset her feline companion. Either his food bowl was empty again, or her mother had called. The moment Hannah set Moishe down, he led her directly into the kitchen, his tail flicking impatiently. There she discovered that it was two out of two. His food bowl was empty and the little red light on her answer phone was blinking.
"Okay, hold on a second." Hannah shrugged out of her parka and draped it over one of her kitchen chairs. She headed straight for the cupboard where she kept Moishe's food and unlocked it. When Moishe had first come to live with her, Hannah had been a big believer in what her vet called "free food." She'd made it her mission to keep the food bowl stocked so that Moishe wouldn't panic every time he saw a patch of white ceramic at the bottom. Her intentions had been good, but Moishe's table manners left a lot to be desired and he'd carried her "free food" program to the extreme when he'd learned how to open the cupboard door and help himself to the twenty-pound mother lode she kept in her broom closet. A few months ago, Hannah had decided that she'd swept up enough pilfered fish-shaped kitty crunchies to last her a lifetime, and she'd installed a hook and eye high up on her broom closet door.
"Here you go," Hannah said, scooping out the kitty crunchies and dumping them into his food bowl. "I suppose you want fresh water, too."
Moishe looked up at her and yowled. He had plenty of water in his bowl, but he liked it ice cold. Hannah turned on the faucet, let it run until it was cold, and filled his water bowl. Once she'd set it down on the Garfield mat next to his food bowl, she walked over to check her messages, wondering exactly when, in the course of their relationship, she'd become a slave to her pet.
The first message was from Andrea, who thanked her for finding Janie. She said she'd finished writing up her listing and she'd meet Hannah at the Winter Carnival banquet.
Hannah glanced over at Moishe. He hadn't been upset at hearing Andrea's voice, but when the next message came on, he bristled.
"Hannah? This is Mike. We just finished with Miss Burkholtz, and Bill's taking her out to get her car. She said she'd be staying with you. I know she's an old friend, but I can tell you right now, I don't like it. Just do me a favor and don't get involved, okay?"
"Right," Hannah muttered, bending down to give Moishe a pat. He hadn't liked the officious tone in Mike's voice, either.
"Hannah? This is your mother." The third and final message began to play, and Hannah stepped out of the way as Moishe made a beeline to the answer phone to stare at it balefully. His ears were laid back, his tail was flicking, and he looked as if he'd like to tear it off the wall.
"Relax. She's not here. It's just a recording," Hannah said, but she knew it wouldn't do much good. Every time Moishe heard her mother's voice, it upset him.
"Carrie and I are passing on the banquet. We're going to buy Tracey a pizza at the mall and then we're going to see the new Disney film. Tracey was a big help this afternoon, and she deserves a treat."
Hannah grinned. Tracey had learned how to manipulate her grandmother, and it appeared that she'd had similar success with Carrie.
"Wear a nice dress to the banquet, dear. And please try to do something with your hair. I saw Babs Dubinski this afternoon and she said her son is here for the carnival."
"Oh, great," Hannah said and followed it with a long-suffering sigh. She'd met Babs Dubinski's son at her mother's urging, and his one and only topic of conversation was tax reform.
"He just got divorced," Delores went on, "and tax accountants make very good money. Babs told me that he pulled in over seven. . . '
Hannah hit the stop button, cutting off her mother in mid-quote. She knew that Delores would prefer Norman or even Mike, but any old son-in-law, even a boring one, would do in a pinch for the daughter she feared would remain a spinster.
"We don't have to listen to the rest, Moishe," Hannah said, smoothing down his ruffled fur. "Let's go to the bedroom and you can curl up on my pillow while I get dressed."
Ten minutes later, Hannah was in the shower, enjoying the heat from the steaming spray and trying out the new bottle of Pretty Girl shampoo she'd bought from Luanne that morning. It was scented with some kind of herbal mixture, as was her new bar of soap, another acquisition from Luanne.
When her hair was thoroughly rinsed and squeaky clean, Hannah cranked off the water, toweled herself off, and stepped out of the bathroom. She glanced at her bed, where Moishe had been waiting for her, but there was an empty indentation on her pillow and a few stray orange and white hairs. She could hear him meowing from the other end of the condo, and as Hannah listened, she began to smile. Janie had come in and she was in the kitchen, having a conversation with Moishe.
As Hannah dressed, she listened to the two-sided conversation. She couldn't make out the words, but the conversational dynamics were plain. Janie would say something, Moishe would answer her, and Janie would respond to that. This went on for several minutes as Hannah put on her best wool suit, slipped into her dress shoes, and brushed her hair. She pulled her frizzy red curls back into a barrette that she fastened at the nape of her neck, debated the wisdom of switching to a purse that would match her shoes, and decided that it would be more trouble than it was worth. Andrea would just have to tolerate the scarred leather shoulder bag she usually carried.
A spritz from the perfume bottle that her college roommate had given her, a touch of lipstick that Hannah immediately wiped off with a tissue, and she was ready. She gave one more glance in the mirror, concluded that she'd done the best that she c
ould with what she had, and walked down the hall in heels that were bound to make her feel like a giant when she stood next to her petite sister.
"Hi, Hannah. You look nice." Janie greeted her when she entered the living room. She was sitting on the couch, and Moishe looked very content curled up in her lap. "I just love your cat. He's so friendly."
"Only to people he likes. Just ask Mother if you don't believe me. His name is Moishe."
"Hello, Moishe," Janie said, giving him a scratch behind his ears. "He's really smart, too. His food bowl was empty and he showed me where you keep his food."
"That figures. So how did it go at the sheriff's station?"
"Okay, I think. I did what you said and just told them everything I could remember. When I asked them if I was a suspect, Bill said not to worry about it, but his partner told me to stay in town until they gave me permission to leave."
"That's Mike," Hannah told her, "and he's not exactly the reassuring type. Did you put all your things in the guest room?"
"Yes. I parked my car right next to your cookie truck. Is that all right?"
"That's perfect. This place comes with two parking spots. Why don't you change clothes and come to the banquet with me? I don't want you to sit here all alone."
"I'm not alone." Janie reached out to pet Moishe again. "Besides, I just want to take a shower and soak up the luxury of a real furnace. That cabin was cold!"
"Okay, if you're sure. There's plenty of food here. Just forage around if you get hungry."
"Thanks Hannah, but I'm not hungry." Janie gave a little sigh. "It's funny, in a way. Mrs. MacIntyre was always after me to lose weight, and now that she's dead, I probably will."
Andrea nudged Hannah to get her attention. They were sitting at one of the long tables in the banquet room and they'd just finished eating Edna's main course, a delicious pot roast with pan gravy. "That's the Connie Mac table over there. He's not here."
"Who?" Hannah asked, glancing over at the table of Connie Mac people.
"Paul Macintyre."
"I didn't expect him to be here. Would you go to a banquet if you'd just found out that your spouse was dead?"
Andrea shivered. "I wish you hadn't said that. I worry about Bill all the time."
"I'm sorry;' Hannah apologized. "I just meant that it wouldn't be in good taste for Paul to socialize tonight, under the circumstances."
"You're right. I was just hoping to talk to him, that's all. Guess I'll have to settle for the second-best thing. I think that's Alan Carpenter sitting next to the woman in last sea- son's Liz Claibourne."
"What makes you think that?"
"Because he's wearing an expensive suit with a silk tie, and he looks like a lawyer."
"Not that. How do you know the woman next to him is wearing last season's Liz Claibourne?"
"Because I keep up with the fashions. Living in a small town doesn't mean you have to be hopelessly out of style. I wish I knew somebody over there so we could walk over and say hello."
"I know someone," Hannah told her.
"Who?"
"Kurt Howe. He delivered some books to Marge this afternoon and she introduced me."
Andrea looked worried. "You didn't question him, did you?"
"Of course I did. I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Kurt's alibi checked out and he's in the clear." Hannah pushed back her chair and stood up. "Come on, Andrea. Let's go over and say hello before Edna brings out my dessert."
By the time the buckets of Little Snowballs were brought out to the tables, Hannah and Andrea had met several people in Connie Mac's entourage. There were the two reporters who had been covering the Cooking Sweetheart's activities, the decorator who'd designed her kitchen boutiques, the writer who was working on her biography, and the man that Andrea had pegged as Alan Carpenter.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," Alan said, standing up to shake their hands. "Why don't you take our chairs? Kurt and I have to leave."
"Was it something I said?" Hannah quipped, and she was rewarded by a smile from both Kurt and Alan.
"Not at all," Alan told her, "but if we don't leave right now, we'll be late for the press conference I scheduled at my office."
"About Mrs. MacIntyre?" Hannah asked.
"Naturally. The media's in a feeding frenzy and they want to know the details. I'm the spokesman for the family and Kurt's going to handle any questions that concern Savory Press."
"This must be very difficult for you," Andrea commented, giving Alan a sympathetic smile.
"It's not easy, but I have a duty as the family counsel to spare Paul in any way I can. I'm sorry, ladies. I'd like to talk longer, but we really do have to leave now."
"Take some of these along with you for the trip," Hannah I said, taking a half-dozen Little Snowballs from the crystal bucket that one of the serving girls had placed on the table, and wrapping them in a napkin. "There's plenty of sugar in these. They'll keep you going."
After Alan and Kurt had left, Hannah and Andrea returned to their own table. They visited with the other banquet guests for a few minutes, Hannah accepted compliments on the cookies, and they watched the coronation of the Prince and Princess of Winter. When the ceremony was over, they retrieved their coats and boots and walked up the stairs to the lobby.
"I wonder how many books Marge sold," Hannah mused as they sat down in chairs at the book-signing table to switch from their shoes to their boots.
"A hundred and sixty-three. I heard her talking to Bertie Straub about it. She's taking the rest to the warm-up tents, and Mrs. Baxter's girls are going to sell them for her."
"That's great," Hannah said, stashing her shoes in her purse and opening the door so that they could step out.
"It's snowing again!" Andrea complained, gazing up at the sky as they walked across the icy parking lot to their vehicles. "I signed us up for the family snowman contest, and Tracey's really looking forward to it."
"It's supposed to stop by tomorrow morning. I heard the KCOW weather report on the drive in."
"I hope they're right." Andrea arrived at her Volvo and unlocked the door to retrieve her long-handled brush and scraper. She brushed the snow from her windshield and tossed the essential piece of winter equipment into the backseat. "I haven't built a snowman since I was a kid. Do you remember how to do it?"
'All you have to do is roll three balls of snow. You make a big one for the base, a medium-sized one for the torso, and a small one for the head. You stack them up, put on a face, and stick in some twigs for the arms. Then you decorate it with a hat or a scarf or whatever, and you're done. Anyone can build a snowman. It's easy."
"Since you know how, will you help us? Bill's going to be busy with the murder investigation, and it'd go a lot faster with three people. There's a time limit, you know."
Hannah sighed. She'd been had and she knew it. "Okay, I'll help. What time is the contest?"
"Two o'clock at the park. Thanks, Hannah." Andrea glanced at her watch in the glare from the dome light. "I've got to get a move on. Mother and Carrie are dropping Tracey off in twenty minutes. Do you want me to wait to see if your truck starts?"
"It'll start. And if it doesn't, someone will give me a jump."
Once Andrea had driven off, Hannah brushed the snow from her own windshield and started her truck. It fired up immediately and she cranked the heater up to high. As she waited for the engine to warm up, she took out her notebook and wrote down what they'd learned tonight, even though none of it seemed important.
By the time Hannah had slipped her notebook back into her purse, a whisper of tepid air was emerging from her heater vents. It was enough to chase away the frost from the inside of the windshield, but that was about it. Wishing that she'd opted for the auxiliary heater that Cyril Murphy had attempted to sell her when she'd bought her truck, she switched on her headlights and windshield wipers, and drove out of the parking lot.
Resisting the urge to drive past her shop to see if they'd taken the crime scene tape down, Hann
ah headed for the highway. Bill would have called if there'd been any change.
Hannah stepped on the gas, pulled in behind a rental truck with Michigan plates, and drove toward home. The only way she could get back into The Cookie Jar fast was to catch Connie Mac's killer, and that was turning out to be a lot harder than she'd hoped it would be.
-18- "This is delicious, Hannah," Janie said as she bit into the sandwich Hannah had made for her. "I still remember the first time you made us a grilled cream cheese sandwich."
"So do I," Hannah replied, smiling at the memory. She'd decided to make grilled cheese sandwiches for Andrea and Janie one high school night when they'd stayed up late, cramming for a test. She'd buttered the bread, heated the frying pan, and only then discovered that someone had eaten the last piece of American cheese in the refrigerator. Since everything else had been ready, Hannah had sliced a block of chilled cream cheese and used that as a substitute. The resulting sandwich had been so delicious, she'd never made traditional grilled cheese sandwiches again.
"You should make cooking mistakes more often." Janie smiled at her. "You always end up with something fabulous."
"Not always. Remember the time I put tomato soup in my tuna hotdish? It was so awful, we couldn't eat it and we had to go out for pizza."
Janie made a face. "I wish you hadn't reminded me. But everyone's entitled to one flop, and you've more than made up for it."
"I need to ask you about something, Janie." Hannah turned her mind back to the problem at hand. "I ran into Kurt Howe at the library today, and he told me that the television station has a lot of Connie Mac shows that haven't aired yet."
"Kurt's right. We taped the shows in June and Connie Mac did four shows a day, every other day."
"Four shows a day?" Hannah was surprised. "Isn't that an awful lot of work?"
"Yes, but not for her. The staff did all the setup work before she even got to the studio. All she had to do was assemble pre-measured ingredients while she talked to her guests, stick pans in the oven, and take out the ones we'd already baked."
"So she didn't actually cook the dinners?"
