CANDY CANE

Murder

Books by Joanne Fluke

CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE MURDER STRAWBERRY

SHORTCAKE MURDER BLUEBERRY MUFFIN MURDER

LEMON MERINGUE PIE MURDER FUDGE CUPCAKE

MURDER SUGAR COOKIE MURDER PEACH COBBLER

MURDER CHERRY CHEESECAKE MURDER KEY LIME

PIE MURDER CARROT CAKE MURDER

Books by Laura Levine

THIS PEN FOR HIRE LAST WRITES KILLER BLONDE

SHOES TO DIE FOR THE PMS MURDER DEATH BY

PANTYHOSE KILLING BRIDEZILLA

Books by Leslie Meier

MISTLETOE MURDER TIPPY TOE MURDER TRICK OR

TREAT MURDER BACK TO SCHOOL MURDER

VALENTINE MURDER CHRISTMAS COOKIE

MURDER TURKEY DAY MURDER WEDDING DAY

MURDER BIRTHDAY PARTY MURDER FATHER’S DAY

MURDER STAR SPANGLED MURDER NEW YEAR’S EVE

MURDER BAKE SALE MURDER ST. PATRICK’S DAY

MURDER

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

CANDY CANE

MURDER

!

#

JOANNE FLUKE

LAURA LEVINE

LESLIE MEIER

KENSINGTON BOOKS

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

Contents

Candy Cane Murder 1

Joanne Fluke

The Dangers of Candy Canes 153

Laura Levine

Candy Canes of Christmas Past 275

Leslie Meier

CANDY CANE

MURDER

Joanne Fluke

Thanks to everyone at the Mysterious Galaxy Bookstore in

San Diego for testing the Candy Cane Bar Cookies for me.

Big hugs to the two “crafty” sisters, Donna Williams and

Dorene Higgons.

Chapter

! One #

It was a dream, one of those bizarre fantasies she’d laugh

about when she woke up. But not even in her worst nightmare had Hannah Swensen ever imagined she’d be transformed into an elf.

“Are you ready, Aunt Hannah?”

It wasn’t a dream. That was Tracey’s voice. Hannah

mouthed a word she hoped wasn’t in her six-year-old niece’s

vocabulary and then she answered the question. “I’ll be out

in a couple of minutes, honey.”

The holiday season calls for a generosity of spirit, Hannah

reminded herself as she pulled on bright green tights and

struggled into the matching tunic top. The bottom hem of the

tunic had long points of cloth attached like screaming red

pennants hanging down around her waist. Each one was

tipped with a jingle bell, so if by some miracle someone failed

to notice her, the bells would announce her presence.

Her footwear was next. Hannah pulled on slippers with

rollup toes in a shade of red so bright it hurt her eyes. She

topped it all off with a pointed cap with more jingle bells in

the same brilliant red, and avoided the mirror with the same

dedication Transylvanian villagers had used to ward off vampires.

“Aunt Hannah?”

“I’m almost ready, Tracey.”

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Joanne Fluke

“What’s the matter? You sound funny.”

“Elves are supposed to sound funny, aren’t they?” Hannah

tugged down the bright red points on her tunic. Perhaps it

would stretch out and fit a little better.

“I guess. Better hurry, Aunt Hannah. It’s six-five-six and

Santa’s supposed to be here at seven-oh-oh.”

“Right.” Hannah gave a fleeting thought to how much she

missed the big hands and little hands on analog watches and

risked a glance in the mirror. Her image hadn’t changed for

the better. The red of her hair was engaged in a full-scale war

with the red of her cap, women who were more than two

pounds overweight should avoid form-fitting tunics with

bells that called attention to their figure faults, and with the

possible exception of those who had fitness club memberships and actually used them, women over thirty should be

wary about skipping in public. It was Santa who was supposed to jiggle like a bowlful of jelly, not her!

“Aunt Hannah?”

“Coming.” Hannah tore her eyes away from the wreckage

of her self-esteem. If a dozen determined designers had gotten

together for the sole purpose of creating an outfit that would

be most unflattering for her, they couldn’t have done a better

job. She took a deep breath, grabbed the basket of miniature

candy canes she would strew like rose petals in Santa’s wake,

and opened the dressing room door.

All thoughts of how dreadful she looked were erased as

she caught sight of Tracey’s beaming face. Playing Santa’s elf

for an hour wouldn’t kill her. And since the large silver basket she was carrying had to contain at least a thousand

miniature candy canes, there was an upside to the evening.

She’d have plenty of candy left over to make Chocolate

Candy Cane Cookies at The Cookie Jar, her bakery and coffee shop, tomorrow.

“You’re perfect, Aunt Hannah!” Tracey said, taking her

aunt’s hand. “All the kids are going to love you.”

And with that vote of supreme confidence, Hannah and

CANDY CANE MURDER

7

her niece headed for the temporary stage that had been

erected in the dining room of the Lake Eden Inn to wait for

Santa to arrive.

“I see Mom!” Tracey said, peeking through the crack in

the curtain. “And Aunt Michelle’s there, too. They’re getting

the kids lined up.”

Hannah walked over to take a look. She spotted her two

younger sisters waiting in line with the children from the

Winnetka County Children’s Home. They had been bussed

out for an early dinner and a gift from Wayne Bergstrom,

who was playing Santa tonight. The children would go back

to the Home right after their visit with Santa and then the

adult Christmas party would begin.

Tracey glanced at her watch. “It’s seven-one-three and

Santa Wayne isn’t here yet. I wonder why he’s late.”

“I don’t know,” Hannah answered, “but make sure you

don’t call him Santa Wayne in front of the kids. You know

that Wayne is one of Santa’s temporary helpers at Christmas

time, but the other kids don’t.”

“Don’t worry, Aunt Hannah. I won’t tell.”

Hannah took another peek through the slit in the curtains.

The children in line were beginning to fidget. If Wayne didn’t

get here soon, Michelle and Andrea would have an insurrection on their hands.

And then it happened. Both Hannah and Tracey began to

smile as they heard sleigh bells in the distance. From previous

Christmas parties at the Lake Eden Inn, Hannah knew that

Wayne carried a half-dozen sleigh bells attached to a red

leather strap. They usually resided in one of the big patch

pockets of his Santa costume, but he took them out when he

came in the kitchen door and jingled them to build anticipation for his arrival, and as a signal for his elf to join him in

the kitchen.

Hannah took one last look at the line of children. All talking, coughing, and wiggling had ceased. Instead there was si-8

Joanne Fluke

lence, perfect stillness of voice and body, large and small.

And every face wore an expectant smile. Santa was coming

and even the teenagers who had seemed so jaded and blasé

only moments before were now caught in the grips of heady

expectancy.

“Better take your place, Tracey,” Hannah whispered, giving her niece a little push toward the thronelike chair where

Wayne would sit. Since some of the little ones had been

afraid of the big, red-suited man with the white fur and the

booming voice in years past, Sally had asked Tracey to stand

next to Santa and reassure them.

When Tracey had taken up her position, looking like an

angel with her shining blond hair and white velvet dress,

Hannah gave a little wave and headed off to the kitchen. Her

least favorite part of the evening was about to begin, the part

where she skipped behind Santa and scattered cellophanewrapped candy canes as he wound his way through the

crowded dining room and up the steps to the stage. When

Santa reached the top step, the curtains would open to reveal

Tracey, Santa’s throne, and the huge decorated Christmas

tree. And once Wayne was seated and his elf had navigated

the steps and taken her place by the Christmas tree, Michelle

and Andrea would bring the children up, one by one, to greet

Santa and receive their presents.

When she pushed open the swinging kitchen door, Hannah

spotted Santa Wayne at the counter, perched on a tall stool

and drinking something in a cup. Sally stood next to him,

frowning.

“Something’s wrong?” Hannah asked her, and it came out

more statement than question. Of course something was

wrong. Sally wouldn’t be frowning if everything were perfectly all right.

“Wayne’s got laryngitis and my hot peppermint tea isn’t

working. We’re afraid he’ll scare the kids when he talks to

them.”

CANDY CANE MURDER

9

Hannah realized that was possible, especially if Santa

sounded gruff. “I could make an announcement.”

“What kind of announcement?” Santa Wayne asked in a

rasping voice that left no question about his ability to speak

in normal tones.

“I could tell the kids that you ran into some thick fog over

Greenland and you had to sing ‘Jingle Bells’ really loud so

your voice would bounce off the ice caps and Donner and

Blitzen wouldn’t fly into them.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard!” Santa Wayne

rasped.

Hannah shrugged. “I know, but I think it’ll work. Do you

want me to do it?”

Santa Wayne and Sally exchanged glances. “I guess it’s better than nothing,” he said, settling the question.

Smile. Scatter left, scatter right, Hannah told herself, trying not to pant as she skipped. She’d only covered about half

the distance and she was already out of breath, puffing faster

than the caterpillar smoking a hookah in Tracey’s volume of

Alice in Wonderland.

Uh-oh! There was Mike, her sometime boyfriend! Hannah

put on the best smile she could muster and tried to pretend

she was having the time of her life. The fact that those portions of her anatomy she often wished were smaller and firmer

were bouncing up and down and sideways like a loose bar of

soap in a shower stall didn’t help. No one who saw her could

possibly call her graceful. The best she could hope for was

that they might consider her a good sport.

Only a few more yards to go. Hannah concentrated on

skipping forward and peppering her audience with candy

canes. At least she’d finally figured out why the green leggings she wore were called tights. It was because they were

tight. Extremely tight. So very tight that she felt like a sausage about to split open on a blazing hot barbecue grill.

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Joanne Fluke

The ordeal was almost over and Hannah stopped to toss

another few candy canes as Wayne climbed the steps to the

stage. Then the curtains opened and the audience applauded

as he gave Tracey a smile and sat down in his chair. He patted his knee, and Tracey climbed on to whisper in his ear. It

was a sweet and heartwarming scene, and Hannah was grateful that everyone in the audience was watching Santa with

Tracey as she climbed the steps to the stage and took her

place to do what her Grandma Ingrid had always called

speak her piece.

“Santa almost didn’t make it tonight,” Hannah spoke the

words she’d been rehearsing in her head, “so let’s give him a

big round of applause to show how glad we are he made it

here to the Lake Eden Inn.”

The audience broke into loud applause and once it had diminished in volume, Hannah continued with her story. “Did

you know that there was an awful storm at the North Pole

when Santa started his Christmas journey?”

“No!” several children shouted, and Hannah gave them a

smile. “There was, believe me. Santa didn’t think he was

going to make it, but do you know what he did?”

“No!” This time the response was louder and Hannah

went into her story about the polar ice caps and the fog as

heavy as green pea soup. “So Santa had to sing all the way to

the coast of Newfoundland to keep his reindeer from crashing into the ice caps. And he sang so loudly and so long, he

strained his voice.”

The younger children in line were nodding gravely. They’d

believed her, just as she’d known they would. “Would you

like to hear how funny Santa sounds?” she asked.

There was a clamor of yeses and not all of them came from

the children. Some of the adults were getting into the spirit of

the evening, too.

“Would you please say Ho Ho Ho for us, Santa?” she requested, turning toward him.

“Ho, Ho, Ho!” Santa Wayne exclaimed hoarsely, and some

CANDY CANE MURDER

11

of the children giggled. That drew a good-natured laugh from

the adults and Hannah figured she’d done her part. There

was only one more thing to mention. “So you won’t be afraid

of Santa’s scratchy voice, will you?”

“No!” several children shouted and almost all of them

shook their heads. Her mission was accomplished and Hannah skipped over to take her place next to the mound of

color-coded presents. The Santa, Tracey, and Elf Show was

about to begin.

Hannah and Tracey knew the drill. They’d even rehearsed

it with Sally. Hannah would hand Tracey the appropriate

present, Tracey would carry it to Santa, and Santa would give

it to the child on his lap. Norman Rhodes, Hannah’s other

boyfriend, would snap a picture for posterity. Then Michelle

would escort the child to the rear of the line as Andrea

brought the next child forward.

The smallest children were at the front of the line and

Hannah studied the mound of presents. They were arranged

by age group. All she had to do was work from left to right

and everyone would get an age-appropriate present. The

packages were also color coded. If they were wrapped with

gold and green paper, they were for the girls. The boys got

presents wrapped with silver and red paper.

The next few minutes were busy. Hannah chose the gifts,

Tracey gave them to Santa, and Santa presented them. The

children were delighted and Hannah was really getting into

the spirit of the season by the time she picked up the last present. It was over. And she hadn’t died of mortification. Perhaps the mirror in Sally’s dressing room had waved the

wrong way and caused her to look larger than she actually

was. And perhaps all that skipping had jumbled her brain

and affected her ability to separate reality from wishful

thinking.

There was standing applause as the children, all of them

clutching their presents, were led out the door to their waiting bus. And then the curtains closed and Hannah fanned

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Joanne Fluke

herself with her tasseled cap. Except for a few dropped candy

canes and one toddler who would absolutely not sit on

Santa’s lap and screamed bloody murder despite Tracey’s,

Hannah’s, Andrea’s, Michelle’s, and Santa’s best efforts, all

had gone smoothly.

Sally was waiting for them in the wings and she handed

Santa Wayne another cup of hot tea. “That was even better

than last year! Sip some tea, Wayne. Your throat must hurt

from talking to the kids.”

“Thanks. Hurts.” His voice was as scratchy as sandpaper

and he gave a rattling cough.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Sally told him. And then

she turned to Hannah and Tracey. “You were wonderful,

Tracey. And Hannah … your speech about Santa’s sore

throat was just the thing.”

“Whatever,” Hannah said, waving off the compliment

even though she thought it had been pretty good herself.

“Here’s your receipt for the presents, Wayne.” Sally passed

him a folded sheet of paper. “Mayor Bascomb did it through

the Lake Eden Boosters this year.”

“My receipt?”

“You know, the one you need for your corporate taxes.

Mayor Bascomb said to tell your accounting department that

the Boosters got their nonprofit status in June last year. He’ll

fax you a copy of the paperwork for your files.”

“Right.” He shoved the receipt in his pocket and turned to

Hannah. “I’ll need the rest of that candy. I’m playing Santa at

the store tomorrow.”

What a cheapskate! Hannah thought. And being a cheapskate was probably how rich people got rich in the first place.

Wayne Bergstrom owned Bergstrom’s Department Store, the

busiest and most profitable retailer at the TriCounty Mall.

He had displays of miniature candy canes at every checkout

counter, the tubs stacked one on top of the other like red and

white striped pyramids. There was no reason he needed to

take what Hannah had come to think of as her leftovers.

CANDY CANE MURDER

13

“Here,” Hannah said, handing over the basket.

“It’s her basket,” he said, gesturing to Sally. “Dump the

candy in my pocket.” Then he held open one of the massive

pockets on the jacket of his Santa suit, and waited for Hannah to dump them in.

“I’ll drop off the elf costume at the store tomorrow unless

you want it now,” Hannah told him. “It’ll only take me a

couple of minutes to change.”

“Keep it. We couldn’t sell it anyway now that you

stretched it out. You can use it again next year.”

“No flying pigs around here,” Hannah muttered just under

her breath, and she was rewarded by a startled chortle from

Sally. When Sally had asked her if she would be Wayne’s regular elf for future Christmas parties at the Lake Eden Inn, Hannah had responded with, Sure, when pigs fly!

With Sally struggling to maintain her composure, Hannah

was just searching around for a topic of polite conversation

when Sally’s husband, Dick, walked up.

“Good job, Wayne.” Dick clapped him on the back. “The

kids loved you. Go change out of your suit and I’ll mix you a

Peppermint Martini.”

“Tempting, but not tonight,” he answered in his husky

voice. “Got to rest my throat.”

“Hot water, honey, and lemon,” Hannah advised him.

“It’s like making hot lemonade. Then pour in a little brandy

and top it off with grated nutmeg.”

“Does the brandy help?” he asked her, clearing his throat

with obvious difficulty.

“Not really. Your throat still hurts just as much, but after

three or four cups, you don’t care anymore.”

! % { # 9

PEPPERMINT MARTINI

Hannah’s 1st Note: These recipes are from Richella and

Priscilla, Dick Laughlin’s bartenders at the Lake Eden Inn.

Dick says if you don’t have martini glasses, you should run

right out and buy them. Both Dick and Sally swear that

these martinis taste a hundred percent better in martini

glasses.

5 ounces good grade vodka

2 ounces white crème d’menthe

1⁄2 ounce peppermint schnapps

Combine in a shaker and shake with ice. Strain into two

martini glasses and garnish with miniature candy canes

hooked over the rims of the glasses.

PEPPER MINT MARTINI

Hannah’s 2nd Note: Here’s the second recipe. You may

notice that “pepper” and “mint” are separated in the title.

The reason will become obvious when you read the recipe.

6 ounces pepper vodka

2 ounces white crème d’menthe

one fresh sprig of mint

Crush the mint with the back of a spoon. Combine with

the other ingredients in a shaker and shake with ice. Strain

into two martini glasses and garnish with miniature candy

canes hooked over the rims of the glasses.

! % { # 9

14

Chapter

! Two #

Hannah gave one more glance in the mirror and this time

she smiled. Claire Rodgers, her business neighbor on

Main Street, had chosen Hannah’s party outfit from her selection at Beau Monde Fashions. Claire and Hannah had

worked out a barter system in the two years they’d been

neighbors. Hannah dropped in with cookies for Claire, and

Claire sold Hannah fashionable clothing at her cost. Tonight’s outfit was a color Hannah had always wanted to

wear, one she thought of as “lavender blue,” the title of one

of her grandmother’s favorite folk songs. She’d always assumed it would clash with her hair, but Claire had urged her

to try it on and it worked perfectly. The romantic lines of the

long, draped jacket hid two of her figure faults, and the black

silk pants emphasized her height and made her look thinner.

One last smoothing pat to the curls she’d given up trying

to tame while she was still in grade school, and Hannah was

ready for the party. She turned to look at the elf costume still

hanging on a hook. Wayne had told her she could have it, but

she knew she’d never wear it again unless someone had a gun

to her head. And even then, she might take several moments

to think it over. If she left it there behind the door, perhaps

someone would take it before the night was over. Someone

who’d enjoy it. Someone who didn’t have bright red hair and

ten extra pounds around the middle.

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Joanne Fluke

“How’re you doing, Hannah?” a voice greeted her as she

stepped out of the dressing room and Hannah turned to see

Cory Reynolds, Wayne Bergstrom’s brother-in-law, leaning

up against the wall. Since there was no other reason he’d be

in this particular hallway, he was obviously waiting for her.

“Fine, Cory. How about you?” Hannah put on a smile.

Cory was a nice enough guy, and it wasn’t his fault that his

sister had married a rich tightwad like Wayne.

“Things are good. I just wanted to tell you that the story

you told about how Wayne lost his voice was great.”

“Thanks. I was hoping it would work. Wayne sounded

awful.”

“I know. He’s even worse now. I ran into him outside the

back door and he said he was going straight home to have

some of that hot lemonade and brandy you told him about.”

“Good. It should make him feel better.”

“I really didn’t think he’d be able to do Santa tonight. I

even offered to take over, but he wouldn’t have it.”

Too bad you didn’t, said the voice in Hannah’s head, because maybe you would have given me the rest of those

candy canes! But that was meanspirited and this was the

Christmas season. She could afford to be a little charitable.

“Has Wayne been hoarse all day?” she asked.

Cory shook his head. “He was fine at noon. We had a

manager’s meeting at the store during lunch.”

“You mean you had to give up your lunch break?”

“Yeah, but at least it was on a weekday. Sometimes we

have managers’ meetings on Saturdays. Or Sundays. Wayne

says that anyone who’s not willing to come in twentyfour/seven will never be a manager at Bergstrom’s.”

“I’ll bet that makes him really popular,” Hannah muttered.

But she must have said it a little louder than she thought, because Cory gave a startled bark of laughter.

“It doesn’t put him in the top ten for the Best Boss of the

Year award. But it’s like he always says … it’s his money and

it’s his store. He can run it any way he wants to.”

CANDY CANE MURDER

17

“What department do you manage?” Hannah continued

to make polite conversation.

“Wonderful Weddings. I moved there last year from Men’s

Clothing. We book weddings and provide everything the

wedding party needs.”

“Sounds nice,” Hannah said, wondering why Cory had

chosen to talk to her. Perhaps he was just lonely, now that

Wayne had left?

“So tell me about Wayne’s laryngitis,” she prompted. “Sally

said he could barely talk when he came in the kitchen door.”

“That figures. He called me around five-thirty on my cell

phone and he was already pretty hoarse. I had to ask him to

repeat himself a couple of times and it didn’t exactly make

him happy. That’s when I asked him if he wanted me to take

over for him at the party.”

Hannah heard Sally’s voice over the loudspeaker, inviting

everyone to come to the buffet tables. Cory heard it too, and

he extended his arm. “Shall we, Hannah?”

“Absolutely. Thank you, Cory.” Hannah took his arm and

hoped he hadn’t heard her stomach growl as they headed off

to join the line for the buffet.

Sally’s dessert buffet was splendiferous. Hannah eyed a

piece of Italian Apple Tort and was about to succumb to

temptation when she remembered how tight the tights on her

elf costume had been.

“Trying to decide?” Mike asked, causing her to jump.

“Trying to resist,” Hannah corrected him. “How do you

do that anyway?”

“Do what?”

“Sneak up on people.”

“We learn it in cop school.” Mike flashed her a grin that

made her stomach do a little flipflop. If someone conducted

a poll of the single, divorced, and widowed women in Lake

Eden, Minnesota, Mike Kingston, Chief Detective at the

Winnetka County Sheriff’s Department, would be a shoo-in

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Joanne Fluke

for most desirable husband. “Too bad you took off your costume. I thought you looked cute in it.”

Hannah stared at him for a minute in utter disbelief and

then she said, “I think the county pays for that.”

“Pays for what?”

“Eye surgery. I understand they’re doing wonders with

lasers now.”

Mike laughed so loudly several guests at the buffet turned

to look at him. “Very funny, Hannah. But I really did think

you looked cute. If you’re not going to have a slice of that

apple thing, do you want to dance?”

Did she want to dance? Hannah ranked that question right

up there with Do you want to breathe? Did she want Mike to

put his arms around her and hold her close? Did she want to

look up at him and realize that their lips were only inches

apart? Did he even have to ask?!

“Hannah?” Mike prompted, and Hannah came out of her

musings to realize that he was holding out his arm.

“Thanks, Mike. I’d love to dance,” she said quickly, accepting his arm and walking with him to the dance floor.

Dancing with Mike must have broken the ice, because

once the last notes of music had faded away, Norman appeared to claim her for the next dance. After that, Andrea’s

husband, Sheriff Bill Todd, piloted her around the floor. Then

there was a series of local men, one right after the other, including Cory Reynolds, Mayor Bascomb, Doc Knight, Reverend Knudson, her host Dick Laughlin, and the town druggist,

Jon Walker.

“I’m not moving for at least ten minutes,” she declared,

sinking into a chair at the table she was sharing with her sisters. She slipped off her shoes and wiggled her feet, hoping

that the feeling would eventually return to her toes.

“Feet hurt from all that dancing?” Andrea asked her.

“Sure do. And skipping in those pointy toed elf shoes didn’t

help either.” She glanced around and didn’t spot Bill. Lonnie

CANDY CANE MURDER

19

Murphy, one of Bill’s deputies and Michelle’s date for the

evening, was nowhere in sight either. “Where are Bill and

Lonnie?”

“Lonnie’s dancing with his mother. His dad’s outside fixing a car,” Michelle explained.

“And Bill’s dancing with Barbara Donnelly,” Andrea

named the head secretary at the sheriff’s station. “I’m so glad

she’s not married!”

Michelle and Hannah exchanged a Did-you-understand—

that? glance, immediately followed by a Not-me! shrug.

“Okay, I’ll bite.” Hannah caved in and turned to Andrea.

“Why are you glad Barbara’s not married?”

“Because then her husband would ask me to dance, and

I’d have to do it to be polite. And I’m too tired to dance. I

made four batches of Whippersnappers this afternoon.”

Hannah stared at her sister in utter amazement. When

most women talked about “batches,” they were referring to

cookies, brownies, muffins, or some type of baked goods.

Surely Andrea had another explanation. As far as Hannah

knew, her sister didn’t even know how to turn on her oven,

much less mix up a batch of anything and bake it.

“Tracey has her dance class Christmas party tomorrow

and I promised Danielle I’d make enough for everybody.

Most of the other mothers are bringing refreshments, too.”

There was total silence while Hannah and Michelle digested that information. Refreshments meant food, and both

of them knew that Andrea’s only culinary skill was heating

water in the microwave for instant coffee or Jell-O.

“What’s the matter?” Andrea asked, realizing at last that

her sisters were perfectly silent.

“We’re wondering what … uh … Whippersnappers are,”

Michelle explained.

“They’re cookies.”

“You baked cookies?! ” both Michelle and Hannah exclaimed in unison.

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Joanne Fluke

“Yes, I did. And they were so easy! Carli Spurr e-mailed

me with the recipe. You remember Carli, don’t you? She

coached the cheerleading squad.”

“I remember,” Hannah said, her mind flying through dire

possibilities. Perhaps, through some miracle, Andrea had

managed to mix up and bake several batches of cookies, but

they couldn’t possibly be good. Of course she couldn’t say

that without hurting her sister’s feelings, and Andrea looked

very proud of her accomplishment. It would be kinder to pretend that everything was fine, at least until she found out

more.

“I’ve never heard of Whippersnappers before,” she commented, fishing for information. “What kind of cookie are

they?”

“I made lemon. Carli said you could make any flavor, and

Tracey really likes lemon.”

“Lemon’s good.” Hannah gave a quick smile, but she felt

more like groaning. Lemon cookies usually called for lemon

zest and she was almost positive Andrea had never heard of

it.

“Did you have to go out and buy a zester?”

Michelle asked the question, and Hannah turned to give

her a quick nod. She was willing to bet that they were on the

same page.

“What’s a zester?”

That answered that question! Hannah gave a little groan

before she responded. “A zester is like a grater for lemon

peel,” she explained.

“Why would I need that? There’s no lemon peel in Carli’s

recipe.”

“No lemon zest, either?” Hannah quizzed her, trying to

cover all the bases.

“No. What does lemon zest do?”

“It makes things taste really lemony,” Michelle answered

her.

CANDY CANE MURDER

21

“Well, I didn’t need any zest, because my Whippersnappers

taste nice and lemony without it. Is that a word?”

“Yes. Zest is the yellow part of the lemon peel,” Hannah

told her.

“Not that. I was talking about lemony. Is lemony a

word?”

“If it’s not, it should be,” Hannah settled that query and

moved on toward her objective. “If Michelle and I drop in at

Tracey’s party, can we taste your cookies?”

“Sure, but you don’t have to wait until then. Just give me a

ride home and we’ll have some. Bethie caught a little cold

and I want to check in on her.”

“Good idea,” Hannah said, giving her sister an approving

nod. Andrea had been a nervous first-time mom with Tracey,

reading every baby care book she could get her hands on,

and trying to follow everyone’s advice. Of course that was

impossible, but Andrea still felt like a failure as a mother

whenever Tracey cried. Finally, in desperation, she’d gone

back to work as a real estate agent and hired the best nanny

in Lake Eden, “Grandma” McCann, to take care of Tracey.

“Won’t Bill mind if you leave?” Michelle asked her.

“No. He’s already danced with me twice, and that’s all the

time he has for me tonight. He’s got fifteen ladies to go.”

“Fifteen ladies?” Hannah asked, glancing at Michelle, who

looked every bit as puzzled as she felt.

“I asked Sally for an advance copy of the guest list and Bill

and I made up our game plan last night. A sheriff has certain

obligations, you know, especially if he wants to serve more

than one term. Bill has to play politics and dance with all the

important women here.”

“Are you talking about women who are married to important men?” Michelle asked, frowning a bit.

“Not necessarily. Rose McDermott is on Bill’s list. You

might not think she’s important, but a lot of local people go

into the café. If Rose likes Bill and thinks he’s doing a good

22

Joanne Fluke

job, she’ll mention it and that can influence a lot of people

when they go to the polls.”

“You’re right.” Michelle looked thoughtful.

“And then there’s Bertie Straub. She’s not shy about telling

her customers down at the Cut ’n Curl who they should vote

for.”

Hannah was amused. The next election for county sheriff

was over three years away. “So you’re already launching

Bill’s campaign?”

“It’s never too early to play politics.” Andrea glanced

around the room and spotted her husband, deep in conversation with Mayor Bascomb. “Just let me tell Bill I’m leaving

and we can go.”

“Can I go with you?” Michelle asked, when Andrea had

left.

“Sure. But I thought Lonnie was bringing you back to my

place.”

“He was. But he’s pulling a late shift and it’ll save him a

trip.”

“If you go with us, you’re going to have to taste Andrea’s

cookies,” Hannah warned.

“I know. But my nose is all stuffed up and I won’t be able

to taste much. I’ll just chew and swallow. And then I’ll tell

her how delicious they are.”

Hannah wished that she had a similar ailment, hoping

she’d be able to lie convincingly. Praising Andrea’s cookies

would constitute a lot more than a little white lie, but it

would make her sister very happy.

“It smells like Christmas trees out here!” Andrea said, taking a deep breath and expelling it in a cloud of white vapor.

“That’s because we’re walking past a whole grove of blue

spruce,” Hannah told her.

They walked in silence for a moment, and then Andrea

held out her gloved hand. “It’s snowing again. I just love

knowing that every snowflake is different. We learned it in

CANDY CANE MURDER

23

school. They called it one of nature’s miracles because no two

are alike.”

“That’s what they thought back then,” Hannah said. “But

then Jon Nelson, a cloud physicist from Kyoto, Japan, found

that it’s probably not true for the smaller crystals, the ones

that barely develop beyond the prism stage.”

There was another long silence. Hannah was about to tell

them more about the physicist from Japan when Michelle almost stumbled over a drift of snow on the walkway.

“Careful,” Hannah warned, and Michelle stopped walking.

“Let’s just stand here for a minute and look at the stars. It

feels like you can reach out and touch them, they’re so huge

tonight! They weren’t like this last night when Mother had us

over for dinner.”

“That’s because it’s darker out here,” Hannah explained.

“Lake Eden has streetlights on every corner, and there are

lights in all the houses. If you combine the lumens from the

old-fashioned globe streetlights Dick and Sally put in on this

walkway and add the lights they have at the inn, it doesn’t

add up to a fraction of the output of a single arc light in the

parking lot at Jordan High.”

Both Michelle and Andrea turned to look at her and Hannah immediately realized her mistake. She was offering science textbooks when what they wanted was poetry.

“Of course maybe it’s not true,” she said, trying to ameliorate the damage.

“Maybe what’s not true?” Andrea asked, and Hannah

could tell she was still upset about the snowflakes.

“All of it. But let’s take the snow crystals first. That same

cloud scientist compared the number of possible snowflake

shapes with the number of atoms in the universe. It would be

impossible for scientists to examine them all.”

“So he really doesn’t know.” Andrea looked very relieved.

“It’s just a theory, right?”

“That’s right.”

24

Joanne Fluke

“How about the stars?” Michelle asked.

Hannah stuffed her gloved hands in her pockets. “They

could be bigger tonight,” she said, crossing her fingers. “It’s

not an absolute certainty. I like to think the stars and the

moon react to us when we watch them. That makes the night

magical.”

This drew smiles from both of her sisters and Hannah relaxed a bit. She had to remember to curb her impulse to be

realistic and practical when her sisters wanted whimsy and

romance.

“Uh-oh!” Michelle stumbled again. “I just stepped on

something slippery,” she said.

“What?” Hannah asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Hold on a second.” Hannah drew a tiny flashlight from

her pocket. “Norman gave this to me the last time I dropped

my keys in the snow.” She switched on the light and trained

the beam on the walkway. “You were right here and you

slipped on … this!”

“What is it?” Michelle asked.

“A miniature candy cane wrapped in plastic.” Hannah

held it up so both of them could see it. “It’s one of Wayne

Bergstrom’s and he must have dropped it on his way to the

parking lot.”

“You seem pretty happy about finding it,” Michelle commented, reacting to the smile on her older sister’s face.

“I am. I know it’s mean of me, but I’m glad he lost it. I

wanted to keep the leftover candy canes to try out a new

cookie recipe, but he told me he wanted them all back for his

next Santa appearance.”

Andrea just shook her head. “Wayne’s such a tightwad. It’s

not like he doesn’t have more. And they probably cost him

practically nothing. What were you going to use them for?”

“Chocolate Candy Cane Cookies. And now I can’t make

them until I buy some candy canes.”

Both Andrea and Michelle gave little groans of dismay and

CANDY CANE MURDER

25

Hannah was gratified. “If Wayne dropped one, he probably

dropped more, especially if he’s got a hole in his pocket. Let’s

keep looking. I don’t think it’s snowed enough to completely

cover them.”

“Are you going to use them for the cookies?” Michelle

wanted to know.

“No, I’ll buy my own. I just think it would be really funny

if we collected them all and gave them back to Wayne at the

store tomorrow.”

“Here’s one!” Michelle called out, spotting another

cellophanewrapped candy at the side of the pathway. “It

looks like he’s dropping one every ten feet or so.”

“This is fun,” Andrea commented, rushing ahead to pick

up a candy cane. “It’s like in Hansel and Gretel, except there

aren’t any birds or breadcrumbs.”

The walk to the parking lot had turned into a game, each

sister trying to find the next candy cane. They had about a

dozen when the trail of candy canes abruptly stopped.

“What happened?” Andrea, the current holder of Hannah’s miniature flashlight, spread the light around in a circle.

“We haven’t found anything for over ten yards.”

“How do you know it’s over ten yards?” Michelle asked.

“Believe me, I know how far you have to go for a first

down. Bill used to play football, remember?”

Neither Hannah nor Michelle voiced any argument to

that. Not only had Bill been the best quarterback in the

whole county, Andrea had been the head cheerleader at Jordan High.

“Do you think Wayne ran out of candy canes?” Michelle

asked Hannah.

“I don’t think so. The basket was big and it was over half

full when Wayne told me to stuff the candy canes in his Santa

suit pocket.”

“The hole in his pocket didn’t mend itself,” Andrea

pointed out.

“Right. Wayne must have left the walkway for some rea-26

Joanne Fluke

son. Let’s check the sides of the path. If we can find the point

where Wayne veered off, we’ll start finding candy canes

again.”

Michelle led them back to the point where she’d found the

last candy cane. “This is the place,” she said, pointing down

to the snowy walkway. “Where do we look now?”

“You and Andrea check your side of the path. If you don’t

find anything, come back and give me the flashlight so I can

check my side. If Wayne is still leaking candy canes, we’ll find

them.”

“Why wouldn’t he be leaking candy canes?” Andrea

wanted to know.

“I could be wrong about how many are left. Or maybe he

noticed that they were falling out and he put them in another

pocket.”

Hannah waited while Andrea and Michelle checked their

side of the walkway and came back.

“Your turn,” Andrea said, handing her the flashlight.

“We’ll wait right here while you check.”

Hannah moved forward with the flashlight, sweeping the

beam over the snow. She was about to give up and admit defeat when she spotted four candy canes near the edge of the

path.

“I’ve got some,” she called out and her sisters hurried over.

“Why are there so many here?” Michelle asked, bending

down to pick them up. “It looks like they all fell out at once.”

“Maybe he slipped,” Hannah theorized.

“Or maybe he got tired of holding his hand over the hole

and decided it wasn’t worth it,” Andrea added her take on it.

“I don’t think he’d do that, though.”

“Why not?” Michelle asked her.

“Because he’s too cheap. Every time he dropped one, he’d

be adding up how much it cost him. Mother used to say that

Wayne had the first nickel he ever made.”

“I remember that,” Michelle said with a laugh. “She told

CANDY CANE MURDER

27

me Wayne pinched it so hard, the buffalo squealed and ran

away.”

“Look at this.” Hannah pointed to another candy cane a

foot or so away. “The trail picks up again here and keeps

going.”

The three sisters followed the candy cane trail to a bank of

hard-packed snow the plow had left when Dick had cleared

the inn’s parking lot after the last snowfall. Behind it and a

few feet back was another bank of snow and ice, rising even

higher than the first. By the end of a snowy winter there

could be several banks lining the perimeter of the lot. When

one berm got too high for the snowplow blade to reach and

dump, Dick started another snow bank in front of it.

“I see candy canes going all the way up that snow bank,”

Michelle said, illuminating them with Hannah’s flashlight. “I

wonder why Wayne climbed way up there.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Hannah told her.

“Not me.” Andrea pointed down at her high-heeled boots.

“That’s hard-packed snow and these boots were expensive. I

could break off a heel.”

“I can go with you,” Michelle offered.

“No way. Mother just bought you those suede boots and

they’re going to get ruined.”

“It’s okay. I really don’t mind.”

“No, but Mother will. And if Mother minds, I’ll never

hear the end of it. Just stay here with Andrea and I’ll take a

quick peek.”

Hannah dug in with her heels and her hands, and started

to climb up the bank of snow. It was a good eight feet tall

with fairly steep and slick sides, and the ascent wasn’t easy.

She slipped a couple of times, but she kept going until she’d

pulled herself up on the top. She opened her mouth to make

a joke about being King of the Hill, a reference to the children’s game they’d played in the winter every recess in grade

school, but then she saw what was on the other side and the

28

Joanne Fluke

joke died a quick death on her lips. There was a figure

spread-eagled on the snow at the base of the berm. It was

Wayne Bergstrom and he’d obviously been pushed. Making

snow angels wasn’t in his repertoire.

“Anything there?”

Michelle’s voice floated up to her, and Hannah swallowed

with difficulty. She took a deep breath, expelled it in a cloud

of white, and croaked out one shaky word. “Yes.”

“You sound really funny,” Andrea commented. “Are you

all out of breath?”

Hannah knew she wasn’t the one who was out of breath.

Wayne Bergstrom was, but she couldn’t quite manage to say

anything that sarcastic.

“Hannah?” Michelle sounded worried. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” Hannah choked out the words and took another deep breath. Andrea was right. The air did smell like

Christmas trees. The stars and the moon seemed bigger too,

illuminating the figure at the bottom of the far side of the

snow bank in an intensely cold blue light. Everyone said you

couldn’t see color at night, but Hannah’s mind filled in the

colors. He was wearing red velvet and white fur, and there

were candy canes scattered all over around him.

“Hannah?” Andrea asked again, and Hannah knew she

had to say more. She didn’t want her sisters to be so worried

about her they’d try to climb the berm and see what she was

seeing.

“Santa’s dead,” she said, seemingly capable of only twoword responses.

“You mean Wayne?” Andrea asked.

“Right.” Hannah brushed the snowflakes, no two alike,

from her sleeve. And that seemed to do the trick because the

dam broke and the words rushed out. “Go back to the inn

and get Bill and Lonnie. I’ll stay and guard the crime scene

until they get here.”

Chapter

! Three #

“He is just the sweetest kitty in the world!” Andrea

crooned, scratching Moishe under the chin. The

moment they’d entered Hannah’s living room, the twentysomething-pound, orange-and-white cat that Hannah had

found shivering on her doorstep over two years ago, had

made a beeline for Andrea and climbed up in her lap.

Hannah just smiled, deciding not to burst her sister’s bubble and mention the fact that she was holding a canister of

salmon-flavored treats that Moishe adored, and doling them

out to him every time he nudged her with his head.

By tacit agreement, they hadn’t discussed Wayne Bergstrom’s death. It didn’t seem to be an appropriate topic of

conversation when they stopped by to check on Bethie and

Tracey, and pick up the plate of cookies Andrea wanted them

to try. Hannah had pulled Grandma McCann aside to fill her

in, but the three sisters hadn’t mentioned Wayne’s name on

the trip to Hannah’s condo complex, either. Perhaps it was

simply an attempt at avoidance. If they didn’t mention it, it

might go away. Or perhaps it was a delaying tactic and all

three of them wanted to enjoy their time together for a little

while longer before discussing such a gruesome topic. Hannah figured they’d have coffee first, a little fortification with a

mug of Swedish Plasma was in order while they tasted Andrea’s cookies, and then they’d talk about Wayne Bergstrom

30

Joanne Fluke

and the distressing sight she’d seen from the top of the snow

bank.

“The coffee should be ready soon,” Hannah said, craning

her neck to see if the carafe was full. It wasn’t, and she

glanced at the plate of cookies that Andrea had baked. The

cookies were pretty, a nice rich yellow with powdered sugar

on the tops. They looked good, but looks didn’t count for

everything when it came to baked goods.

“I hope Bill isn’t late,” Andrea said, frowning slightly. “He

told me he thought they’d be here by midnight to take our

statements, but something could happen to delay him.”

“If he’s really late, you can catch a nap on the couch,”

Hannah told her.

“Or share the guest room with me,” Michelle offered. “It’s

a king-size bed.”

Andrea shook her head. “I don’t think I could sleep, not

after what I saw tonight!”

“What who saw?” Hannah begged to differ. “You didn’t

see anything.”

“No, but you told me about it. And I have a very active

imagination. There’s something really awful about Santa

being dead.”

“Wayne being dead,” Michelle corrected her. “Don’t think

of him as Santa and it won’t seem so bad. Think of him as

that old skinflint department store owner who wouldn’t approve you for a Bergstrom’s credit card so you could charge

that luggage you wanted for your honeymoon.”

Andrea blinked. “You’re right. And that does help. Not

that he deserved to die, but I really didn’t like Wayne at all.”

She turned to Hannah. “Do you think that’s really bad of

me?”

“Not really. As far as I know, there’s no rule of etiquette

that says you have to like somebody just because they’re

dead. If you didn’t like them alive, you probably won’t like

them after they’re dead, either.” She paused to crane her neck

CANDY CANE MURDER

31

again and gave a sigh of satisfaction. “The coffee’s ready. I’ll

go get it and then let’s taste your cookies.”

“Oh!” Andrea looked very nervous. “I really hope you

like them. They’re the first cookies I’ve ever made by myself.”

Hannah made quick work of gathering what they needed

in the kitchen. The topic of Wayne’s death had come up earlier than she’d expected. When she came back with a tray

containing three mugs of coffee and cream and sugar for Andrea, she set it down in the center of the table and reached for

one of Andrea’s cookies before she could take the coward’s

way out and claim that she was too full from Sally’s Christmas party buffet.

Family love knows no bounds, she said to herself, but the

words that came out of her mouth were different. “These

look wonderful,” she said, taking a leap of faith and biting

into one of her sister’s cookies.

Hannah was well aware that both Andrea and Michelle

were watching her like hawks as she chewed. And swallowed. And smiled.

“Good!” she said, doing her best not to sound too surprised. “I like these, Andrea!”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Hannah said and took another bite. “How about

you, Michelle?”

Michelle gave her the same look Hannah imagined a prisoner being led to the gallows would wear. But she managed

to smile as she obediently took a cookie and bit into it. There

was a moment of silence and then an expression of total surprise crossed her face. “These are good, Andrea!”

“Well, don’t look so shocked.” Andrea gave a little giggle.

“Carli told me that everybody in her family liked them.”

“They’re wonderful,” Hannah said, finishing her first cookie

and reaching for another. “And you actually made them all

by yourself?”

32

Joanne Fluke

“Well …” Andrea faltered a bit and then she shook her

head. “Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?” Michelle wanted to know.

“I didn’t do it entirely by myself. Grandma McCann

showed me how to preheat the oven and put them on the

cookie sheets. But that was only for the first couple of times.

After that, I did it by myself.”

Even though they weren’t an overly affectionate family,

Hannah couldn’t help it. She reached out to give her sister a

hug. “Good for you! Are you going to give me the recipe, or

is it a big secret?”

“It’s not a secret, and it’s really easy. They take only four

ingredients.”

“You’re kidding!” Hannah was amazed. The cookies had

a light but complex lemon flavor. They were soft and a bit

chewy inside, and the outside was almost crunchy.

Andrea went on. “I think that’s why Carli sent me the

recipe. She remembers the bake sales the cheerleaders used to

have to raise money for uniforms.”

Hannah remembered them too. When she discovered that

Andrea and her friend, Janie Burkholtz, were buying Twinkies

at the Lake Eden Red Owl to sell at the fund-raising bake sales,

she started baking homemade cookies for them.

“What are the four ingredients?” Michelle asked.

“A package of lemon cake mix, two cups of Cool Whip,

an egg, and powdered sugar.”

Lemon cake mix! Of course! Hannah felt like rapping the

side of her head with her knuckles for being so dense. Andrea

had told them she hadn’t used zest or lemon juice, but the

cookies were still lemony. The flavor had to come from somewhere and making cookies from lemon cake mix should have

occurred to her.

“That’s all there is,” Andrea continued. “Just the four ingredients. Any more and I probably couldn’t have done it.”

“Well, you did it very well,” Hannah told her, pouring

them all more coffee.

CANDY CANE MURDER

33

“Thanks. I’m going to try chocolate next. Maybe I could

even mix in a few of those tiny chocolate chips. That might

be good.”

Hannah just stared at her sister. This was a whole new side

of Andrea she’d never seen before.

“And then I was thinking of doing white cake mix with

some kind of cut-up fruit like cherries or apricots. Why are

you staring at me like that?”

“Because that’s how great recipes are developed. You start

with something basic and branch out. Sometimes it can be as

simple as running out of one ingredient and substituting

something else.” Hannah passed the plate of cookies to

Michelle. “We’ve got three left, one for each of us. And then

we’d better get down to business.”

“You’re going to figure out who killed Wayne?” Andrea

asked, taking her cookie and making short work of it.

“I don’t even know if anyone did … yet,” Hannah reminded her. “It was night, he was at the bottom of the berm,

and I was at least eight feet above him. I guess it’s possible he

slipped and broke his neck.”

“But why was he up there in the first place?” Michelle

asked.

“He could have climbed up to enjoy the view,” Andrea

suggested. “What was it like up there?”

“It wasn’t what I’d call a scenic vista. The only thing I

could see from the top was the snow bank behind it and the

cars in the parking lot.”

“Okay.” Michelle gave a quick nod. “Then maybe he had

to … you know. And he didn’t want to walk all the way

back to the inn.”

“So he climbed up a slippery eight-foot snow bank instead

of just ducking behind a handy tree?” Hannah asked her.

“Never mind. It was a dumb idea,” Michelle admitted.

“Wait a second,” Andrea looked thoughtful. “Maybe he

didn’t climb up there. Maybe somebody dragged him up

there and pushed him down the other side to kill him.”

34

Joanne Fluke

“Why go to all that trouble when you could just shoot

him, or stab him, or club him to death right there on the

path?” Hannah asked the pertinent question.

“Because the killer was afraid somebody might come

along and catch him? Or … oh, I don’t know. Let me find

out if it was an accident. Bill should know by now.”

“You’re going to call Bill?” Michelle asked as Andrea took

her cell phone out of her purse.

“No, I’m calling Sally.”

“Sally at the inn?” Michelle followed up with another

question.

“That’s right. She can tell me if Vonnie Blair’s still there at

the party.”

“Doc Knight’s secretary,” Hannah said, beginning to get

an inkling of what her sister was doing. “And if Vonnie’s still

there, it’s probably not murder. Is that right?”

“You got it.”

As Andrea punched in the number, Michelle turned to

Hannah. “Maybe you got it, but I didn’t get it.”

“It’s simple. If Doc Knight thinks it’s murder, Bill will ask

him to rush the autopsy. Doc knows how important it is and

he’ll do it right away. And since Doc has such awful handwriting, he’ll call Vonnie on her cell phone and ask her to

come out to the hospital to type up the transcript of the autopsy tonight.”

Michelle’s puzzled expression smoothed out and she

looked very impressed. “Wow. Andrea’s devious.”

“She gets it from Mother,” Hannah explained. “Mother

can think of the most roundabout ways to get the latest gossip.”

“Thanks, Sally,” Andrea said, and snapped her cell phone

shut. And then she looked over at them. “It’s murder. Vonnie

left with the paramedics who transported Wayne to the hospital. Doc Knight must have been able to tell right away.”

CANDY CANE MURDER

35

As usual, Andrea was the scribe. Not only did she have

good organizational skills, she also had the neatest handwriting

of the three sisters. Michelle’s had deteriorated when she’d

gone off to college. After two years at Macalister, her notes

were cryptic, filled with abbreviations that only she could decipher. Hannah, on the other hand, tended to print whenever

she wrote something she hoped to read later.

“Here you go. A brand new steno notebook.” Hannah

handed her sister one from the stash of notebooks she kept in

every room. “Do you need a pen?”

“I have one.” Andrea reached in her purse and pulled out

what Hannah termed a “dress pen,” since the barrel was

gold and studded with sparkling white stones.

“Pretty fancy,” Michelle commented, leaning closer to

gaze at the pen. “Are those rhinestones, or diamonds?”

“I’m pretty sure they’re rhinestones. It was a present from

a client and the house he bought was a fixer-upper.” Andrea

flipped to the first blank page and wrote Wayne Bergstrom’s

name at the top. “We don’t know the time of death, or the

method. What do you want me to write down?”

“We could list the time I found him,” Hannah suggested,

“but I didn’t look at my watch.”

“I did.” Michelle said. “When you said Santa’s dead, I

pressed the button to light the time and it said ten twentytwo.”

Andrea started to write it down, but Michelle grabbed her

hand. “Put down tenseventeen,” she said.

“Wait a second,” Hannah was confused. “I thought you

said you looked at your watch and it was ten twentytwo.”

“That’s right. But I always set my watch five minutes

ahead. It keeps me from being late to class.”

“How does it keep you from being late if you know your

watch is five minutes ahead?” Hannah asked her.

“It’s simple. If I start counting on that extra five minutes, I

set my watch ten minutes ahead and psych myself out.”

36

Joanne Fluke

All was silent as Hannah digested that. It seemed her

youngest sibling hadn’t inherited the logic gene.

“Okay. Tenseventeen.” Andrea jotted it down. “Do we

know what time Wayne left for the parking lot?”

“Ten after eight,” Hannah responded.

“Are you sure your watch isn’t five or ten minutes fast?”

Andrea teased her.

“I didn’t look at my watch. I glanced at the clock in Sally’s

kitchen as Wayne went out the back door. We can check it to

make sure it’s accurate.”

Andrea flipped to another page and started a list of things

they had to do. “Got it. We’ll run out to the inn and check

Sally’s kitchen clock tomorrow.”

“That means Wayne was killed between eight-ten and tenseventeen,” Michelle pointed out. “That’s a window of just a

little over two hours.”

“When we go out tomorrow, let’s see how long it takes to

walk from Sally’s kitchen to that berm,” Hannah suggested.

“Even if you’re poking along taking your time, it can’t be

more than five minutes.”

Andrea made another note. “Got it,” she said. “If you’re

right, it means that Wayne was probably killed around eightfifteen, or eight-twenty.”

“Unless he stopped to talk to someone on the path,”

Michelle argued. “You know how people are when they meet

each other at a party. They stop and talk for a while. He

could have met up with his killer after he talked to somebody.”

“Good point,” Hannah said.

“We should get a guest list from Sally and check to see if

anyone at the party met Wayne on the walkway.” Merrily

winking rhinestones, or diamonds, or whatever they were,

Andrea’s pen flew across the page. “It’s a couple of degrees

above freezing tonight. If you were dressed for the weather,

you could stand there and talk for five or ten minutes without getting cold.”

CANDY CANE MURDER

37

Michelle nodded. “But Wayne wasn’t dressed for the

weather. Hannah said he was wearing his Santa suit.” She

turned to Hannah. “Do you think it was as heavy as a

parka?”

“I don’t know. It looked heavy, especially with all that fur,

but I didn’t actually feel the material.”

“They sell the same Santa suit at Bergstrom’s,” Michelle

told them. “I saw a whole rack of them when I was shopping

for boots with Mother.”

“We’ll go out there and check.” Andrea added another

line to her To Do page, and then she let Moishe capture her

pen and bat it around for a moment.

“Mother!” Hannah exclaimed.

“What about Mother?” her sisters chorused in perfect unison.

“When she calls to read me the riot act for finding another

body, I’ll ask her to go shopping at Bergstrom’s and check

out the Santa suits. It’s her favorite store at the mall.”

“And she’ll be so pleased she’s helping us solve Wayne’s

murder, she’ll forget all about criticizing you?” Michelle

guessed.

“That’s the general idea.”

“It could work,” Andrea offered her opinion. “Mother’s

hard to distract, but a trip to Bergstrom’s right before Christmas could do it.”

! % { # 9

LEMON WHIPPERSNAPPERS

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack

in the middle position.

1 package (approximately 18 ounces) lemon cake

mix, the size you can bake in a 9-inch by 13-inch

cake pan (Andrea used Betty Crocker)

2 cups Cool Whip (measure this—Andrea said her

tub of Cool Whip contained a little over 3 cups.)

1 large beaten egg (it’s okay to just whip it up in a

glass with a fork)

1⁄2 cup powdered (confectioner’s) sugar in a separate

small bowl (you don’t have to sift it unless it’s got

big lumps)

Combine dry cake mix, Cool Whip, and beaten egg in a

large bowl. Stir until it’s well mixed.

Drop by teaspoon into the bowl of powdered sugar and

roll to coat the cookie dough.

Place the coated cookie drops on a greased (Andrea

used Pam, but any nonstick cooking spray is fine) cookie

sheet, 12 cookies to each sheet.

Bake the cookies at 350 degrees F., for 10 minutes. Let

them cool on the cookie sheets for 2 minutes or so, and

then move them to a wire rack to cool completely.

Yield: approximately 4 dozen light and lovely cookies.

Hannah’s Note: Andrea showed me the recipe. Carli

wrote that this is an old church recipe and that you can use

any flavor cake mix in these cookies. She especially likes

Lemon Whippersnappers in the summer because they’re

simple to make and very refreshing.

! % { # 9

38

Chapter

! Four #

“No!” Hannah groaned, categorically refusing to open

her eyes. She reached for the snooze button on her

alarm clock to shut off its infernal electronic beeping before

it could fully wake her, but there was something wrong with

her arm. It wouldn’t move! She could wiggle it slightly, but

that was all. Had she suffered some type of debilitating injury while she slept? Or was she only dreaming that her arm

was partially paralyzed?

There was only one way to find out and that was to open

her eyes. Hannah groaned again and forced her eyelids up

and open. In the dim wattage cast by the nightlight she’d

bought the last time she’d climbed out of bed in the dark and

stubbed her toe, she could see her arm, under the blanket,

stretched out on the bed and perfectly immobile. But there

was something different about it. Some time during the night

it had swelled up to at least three times its normal size. That

didn’t bode well!

Hannah wiggled her fingers, feeling the tingles that accompanied a cut-off blood supply. It was clear her arm had gone

to sleep. But why was it swollen? Had she suffered some kind

of neurological damage without even waking up?

As Hannah stared at the limb that had betrayed her while

she slept, she saw two small peaks rise up from the vicinity of

her armpit. The peaks were attached to a round fuzzy orb

40

Joanne Fluke

and for a moment Hannah was puzzled. Then she gave a

startled laugh as she realized what had happened. The peaks

and the fuzzy orb belonged to Moishe. The temperature must

have dropped below freezing in the middle of the night, because he’d left his usual place at the bottom of her bed to

seek warmer climes above. No wonder her arm had gone to

sleep! It was buried beneath over twenty pounds of dozing

cat.

“Come on, Moishe … get off my arm!” Hannah rolled over

with difficulty and reached across her own body to give him

a push. This elicited a protesting yowl, but he climbed off,

and Hannah’s arm was freed from its furry burden.

The first thing Hannah did with her newly restored hand

was shut off the alarm. She was awake now, and the urge to

slumber for another five minutes was a wee bit easier to resist, especially when she reminded herself that today would

be a busy day. Not only did she have cookie and dessert baking to do for her bakery and coffee shop, she’d agreed to

cater luncheon at her mother’s regency romance club Christmas meeting.

Michelle had gone home with Andrea last night and they

planned to head out early this morning to take care of several

items on the To Do list. They’d start off by driving to the

Lake Eden Inn to check the clock in Sally’s kitchen, pick up a

copy of the guest list for last night’s party, and time their

walk from the kitchen door that Wayne Bergstrom had used

to the base of the snow bank where Hannah had found his

body. During the afternoon, they’d do a little reconnoitering

with their male counterparts. Andrea would pump Bill for information about the investigation, and Michelle would find

out what Lonnie knew. The three sisters would compare

notes that evening when they met at Andrea’s house for dinner.

“Coffee,” Hannah breathed and it was more of a prayer

than a statement. She needed caffeine and she needed it now,

before Newton’s First Law of Motion, the one about inertia,

CANDY CANE MURDER

41

came into play. A body at rest tended to stay at rest. And applying this principle of physics to her own life meant that if

she didn’t get up soon, she might fall under the First Law and

just sit on the edge of her bed, staring at the wall all day.

“Coffee. Coffee now!” It was as close to a cheer as she

could come up with in the cold predawn of a December

morning, but it served to whet her appetite for the hot, aromatic brew her great grandmother Elsa had called Swedish

Plasma.

Before she had time to think, which would only have served

to confuse her, Hannah was on her feet. And then her feet

were moving, heading down the hallway toward the kitchen.

The coffeepot that had activated automatically five minutes

before her alarm clock had sounded was now sitting on the

counter with a full carafe of the world’s most popular lifesustaining potion, just waiting for her to imbibe.

“You, here. Me, there,” she said to the cat who followed

her into the kitchen, batting at the ends of the belt she’d forgotten to tie on her robe. Moishe appeared to understand his

mistress’s pidgin English because he backed off immediately

and took up a position of hope by his empty food bowl.

Hannah had her priorities straight. It took every corner of

her partially alert mind to do it, but she opened the combination padlock on the broom closet, pulled out the forty-pound

sack of kitty kibble that Moishe loved, and dumped a full

measure into his bowl. She replaced the kibble, replaced the

padlock, and then she poured her first cup of coffee.

“Uff-dah!” she groaned, audibly revealing her Minnesota

roots as she sank down on one of the chairs that had come

with her Formica-topped breakfast table. She glanced over to

see if Moishe was eating and was about to pick up her mug

of coffee for that first bracing sip, when she saw something

red out of the corner of her eye.

It was a red scarf tied around the handle of her refrigerator. For several moments Hannah was genuinely puzzled, but

then she caught sight of the mixing bowl and utensils washed

42

Joanne Fluke

and stacked on the counter, and everything became clear.

When everyone had left last night, at shortly before two in

the morning, Hannah had intended to go straight to bed. Unfortunately her mind was still racing and there was no way

she could sleep. Instead of wasting valuable time tossing and

turning, she’d flicked on the lights in the kitchen and mixed

up a batch of cookies. They were experimental, something

she’d been planning to try for several months, and the dough

was chilling in the refrigerator. That was the reason she’d

tied her scarf around the handle of the refrigerator. It was to

remind her to take the dough with her when she left for

work, so that she could bake it at The Cookie Jar. If the

cookies were as good as she expected them to be, she’d serve

them at her mother’s club luncheon.

First things first, Hannah told herself, raising the mug of

coffee to her lips. She breathed in deeply, inhaling the antioxidants in the steam that some researcher claimed would save

coffee kiosk employees from lung cancer. Hannah thought

that would be lovely, but she didn’t believe it for a second.

On the other hand, what could it hurt? She’d been inhaling

the steam from coffee for years simply because she loved the

aroma.

Another deep coffee-flavored sniff and it was time to enjoy

the brew. Hannah was just about to take that first scalding

sip when the telephone rang.

“Mother!” she exclaimed, in the same voice she would

have used if she’d skidded off the road and into a ditch. She

swallowed fast, taking a sip while she could, and glanced over

at her Mother-barometer. Sure enough, Moishe’s fur was

bristling and he’d puffed up like a Halloween cat. He’d also

begun to make the growling sound, deep in his throat, that

meant, Maybe you’re bigger than I am, but I’m gonna shred

those pantyhose you’re wearing. It wasn’t a guarantee that

Delores Swensen was on the other end of the line, but Hannah’s feline roommate was right a whole lot more than he

was wrong.

CANDY CANE MURDER

43

Hannah took another sip of her coffee and then she stood

up to reach for the wall phone. She sat right back down

again, knowing that no previous conversation with her

mother had ever lasted less than fifteen minutes, and answered. “Hello, Mother.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that, Hannah!” Delores gave a

deep sigh that was so forceful, it almost tickled Hannah’s ear.

“What if I wasn’t me?”

“Then you’d need to see a psychiatrist, because you’d have

an identity crisis.”

“Hannah!”

“Sorry, Mother.”

Delores gave an exasperated sigh that was almost as loud

as her previous sigh. “You always say that, and you still answer the phone that way. But I didn’t call to argue with you.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Hannah said, winking at her cat,

who was still puffed up several times his size, preparing to

take on any predator.

“I’m not going to argue, but I do have a bone to pick with

you, Hannah.”

Hannah took another sip of coffee, wisely saying nothing.

Her mother was only mildly upset. If she’d been extremely

upset, she would have called Hannah by her first and middle

names.

“Bill called me this morning to ask me about Melinda.”

“Melinda who?” Hannah asked, wondering what in the

world her mother was talking about.

“Melinda Bergstrom, Wayne’s wife. Surely you remember

Wayne Bergstrom. You found his body last night. And you

found it practically in front of your sisters!” Delores delivered another sigh that made the phone give an odd little

sound that probably meant it had exceeded its decibel level.

“You have got to stop doing this, Hannah Louise!”

Uh-oh! Hannah’s mind shouted out a warning. Delores

only used her middle name when she was what her father

had called, “loaded for bear.”

44

Joanne Fluke

“I’d love to stop doing it! It’s not like I enjoy finding murder victims, or anything like that. I only climbed up on that

snow bank because we were curious and I didn’t want them

to do it.”

There was silence for a moment. Delores was thinking it

over. “Well …” she said finally, “that’s good. It’s good that

you were sparing your sisters’ sensibilities. That’s an admirable quality.”

Hannah came very close to gasping out loud in surprise.

She’d never gotten off so easily before. It was best to change

the subject now, while she was still ahead of the game.

“Thank you, Mother. Now about the luncheon today, I

need some sort of a timeline.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re having quiche and it’s best if it’s warm. How many

awards will you be presenting before you want me to serve

lunch?”

“Let me see … three of our members are getting their fiveyear manor houses. They’re darling little miniatures of English Manor Homes. I found them in a catalogue and ordered

them from London.”

“Will there be speeches after you present them?”

“No, dear. They’re limited to thirty seconds to thank us.

But there will be three more presentations. Carrie’s getting

her ten-year curricle with a matched pair.”

Hannah knew her mother was talking about a carriage

pulled by two horses. “To put in front of her manor house?”

she guessed.

“Exactly. Since she’s the oldest living member, I told her

she could have one minute to speak.”

“Okay,” Hannah said, hoping her mother wouldn’t use

that particular phrase. Carrie Rhodes, her mother’s friend and

partner in the antique business, wouldn’t appreciate being

called the oldest living member. And come to think of it, did

that imply that the Lake Eden Regency Romance Club also

had members who were dead?

CANDY CANE MURDER

45

“Did you hear me, Hannah?”

Her mother’s voice pulled her back from contemplating

whether one had to be alive to be a member of an organization, and Hannah was quick to apologize. “Sorry, Mother. I

didn’t quite catch that.”

“I asked you if you’d have enough quiche so that Norman

could eat with us. He’s coming to take pictures of the award

ceremony on his lunch hour.”

“Of course. I always have extra. You know that, Mother.”

“And you did remember that I asked for a vegetarian alternative?”

“I did. We’re having two kinds of quiche, one vegetarian

and the other with meat.”

“How about dessert? Did you manage to come up with

something authentic to the time period?”

“I think so. I call them Regency Seed Cakes. They had oranges back then, didn’t they? I seem to remember someone

talking about a greenhouse-type room with fruit trees.”

“That would have been an orangery, dear. It was like a solarium with exotic plants and trees. Most of the expensive

mansions had them.”

“Good. Well, these are a little like lemon poppy seed cake,

except that they’re cookies made with oranges and poppy

seeds.”

“They sound wonderful, dear!”

I hope so, Hannah thought, but she didn’t want to worry

her mother by telling her the Regency Seed Cakes were last

night’s invention and she hadn’t had time to test them yet. It

was much safer to say nothing and change the subject.

“What time do you want me to serve the quiche, Mother? If

you can give me an estimate of the time, I’ll make sure they’re

still warm.”

“Let me think, dear.” There was silence for a moment and

then Delores spoke again. “We’re starting at noon and the

awards are first. I think we should be through in ten minutes.

46

Joanne Fluke

Although … we do have a special award for Jenny Perkins,

of course.”

“Jenny who?” Hannah asked. She was almost certain

she’d never met a Jenny Perkins at any of her mother’s club

meetings.

“You knew her as Jenny Bergstrom, but now she’s Jenny

Perkins again. She took back her maiden name after the divorce.”

Hannah hadn’t known that Wayne’s ex-wife was in town!

“I’ll call her this morning to make sure she’s coming. I

hope so. Poor Jenny will need the support of friends at this

sad time in her life.”

“What sad time? Haven’t Wayne and Jenny been divorced

for at least five years?”

“Six, to be exact. But Jenny married Wayne right out of

high school and she was utterly devastated when he filed for

divorce. He was her first love, and a woman never gets over

her first love. Wayne’s death is bound to open old wounds for

Jenny.”

“Just as long as Jenny didn’t open new wounds in Wayne,”

Hannah muttered just under her breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, Mother. Just thinking out loud. You said you’d

call Jenny this morning. Is she staying with friends?”

“No, she didn’t want to put any of us out. We all offered

our guest rooms, but she booked a room at the inn.”

Hannah decided not to plumb for any more information.

If Delores suspected that Jenny had just moved to the top of

her eldest daughter’s suspect list, she’d go right back to being

angry again.

“Will you call me at the shop as soon as you know if

Jenny’s coming?” Hannah asked.

“Of course. But why?”

So that I can watch her like a hawk and maybe even inter—

rogate her while I’m serving the quiche, Hannah thought.

CANDY CANE MURDER

47

But of course she didn’t say that to her mother. Instead she

settled for, “I’ll pack up some chocolate cookies and send

them back to the inn with her.”

“That’s a good idea, dear. Chocolate always helps in times

of stress. I was thinking of picking up some chocolate truffles

at Fanny Farmer’s.”

The lightbulb went on in Hannah’s mind and grew into a

powerful halogen. Fanny Farmer’s was in the TriCounty

Mall, and so was Bergstrom’s Department Store. Now was

the perfect time to ask her mother to find out about the Santa

costumes they sold at Bergstrom’s. “Chocolate truffles would

be great, Mother. And since you’re going to the mall anyway,

could you do one little thing for me?”

“You want me to buy you that absolutely darling purse I

told you about?” Delores guessed.

Her mother sounded so hopeful, Hannah almost caved in.

It was true that her huge shoulder bag purse was showing

some serious wear. But the purse Delores had wanted to buy

for her was one-fourth the size of her current bag. What

would she do with all of the absolutely essential items she

now carried?

“That’s very sweet of you, Mother,” Hannah hedged.

“Thank you for offering, but that’s not it. What I really want

is for you to do a little sleuthing.”

“Sleuthing? Does that mean you’re going to work with

Mike on the case?”

“Not exactly. Mike’s going to work on the case. And I’m

going to work on the case. But we’re not necessarily going to

work together. He was here last night to take our statements

and he warned me to stay out of it.”

Delores gave a laugh. “Oh, he always warns you to stay

out of it! And we’ve never listened to him before. He gets his

nose out of joint every time we come up with a good lead,

but he knows how much he needs our help. He just can’t

admit it, that’s all.”

48

Joanne Fluke

Hannah grinned. Her mother was using the plural personal pronoun and that meant she was ready to join in the

hunt for Wayne’s killer. “You’re probably right, Mother.”

“I know I’m right. On the other hand, there’s no sense in

antagonizing him. He is the law, after all. We’ll just have to

be very hush-hush about what we’re doing. Now what

sleuthing can I do for you at the mall, dear?”

“Could you go into Bergstrom’s and pick up one of those

big tubs of miniature candy canes for me? I’ll pay you back

later.”

“Of course I can. But what does that have to do with

Wayne’s murder?”

“Absolutely nothing. But while you’re there, I’d like you

to take a look at the Santa suits they sell. I need to know how

warm they’d be if you wore one of them outside in the winter.”

“Oh, my! I had no idea!”

Hannah was confused. “No idea of what?”

“That poor Wayne was wearing his Santa suit when he

was murdered! Just wait until I tell the girls! Of course I have

to be careful not to say anything in front of Jenny. I wouldn’t

upset her for the world.”

Hannah just shook her head. Delores had one foot on the

end of the dock and the other in the rowboat. It would be interesting to see which foot won out. Would it be friendship?

Or juicy gossip?

“I have to hang up now, dear. I need to call Carrie and fill

her in. I’ll take her out to Bergstrom’s with me. Her niece

works in Fine Jewelry and we can pump her for information.”

There was a click and the line went dead. Hannah shrugged,

hung up the phone, and turned to glance at her kitchen clock.

Her mother’s call had lasted less than five minutes. That was

a new world’s record.

“It’s okay. She’s gone now,” she said to the cat who was

staring at the phone with deadly intent. He had taken an instant dislike to Delores and not even the shrimp she occa-CANDY CANE MURDER

49

sionally brought him had sweetened his opinion of her.

“Come on, Moishe. Let’s get you some more breakfast.”

Under normal circumstances the word breakfast would

have resulted in an immediate dash to the food bowl. But this

time the culinary magic of kitty crunchies didn’t work.

Moishe continued to stare at the phone with his fur bristling

and his tail swishing back and forth like a scythe.

“Uh-oh,” Hannah breathed, wondering what she should

do. She had to take a shower and get ready for work, but

there was no way she could leave Moishe alone with the phone

without risking a cord peppered with puncture wounds.

“Okay. I’m calling in the big guns.” Hannah picked up the

phone and dialed. A moment later she had Lisa on the phone.

“Did I wake you?” she asked.

“No, we were just sitting down to breakfast. I heard about

Wayne Bergstrom on KCOW.”

Hannah sighed. She should have known that Jake and

Kelly, the wacky radio hosts of News at O’Dark-Thirty,

would have the latest scoop. “Did they say anything about

me?”

“Oh, yes.” Hannah’s young partner gave a little chuckle.

“They said you discovered Wayne’s body. And then they

joked around about how Lake Eden’s Cookie Lady had murder on the menu again.”

“We’re going to be packed today,” Hannah said with a

groan. “And I’ve got the Regency club luncheon.”

“That’s okay. I can handle the shop by myself.”

“I know you can handle it on a normal day, but everybody

and their cousin’s going to stop in to ask questions.”

“And you won’t be there to answer them,” Lisa pointed

out. “So I guess they’ll just have to sit there and buy more

cookies and coffee while they wait for you to come back.”

“Okay, but I’m still going to call around and see if I can

get some help for you.”

“It’s all taken care of. I talked to Marge and Dad and

they’re going to help out.”

50

Joanne Fluke

“Great!” Hannah glanced down at her feline and remembered the reason she’d called Lisa in the first place. “Do you

have time to do a quick favor for me?”

“What is it?”

“I’m going to hold the phone out and I want you to say hi

to Moishe. Otherwise he’s going to hop up on the table and

kill it while I’m taking my shower.”

There was silence for a moment and then Lisa laughed.

“Your mother called?”

“That’s right. Just let him hear your voice and he’ll calm

right down.” Hannah lowered the phone toward her feline

and held it out. “Listen to this, Moishe. It’s Lisa.”

“Hi, Moishe.” Hannah could hear Lisa’s voice faintly as

she held the phone at arm’s length. It sounded tinny and very

small, the same sort of voice a mouse might use if mice could

speak.

Moishe pulled back, away from the sound at first. But then

he seemed to realize that the voice was talking to him and he

moved closer again.

“How are you this morning?” Lisa continued the conversation and Hannah began to smile. Moishe had moved another step closer and he’d started to rub his cheek against the

phone.

“You’re such a good boy, Moishe,” Lisa said, and Hannah’s cat began to purr. “Did Mommy give you your breakfast yet?”

Moishe turned and made a beeline for his food bowl. That

surprised Hannah so much, she almost forgot to reclaim the

receiver.

“Are you still there, Moishe?” Lisa asked.

“It’s me,” Hannah said with a grin. It was the first time

she’d ever been mistaken for her cat! “Thanks for talking to

him, Lisa.”

“You’re welcome. Did he know it was me?”

“Absolutely. When he recognized your voice, he started to

nuzzle the phone and purr. And then you mentioned break—

CANDY CANE MURDER

51

fast and he went straight to his bowl. I think he’s forgotten

all about …”

“Don’t say it and remind him!” Lisa cautioned, before

Hannah could utter her mother’s name.

“Right. I’ll see you at the shop in an hour.”

Once she’d hung up the phone, Hannah poured herself another cup of coffee and carried it into the bathroom. It was

the old carrot and the stick routine. Her mug of hot coffee

would sit on the counter by the sink while she took her shower.

If she hurried, it would still be hot and tasty when she emerged.

If she took too long, it would be tepid. As she stepped in

under the steaming spray, she thought about incentives and

how well they worked. Money was a powerful incentive and

it could act as a motive for murder. If she could find out the

details of Wayne’s will and who would inherit his considerable estate, it could lead them to his killer.

! % { # 9

REGENCY SEED CAKES

DO NOT preheat oven—this dough

needs to chill.

1 cup (2 sticks, 1⁄2 pound) butter

2 eggs

21⁄2 cups white (granulated) sugar

6 Tablespoons poppy seeds

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon orange extract

1⁄2 teaspoon orange zest (optional)

5 cups flour (don’t sift it)

3⁄4 cup orange juice (I used three-quarters cup

Minute Maid)

You will also need: 1⁄2 cup white (granulated) sugar in a

small bowl for later, when you bake the cookies.

Hannah’s 1st Note: You can mix up these cookies by

hand, but it’s a lot easier with an electric mixer.

Melt the butter in a pan on the stove, or in the microwave in a small bowl or measuring cup for 1 minute 15

seconds on HIGH. Let it cool while you mix up the following ingredients:

In a large bowl combine the eggs with the white sugar.

Beat them until they’re well blended.

! % { # 9

52

! % { # 9

Add the poppy seeds, baking powder, baking soda, and

salt. Mix them in thoroughly.

Add the orange extract and then the orange zest, if you

decided to use it. (Orange zest is finely grated orange

peel—just the orange part and not the white. The white is

bitter and leaves a bad aftertaste.) If you can’t find orange

extract in your store, you can use vanilla instead. Mix

well.

Cup your hands around the bowl with the melted butter. If it’s not too warm to hold comfortably, start your

mixer and pour it slowly into your mixing bowl. (That’s so

it doesn’t slosh over the sides!) If it’s still too hot to add

and you think it might cook the eggs in your bowl, let it

cool a little longer before mixing it in.

Add two cups of the flour now. Mix it in.

Add the orange juice to your bowl. Mix it in and then

add the rest of the flour. (You should have three cups left to

add.) Mix thoroughly. This dough will be quite stiff.

Give the bowl a final stir by hand and cover it with plastic wrap. Stash it in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours.

Overnight is fine too!

When you’re ready to bake, preheat your oven to 375

degrees F., rack in the middle position.

! % { # 9

53

! % { # 9

Prepare your baking sheets by lining them with parchment paper and spraying the paper with Pam, or another

nonstick cooking spray.

Hannah’s 2nd Note: If it’s snowing outside and you’re all

out of parchment paper and your car won’t start for the

trip to the store to get more, don’t worry about it. Just

spray your cookie sheets with Pam or whichever nonstick

cooking spray you have on hand. If you do this, you’ll

have to let the cookies cool on the sheets for at least 5 minutes before you transfer them to wire racks, but that’s

okay. It’s a lot better than trudging a mile through the

snow to get to the store when you don’t have to.

Take the chilled dough out of the refrigerator and make

dough balls, about an inch in diameter, with your hands.

Drop them in the small bowl with the sugar and roll them

around to coat them. Then place them on the cookie

sheets, 12 to a standard-size sheet. Press them down slightly

when you place them on the sheets so they won’t roll off

on the way to the oven.

Bake the cookies at 375 degrees F. for 7 to 10 minutes.

(Mine took about 9 minutes.) Let them cool on the pan for

a minute and then pull off the parchment paper and transfer the paper and cookies to a wire rack.

Hannah’s 3rd Note: If you didn’t use parchment paper,

follow the cooling directions in my 2nd note.

! % { # 9

54

CANDY CANE MURDER

55

If the dough begins to get sticky and you start to have

trouble rolling it with your hands, return it to the refrigerator while the cookies are baking and take it out again

when you need to make more dough balls.

Yield: approximately 8 dozen tasty cookies.

Chapter

! Five #

Hannah had just finished packing up everything she

needed for the luncheon when Lisa came in through the

swinging restaurant-style door carrying a tub of miniature

candy canes, and a large shopping bag with Bergstrom’s logo

emblazoned on the front. “Your mother was just here and

she dropped these off for you,” she said.

“I know about the candy canes. I asked her to pick them

up for me. I’m almost afraid to ask, but … what’s in the

shopping bag?”

“Two things. The first is a Santa suit.”

“But I wanted her to look at it, not buy it!”

Lisa laughed. “That’s exactly what she said you’d say. She

bought it for Bill so that he could play Santa at the sheriff’s

department Christmas party. She says she’ll give it to him

later, after you take a good look at it.”

“Okay. What’s the second thing in the bag?”

“A new purse. She says she just wants you to see it. You

don’t have to keep it if you don’t want to.”

Hannah groaned. “So you think she’ll be insulted if I don’t

keep it?”

“She’s your mother. Of course she’ll be insulted. You’ll

have to use it at least once, Hannah.”

Hannah wanted to object, but Lisa was right. It was inevitable. Delores was determined to give her the purse and it

CANDY CANE MURDER

57

might just be time to clean out her old one, although she

hated to admit it. “Later,” she said, deciding to tackle that

problem once she’d solved Wayne’s murder.

“You’d better get going if you want to preheat those ovens

down at the community center.”

“I’m just going to crush some of those candy canes for the

batch of Chocolate Candy Cane Cookies I’ve got in the

cooler.”

“I’ll do that while you’re gone. Do you need help loading

your truck? Marge and Dad are out front taking care of the

customers so I can carry stuff out for you.”

“Not a problem. I’ve got it covered.” Hannah glanced at

her partner. Lisa was wearing the frilly dress apron they used

in the coffee shop and her light brown hair was pulled back

in a ponytail. She looked like what Hannah’s grandmother

would have called “a slip of a girl,” but Grandma Ingrid would

have been wrong to dismiss Lisa Herman Beeseman so lightly.

Not only did Lisa work full time at The Cookie Jar, she also

kept what Hannah’s grandmother would have termed a

“preacher-ready house,” cooked nutritious meals for her new

husband every night, and visited her father, who had Alzheimer’s, at least five times a week. Lisa was on the go every

second, and Hannah often wished she had that kind of

energy. She told herself it was because a twenty-year-old

possessed double the energy of women who’d passed the thirtyyear milestone, but that probably wasn’t true.

“Did you use the invisible waitress trick?” Hannah asked

her, referring to the strange phenomenon she’d discovered

the first day she opened her coffee shop. If two customers

were having a private conversation, they kept right on talking about confidential matters while Hannah or Lisa refilled

their coffee mugs, or delivered their cookie orders. It was as

though the moment Hannah or Lisa picked up a coffee

carafe, or a tray of cookies, they became incapable of overhearing anything that was said. Armed with the invisible

cloak of a frilly serving apron, they ceased to exist as living,

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Joanne Fluke

breathing human beings and turned into part of the woodwork.

“You bet I used it,” Lisa replied with a grin. “When you

first told me about it, I thought you were crazy, but it works

every time I do it. I didn’t hear anything though, not unless

you want to count Cyril Murphy’s crazy theory about what

happened to Wayne.”

“What’s Cyril’s theory?”

“The part I heard had to do with alien abductions gone

bad.”

“I didn’t know Cyril believed in aliens!”

Lisa shrugged. “It doesn’t surprise me. It’s a lot like believing in the Little People. Cyril tells everybody he believes in

them.”

“He’s Irish. He has to say he believes in Leprechauns even

if he doesn’t. It goes with the territory along with the pot of

gold at the end of the rainbow, kissing the Blarney stone, and

drinking green beer on St. Patrick’s Day. What did you hear

Cyril say?”

“I have to tell you what happened first.”

“Okay.” Hannah motioned to a stool at the stainless steel

work counter and Lisa sat down. “Go ahead.”

“Cyril came in with Brigit and they sat at a table with Rick

and Jessica,” Lisa named Cyril’s wife, oldest son, and daughterin-law. “Jessica was talking about how nice Sally’s party was

and how much fun they were having until Mike came over

and put Rick to work interviewing everybody.”

“Go on.”

“Then Brigit asked Rick for more particulars about how

Wayne died, and Rick told her he wasn’t supposed to give

out any information. And Brigit wanted to know why not

since Jake and Kelly had announced on KCOW that it was a

massive blow to the back of the head that had caved in

Wayne’s skull and caused his death.”

Hannah made a mental note to try to get her hands on the

crime scene photos. If she remembered correctly, Wayne had

CANDY CANE MURDER

59

been wearing his Santa hat when she found him. The hat was

made of thick, furry red material and it had a wide cuff of

white fur all the way around it. The blow must have been delivered with considerable force to cave in Wayne’s skull right

through his padded hat.

“Then they started to talk about who could have killed

Wayne. Rick didn’t say much and I figured he was a little uncomfortable about maybe leaking some information without

meaning to do it, but Jessica and Brigit were talking about all

the people Wayne had overcharged at the store. And then

Cyril spoke up and said he knew exactly how Wayne had

died, and the killer was going to get away with it.”

“That’s when the subject of alien abduction came up?”

Hannah guessed.

“That’s right. But first Cyril asked them if they’d noticed

how bright the moon was last night. And they all said they’d

noticed.”

“Cyril’s right about that. I noticed it, and so did Andrea

and Michelle. We even commented on it when we were walking to the parking lot.”

“Well, Cyril said the reason it was that bright was because

the aliens were refracting the moon’s energy with the hull of

their giant space ship. And what they’d thought was the

moon was really the hull of the ship.”

Hannah snorted. She couldn’t help it. “Oh, boy!”

“That’s not all. Cyril claimed that the aliens practiced

thought control on Wayne, drawing him off the path and

making him climb up the side of that steep snow bank.”

“Why would they do that?”

“That’s what Jessica asked him. And Cyril said the reason

they wanted Wayne to climb up to the top was so they could

take a better look at him.”

“They were too nearsighted to see him on the ground?”

Hannah’s grin grew wider.

“I guess so. Or maybe they just didn’t refract enough of

the moon’s energy to light him up.” Lisa gave a little giggle.

60

Joanne Fluke

“Anyway, that was when Brigit had to leave the table. She

pretended to have a bad cough, but I could tell she was

laughing.”

“Can’t blame Brigit for that.”

“I know. I almost lost it, too. But Cyril kept right on talking. He said that when the aliens caught sight of the white fur

on Wayne’s Santa costume, they assumed he was an animal instead of a human. And since they had already abducted

enough animals, they pushed him back down the snow bank.”

“Killing him in the process?”

“That’s what Cyril said. Is he crazy, or what?”

Hannah was about to agree that the master mechanic who

fixed her cookie truck had slipped several cogs. But before

she could say that, she remembered a small notice she’d read

in the Lake Eden Journal. The Wolf Pack Lodge would be

holding their annual Whopper Contest next week. If she remembered correctly, Cyril had won last year with his story

about how the porcupine got its quills. “He’s not crazy,” she

said.

“He’s not? ”

“No, he’s just practicing for the Whopper Contest.”

Lisa rolled her eyes. “I don’t think it’s very nice to joke

about murder. Of course Cyril isn’t exactly mourning Wayne

Bergstrom, either.”

“What do you mean?”

“Herb said they got into a really big fight a couple of days

ago at the garage. Herb was picking up his squad car and

there they were really going at it. Cyril was accusing Wayne

of trying to put him out of business, and they were yelling,

and shaking their fists, and … oh, gosh!” Lisa stopped speaking and her mouth dropped open. When she recovered enough

to speak again, she raised shocked eyes to Hannah. “You don’t

think that … ?”

“Anything’s possible,” Hannah told her. “One thing’s for

sure. I’m going to call Herb the minute I get those ovens

turned on and find out all about it.”

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61

Edna Ferguson, the head cook at Jordan High and Hannah’s helper for the luncheon, came into the kitchen at the

community center and sniffed appreciatively. “They’re going

to love your quiches,” she said.

“I hope so.” Hannah stared down at the lineup she’d just

taken from the oven. “What’s our E. T. L.?”

Edna looked puzzled for a moment and then she laughed

so hard, her tightly wound gray curls bounced. “Estimated

Time of Luncheon?” she asked.

“That’s right.”

“I’d say twenty minutes. The last club member just came

in and your mother’s getting ready to present the awards.”

Hannah was confused. Delores had called her at the shop

to say that Jenny Perkins had canceled, and so had one other

award recipient. “I talked to Mother this morning and she

thought the awards would take only ten minutes.”

“It always takes longer than they think it will. I’ve been

coming to these things for years now, and everybody always

wants to thank somebody. It’s their time in the limelight, you

know? I call it the Oscars at Lake Eden.”

“You’re right,” Hannah said. But unlike the Academy

Awards, she couldn’t crank up the music to get the winners

to stop talking. There was one thing she could do though,

and she turned to Edna with a question. “Do you know if

there’s a fan around here?”

“You mean an exhaust fan?”

“No, a window fan. It doesn’t have to be very big.”

Edna turned on her heel and headed for the big walk-in

pantry. In just a moment, she was back with a small round

fan that looked ancient. “How’s this?”

“Perfect, if it still works.”

“It does. I used it last summer. Where do you want me to

set it up?”

“Behind the row of quiches. Then I want you to open the

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Joanne Fluke

shutters to the pass-through window an inch or two, and

turn on the fan.”

Edna looked puzzled as she hooked up the fan and opened

the shutters. “What are you doing, Hannah?” she asked.

“Aroma therapy.”

“Aroma ther … oh!” Edna gave a very girlish-sounding

giggle for someone who’d passed the age of consent more

than thirty years previously. “You’re a clever one, Hannah!

And it ought to work. Once they get a whiff of your quiches,

the only person they’ll want to thank is the cook!”

! % { # 9

COUPLE OF QUICK QUICHES

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.,

rack in the middle position

Hannah’s Tips on Quiche: Quiche is easy. Really. Yes,

the title is French, but really it’s just egg pie. It’s a custard,

a rich savory one, (that means it’s not sweet like a caramel

custard or a traditional custard pie,) and it’s filled with

meat and cheese, and other good stuff to eat. Quiche is not

just a ladies’ luncheon entrée, served in slim slices on fine

china and accompanied by an impertinent little Chardonnay. It’s real food that guys enjoy. Even if your husband

drives a truck, swears like a trooper, rolls up his T-shirt

sleeves to hold his cigarette pack, and can shovel the driveway with one hand tied behind his back even after a night

on the town, he’ll still love a hearty, meaty quiche. (Hint

from Hannah: Try Quiche Lorraine first, and call it “Bacon

& Egg Pie”.)

One quiche will serve from three to six people. (Six if

you have other things to eat on the side, three if you’re

going to serve just a salad and quiche.) Decide how many

people you want to serve and plan accordingly. I always

make at least 2 quiches. It gives my guests a choice for the

second piece and the leftovers are great for breakfast the

next morning.

! % { # 9

63

! % { # 9

QUICHE LORRAINE

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.,

rack in the middle position.

The Quiche Lorraine Pie Shell:

You can mix up your favorite piecrust recipe and line a

10-inch pie plate. Or … you can buy frozen shells at the

grocery store. (If you decide to go the grocery store frozen

pie shell route, buy 9-inch deep-dish pie shells.)

Hannah’s 1st Note: There’s no need to feel guilty if you

choose to use the frozen pie shells. They’re good and it’s a

real time saver. I happen to know that Edna Ferguson, the

head cook at Jordan High, has been known to remove

frozen pie shells from their telltale disposable pans and put

them in her own pie tins to bake! (Sorry Edna—I just had

to tell them.) Stack your pie shells in the refrigerator, or

leave them in the freezer until two hours before you’re

ready to use them.

Prepare your piecrust by separating one egg. Throw

away the white and whip up the yolk with a fork. Brush

the bottom and inside of your piecrust. Prick it all over

with a fork and bake it in a 350 F. degree oven for 5 minutes. Take it out and let it cool on a wire rack or a cold

stovetop while you mix up the custard. If “bubbles” have

formed in the crust, immediately prick them with a fork to

let out the steam.

! % { # 9

64

! % { # 9

The Quiche Lorraine Custard:

5 eggs

11⁄2 cups heavy whipping cream **

***If you and your guests are on a diet, you can substitute Half ’n Half for the heavy cream, but it won’t be as

good!

Hannah’s 2nd Note: You can do this by hand with a

whisk, or use an electric mixer, your choice.

Combine the eggs with the cream and whisk them (or

beat them with an electric mixer) until they’re a uniform

color. When they’re thoroughly mixed, pour them into a

pitcher and set it in the refrigerator until you’re ready to

assemble the rest of your quiche. You may notice that

you’re not adding any salt, pepper, or other seasoning at

this point. You’ll do that when you assemble the quiche.

Hannah’s 3rd Note: You can mix up the custard ahead

of time and store it in the refrigerator for up to 24 hours.

When you’re ready to assemble your quiches, all you have

to do is whisk it smooth and pour it out from the pitcher.

! % { # 9

65

! % { # 9

The Quiche Lorraine Filling:

2 cups grated Gruyere cheese (approximately 7

ounces)***

1 cup diced, well-cooked and drained bacon

1⁄2 teaspoon salt

1⁄2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1⁄4 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper (optional—use

if you like it a bit spicy)

1⁄4 teaspoon ground nutmeg (freshly grated is best,

of course)

*** If you can’t find Gruyere, use really sharp white

cheddar and that’ll be fine. And if you can’t find white

cheddar, use really sharp yellow cheddar.

Sprinkle the grated cheese in the bottom of your cooled

pie shell.

Spread the cup of diced bacon on top of the cheese.

Sprinkle on the salt, and grind the pepper over the top

of the bacon.

Sprinkle on the cayenne pepper (if you decided to use

it).

Grate the nutmeg over the top.

! % { # 9

66

! % { # 9

Put a drip pan under your pie plate. (I line a jellyroll

pan with foil and use that.) This will catch any spills that

might occur when you fill your quiche with the custard

mixture.

Take your custard mixture out of the refrigerator and

give it a good whisk. Then pour it over the top of your

Quiche Lorraine, filling it about half way.

Open your oven, pull out the rack, and set your pie

plate and drip pan on it. Pour in more custard mixture,

stopping a quarter-inch short of the rim. Carefully push in

the rack, and shut the oven door.

Bake your Quiche Lorraine at 350 degrees F., for 60

minutes, or until the top is nicely browned and a knife inserted one-inch from the center comes out clean.

Let your quiche cool for 15 to 30 minutes on a cold

stovetop or a wire rack, and then cut and serve to rave reviews.

This quiche is good warm, but it’s also good at room

temperature. (I’ve even eaten it straight out of the refrigerator for breakfast!)

! % { # 9

67

! % { # 9

HOLIDAY QUICHE

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.,

rack in the middle position.

The Holiday Quiche Pie Shell:

You can mix up your favorite piecrust recipe and line a

10-inch pie plate. Or … you can buy frozen shells at the

grocery store. (If you decide to go the grocery store frozen

pie shell route, buy 9-inch deep-dish pie shells.)

Hannah’s 1st Note: There’s no need to feel guilty if you

choose to use the frozen pie shells. They’re good and it’s a

real time saver. Stack your pie shells in the refrigerator, or

leave them in the freezer until two hours before you’re

ready to use them.

Prepare your piecrust by separating one egg. Throw the

white away and whip up the yolk with a fork. Brush the

bottom and inside of your piecrust. Prick it all over with a

fork and bake it in a 350 F. degree oven for 5 minutes.

Take it out and let it cool on a wire rack or a cold stovetop

while you mix up the custard. If “bubbles” have formed in

the oven, immediately prick them with a fork to let out the

steam.

! % { # 9

68

! % { # 9

The Holiday Quiche Custard:

5 eggs

11⁄2 cups heavy whipping cream ***

*** If you and your guests are on a diet, you can substitute Half ’n Half for the heavy cream, but it won’t be as

good!

Hannah’s 2nd Note: You can do this by hand with a

whisk, or use an electric mixer, your choice.

Combine the eggs with the cream and whisk them (or

beat them with an electric mixer) until they’re a uniform

color. When they’re thoroughly mixed, pour them into a

pitcher and set it in the refrigerator until you’re ready to

assemble the rest of your quiche. You may notice that

you’re not adding any salt, pepper, or other seasoning at

this point. You’ll do that when you assemble the quiche.

Hannah’s 3rd Note: You can mix up the custard ahead

of time and store it in the refrigerator for up to 24 hours.

When you’re ready to assemble your quiches, all you have

to do is whisk it smooth and pour it out from the pitcher.

! % { # 9

69

! % { # 9

The Holiday Quiche Filling:

1 red bell pepper, washed, seeded and diced into

bite-sized pieces

1 green bell pepper, washed, seeded and diced into

bite-sized pieces

1 cup herb-seasoned stuffing mix ***

1 cup grated Swiss cheese (I used Jarlsberg)

1 cup grated Monterey Jack cheese

1⁄2 teaspoon onion powder

1⁄2 teaspoon salt

1⁄4 teaspoon black pepper (freshly ground is best)

*** If you use the kind of stuffing mix that’s made of

croutons, crush them a bit before you measure out one

cup. The stuffing mix is necessary because it soaks up the

liquid given off by the bell peppers as they bake.

Hannah’s 4th Note: This is the vegetarian quiche I

served at Mother’s Regency Romance Club Christmas luncheon. If you’d rather have it with meat, just sprinkle a

cup of cubed ham, chicken, or turkey over the bell peppers

when you assemble it. Norman wants me to try it with anchovies. Norman LOVES anchovies.

Spread the red and green pepper pieces out in the bottom of your pastry-lined pie pan.

Sprinkle the cup of herb-seasoned stuffing mix over the

top of the peppers.

! % { # 9

70

! % { # 9

Spread the grated Swiss cheese and the grated Monterey

Jack cheese on top of the stuffing mix.

(Put the meat in here if you want to use it, or the anchovies.)

Sprinkle on the onion powder and the salt.

Grind the pepper on top.

Put a drip pan under your pie plate. (I line a jellyroll

pan with foil and use that.) This will catch any spills that

might occur when you fill your quiche with the custard

mixture.

Give your custard mixture a good whisk. Then pour it

over the top of your quiche, filling it about half way.

Open the oven, pull out the rack and set your pie plate

and drip pan on it. Pour in more custard mixture, stopping

a quarter-inch short of the rim. Carefully push in the rack,

and shut the oven door.

Bake your Holiday Quiche at 350 degrees F., for 50 to

60 minutes, or until the top is nicely browned and a knife

inserted one-inch from the center comes out clean.

Let it cool for 15 to 30 minutes on a cold stovetop or a

wire rack, and then cut and serve.

I think this quiche is better when it’s warm, but Lisa

says Herb likes it cold.

! % { # 9

71

Chapter

! Six #

“This is really sweet of you, Norman,” Hannah said,

opening the back door of his car and placing the bags

of cookies she’d prepared on the seat. Once she’d stashed the

goodies, she got into the front seat and smiled. It was warm

inside Norman’s car. And warmth was a luxury in the winter

in Minnesota. Even though Mike had fixed the heater on her

cookie truck, it was still drafty and the cavernous space in

the back was always cold in the winter months.

“I enjoy going places with you, Hannah.” Norman backed

out of the parking spot and headed down the alley that ran in

back of Hannah’s shop. “You know I like helping you investigate, and Doc Bennett’s filling in for me for the rest of the

day at the clinic.”

Hannah glanced at Norman’s profile as he drove down the

alley and turned onto Third. He wasn’t what any woman

would call a heartthrob, but he was nice looking. It was his

personality that catapulted him straight to the top of the

handsome category. Her great grandmother Elsa used to say,

Handsome is as handsome does, and it was true. Norman

was kind, intelligent, sweet, and caring. They were qualities

that Hannah held dear, right along with Norman’s sense

of humor, his kindness, and his willingness to indulge her

chocolate-loving soul.

The afternoon sun sparkling on the snow that had fallen

CANDY CANE MURDER

73

the previous night was so bright that Hannah almost wished

she’d worn sunglasses. And then, before she could do more

than think it, Norman had opened the glove compartment

and was handing her a pair.

“Here,” he said. “It’s really bright out today.”

Hannah slipped on the sunglasses. “So how long have you

been doing it?”

“Doing what?”

“Reading my mind.”

Norman waggled his eyebrows at her. “As kindred souls

we share our thoughts in a way that others can only envy.”

“Very poetic!”

“I know. It must be a reaction to all that flowery language

at the Regency luncheon.”

“That could be. But you did read my mind.”

“Not really. I just noticed that you were squinting, that’s

all.”

Norman clicked on his turn signal and they made a left

turn at the bright green shamrock-shaped sign that spoke of

Cyril’s heritage. Hannah’s truck hadn’t required Cyril’s services for several months and she hadn’t had occasion to visit

the garage. During this time, a new building had been erected

between the huge corrugated shed that housed the used cars

Cyril sold, and the garage itself. The garage was a fairly large

structure containing four work bays in the rear and gas pumps

out in front. The new building was attached to the side of the

garage and there was a bright green sign just under the roof

that read, SHAMROCK LIMOS. The building had a door that was

presently rolled up and Hannah could see three sparkling

white limousines parked inside.

“Looks like Cyril is branching out,” Norman said, pulling

past the pumps and parking at the side of the new building.

“The last time I was out here, he had just one limo.”

“Business must be good,” Hannah said, reaching in back

to select one of the bags while Norman got out and walked

around the car to open her door. They had arrived at an un-74

Joanne Fluke

spoken arrangement over two years ago. Norman knew that

Hannah could open her own car door, but he liked to do it

for her. And although Hannah bristled slightly, sitting there

and waiting for him to do something she could perfectly well

do for herself, she let him do it because it pleased him.

Norman took her arm and Hannah let him. This time it

wasn’t an unspoken arrangement; it was necessity on both of

their parts. It was icy and their chances of falling were greatly

diminished if they hung on to one another. Slipping and sliding, they made it around the side of the building and through

the door to the garage.

Cyril was sitting behind the counter, talking to one of his

mechanics. Hannah knew he was a mechanic because everyone who worked at Murphy’s Garage wore shamrock-green

coveralls. Cyril gave them a wave to acknowledge them, said

something about rotors, tolerances, and millimeters, and the

mechanic hurried back into the first work bay.

“Hannah. Norman.” Cyril gave them a smile that made

his eyes crinkle. He was what Hannah’s dad would have

called “black Irish.” His hair was curly black and his eyes,

under dark expressive brows, were such a deep blue color, the

pupils were just barely distinguishable from the irises.

“Something wrong with the cookie truck?”

“Not a thing,” Hannah answered, handing him the bag of

cookies. “These are for you. They’re Christmas Date Cookies.”

Cyril looked pleased as he accepted the bag. “Thanks,

Hannah. They’re my favorites. What did I do to deserve

cookies?”

“It’s not what you did. It’s what you’re going to do.”

“Uh-oh.” Cyril gave a long sigh. “This must be about

Wayne Bergstrom. I figured you’d hear about that fight we

had sooner or later, and it looks like it’s sooner. Who told

you?”

“Two people,” Hannah said and left it at that. It was a

slight exaggeration, but it all depended on how you counted.

CANDY CANE MURDER

75

Lisa had told her about the fight, but Herb had been the one

to tell Lisa.

“So you think I killed Wayne?”

“Of course not!” Hannah shook her head. “You couldn’t

have done it. You’re Irish.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Your heritage is part of your personality. My dad was

part Irish and he explained it to me. If an Irishman’s mad

enough to kill somebody, he doesn’t lie in wait like some

coward and attack when nobody’s looking. He takes his

enemy on fair and square in front of everybody in town.”

Cyril threw back his head and laughed. “Your dad was

part Irish, all right! He told you a whopper and you bought

it.”

“I guess I did,” Hannah said with a laugh, glad that the

story she’d made up on the spur of the moment had worked

to relax Cyril. “But you didn’t lay in wait and kill Wayne last

night, did you?”

“No. I was mad enough to do it, but I had another sort of

revenge in mind.”

“What was that?” Norman asked.

“I was going to undercut him and sabotage his limo business. It probably would have bankrupted me before it was

over, but it would have been worth it.”

It took a few minutes and some cogent questions for the

story to come out, but at last they had the facts. The reason

Cyril had bought two more white limousines was that Wayne

had promised to use his limo service for the weddings he

booked through the new Wonderful Weddings department at

the store.

“I thought it was all set. Wayne promised to use Shamrock

Limos, and I promised I’d get two more cars.”

“But Wayne reneged on his promise?” Hannah guessed.

“That’s right!” Cyril’s eyes glittered and both Hannah and

Norman could tell that he was still steaming about it.

“Wayne decided to start his own limo service. And since we

76

Joanne Fluke

didn’t have a signed contract, I couldn’t prove he’d agreed to

use Shamrock Limos.”

“That would have burned me up, too!” Norman said, and

then he turned to Hannah. “Can we take Cyril off the suspect list?”

“Just as soon as he tells us his alibi.” Hannah pulled out

her steno pad and flipped to the suspect page. “Did you

watch Wayne play Santa last night?” she asked Cyril.

“Sure did. And right after that, I went out to take a look at

Florence Evans’s van. She said it was cutting in and out, and

she didn’t want to get stuck on the way home.”

“And that was in the parking lot?”

“No, she parked in front in the loading zone. She told me

she figured she was entitled since she was carrying all the

Christmas stockings the Women’s Club stuffed for the kids at

the Home.”

“Works for me,” Hannah said. “As far as we know, Wayne

left by the back door and went around the side of the building to the path that leads to the parking lot. Did you see

him?”

Cyril shook his head. “I must’ve been busy working on

Florence’s car. I fixed the problem, it was a loose spark plug,

and then we went back inside.”

“And you were with Florence the whole time?”

“Most of it. She went back in a couple of times to bring

me coffee, but she wasn’t gone more than five minutes. When

we got back inside, Sally was telling everybody the buffet

was open and we got in line with Brigit.”

Hannah and Norman said their goodbyes and left the

warmth of the garage. A light snow had started to fall and as

they walked to Norman’s car, Hannah was thoughtful. Cyril

had an alibi, but it wasn’t exactly a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Even if Florence substantiated his story, it was possible that

Cyril had seized his opportunity and killed Wayne in the few

minutes that Florence was inside getting coffee for him.

CANDY CANE MURDER

77

“Where to?” Norman asked, once he’d settled Hannah in

the passenger seat and climbed in behind the wheel.

“The mall?” Hannah phrased her answer in the form of a

question, something that had always driven her a little bit

crazy when she watched Jeopardy. “I’d like to check with

Wayne’s brother-in-law Cory if he’s in today. He’s head of the

Wonderful Weddings department.”

“Fine with me. I need to pick up something for Mother

anyway. So far, all I’ve got is a book and that’s not enough

for Christmas. Maybe you can help me choose something.”

Hannah was about to make a sarcastic crack about the

blind leading the blind when she remembered something Delores had told her. “I think you should buy her a silk

wreath.”

“You mean … a Christmas wreath?”

“No, a flower wreath. Delores just bought one made from

dried pink roses for her guest bath and Carrie thought it was

beautiful. She said she might look for one for herself, but she

wanted hers to be blue hydrangeas.”

“I’m not really big on flower names. Are hydrangeas the

velvety looking blue flowers clumped together on a stalk?”

“Good description! But hydrangeas aren’t just blue. They

can also be pink, depending on the pH value of the soil.”

“That’s interesting,” Norman said, and Hannah knew he

was one of the few guys who would think so.

“Grandma Ingrid liked the pink ones,” Hannah went on.

“She used to take me outside to garden with her and I remember helping her dig around the hydrangea bushes so she

could sprinkle in some chemical.”

“It was probably lime. She would have used aluminum

sulfate or sulfur if she’d wanted the blue. Maybe I should plant

some hydrangeas. They’re like nature’s litmus strips.”

“Red cabbage.”

“What?”

“Red cabbage really is nature’s litmus strip. I noticed it

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Joanne Fluke

when I tested Minnie Holtzmeier’s recipe for Scandinavian

Red Cabbage for the Lake Eden cookbook.”

“Now why doesn’t this surprise me?” Norman glanced at

her, gave her a quick smile, and then quickly returned his attention to the road. He’d been in Minnesota long enough to

know that it was dangerous to get distracted when you were

driving in the winter. “What, exactly, did you notice?” he

asked her.

“I shredded some red cabbage in the food processor and

kept it in some cold tap water in the cooler until I was ready

to use it. By that time it was bluish purple instead of red. Tap

water is slightly alkaline, isn’t it?”

“Usually. I’m almost sure it is here in Lake Eden.”

“That’s what I thought. When I’d finished gathering the

other ingredients, I drained the red cabbage. The water was

fairly blue by that time. Then I added the dry red wine the

recipe called for and the cabbage turned red again.”

“The red wine was acidic.” Norman gave her another quick

glance. “You would have made a good scientist, Hannah.

You’re very observant.”

“And you’re not,” Hannah smiled to take the sting out of

her words.

“What makes you think I’m not observant?”

“Because we just passed the last entrance to the mall and

now you have to look for a place to turn around and drive

back.”

! % { # 9

CHRISTMAS DATE COOKIES

Do not preheat oven quite yet. This

dough must chill before baking.

2 cups chopped pitted dates (You can buy chopped

dates, or sprinkle whole pitted dates with a

quarter-cup flour and then chop them in a food

processor. I couldn’t find chopped dates, and a

10-ounce by weight container of whole pitted

dates ended up being exactly 2 cups when I

chopped them in my food processor.)

3⁄4 cup boiling water

1 cup melted butter (2 sticks, 1⁄2 pound)

2 cups white (granulated) sugar

2 teaspoons baking soda

1⁄2 teaspoon salt

4 beaten eggs (just beat them up in a glass with a

fork)

2 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips (that’s a 12-ounce

package)

51⁄2 cups flour (don’t sift—pack it down in the cup

when you measure it)

1⁄2 cup white (granulated) sugar in a small bowl for

later

Pour the boiling water over the chopped dates, give

them a stir with a fork, and set them aside on the counter

to cool.

Melt the butter in a microwave-safe bowl (I used a pint

Pyrex measuring cup) for 90 seconds on HIGH. Set the

melted butter on the counter to cool.

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79

! % { # 9

In the bowl of an electric mixer, combine the white

sugar, baking soda, salt and eggs. Beat well. (If you don’t

have an electric mixer, don’t worry. You can do this by

hand, but it’ll take a bit of effort.)

Feel the bowl with the date mixture. If you can hold it

comfortably in your hands, add it now and mix thoroughly. If it’s too hot, let it cool another couple of minutes.

Once the dates are mixed in, add the chocolate chips to

your bowl and mix. Then add the melted butter and mix

thoroughly.

Add the flour in half-cup increments (that’ll be 11 half—

cups) beating after each addition. Take the bowl from the

mixer, give it a final stir by hand, cover it with plastic

wrap, and place it in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours to

chill. (Overnight is fine, too.)

When you’re ready to bake, preheat the oven to 325 degrees F., rack in the middle position. (Yes, that’s 325 degrees F.—most of my cookies bake at 350 degrees F., but

these are best if they bake slowly at a lower heat.)

Roll the dough into walnut-sized balls with your hands.

This dough may be sticky, so roll only enough for the

cookies you plan to bake immediately and then return the

bowl to the refrigerator.

Roll the dough balls in the bowl of white sugar and

place them on a greased (or sprayed with nonstick cooking

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80

! % { # 9

spray) cookie sheet, 12 to a standard sheet. Flatten them

slightly with your hand so they won’t fall off on the way to

the oven.

Bake at 325 degrees F. for 10 minutes. Cool on the

cookie sheet for a minute or two and then remove the

cookies to a wire rack to finish cooling.

Yield: 8 to 10 dozen great cookies. You can freeze any

extras for up to 3 months in freezer bags.

Hannah’s Note: All the Murphy men are crazy about

Christmas Date Cookies. Michelle said she baked a whole

batch one day when Lonnie was visiting her at Macalister.

They ate about a dozen and then they ran out of milk.

Michelle dashed to the corner grocery to buy some and

when she got back, every single cookie was gone!

! % { # 9

81

Chapter

! Seven #

The shadows of the pine trees were beginning to lengthen

and cant toward the east as Hannah and Norman turned

in at the TriCounty Mall. It was two-thirty on a Saturday

afternoon and it seemed that everyone who lived in the TriCounty area was out at the mall shopping.

“I’ve never seen it this crowded before,” Hannah said, eyeing the rows of cars in the parking structure.

“Only fifteen shopping days before Christmas.”

Hannah turned to him in surprise. “I didn’t know you

counted things like that.”

“I don’t. There was a big sign at the entrance.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“I know. So now who’s the observant one?”

“Neither one of us. Or maybe both of us. Whatever.”

Hannah grinned and shrugged it off. “I think we’re going to

have to park in the back forty and walk in.”

“The back forty?”

“It dates back to the days when there were large family

farms. The back forty was the section of land farthest away

from the farmhouse.”

“Oh. Like the toolies.”

“Right.”

Norman turned down another row and braked to a stop

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83

when he encountered a driver parked in the middle of the

garage, effectively blocking traffic from both directions.

“There’s one in every parking lot,” Hannah commented.

“She’s waiting for that couple to load all their packages in the

trunk and she’s determined to get their space.”

“And she’s going to make everyone behind her wait until

she does,” Norman added.

“Makes you wish for an accordion car.”

It took Norman a moment, but then he nodded. “One

with collapsible sides?”

“You got it. Then we could skin right past her, idle in front

of her and snag that parking spot before she could get it. But

they don’t make accordion cars, so we’re stuck. Do you want

a cookie while we wait?”

“Sure. Do you have anything in chocolate?”

Hannah laughed. “I’ve got four different kinds and three

are chocolate. Do you want Angel Pillows, Devil’s Food Cookies, or Chocolate Candy Cane Cookies?”

“Hold on. I’ve never had a Chocolate Candy Cane Cookie.

What are those?”

“They’re rich dark chocolate cookies with a sugary candy

cane topping.”

“Sounds great! I’d like to try one of those.”

Hannah turned around and reached into the backseat for

the correct bag. “I brought another dozen of these in one of

my signature bags for Cory.” She pulled out two cookies and

handed one to Norman. “Here you go.”

The cookies were exactly as she’d described them, and the

contrast of the sweet, dark chocolate with the tongue-tingling

peppermint coating was deliciously startling.

“These are your best cookies,” Norman said, finishing his

first cookie and dipping in the bag for a second.

“I thought the Old Fashioned Sugar Cookies were your favorites.”

“They were until I tasted these.”

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Joanne Fluke

“Fickle,” Hannah teased him.

“If I am, it’s understandable. My favorite cookie is the

cookie I’m eating at the moment.” Norman stepped on the

gas as the driver ahead of them finally pulled into her parking

spot and ceased being a roadblock. “I feel lucky. Let’s try that

first row again.”

Norman’s lucky feeling turned out to be a premonition of

good things to come. As they turned down the first row, a

van parked right next to the entrance backed out. Norman

quickly nabbed the spot and before you could say Jolly Old

Saint Nicholas, Hannah and Norman were stepping through

the double entrance doors and into the mall.

“Whoa,” Hannah said, stopping in her tracks.

“This way, Hannah.” Norman pulled her out of the mainstream of traffic and over to the side. “What’s wrong?”

It was a rare occasion for Hannah. She was completely at

a loss for words. Strains of loud Christmas carols were assaulting her ears, the combined scents of popcorn and potpourri were overpowering, and the voices of hundreds of

holiday shoppers created a roaring buzz in her head.

“Are you okay?” Noman asked her.

“I will be. It’s just too much to take in all at once.” Hannah eyed the milling crowds of people, the flashing colored

lights, and the Christmas decorations. Combined as a class

that she called holiday madness, they seemed to be occupying

every available foot of wall and floor space. “All these people.

All these flashing lights and decorations. All this noise. Christmas is breaking out all over!”

Norman laughed. “You don’t do much Christmas shopping at the mall, do you?” he said, and it was more a statement than a question.

“Not if I can avoid it. If Claire doesn’t have what I need at

her dress shop, and I can’t get it from the drugstore, I pick up

the phone and order it from a catalogue. Maybe we should

just forget it, Norman. I’m not sure if Cory’s here today anyway. I can always call him at home tonight.”

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85

“No way. We drove all the way out here and at least we

can check to see if he’s there.” Norman reached out to take

her arm. “Just hang on to me and I’ll get you to Bergstrom’s.”

“But really, Norman … maybe we should just …” Hannah’s protests died a quick death as Norman pulled her forward and out into the Christmas mêlée.

It was exactly as advertised; shopping was better in Bergstrom’s. It had nothing to do with the quality of the merchandise or the availability of helpful, well-informed salesclerks.

The interior of the posh department store was quiet, almost

hushed compared to the hubbub outside in the mall. There

were considerably less people in Bergstrom’s and Hannah

thought she knew why. The exclusive department store was

expensive and the words “clearance,” “blowout sale,” and

“rock bottom price” had never passed the lips of the staff.

Bergstrom’s was not the place to shop if you were looking for

a Christmas bargain. Everyone including Hannah knew that.

“Better?” Norman asked, leading Hannah toward the escalator in the central part of the store.

“Much better. We’d better find a clerk and ask where the

wedding department is.”

“I know where it is. It’s on the third floor, right across

from the travel agency.”

“You’ve been there?” Hannah was so surprised she almost

stumbled as she stepped onto the escalator.

“No, but I’ve used the travel agency. They booked my

flight to the dental convention in Seattle last year. There was

a wall with a sign on it that said, MORE PROGRESS AT BERG—

STROM’S. PLEASE EXCUSE OUR DUST. When I asked one of the

workers what they were building, he said they were putting

in a wedding department.”

Hannah felt vaguely disappointed as they rode up to the

third floor. She wasn’t sure why. She was glad that Norman

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Joanne Fluke

hadn’t made plans for a wedding when he’d asked her to

marry him, plans that he would have had to cancel when

she’d decided not to marry anyone quite yet. At the same

time, it would have shown his commitment and proven to

her that his proposal hadn’t been just a gut reaction to the

fact that Mike had proposed first. Telling herself she had no

right to want such a commitment when she was unwilling to

reciprocate, she stepped off the escalator, turned toward the

wedding department, and came face to face with a pair of

giant gold wedding bells tied together with a giant gold ribbon that said, WONDERFUL WEDDINGS.

“This is it,” Norman said, quite unnecessarily.

Hannah eyed the huge bells that adorned the tall gold

archway leading into the department. “Pretty fancy!”

“Shall we?” Norman held out his arm.

Oh boy! Hannah muttered under her breath as she took it.

If anyone they knew saw them walking into the wedding department arm in arm, tongues would wag all over Lake

Eden.

“Hannah!”

Hannah turned to see Cory Reynolds coming toward

them. “Hi, Cory. I’m so sorry about your brother-in-law.”

“So am I,” Cory said. “Wayne was a wonderful man. Melinda can’t seem to stop crying. She tried to come in today, to

say a few words to the staff, but I made her stay home.”

“Very wise,” Norman said.

“Thank you. But please let’s not mar this happy occasion

with sad tidings. How may I help you two today?”

Hannah was stunned for a moment, but then she recovered her voice. “Actually … it’s not quite like that. Norman

and I aren’t here for a wedding. We came because we really

need to ask you some questions about Wayne. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

“Yes. Of course.” Cory turned and led the way down a

hallway to several rooms. He chose one, opened the door,

and motioned them inside. “Will this do?”

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87

“It’s perfect,” Hannah said, admiring the comfortable

look the decorator had achieved. The room resembled a living room with comfortable furniture, some tasteful flower

prints on the walls, and a tray containing bottled water and

an ice bucket.

“Water?” Cory asked them.

“No thanks,” Hannah answered for both of them.

“I hear you’re looking into Wayne’s death,” Cory opened

the conversation as he took a bottle of water for himself.

“Yes, unofficially,” Hannah made that clear. “It’s just that

I saw Wayne only minutes before he died and then I found

him like that.”

Cory shivered slightly. “I know. All night I kept thinking

that if I’d walked out to the parking lot with him, I might

have prevented it.”

“Or you might have been killed right along with your

brother-in-law,” Norman pointed out.

Cory was silent for moment. He was clearly thinking it

over. “You’re right. What ifs don’t do any good. I didn’t go

out to the parking lot with Wayne, so I’ll never know what

would have happened if I had.”

“We need to ask you about Cyril Murphy,” Hannah said,

taking charge. “Did you know that Wayne promised Cyril

he’d use Shamrock Limo Service for weddings booked

through your department, and he reneged on his promise?”

“Wayne said it was all a giant misunderstanding, and I

know he talked to Larry about it.”

“Larry?” Hannah asked.

“Larry Helms. He’s been Wayne’s lawyer for years.”

Hannah filed the name of the lawyer away for future reference. “It sounds like more than a misunderstanding to me. I

heard they were yelling at each other.”

“I know they were yelling at each other.”

Hannah stared at him in surprise. “How do you know

that?”

“I gave Wayne a ride to the garage and I was sitting in the

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Joanne Fluke

car waiting for him. I saw the whole thing. They were yelling

at each other and waving their fists. I thought I was going to

have to break up a fight, but then Wayne stalked away and

came back to the car.”

“Do you think there was bad blood between Cyril and

Wayne?” Hannah asked.

“You mean … do I think Cyril Murphy might have killed

Wayne over that limo thing?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.”

Cory propped his elbows on the table and covered his eyes

with his hands. It was a contemplative pose and he thought

about it for a long moment. Then he lowered his hands. “It

could have happened that way.”

“Okay. That’s exactly what I wanted to know.” Hannah

stood up and Norman followed suit.

“So … no wedding?” Cory asked, giving a small smile.

“Not yet,” Norman answered. “But we’ll let you know

when. And where.”

Hannah shot him a quick look and decided to let it go.

This wasn’t the time to discuss the risk of assuming too

much.

“These are for you,” she said, producing the bag of cookies she’d earmarked for Cory. “I thought you might be able

to use a little chocolate. The endorphins will make you feel

better.”

Cory gave her a smile that wavered slightly. “Thanks,

Hannah. That was really sweet of you. I’ll give some to

Melinda.”

“That’s okay. We’ve got some for her, too.” Norman

spoke up quickly. “Do you think we could drop them off?

We wouldn’t stay, of course. We know how devastating this

whole thing must be for her.”

Hannah shot a quick glance at Norman. He didn’t take the

lead in an interrogation often, but when he did, he was usually right.

“Yes,” she said, quickly adopting Norman’s vernacular.

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89

“We thought Melinda might appreciate a tangible expression

of friendship and comfort.”

Cory hesitated for a long moment. “Well … I think that

would be very kind of you, provided you didn’t stay too long.

She’s exhausted, you know. Poor Melinda is still suffering

from the shock of losing her husband.”

“Of course, the poor dear!” Hannah said, pouring it on

with both pitchers. The flowery language was difficult to

master and she wished she’d taken lessons from Digger Gibson, Lake Eden’s mortician and funeral director. “Not to

worry. We’ll just drop the cookies off and leave.”

“That’s fine. Thank you for being so understanding. I’ll

give Melinda a call and tell her to expect you.”

! % { # 9

CHOCOLATE CANDY CANE COOKIES

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees F.,

rack in the middle position.

Cookie Dough:

4 squares unsweetened baking chocolate (4 ounces)

11⁄4 cups ( 21⁄2 sticks, 10-ounces) chilled butter

2 cups white (granulated) sugar

2 beaten eggs (just whip them up in a glass with a

fork)

2 teaspoons baking soda

1⁄2 teaspoon salt

1⁄3 cup corn syrup (I used white Karo syrup)

2 Tablespoons water

1 Tablespoon (3 teaspoons) vanilla

4 cups flour (pack it down in the cup when you

measure it)

Topping:

1⁄4 cup white (granulated) sugar

1⁄4 cup finely crushed mint candy canes (about 12

mini candy canes)

Melt the butter and the chocolate squares together, mix

them thoroughly, and set them on the counter to cool. You

can do this in a microwave-safe bowl for 3 minutes on

HIGH, or in a pan over low heat on the stovetop. (I do it

by microwave in a Pyrex one-quart measuring cup.)

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90

! % { # 9

Hannah’s 1st Note: If you like a strong peppermint flavor, use 2 teaspoons of vanilla and one teaspoon of peppermint extract instead of the Tablespoon (3 teaspoons) of

vanilla extract that’s called for in the recipe.

In a large bowl, combine the white sugar and the eggs.

Beat the mixture until it’s a uniform pale yellow color.

Add the baking soda and salt. Mix them in well.

Mix in the corn syrup, water, and the vanilla.

Hannah’s 2nd Note: Whenever I measure something

sticky like corn syrup, maple syrup, or honey, I spray my

measuring cup with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray

first. Then the sticky stuff slides right out and it’s easy to

wash the cup.

Add half of the flour to your bowl. (That’s 2 cups.) Mix

it in. Then add the remaining flour (that’s 2 cups) and mix

thoroughly.

Give the bowl a final stir by hand, cover it with plastic

wrap, and let it rest on the counter while you spray your

cookie sheets with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray

and crush your candy canes.

Hannah’s 3rd Note: I unwrap my candy canes, stick

them in a heavy plastic bag, and hit them with a little rubber mallet I got from Dad’s hardware store before we sold

it. Lisa says she does hers almost the same way, except she

! % { # 9

91

! % { # 9

puts a board over the bag and bangs on the board with a

hammer. Any way you want to crush the candy is fine—

just be really careful with hammers and mallets if you have

ceramic tile counters. You can also break the candy canes

in pieces with your hands and then pulverize them in a

food processor with the steel blade. (Read your instruction

manual to make sure the food processor you have will

handle a task like this.)

I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but last summer when

Andrea, Michelle, and I were staying out at Mother’s lake

cottage, we couldn’t find a hammer, so I put the candy

canes in a triple layer of plastic bags and Michelle backed

over them several times with the car. (It worked.)

Measure out a quarter cup of finely crushed candy canes

and place them in a small bowl. Add a quarter cup white

granulated sugar and mix it all up with a fork. (The goal is

to get an equal amount of sugar and crushed candy cane

on each of the dough balls that you’ll make.)

Roll the dough into one-inch diameter balls with your

hands. This dough may be sticky, so roll only enough for

the cookies you plan to bake immediately and then put the

bowl in the refrigerator.

Roll the dough balls in the bowl of topping and place

them on the greased cookie sheets, 12 balls to a standard

sheet. Flatten them slightly with a metal spatula or the heel

of your impeccably clean hand.

! % { # 9

92

! % { # 9

Bake the cookies at 350 degrees F. for 8 to 10 minutes.

Cool them on the cookie sheet for a minute and then remove the cookies to a wire rack to complete cooling. (If

you leave them on the cookie sheet for more than a

minute, they may stick. It’s not the sugar—it’s the crushed

candy canes. They melt and then stick to your baking

sheets.)

Yield: approximately 8 dozen yummy cookies

! % { # 9

93

Chapter

! Eight #

The special elevator that carried them up to the penthouse

over Bergstrom’s department store had been opulent with

gold-tone mirrors and a pink velvet bench that ran around its

perimeter. Hannah had never seen an elevator with seating

before, and she was even more impressed when it rose to the

fifth floor in one smooth motion and the doors whispered

open to reveal even more luxury.

The foyer they stepped into could have graced any one of

several five-star hotels. Two walls were covered with a silvery

silken material that matched the pillows on the pink and

light green silk couches. Wing chairs in light blue silk were

grouped around oval-shaped gold tables with mirrored tops,

their beveled edges trimmed in gold. The other two walls

were made entirely of glass, affording a spectacular view of

the pine-dotted snowscape outside.

“Holy Hannah!” Hannah breathed, taking her own name

in vain. “This is even better than Teensy’s Penthouse!”

“Better than what?”

“Teensy’s Penthouse. Tracey put it on her Christmas wish

list. It’s the hot item this year and all the stores I called are

sold out. There was one that had it, but they wanted a hundred and twenty dollars. And that was without Teensy!”

“And Teensy is a doll?”

“She’s not just a doll,” Hannah corrected him. “Teensy is

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95

a fully articulated reproduction of a female child in miniature. She has her own series of children’s books and DVDs,

and there’s a Saturday morning cartoon. She’s a little rich girl

with a fabulous wardrobe and all sorts of places they call environments like ski chalets, thoroughbred horse farms, and

ocean cottages. Teensy lives in the lap of luxury.”

Norman smiled. “Correction. Teensy’s manufacturer lives

in the lap of luxury.”

“Sir? Madam?” The same maid who’d answered the door

and taken their coats addressed them from the doorway.

“Mrs. Bergstrom will see you now. Please follow me.”

Hannah and Norman were led past priceless artwork and

more ornate furniture as they traversed the wide carpeted

hallway to an arched doorway near the rear of the penthouse.

“Through here, please,” the maid said, opening the arched

door and stepping aside. “Mrs. Bergstrom wishes to meet with

you in the indoor garden. She designed it shortly after her

marriage and it’s her favorite spot to entertain. Just follow

the path to the seating area by the fountain.”

As Hannah and Norman entered the warm, humid space,

they gave nearly simultaneous gasps of surprise. It was a

tropical paradise filled with exotic plants, ferns, and even trees.

Flowers in riotous colors were blooming everywhere, enough

to keep a florist in business for the whole winter season.

“Wow!” Hannah said, turning to Norman. “The only other

time I get to see this much green in the winter is on St. Patrick’s Day. This is just like Mother’s orangery.”

“Your mother’s what?”

“Orangery. Mansions in England had them during the Regency period. It was a solarium, an indoor greenhouse, with

all sorts of exotic plants, fruit trees, and flowers.”

“I think this probably qualifies,” Norman said, gazing

around him. “It’s like a jungle in here. Or maybe a rain forest. I’m not that well acquainted with the difference.”

“It’s paradise,” Hannah said, “especially in the dead of

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Joanne Fluke

winter.” It was true. Melinda’s solarium was a paradise requiring only constant temperature and humidity monitoring,

and expert gardening. To add to the sensory delights, the indoor garden had two walls and a ceiling made of glass. The

frigid winter scene outside was a startling juxtaposition to

the lush tropical illusion inside.

“This way,” Norman indicated a path made of smooth

round stones. “She said there was a fountain and I can hear

falling water.”

Hannah looked down at the stones on the walkway as she

followed Norman. She figured they were probably fabricated. As far as she knew, stones were like snowflakes. If you

made it your life’s work, you might find two that were exactly the same, but you certainly wouldn’t be lucky enough

to find the thousands of identical pebbles it had taken to line

Melinda Bergstrom’s solarium walkway.

Hannah hadn’t seen Melinda recently, but the formermodel-turned-wife hadn’t changed one iota. She was seated

in a rattan peacock chair by the fountain and she was just as

svelte and impeccably groomed as she’d been when she’d

strolled down the runway. She was wearing what Hannah assumed was a designer pantsuit made of black velvet that set

off her light ash-blond hair and her peaches-and-cream complexion. Her feet were encased in black sandals with stiletto

heels, something that gave Hannah pause. Would a grieving

widow wear stiletto heels? Perhaps, if she happened to be a

former model. But wouldn’t a grieving widow who’d been

crying all night and day have swollen eyelids and blotchy

cheeks? She’d have to ask Andrea if there was a way to hide

prolonged tears with makeup.

“Mrs. Bergstrom.” Norman stepped forward to take

Melinda’s outstretched hand. “We’re so sorry for your loss.”

Hannah took her cue from Norman. “This must be a very

difficult time for you.”

“Oh, it is. I can’t seem to stop blaming myself. I should

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97

have gone with Wayne instead of keeping my appointment

with Pierre.”

“Pierre from Le Petit Salon?” Hannah asked, naming the

exclusive beauty shop downstairs in the mall.

“That’s right. Pierre came up to style my hair at seventhirty, right after they closed the salon. He was still here when

the deputies came to tell me that Wayne was … was …”

Melinda gave a quavering sigh and her voice trailed off.

“I’m glad you had someone with you,” Hannah said, filing

away the information she’d been given for later. “Cory probably told you, but Norman and I came up to bring you some

of my Devil’s Food Cookies. We thought maybe the chocolate might help to make you feel better.”

“How sweet of you!” Melinda accepted the bag Hannah

handed her and peeked inside. “They smell so good.”

“They’re very popular down at The Cookie Jar. Have one

and tell me if you like them.”

“I really shouldn’t. So many calories. You make them with

real butter?”

“Yes.” Of course she made them with real butter. Minnesota was a dairy state and no scientist had yet found a perfect substitute for butter.

“Maybe I’ll have one tonight after dinner.” Melinda folded

the bag closed and set it on the rattan table in front of her

chair. “Do sit down. Would you care for coffee? Or tea?”

Hannah shook her head. “No, thank you. I’d like to use

your powder room, though, if that’s all right.”

Norman shot her a startled look. He knew she’d gone off

to the ladies’ room shortly before they’d caught the elevator

to the Bergstrom penthouse.

“Certainly. I’ll ring for Emily. She can show you the way.”

“There’s no need to call your maid.” Hannah stood up.

“Just give me directions and I’ll find it.”

“Turn left when you leave here, and then turn to the right

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Joanne Fluke

when you get to the next hallway. There’s a guest bath three

doors down on your left.”

As Hannah walked away, she heard Norman begin to

praise Melinda’s design for the solarium. Norman might not

know exactly what she was up to, but Hannah knew he’d

keep Melinda busy talking until she got back.

Instead of following Melinda’s instructions, Hannah turned

in the opposite direction. She passed a huge master suite and

noticed a large piece of mahogany furniture against one wall.

It was a valet stand, the sort of standing rack that held a

man’s hat, suit, and shoes. This piece of furniture was a

quadruple valet stand with an upholstered bench in the center. Each side was flanked by two valet stands, one raised as

high as the mirror in back of the bench, and the one at normal height. The massive piece of furniture was decorated

with carvings of stag, and deer, and moose. It was the most

magnificent piece of furniture Hannah had ever seen.

Hannah paused, letting her eyes roam the room. This master bedroom was larger than her whole condo. There were

walk-in closets on either side of the room and the doors were

open. Hannah spotted men’s clothing in one closet, and absolutely nothing in the other. Had Melinda moved out of the

master bedroom, unable to bear the loneliness of the suite

she’d shared with her husband?

Afraid she might be caught staring for too long, Hannah

moved on down the hallway. She turned the corner and

passed another bedroom with an open door. This one was

obviously Cory’s. There was a shirt hanging just inside the

door. It was in a see-through dry cleaner’s bag and she recognized the distinctive gold and silver shirt that Cory had worn

the previous evening.

Hannah walked on to the next room. The door was ajar

and she made it even more so. This was a woman’s bedroom.

There were fresh flowers on the ornate dresser, and another

set of see-through dry cleaner bags containing party dresses

CANDY CANE MURDER

99

and women’s suits. Hannah was about to go on to greener

pastures when something she spied turned this room into a

shade of emerald she couldn’t resist.

It was a photo album, sitting on a table by the window.

Photos could be revealing, and Hannah wanted to take a

quick peek. If a guest was staying here with Melinda and

Cory, she might have information about why Wayne was

murdered. There was only one way to tell who that guest

was. Hannah had to get a look at the photo album before

Melinda’s maid came in search of the wayward visitor who

had missed the guest bathroom and was in some other part

of the penthouse.

Hannah glanced up and down the hallway. No one was in

the immediate vicinity. She knew she was taking a chance,

but she ducked in the open door and hurried to the table with

the album.

The photo album had initials on the front in fancy gold

script. The letters were so stylized that they were difficult to

read, but Hannah was almost positive that they were M. A. A.

In the space of no more than a heartbeat, she opened the

album and looked inside. It was a family album. There was a

wedding with people Hannah didn’t recognize. And then

there was a baby in a baptismal gown. The father holding her

looked proud and happy and the mother, who was standing

at his side, looked a lot like Melinda Reynolds Bergstrom!

She was taking a chance standing here snooping, but there

was no way she could squelch her curiosity. Hannah flipped

through the pages, gazing at pictures of a small girl being

steadied by her dad on a hobbyhorse, a preschooler riding a

tricycle, and a little girl getting on a school bus, waving at

whoever was holding the camera. There were pictures of family vacations with mom, dad, and daughter. One was taken at

the Wisconsin Dells. Hannah recognized Storybook Gardens.

There was another series of snapshots of Crystal Cave in

Wisconsin. These were obviously Melinda’s parents, and as

Melinda grew older, Hannah recognized her. But where was

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Joanne Fluke

Melinda’s brother, Cory? He wasn’t in any of these early

family photos.

Hannah made a lightning quick search of the album.

Christmas in grade school, no Cory. A family trip to Itasca to

see the origin of the Mississippi River, no Cory. The family at

Melinda’s high school graduation, no Cory. There wasn’t one

single picture of Melinda’s brother, and that was unusual to

say the least!

Now for the room. Was it Melinda’s? Hannah thought

that it must be. There were several framed magazine covers

that Melinda had posed for, hanging on the walls. When had

she moved here, next to Cory, instead of sharing the master

suite with her husband? Hannah made a quick survey of the

bedroom, gathering information. There was an archive-size

stack of modeling magazines in the white wrought-iron bookcase against the far wall, and every inch of the closet was

filled with clothing. There were personal items in the dresser.

Hannah pulled out a few drawers to check the contents, and

she noticed gardening books on another table, their pages

marked by colored tabs. One gold-colored slipper peeked out

from beneath the bed, and a silk dressing gown was tossed

on a chair in the corner. It was an assumption, but Hannah

made it without quibbling. This was Melinda’s room and she’d

been using it for quite a while.

Hannah’s head snapped up as she heard footsteps. Someone was coming! She glanced around quickly, and headed

straight for the bathroom. She shut the door just a heartbeat

before she heard someone enter the bedroom.

“Miss Swensen?” It was a voice Hannah recognized.

Emily the maid was looking for her. “Are you in here, Miss

Swensen?”

“I’m in the bathroom,” Hannah answered, flushing the

toilet to add credence to her words. She was busted, caught

red-handed, snooping in Melinda’s bedroom. But why was

Melinda sleeping in this bedroom when the master bedroom

was right down the hall?

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101

There was no time to think about that now. She was going

to have to do some fast talking and hope that Emily would

buy it. Hannah took a deep breath, opened the door, and

gave the maid her brightest smile.

“I hope I found the right bathroom,” she said. “I forgot

whether Melinda said to go left, or right.”

The maid looked suspicious for a brief moment and then

she smiled. “You didn’t, but that’s all right. I’ll escort you

back to the garden. Mrs. Bergstrom paged me. She was

afraid you were lost.”

“I guess I was!” Hannah said. “But I’m glad you’re here,

Emily. I’d like to know if this is Melinda’s bedroom.”

“Oh! Well … yes. Yes, it is. But that’s Mrs. Bergstrom’s

private business. I can’t say anything more.”

“Of course you can,” Hannah interrupted her. “Your employer’s dead, murdered in cold blood, and his widow doesn’t

seem to be grieving very much. Do you think she cares?”

“Not that one!” Emily said, shaking her head. “There’s no

love lost there and there wasn’t on his side, either.” She

moved closer and continued in a whisper. “I’m almost sure

Mr. Bergstrom was going to divorce her, not that he said anything to me, of course. But it wasn’t a real marriage, if you

know what I mean. And now … I’d better take you back before she comes after both of us.”

Once back inside the tropical paradise, Hannah ignored

Norman’s curious glance, and sat down next to Melinda.

They made polite conversation for a moment or two, and

then Melinda took them on a tour of the most unusual and

exotic flora that she had imported. Hannah admired brightly

colored blooms that looked more artificial that real to her,

smelled scents so heady they came close to making her

sneeze, and pretended overwhelming interest in natural fertilizers and climate control. Then, mercifully, it was time to

render their polite goodbyes, repeat their condolences, and

leave.

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Joanne Fluke

“Well?” Norman asked when they had boarded the elevator and were safely on their way down to the store.

“Well, what?”

“Well, why were you gone so long? And what did you discover?”

“No Cory,” Hannah said, summing up her findings in two

words.

“What?”

“I found Melinda’s family photo album. There were lots of

pictures of Melinda and her parents, but not one single picture of Cory. Maybe Cory had a big fight with his parents

and they took all his pictures out of the photo album. Or

maybe Melinda did, and she removed them. Or … maybe

there was something wrong with Cory that he didn’t get fixed

until he left home.”

“Like what?”

“Like a birthmark he had removed. Or maybe Cory was

really Melinda’s sister Corrine before she had the sex

change.”

Hannah started to laugh, but she quickly sobered as she

thought of another possibility. “Or … maybe Cory isn’t Melinda’s brother and that’s why he isn’t in the family album.”

“That’s interesting,” Norman commented. “Don’t you

want to know what I found out while you were gone?”

“Absolutely.”

“I found out everything I really didn’t need to know about

exotic plants, flowers, and berries.”

“Lucky you.” Hannah stepped off the elevator and spotted the decorator dried wreath department, right where Delores had said it would be. “Let’s go buy a peony wreath for

your mother, and then go straight back to The Cookie Jar. I

want to see if Lisa’s hit pay dirt with her invisible waitress

trick.”

! % { # 9

DEVIL’S FOOD COOKIES

Do not preheat oven—this dough

needs to chill.

2 cups flour

13⁄4 cups white (granulated) sugar

1⁄2 cup cocoa powder ***

1⁄2 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking soda

1⁄2 cup melted butter (1 stick, 1/4 pound)

1 beaten egg (just whip it up in a glass with a fork)

1⁄2 cup extra strong coffee (I brewed French Roast

double strength)

1⁄2 cup white sugar in a small bowl (for later)

*** A Word of Warning about COCOA

When cocoa is used in any of my recipes, make sure to

use plain old American cocoa (I usually use Hershey’s

unsweetened cocoa.) There are many designer cocoas on

the market. They’re wonderful in their own right, but they

won’t work in my recipes. Make sure you don’t buy cocoa

mix, which has powdered milk and a sweetener added.

Stay away from Dutch process cocoa—it has alkaline

added. Also beware of cocoas that are mixed with ground

chocolate or other flavorings. They won’t work either.

Things were simpler in my grandmother’s day (and this

Devil’s Food Cookie is one of her recipes.) If you’re in

doubt, check the ingredients that are listed on the container of cocoa. It should say “cocoa” and nothing else.

! % { # 9

103

! % { # 9

In a large bowl, mix the flour, sugar, cocoa powder, salt,

and baking soda. Once these dry ingredients are combined, add the melted butter and mix thoroughly.

Add the beaten egg and mix thoroughly.

Add the strong coffee and mix thoroughly.

Chill the dough in the refrigerator for at least one hour .

(Overnight is fine, too.)

When you’re ready to bake, preheat the oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position.

Roll the dough into one-inch diameter balls with your

hands. This dough may be sticky, so roll only enough for

the cookies you plan to bake immediately and then return

the bowl to the refrigerator. Roll the dough balls in the

bowl of white sugar and place them on a greased cookie

sheet, 12 balls to a standard sheet. Flatten them slightly

with the heel of your impeccably clean hand so they won’t

roll off on their way to the oven.

Bake at 350 degrees F. for 8 to 10 minutes. Cool on the

cookie sheet for a minute or two and then remove the

cookies to a wire rack to finish cooling. (If you leave them

on the cookie sheet for too long, they’ll stick.)

Hannah’s Note: When Lisa wants to make these fancy

for a cookie catering job, she drizzles them with fine hori—

zontal lines of white powdered sugar icing. Then she mixes

up chocolate powdered sugar icing and drizzles them with

fine vertical lines. Here are the frostings she uses:

! % { # 9

104

! % { # 9

White Powdered Sugar Icing:

1 cup powdered (confectioner’s) sugar

1⁄2 teaspoon vanilla

1⁄4 teaspoon salt

2 to 4 Tablespoons light cream

Lisa’s 1st Note: There’s no need to sift the powdered

sugar unless it has big lumps.

Line up your cookies, shoulder to shoulder, on a sheet

of waxed paper.

Mix the powdered sugar with the vanilla and the salt.

Add the light cream gradually until the frosting is the consistency you want.

Put the frosting into a plastic food storage bag. Twist

the top closed and cut off one of the bottom corners to let

out the frosting. Squeeze it out and drizzle it in fine lines

over your cookies.

Chocolate Powdered Sugar Icing:

1 cup powdered (confectioner’s) sugar

1⁄4 cup cocoa

1⁄2 teaspoon vanilla

1⁄4 teaspoon salt

3 to 6 Tablespoons light cream

! % { # 9

105

! % { # 9

Turn the paper with the partially frosted cookies 90 degrees so that the thin lines of chocolate frosting will crisscross the white frosting.

Mix the powdered sugar with the cocoa. Blend it in

until the resulting mixture is a uniform color. Add the

vanilla and the salt. Add the light cream gradually until the

chocolate frosting is the consistency you want.

Put the chocolate frosting into a plastic food storage

bag. Twist the top closed and cut off one of the bottom

corners to let out the frosting. Squeeze it out and drizzle it

in fine lines over your cookies.

Let the frosting dry thoroughly and then pack the cookies in single layers in a box lined with wax paper.

Lisa’s 2nd Note: If you want to be really fancy, you can

make powdered sugar icing with food coloring and use

other extracts besides vanilla.

! % { # 9

106

Chapter

! Nine #

“It was all speculation,” Lisa answered Hannah’s query

when they got back to The Cookie Jar, “but there was

one interesting thing.”

“And that was?” Hannah prompted.

“Carrie thinks Jenny Bergstrom was in the family way

when she left Lake Eden.”

Norman raised his eyebrows. “My mother actually said, in

the family way?”

“Yes.” Lisa turned to Hannah. “And your mother said,

No way, Jose. Dream on.”

Norman gave a huge sigh, but Hannah noticed that his

eyes were twinkling. “I always suspected it, but now I know

it’s true.”

“What’s true?” Hannah asked.

“Your mother is cooler than my mother.”

Lisa cracked up, and both Hannah and Norman turned to

look at her.

“Sorry,” she said, still giggling. “It’s not cooler anymore.

Now it’s rad, or phat, or something like that. It changes every

month, or so. The only way you can keep up is to watch the

sitcoms on television.”

Hannah turned to Norman and gave him a little pat on the

arm. “It’s okay. I knew exactly what you meant.”

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Joanne Fluke

“Vernacular aside, do you think my mother knew what

she was talking about?” Norman asked Lisa.

“She seemed pretty sure of herself.” Lisa turned to Hannah. “And she managed to convince your mother.”

“If she convinced Mother, it’s probably true.”

“Jenny left town before she started to gain weight, or anything. And she never said anything about it in her letters to

her friends in Lake Eden.”

“Okay.” Hannah got up to pour more coffee for all of

them. Marge and Jack were still manning the shop and they

had a little time to talk. “What else did Carrie say?”

“She said she almost came right out and asked Jenny, but

then she heard about the divorce and she thought she must

be wrong.”

“Why?” Hannah was curious.

“Because Wayne always wanted children and he would

have forgotten all about marrying the bimbo, ” Lisa glanced

at Norman, “your mother’s word, not mine, and gone

straight back to Jenny if she’d told him that she was pregnant.”

“Oh, boy!” Norman gave a little groan. “The one thing I

always loved about Lake Eden was that it could never be featured on a reality show. But now … I’m not so sure.”

Hannah laughed. “Don’t worry about it. Gossip in a small

town isn’t that interesting unless you live there, and Dancing

with the Bovines won’t make it. Unless they decide to hold

the summer Olympics on Winnie Henderson’s farm, Lake

Eden doesn’t have a prayer of being on national television.”

“Hey, Hannah.”

Mike strode in shortly after Norman had left and Hannah’s heart began to beat like a trip hammer. Why did he

have this effect on her? She wished she could control it, but

that sudden breathlessness and leap in blood pressure seemed

to be eons beyond the control of biofeedback.

“Mike,” Hannah replied, pouring two mugs of coffee

CANDY CANE MURDER

109

from the kitchen pot while her hand was still steady. “Would

you like a couple of Linda’s Shortbread Pecan Cookies?”

“Who’s Linda?”

“Lisa’s cousin. She sent us the recipe.”

“Sure, I’ll try a couple. I promise I’ll never refuse anything

you offer me. You can count on that.”

Mike gave her a devilish grin and Hannah almost didn’t

make it to the work island with the mugs of coffee intact. He

was implying a lot more than he should, but she didn’t really

dare to react. If she accused him of a suggestive comment,

he’d act all innocent and tell her it was all in her head.

“Hold on and I’ll get a plate of cookies,” she said, setting

the coffee down on the work island and never quite meeting

his eyes.

It didn’t take long to fill a plate with cookies and put them

down in front of Mike. Hannah waited until he’d eaten two

and washed them down with a whole mug of coffee. Then

she got up to pour them more. “So how did you like them?”

she asked, sitting down across from him once more.

“Great! Cover them with a napkin or something, will you,

Hannah? Otherwise I’m going to eat them all.”

“You’re going back out to the sheriff’s department, aren’t

you?”

“Right after I leave here.”

“Mother picked up something for Bill and she doesn’t

want him to hang it in his closet at home. She’s afraid Tracey

will see it and stop believing in Santa Claus.”

“I take it it’s a Santa costume?”

“Bingo. She bought it this morning at Bergstrom’s.”

“No problem. I’ll take it out there and hang it in Bill’s

closet.”

Hannah waited, but Mike didn’t say anything else. The

man was a genius when it came to holding his tongue. They

sat there in silence for the space of a half-cup of coffee and

then Hannah caved in.

“How’s the investigation going?” she asked.

110

Joanne Fluke

“It’s going. How about you?”

“What do you mean?” Hannah assumed the most innocent expression she could muster.

“I know you’re asking questions. And I know people talk

to you. Do you have anything I should know about?”

Hannah took a brief second to consider what she should

give Mike so that he could give her something in return.

“One thing,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“I know the name of Wayne’s lawyer if you want to ask

about his will.”

“That was next on my list, but you can save me some time.

Who is it?”

“Larry Helms. He’s with Helms, Jackson, and Connors

out at the mall.”

Mike reached in his pocket for his notebook and pen, and

wrote it down. “Thanks, Hannah.”

“You’re welcome. Did you happen to examine the Santa

suit that Wayne was wearing?”

“Not personally. The crime lab has it. What did you want

to know about it?”

“I was just wondering if there were any candy canes left in

Wayne’s pocket.”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“Just curious. Wayne was such a tightwad about those

candy canes. I asked him if I could have the ones that were

left, and he told me he needed them for the next time he

played Santa, and he told me to pour them in his pocket. I

guess they all fell out the hole.”

“What hole?”

“The one in Wayne’s pocket. There must have been a hole.

And the candy canes dropped out of the hole and onto the

path. That’s how we found him. We followed the trail of

candy canes.”

“Right. Do you want me to find out about the hole and the

candy canes?”

CANDY CANE MURDER

111

“Sure, if you’ve got a spare minute. But I’m just satisfying

my curiosity. I figured Wayne was being cheap when he said

he needed to use the rest of the candy canes.”

“I’ve heard that before!”

“Heard what?” Hannah asked, wondering how many

other people had asked about Wayne’s candy canes.

“What a cheapskate Wayne was. Even his ex-wife implied

that. She thought it might relate to his murder. But I came

away with the impression she still had a lot of affection for

him.”

“You talked to Jenny?”

Mike flipped open his notebook. “Jennifer Perkins Bergstrom. That’s right.”

“What did you think of her?”

“I told you already. She’s the only one I’ve talked to so far

who seemed really sorry her exhusband was dead.”

“I hope she’s okay. I have to go out to the inn to see her

tonight.”

“To ask her questions?”

“No, to deliver cookies. Mother wants me to take a dozen

of something chocolate to Jenny. She thought it might help.”

“Good idea. It doesn’t happen often, especially when I’m

working a murder investigation, but I couldn’t help feeling

sorry for her. She was the grieving widow. The current wife

didn’t seem all that upset.”

“I agree,” Hannah said, before she could think better of it.

“You saw Melinda Bergstrom today?”

“Actually … I brought her some cookies. Chocolate.”

“Your mother’s idea again?”

“No, it was Cory’s. Norman and I drove out to the mall to

get a Christmas gift for his mother. We ran into Cory and he

mentioned that Melinda had been crying all night. I had

some cookies with me, and we took her some.”

“Hmm.” Mike gave her a long, level glance. “What did

you think of Melinda?”

To give, or not to give. That was the question. Hannah de-112

Joanne Fluke

cided that it couldn’t hurt to have the law on her side.

“Melinda didn’t seem to be mourning Wayne’s death very

much, but you already know that. I found it particularly

interesting that she didn’t share the master suite with her

husband. Her bedroom’s down the hall right next to her

brother’s.”

“She told you that?”

“No. I just …” Hannah searched for a phrase to explain

that she’d fibbed and snooped, but she couldn’t come up with

one that was socially acceptable. “I just found out, that’s

all.”

Mike gave her another long, level glance, and Hannah was

sure it was the same glance he used in the interrogation

room. “What else did you just find out?” he asked.

“Well … nothing really. Except that she knows a lot

about plants. Her maid is named Emily, if that helps.”

“Right.” Mike stood up to go. “Let me know if you hear

anything you think I should know. And remember to leave

the investigating …”

“… up to the professionals,” Hannah finished the sentence in tandem with him. “Hold on a second and I’ll wrap

up these cookies. You can take them out to the station with

you.”

! % { # 9

LINDA’S PECAN SHORTBREAD COOKIES

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack

in the middle position.

1 cup white (granulated) sugar

1 cup brown sugar***

1 cup (2 sticks, 1⁄2 pound) salted butter

1 cup vegetable oil (Canola is NOT a vegetable—

the oil’s from a weed!)

1 beaten egg

2 teaspoons vanilla

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon cream of tartar (critical!)

1 cup uncooked oatmeal (I used Quaker’s Quick)

1 cup Rice Krispies

4 cups flour

2 cups chopped pecans (measure after chopping)

*** Brown sugar is nothing more than white sugar

with added molasses. All you have to do to make 1 cup

brown sugar is to measure out a cup of white sugar and

drizzle in 2 teaspoons of molasses, and then mix well. You

can mix it with a fork and a little muscle, or with an electric mixer and a little electricity. It’s your choice. Knowing this little trick eliminates the necessity of keeping

brown sugar, the kind that develops hard lumps, on hand

in your pantry.

Put one cup of white sugar and one cup of brown sugar

in the bowl of your mixer. Zoop them up together to make

really light brown sugar.

! % { # 9

113

! % { # 9

You have two choices with the butter. You can let it

come up to room temperature on its own, or you can

soften it in the microwave. If you’re in a hurry and you

don’t want to wait for nature to take its course, do this:

Unwrap a stick of refrigerated butter. Put it on a paper

plate. Nuke it for 5 seconds on HIGH in your microwave.

Roll it forward so the topside is now on the side. Nuke it

for another 5 seconds on HIGH. Roll it forward again and

nuke it for another 5 seconds on HIGH. Repeat rolling forward again and nuking for 5 seconds once again. You’re

done. Take the plate out of the microwave and dump the

butter into your mixing bowl.

Repeat the whole thing for the second stick of butter.

Once you’ve added the butter to your mixing bowl, mix

it until it’s smooth.

Pour in one cup of vegetable oil and add one egg. Mix it

all up together at slow speed.

Add the vanilla, baking soda, salt, and cream of tartar.

Mix it all up together.

Add the cup of oatmeal and the Rice Krispies. Mix thoroughly.

Add 4 cups of flour to your bowl in half-cup increments, mixing after each addition.

Take the bowl from the mixer, give it another stir with a

spoon, and mix in 2 cups of chopped pecans by hand.

! % { # 9

114

! % { # 9

With your hands, roll dough balls approximately 1-inch

in diameter and place them on the cookie sheet, 12 to a

standard-sized sheet.

Bake at 350 degrees F. for 12 to 15 minutes or until

golden brown around the edges . (Mine took exactly 12

minutes.)

Let cool on the cookie sheet for 2 minutes and then

transfer to a wire rack to complete cooling.

Yield: 9 to 11 dozen yummy shortbread-type cookies

! % { # 9

115

Chapter

! Ten #

Hannah removed another leftover quiche from Andrea’s

seldom-used oven and set it out to cool on a rack. Their

dinner plans had gone awry. Michelle had begged off. She

was having dinner with Delores and Carrie, and then the

three of them were going to call everybody who’d been at

Sally’s Christmas party. Even though the deputies had already interviewed everyone who’d been there, Delores had

decided it was worth a try. They’d already divided the guest

list into three parts. There were the people Carrie knew best,

the people Delores knew best, and the younger crowd that

Michelle knew best. When Hannah had talked to her sister

earlier, Michelle had been certain that the three of them

could get more candid information from a friendly phone call

than the sheriff’s deputies had gotten at the party last night.

Another few minutes and the quiche would be cool enough

to cut and then it would be time for the second shift to eat.

She’d fed Tracey and Grandma McCann while Andrea had

spoonfed baby Bethany, who had recently graduated from

purees to small chunks. Then the kids and “Grandma” had

gone off to the den to watch a new Christmas movie with animated penguins who’d lost their Christmas presents and had

to find them before Christmas Eve. Andrea had gone upstairs

to change. They were going to go out to the inn to talk to

Wayne’s ex-wife right after they’d eaten their dinner.

CANDY CANE MURDER

117

“Is it cool enough to eat?” Andrea asked when she came

into the kitchen again.

“I hope so. I’m hungry.” Hannah sliced the quiche while

Andrea dished up salads. They sat down across from each

other, picked up their forks, and for long moments there was

silence broken only by the sounds of chewing.

“This quiche is absolutely delicious,” Andrea finally said,

finishing the last of her slice and looking longingly at the

three slices still left on the serving plate.

Hannah smiled her thanks. “I’m glad you liked it. Have

another piece.”

“I’m thinking about it. It’s made with cream, right?”

“Yes.”

“Uh-oh. And there’s butter in the crust?” Andrea waited

until Hannah nodded and then she asked her next question.

“How about cheese?”

“There are a couple of kinds of cheese.”

“A couple? Uh-oh. How much cheese?”

Hannah thought about dissembling, but it wasn’t nice to

mess with somebody else’s diet. “Quite a bit of cheese,” she

admitted, “probably the equivalent of two ounces per slice.”

Andrea gave a little whimper. “I don’t suppose you used

low-fat cheese.”

“Nope.”

“Uh-oh. Tell me about the bacon pieces.”

Hannah thought about that for a moment. “They’re well

drained,” she said.

“Oh good!” Andrea gave a relieved smile. “Then I guess

I’ll have another piece!”

The parking lot at the Lake Eden Inn was full, but Hannah

“found” a space by parking at an angle with the rear end of

her cookie truck partially elevated on the rim of hard-packed

ice that had been left by the snowplow around the perimeter.

“Okay,” she said, opening her door. “You’re wearing

boots, aren’t you?”

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Joanne Fluke

“Of course. They’re the ugly silver moon boots Bill gave

me when I got pregnant with Tracey and he was afraid I’d

slip on the ice.”

“I thought you hated those.”

“I do, but they keep me from slipping on the ice. And besides, nobody’s going to see me until I get inside and then I’ll

change to my shoes.”

Hannah glanced down at her old moose-hide boots. She’d

left her shoes at The Cookie Jar. Unless she wanted to leave

her boots in the cloakroom and pad up to see Jenny in her

stocking feet, she’d better look for the pair of ballet-type

pull-on slippers she usually carried in the back of her truck.

“You do have shoes, don’t you?” Andrea asked, glancing

down at Hannah’s boots.

“I do.” Hannah did her best to exude confidence as she

opened the back of her truck and rummaged around for her

slippers. Luck was with her and she found them. “Here they

are,” she announced, holding them up for Andrea to see.

“Great. Let’s go then. It’s freezing out here.”

The air was crisp, the night inky black with the moon shining blue and cold against the snow. When Hannah looked up

at the night sky, the stars appeared jagged, as if they were

made of shattered ice crystals. There was a beauty in the

frosty night that made her wonder what it would have been

like to live in an ice cave. If anyone could live in an ice cave.

She really wasn’t sure.

“Brrrr! It’s must be close to zero!” Andrea moved a little

closer to Hannah. “I’m worried about the crab apple tree Bill

and Tracey planted in the backyard. I hear it’s supposed to

drop down to minus fifteen tonight.”

Her sister’s comment brought Hannah back from thoughts

of wooly mammoths and glaciers. “Where did you hear

that?”

“I saw the weather report on KCOW,” Andrea named the

local television station.

“Then don’t worry. They’re always wrong.”

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“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Remember last August when they said we were

going to have a whole week of rain? They called it the storm

of the century and said it would bring us at least six inches

before it cleared up. And then it was sunny and warm every

day?”

“I remember. I stood in line to buy a new umbrella and I

never used it.”

“Hold on,” Hannah said, grabbing Andrea’s arm. “Stand

right here and look over at the inn.”

“But why should …” Andrea swallowed the rest of her

own question as realization dawned. “Never mind. I get it.

This is where you left the path last night. And you found

Wayne’s body just a few feet from here.”

“Exactly. That’s why I want you to look at the inn. How

many windows can you see from here.”

There was a moment of silence while Andrea peered into

the night. “I can’t see the first floor at all,” she said. “The

trees are too tall. But I can see the last four rooms on the second floor. And if I can see them, they can see us.”

“Exactly. The moon was bright last night and if someone

in one of those rooms happened to be looking out toward the

parking lot …”

“They could have seen Wayne’s killer!” Andrea interrupted her. “Do you want to check with Sally to see who had

those rooms last night?”

“Absolutely. Chances are, all Sally’s guests were at the

party and those rooms were empty at the time Wayne was

murdered. But it can’t hurt to ask.”

The rest of the walk was accomplished in silence. Both sisters were chilled from the winter cold and didn’t feel like

speaking until they were sitting on a bench in the cloakroom

changing from boots to shoes.

“Do you want to see Jenny first?” Andrea asked.

“No. We’ll get the names from Sally and then we’ll go up

to visit Jenny.”

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“Fine with me. Just let me comb my hair and fix my

makeup.”

Hannah thumped the side of her head with her hand.

“Makeup. I knew I was forgetting something. If a woman

cries all night and all morning, is there anything she can do

with cosmetics in thirty minutes or so to make herself look as

if she hasn’t been crying?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Not in thirty minutes or so. Cosmetics are really good,

but they can’t perform miracles.”

“So if somebody cried that long, it would show?” Andrea

nodded and Hannah asked her next question. “How would

it show?”

“Well … there’s the obvious. Her eyes would be swollen

and the skin on her face would be puffy. It would be blotchy

too, but she might be able to cover that up with makeup. Are

we talking about Melinda Bergstrom here?”

“Yes. Norman and I saw her this afternoon and she looked

just as beautiful as she did when she was modeling.”

“Then she was lying if she said she’d been crying all night

and most of the morning.”

“She didn’t say it. Her brother Cory did.”

“Then Cory was lying. There are things you can do to reduce the swelling, but they all take time. Melinda wouldn’t

have looked beautiful unless … what was the lighting like?”

“It was daylight. We met her in a solarium filled with plants

and it had a glass ceiling. The sun was shining.”

“That cinches it!”

“What?”

“Sunlight. Even if she used the best makeup and applied it

like an artist, there’s no way she could hide it in strong sunlight.”

“That’s what I thought, but I wanted to check to make

sure.”

Andrea slipped on a pair of forest green shoes that went

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perfectly with her stylish pantsuit. “It’s pretty clear Melinda

didn’t love Wayne since she didn’t shed any tears for him. Do

you think the maid was right and Wayne was planning to divorce her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe Wayne told her he wanted a divorce and she

killed him.”

“Impossible.”

“Why not? It happens all the time on television. The rich

older husband says he wants a divorce, the gorgeous trophy

wife sees all that money flying out the window, and she kills

him before he can file the papers.”

“That makes perfect sense except for one thing.”

“What thing is that?”

“Melinda’s got an airtight alibi. Pierre from Le Petit Salon

was with her from seventhirty on. I stopped there to check

before Norman and I left the mall. He did Melinda’s hair at

the penthouse and they were having a glass of wine in the solarium when Mike and Bill knocked on the door to notify her

that Wayne was dead.”

“Drats!”

“I know. It would have tied everything up in a neat little

bow.”

Getting the list from Sally was easy. Resisting the dessert

buffet they were serving in the dining room was difficult.

Hannah was still thinking sinful thoughts about Sally’s newest

chocolate creation as they walked down the hallway and

pushed the button for the elevator. “Mike told me about his

interview with Jenny. He said she seemed to be grieving for

Wayne a lot more than Melinda was.”

“Really?”

“That’s what he thought. It’s up to us to see if we agree

with him. When we get up to Jenny’s room, make sure you sit

right next to her so you can check her makeup. I want to

know if she’s been crying.”

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Andrea looked a bit shocked. “But we know Jenny! She’s a

friend of Mother’s!”

“I know that, but this is a murder case. Everyone’s a suspect until they’re eliminated.”

The elevator doors slid shut and it shuddered slightly.

Then there was a series of whooshes and faint faraway machinery sounds that boomed and banged as they were lifted

to the second floor. The doors slid open to reveal a coral pink

wall with a gilt-edged mirror hanging over a granite-topped

table that Hannah was willing to bet had come from the

quarries at Cold Spring, Minnesota. There was a bouquet of

fresh flowers on the top of the table, but it was clear that the

bouquet had other origins. Since it was winter in the Midwest, Hannah was willing to bet that the flowers came from

warmer and sunnier places.

“Sorry,” Andrea said as they stepped out of the elevator

and started down the thickly carpeted hallway. “It’s just that

I remember Jenny, and I let my emotions get in the way. I’ll

check her makeup for you.”

“Thanks. I remember her too, and I liked her. Mike said

she was in her room alone at the time of Wayne’s murder, and

that means she doesn’t have an alibi. Let’s just hope that

she’ll tell us something that’ll clear her.”

The room Jenny occupied was at the end of the corridor

and it had a perfect view of the path leading to the parking

lot. It was a beautifully decorated mini-suite with a sitting

room containing a couch by the window, a television set, and

two chairs on either side of a coffee table. The sleeping area

was hidden behind two decorative folding doors that could

be closed or left open. Jenny had them open and Hannah

could see a queen-size bed with a flowered coverlet, a tall

dresser with ample drawers for any guest, a walk-in closet

with mirrored doors, and an archway that Hannah assumed

would lead to the bathroom.

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Jenny was just as Hannah had remembered her, a pleasantlooking woman in her late forties with brown hair, stylishly

cut, that was streaked with gray. She was dressed in black

slacks and a black sweater that was embroidered with Hannah’s favorite flower, lilacs.

“Hello, Jenny.” Hannah stepped in first and handed her

the cookies. “These are called Angel Pillows.”

“Some of your famous cookies. Thank you, Hannah.”

“We wanted to bring you something, because we’re so

sorry for your loss.”

The moment that the words were out of her mouth, Hannah wished that she could call them back. They were exactly

the same words that Norman had spoken to Melinda. But in

this case, they seemed more appropriate. One look at Jenny’s

swollen face, and Hannah was willing to bet that Mike was

right and she’d been crying all night and all day over her exhusband’s death.

Andrea gave Jenny a big hug. “This is so awful for you. I

can tell you’ve been crying your eyes out for hours and

hours. You still loved him, didn’t you?”

Hannah tried not to look as shocked as she felt. Andrea

had jumped in with both feet. She waited until her sister and

Jenny had seated themselves on the couch next to the window and then she took a chair directly across from them and

waited for Jenny’s response.

“It’s true,” Jenny said with a sigh, “even though Wayne

could be a real pain at times. And both of you know how

cheap he could be. It used to make me angry when he’d give

me something I really needed for birthdays and Christmases,

like a set of tires for my car, or a new steam iron, or a toaster.

He just hated to spend money on anything he thought was

frivolous. I think it was probably a reaction to his background.”

“Really?” Andrea prompted.

“Wayne’s father owned a small general store in South

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Dakota. Wayne told me it was thriving when he started first

grade, but then his father made some bad investments and he

lost everything. They had to move to Wayne’s grandparents’

farm and they barely made both ends meet. I’m no psychiatrist, but I think Wayne was afraid he’d lose it all, the way his

father did, and he’d have to go back to a life like that. And

that’s why he hated to spend any of the money he earned.”

“You’re probably right,” Andrea responded. “That would

be enough to turn anyone into a careful spender.”

“Careful spender?” Jenny gave a little laugh. “That’s a polite way to put it. Wayne was a tightwad. There’s no two

ways about it. But he was my tightwad and I loved him.

That’s one of the reasons I left town. I was devastated when

he filed for divorce so he could marry that …” Jenny stopped

and swallowed hard, “ … that model of his. And he spent so

much money on her. Every time he gave her a gift, my friends

would call to tell me about her new piece of jewelry, or her

new car, or whatever.”

Andrea looked very sympathetic. “That must have been

difficult to hear, especially when he’d been so cheap with

you.”

“Oh it was, believe me! But I really thought he’d come to

his senses and admit he’d made a big mistake.”

“And he’d come crawling back to you?”

“That’s right. But he didn’t. And after the divorce was final

and they set a wedding date, I had to leave.”

“But he gave you enough money to get along, didn’t he?”

“Yes. I didn’t get rich, but I got a decent settlement.”

“Do you mind if I use your bathroom, Jenny?” Hannah

broke into what had been basically a two-person conversation.

“Of course I don’t mind. Just go through the bedroom and

to the left.”

Hannah was glad when Andrea started talking, claiming

Jenny’s attention once again. She got up and headed out of

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the room, wondering just how long she could be gone. The

bathroom excuse had worked really well at Melinda’s penthouse and it was worth trying here in Jenny’s mini-suite.

Hannah was almost positive that Jenny had loved Wayne,

but that didn’t mean she hadn’t killed him.

Since the folding doors were open and Jenny could be

watching, Hannah headed straight for the bathroom. Once

inside she was hidden from view, and Hannah leaned against

the doorjamb, letting her eyes do a search of the room.

Everything was perfectly ordinary, from the three nice suits

hanging in the closet to the array of cosmetics on the dresser

table. Hannah was actually considering crawling across the

floor to search under the bed when she spotted something

unusual in the corner.

It was a large pink box with purple stars scattered across

its surface. Because she’d tried to buy it for Tracey, Hannah

knew that Teensy’s environments came in bright pink boxes

with purple stars. But what was a divorced woman on a tight

budget doing with an expensive children’s toy? Could Carrie

be right? Had Jenny been pregnant when she’d left Lake

Eden? There was only one way to find out and Hannah got

straight to it.

“I see you’ve got a Teensy environment,” Hannah addressed Jenny as she came out into the living room again.

“Oh, yes. Yes, I do. I picked it up at the airport in Minneapolis right after I landed.”

“Is it for your daughter?”

Jenny clasped her hands together tightly as she nodded.

“Yes, it’s for Anna. She’s five now. But I never told anyone

here in Lake Eden. How did you know?”

“Carrie thought you were pregnant when you left, but she

wasn’t sure. Is Wayne her father?”

“Yes.”

“Did he know?”

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Jenny’s face turned pale. “I was going to tell him this

morning. He … He’s the reason I came back here.”

The story came out in bits and pieces, interspersed with

fresh tears, but Hannah managed to put it all together. Wayne

had called Jenny in Florida and asked her to come back to

Lake Eden. He told her that he’d made a terrible mistake

when he’d left her for Melinda and he begged for her forgiveness.

“He said he wanted to get back together.” Jenny stopped

to dab at her eyes with a handkerchief that had been drier at

the start of their conversation. “And he said he’d already told

Melinda. We were supposed to meet this morning for breakfast and work out the details.”

“And that’s when you were going to tell him about

Anna?” Andrea asked her.

“Yes. I didn’t want to do it on the phone. I wanted to see

his face, judge his reaction, make sure he really wanted his

daughter.”

She wanted Wayne alive, not dead, Hannah thought. But

the lack of discernable motive didn’t completely clear her.

“I didn’t tell the police everything I did,” Jenny admitted,

looking more than a little embarrassed. “I guess I was afraid

that handsome detective would think I was acting like a

teenager with her first crush.”

“Why? What did you do?” Hannah asked, giving her an

encouraging smile.

“Wayne and I had a signal when we were in high school.

He lived on the next block and when he walked by my window and I was home, I used to open it and coo like a mourning dove. It was my way of saying, ‘ I love you.’ He’d whistle

back like a whippoorwill and that was his way of saying, ‘ I

love you, too.’”

“That’s sweet,” Andrea said.

Sweet, but silly, Hannah thought, but of course she didn’t

say it. Instead, she asked, “Did you coo at Wayne when he

walked past your window?”

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“No. I was all ready to do it, but he never walked past.”

“Is it possible you missed him?” Andrea asked her.

“No. I sat right there waiting. I was really excited to see

him again, even if it was just through a window. I kept looking for Wayne right up until I saw all the flashing lights when

the deputies drove up in front.”

! % { # 9

ANGEL PILLOWS

Preheat oven to 275 degrees F., rack

in the middle position.

(Not a misprint—that’s two

hundred seventy-five degrees F.)

Hannah’s 1st Note: Don’t even THINK about making

these if it’s raining. Meringue does best on very dry days.

3 egg whites (save the yolks to add to scrambled

eggs)

1⁄4 teaspoon cream of tartar

1⁄2 teaspoon vanilla

1⁄4 teaspoon salt

1 cup white (granulated) sugar

2 Tablespoons flour (that’s 1⁄8 cup)

1 cup chocolate chips (6-ounce package—I used

Ghirardelli’s)

1⁄2 cup chopped nuts (I used pecans)

Separate the egg whites and let them come up to room

temperature. This will give you more volume when you

beat them.

Prepare your baking sheets by lining them with parchment paper (works best) or brown parcel-wrapping paper.

Spray the paper with Pam or another nonstick cooking

spray and dust it lightly with flour.

Hannah’s 2nd Note: You can do this by hand, but it’s a

lot easier with an electric mixer.

! % { # 9

128

! % { # 9

Beat the egg whites with the cream of tartar, vanilla, and

salt until they are stiff enough to hold a soft peak. Add the

cup of sugar gradually, sprinkling it in by quarter cups and

beating hard for ten seconds or so after each sprinkling.

Sprinkle in the flour and mix it in at low speed, or fold it in

with an angel food cake whisk.

Gently fold in the chocolate chips and the chopped nuts

with a rubber spatula.

Drop little mounds of dough on your paper-lined cookie

sheet. If you place four mounds in a row and you have five

rows, you’ll end up with 20 cookies per sheet.

Bake at 275 degrees F. for approximately 40 (forty) minutes, or until the meringue part of the cookie is hard to the

touch.

Cool on the paper-lined cookie sheet by setting it on a

wire rack. When the cookies are completely cool, peel

them carefully from the paper and store them in an airtight

container in a dry place.

Hannah’s 3rd Note: The refrigerator is NOT a dry place!

Yield: 3 to 4 dozen melt-in-your-mouth cookies.

! % { # 9

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Chapter

! Eleven #

“Sorry I’m so late tonight, Moishe,” Hannah apologized

to her furry roommate as she spooned some vanilla

yogurt into one of the antique cut glass dessert dishes that

Delores had given her several Christmases ago. It had been

seventhirty by the time she’d dropped Andrea off at her

house and driven home. Of course she’d fed Moishe right

away, and now it was time for a little dessert.

“Go ahead and eat,” Hannah told him carrying the dish

out to the coffee table and setting it down. “I’ll have mine

later. I need to make a few notes while the conversation with

Jenny is still fresh in my mind.”

While her cat licked rather daintily at the yogurt, oblivious

to the fact that Hannah’s mother would have suffered a coronary event if she’d seen how her expensive gift was being

used, Hannah paged through what she thought of as her

murder book and jotted down the new facts she’d learned

from Wayne’s ex-wife.

“Wayne had to walk around the side of the building,” she

said, causing Moishe to look at up her in midlick. “There’s

no other way to get to the parking lot. But Jenny swears he

didn’t and that’s substantiated by Cyril Murphy, who also

swears he didn’t see Wayne.”

Chin in hand, unaware that she was a modern, female,

clothed version of Rodin’s The Thinker, Hannah went

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through the possibilities. “There’s only one conclusion to

reach. Even though I saw him go out that way, Wayne didn’t

walk from the back door to the parking lot.”

Moishe looked up at her and purred, and Hannah interpreted that as approval for her logic. “Thanks. I know my

conclusion is logical, but it doesn’t make sense. I followed the

trail of candy canes that fell out of the hole in Wayne’s pocket

and his body was only a few feet from the path. The way it

stands now, I said goodbye to Wayne and he went out the

back door in his Santa suit. He disappeared before he went

around the side of the building and down the path to the

parking lot, but he reappeared behind the snow bank, dead.

That’s impossible. Or if it’s not impossible, I can’t think of

any scenario that could account for it.”

The phone rang, and Hannah almost cheered. It temporarily interrupted her frustration and she was smiling as she

reached out to answer it. It was Norman and her smile grew

wider.

“Hi, Norman. What’s new with you?”

“A lot. I just finished doing a little research. One of the

plants Melinda showed us this afternoon has small pink blossoms that contain deadly poisonous stamens in the center.”

“Which plant was that?”

“Fresindodendrun Rhochlepeous, the giant variety. The

dwarf is perfectly benign.”

“I don’t remember it.”

“No reason you should. It was just a plant with green

leaves and small pink blossoms. The only reason I looked it

up was that you said it was pretty, and Melinda gave kind of

a funny smile.”

“But she must have shown us a hundred different plants.

How did you remember the name?”

“I didn’t. I took along my pocket recorder and … hold

on. Cuddles is climbing the bookcase again and she’s stuck

on The Republic.”

Hannah waited while Norman rescued Cuddles, the cat

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he’d recently adopted, and he was back on the line. “I didn’t

know you read Plato.”

“One of my friends in Seattle gave me his complete works.

She thought it would expand my mind.”

Hannah gripped the phone a little tighter, wondering if the

“friend” had been Beverly Thorndike, Norman’s former fiancée who was now a dentist in Seattle. But before she could

even think about asking, which she wouldn’t have done in

any case, Norman went on talking.

“The plant’s common name is Flower of the Shroud, and

the symptoms of poisoning are virtually undetectable unless

you already suspect it and know what to look for.”

“And you know what to look for?”

“I do now. It causes renal failure over a period of several

weeks. The symptoms are swelling and a slight yellowing of

the skin. She did it, Hannah. And when the poison didn’t

work fast enough, she hit him over the head.”

“For the money?”

“Yes. It’s a powerful motive, Hannah.”

“But Melinda couldn’t have done it. You know that. You

were with me when we talked to Pierre. He swears he was

with her the whole time. And for proof, he said to just look

at her roots and see if we could find any brown.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. It’s a blonde-thing. Andrea explained it to

me. Did you think he was lying?”

“No. I just wish I could ignore the facts and go with my

gut instinct. I know Melinda had something to do with

Wayne’s death. Everything about her is such a fake.”

Hannah couldn’t help but smile. That was exactly the way

she felt about Melinda.

“Okay, so maybe Melinda’s in the clear,” Norman went

on. “How about Cory? He seems devoted to her. I think

Melinda could have talked him into killing Wayne.”

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“Maybe she could have, but he didn’t do it, either. Cory

was with me when Wayne was killed.”

There was a long silence while Norman thought that over.

And then he gave a long sigh. “Pretty handy, if you ask me!

They’ve both got motives and they’ve both got alibis.”

“I know. Hold on a minute and let me write down what

you said about the poison.”

Hannah’s pen flew across the paper as she jotted notes. She

only hoped that she could read them later. It was possible

that Melinda had been poisoning Wayne with stamens from

the plant that Norman had mentioned when his life had been

ended, much more abruptly, by a blow to the head. If that

were the case and Doc Knight collaborated that Wayne’s liver

was enlarged, Melinda could be charged with attempted

murder.

“Hannah?”

“I’m here. I’m just wondering if I can get Doc Knight on

the phone tonight and find out if Wayne’s liver was enlarged.”

“I’ll do it, and I’ll call you as soon as I know. Are you

going out tonight?”

“I might run out to the mall. I want to question Cory

again.”

“Why? You said he couldn’t have done it.”

“I need to find out the name of Melinda’s gardener.”

“Okay. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Take your new

cell phone with you and don’t forget to turn it on. Doc

Knight will probably have to get back to me, and I’ll let you

know as soon as I know.”

“Thanks, Norman,” Hannah said, hanging up the phone

and turning to the cat, who couldn’t be less interested. “I have

to know if Melinda or Cory requested that particular plant,

or if either of them knew it was poisonous. I’ll think of some

excuse to ask Cory for the gardener’s name.”

Moishe looked up at his mistress and gave a yowl that was

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Joanne Fluke

midway between, Figure something out, lady with no fur,

and, If you’re leaving, don’t forget to give me more food.

Hannah recognized the look, and gave him more food. She

was about to go out the door when the phone rang again.

“So soon?” she said, assuming it was Norman with Doc

Knight’s answer.

“So soon what?”

It was Mike’s voice. Hannah did an abrupt turn-around

and apologized as she did so. “Sorry, Mike. I thought you

were someone else.”

“I was me the last time I checked.”

“Of course you were. So what’s up?”

“There isn’t any.”

“There isn’t any what?”

“Hole. There’s no hole, Hannah. I called the crime lab and

they checked it for me. No hole.”

It all came back in the rush. She’d asked Mike to check the

Santa suit Wayne was wearing for the hole in the pocket. But

there wasn’t a hole. And that meant that Andrea had been

right about her Hansel and Gretel analogy. The miniature

candy canes had been dropped deliberately. Had Wayne known

that he was in danger and dropped candy canes to lead someone to the scene of his murder?

Hannah reined in her imagination. No, that was simply

too far-fetched. But what if the killer had murdered Wayne

and then dropped the candy canes deliberately so that the

body would be found?

“Are you okay, Hannah?”

“I’m fine,” Hannah pulled herself together enough to answer normally.

“Anything new on your end?”

“Not really. It’s all speculation.”

“Okay, then. Let me know if you get anything.”

“I will.”

Hannah felt a bit guilty as she hung up the phone, but she

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told herself that there was no reason to tell Mike about the

poisonous plant that Norman had discovered growing in

Melinda’s orangery. She’d tell him if Doc Knight confirmed

that Wayne’s liver was enlarged, but not before. In the meantime, she had to hurry if she wanted to get out to the mall before it closed for the night.

Chapter

! Twelve #

The mall was closing. Hannah could tell by the long string

of cars coming toward her as she approached the entrance. One frustrated Christmas shopper was beeping his

horn, as if the sound might make the dozens of cars in front

of him go faster.

Hannah turned in at the outside entrance to Bergstrom’s

Department Store. There was no one behind her and the

parking lot that flanked the Christmas tree lot at the side of

the store was deserted. Hannah pulled right up in the loading

zone next to the lot and jumped out of her truck to rush toward the door. She ran past a sign saying that they were expecting a fresh shipment of Douglas fir trees tonight, past

another that listed the prices per foot, and around the corner

of the building to the entrance. The bright lights were off and

there was only dim lighting inside the store, but she hoped

she could catch an employee leaving late who would call

Cory and ask him to come down from the penthouse and

talk with her.

The door was locked, but she could see someone moving

inside. Hannah hammered on the door with gloved fists until

she got his attention and he moved toward her. The lights

were dim, but as he drew closer she realized that he was in a

Santa suit.

“I’m Hannah Swensen and I need to see Cory,” she

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shouted, hoping he could hear her through the heavy glass

door. “It’s really important.”

“Hold on,” the man dressed as Santa shouted back. Then

he unlocked the door and ushered her in.

“Is Cory still here?” Hannah asked him.

“He’s here.”

The Santa gave a chuckle and pulled off his hat, white wig,

and beard. It was Cory! Hannah was so startled, her mouth

dropped open.

“I didn’t recognize you in that costume,” she said, feeling

a bit embarrassed. “I guess you must have been playing Santa

tonight.”

“That’s right. The guy I hired to replace Wayne called in

sick.”

“Well, you make a great Santa,” Hannah complimented

him, and then she got down to business. “I came out here to

ask you a couple of questions.”

“Ask away.” Cory said.

“The first thing I need is the name of Melinda’s gardener.”

“Why do you need that?”

Hannah was all ready with her excuse. She’d devised it on

her drive out to the mall. “I told Mother about Melinda’s

beautiful solarium and one of her friends wants to hire her

gardener to do something similar on a smaller scale for her.”

“Okay. It’s Curtis something-or-other. I can’t think of his

last name right now, but he comes tomorrow and I’ll get his

card for you.”

“There’s one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m having trouble with the timeline on the night that

Wayne was killed. I saw him leave the inn the back way,

wearing his Santa suit. And that’s the last time I saw him

alive. I found his body later in the evening.”

“Right. What’s troubling about that?”

“Cyril Murphy was out in front of the inn, working on

Florence Evans’s car. He didn’t see Wayne walk past and

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Joanne Fluke

Wayne had to walk past him to get to the path where I found

him.”

“That’s easy to explain. Come with me for a second. I need

to turn off more lights.” Hannah walked into the interior of

the store with Cory as he continued to talk. “Wayne wouldn’t

have said anything to Cyril. For one thing, they were on the

outs because of the limousine thing. And for another thing,

Wayne had laryngitis. If Cyril didn’t see him, Wayne probably hurried on by and figured that was a good thing.”

“That’s exactly what I thought, at first. But when I went

out to the inn tonight, I talked to one of Sally’s guests and her

room has a perfect view of the side of the building and the

path to the parking lot. She was in her room when Wayne left

the stage. She heard the applause he got. That’s when she

started watching for him to pass by her window. But he never

did.”

“She must have looked away for a minute or two and

missed him. I watched him walk around the corner and then

I dashed back in. It was cold out there! And I know he didn’t

come back inside for any reason. I was standing right there

waiting for you, and I would have seen him down at the end

of the hall.”

“I’m sure you would have.” Hannah gave a quick nod.

“It’s not like he could blend with the party crowd. That

Santa suit would stick out like a sore thumb.”

“You’re absolutely right. Do you mind if I take this off,

Hannah? These things are really heavy.”

“Go ahead.”

Hannah watched while Cory took off the top part of his

Santa suit. He was wearing a regular shirt under it and that

gave her an idea. “Think about this, Cory,” she said. “What

if Wayne was wearing regular clothes under his Santa suit?

Then he could have taken off the suit, hidden it somewhere,

and slipped back inside. Would you have seen him if he’d

done that?”

CANDY CANE MURDER

139

Cory began to frown. “I’m not sure. Maybe not.”

“Was Wayne in the habit of wearing regular clothes under

his Santa suit?”

Cory’s frown deepened. “I don’t know. Let me call Melinda and I’ll find out.”

As Cory disappeared around the corner, Hannah came

close to laughing. He looked ridiculous in big red Santa pants

with white fur cuffs, topped by a regular shirt. It reminded

her a bit of a centaur, the top half of a man rising from the

back half of a horse. If he’d greeted her that way at the door,

she would have recognized him immediately. But it was almost impossible to tell who was inside a Santa suit. Unless

you recognized the voice, of course.

It was one of those frightening moments of clarity when

the pieces of the puzzle flew together from every direction.

They locked into place with a series of lightning fast clicks,

sounding like a million tiny firecrackers that illuminated the

dim and confused picture in her mind. Cory killed Wayne.

He’d rolled Wayne’s body behind the snow bank, planted the

candy canes so someone would discover him, and then, while

everyone was waiting for Wayne to appear as Santa, he’d put

on another Santa suit, perhaps even the one he was wearing

tonight, and appeared in Sally’s kitchen as Santa Wayne with

laryngitis. It was the reason he’d seemed a bit confused when

Sally had handed him the receipt from Mayor Bascomb.

Santa Wayne would have known what it was, but Santa Cory

didn’t.

Immediately after the party, Santa Cory had stepped outside the back door, ditched his Santa suit, and stepped back

in, dressed for the party.

He used me as his alibi and I fell for it! Hannah thought,

gritting her teeth. Norman’s gut is right. Cory is probably in

it with Melinda. And at almost the same time she had another thought that had her moving at top speed toward the

door. He knows I know and he’s going to kill me!

140

Joanne Fluke

A third thought, one in bright neon capital letters for emphasis, flashed across the screen in her mind. RUN, it said.

RUN FAST!

Hannah ran faster than she’d ever run in her life, and she

arrived at the heavy glass door, breathless. Locked. It was

locked and Cory had the keys. There had to be another way

out!

Another thought flashed through Hannah’s mind. They

expect another shipment of trees and I parked in the loading

zone. The moment it occurred to her, Hannah rushed toward

the annex.

The annex was a large enclosure with three cinderblock

walls. The fourth wall was the back wall of the store. In the

summer, this area was used as a garden center and shade

cloth was attached to form a temporary roof. In December, a

sliding roof was attached. It was capable of being opened

when the weather permitted, and closed at night when the

store was locked. Right now it was locked and a single rope

of white twinkle lights were strung across the ceiling to provide a bit of light. Tall space heaters, the type used in patio

restaurants, sat every few feet to provide warmth. Now they

were cold and dead, the way Hannah would be if she didn’t

get out the delivery door and into her truck before Cory

caught her.

Dozens of frozen trees were stacked by the far wall, far

away from the nearest space heater. They were still in their

protective netting and they looked like cone-shaped green

carrots. Employees would take them into the thawing and

flocking tent, a large area draped with heavy construction

plastic that held in the heat from several space heaters. The

trees would thaw and their branches would loosen so that

prospective buyers could see their real shapes.

The delivery door was right in front of her. Hannah

grabbed the handle to jerk it open, but the corrugated metal

door didn’t budge. It was locked. The stacked trees she’d seen

CANDY CANE MURDER

141

must have been the Douglas firs and they’d been delivered already.

Hannah eyed the wall. It was at least twelve feet high.

Even if she could somehow manage to climb it, the sliding

roof was closed. There was no escape there. Her only chance

of surviving was to hide and hope that Cory hadn’t seen her

dash into the annex. He couldn’t search the whole store. It

would be impossible. She might be able to elude him until

time for the store to open in the morning.

Attempting to think positive thoughts was difficult. It was

cold in the annex and although she was dressed for winter, a

parka wouldn’t protect her all night. If Rayne Phillips on

KCOW television was right, and Andrea had reported it accurately, it was going to be a bitterly cold night.

The warmest place in the annex would be the thawing and

flocking tent. Hannah lifted the flap, dashed into the tent,

and gave a huge sigh of relief. The large area was filled with

thawed trees and their branches would hide her from view.

And it was at least twenty degrees warmer than it had been in

the main part of the annex.

Hannah chose a spot in the very center of the group of

trees waiting to be flocked because those had the fullest

branches. The tree in front of her bore a tag saying that it

had been purchased by Doug Greerson for the lobby of the

Lake Eden First Mercantile Bank. The word “white” was

written under Doug’s name and Hannah knew that he always

ordered a tree flocked in white, and Lydia Gradin, his head

teller, trimmed it with blue lights and decorations.

At least there was no snow on the ground. Hannah shifted

from foot to foot, trying to stay warm. She judged it to be

several degrees above freezing in the warming tent, but the

frozen ground beneath her feet seemed to send up cold waves

through the soles of her boots, and she shivered. It would

help if she could move closer to the space heater, but the trees

surrounding it were just starting to thaw and their branches

weren’t full enough to hide her.

142

Joanne Fluke

Hannah glanced at the tree on her left. It was for Bertie

Sraub, the owner of Lake Eden’s beauty parlor, the Cut ’n

Curl. Naturally Bertie’s tree would be pink. Two cans of pink

flocking sat on the ground under her tree, caps already loosened, all ready to be used in the morning. The former owner

of the Cut ’n Curl had decorated the shop with pink flamingoes. While Bertie wasn’t as wild about the huge birds as the

former owner had been, she did like pink and she’d left the

walls and the shades that color.

Hannah’s heart leapt into her throat as she heard heels

clicking against tile. Someone was coming! The door to the

annex opened, letting in a bright burst of light, and Cory

stood there in silhouette.

“I know you’re here, Hannah. I saw you run in the door.”

Hannah’s heart raced, thumping so loudly she was almost

afraid he’d hear it. Cory knew she was here! But perhaps he

was just faking, hoping that she’d panic and give away her

position.

“Guess the cat’s got your tongue, but that’s fine. We can

do this the hard way. I haven’t played Hide ’n Seek since I

was a kid. You can change hiding places if you like. I’ll be

right back.”

The door closed, cutting off the bright light. Hannah wasn’t

sure whether Cory had left, or not. It didn’t really matter. She

had chosen the optimal spot and she wasn’t going to move

unless she had to.

A weapon. Hannah glanced around in the dim light and

cursed neat employees. There was nothing useful on the ground,

no carelessly dropped screwdrivers, hammers, or metal Christmas tree stands. Except for the two cans of pink flocking

under Bertie’s tree, the area was as spotless as an army barracks right before an inspection.

Hannah moved quickly, flipping off the caps and shaking

the cans of flocking. She didn’t have much in her arsenal, but

she planned to use what she had. If she could hide here until

CANDY CANE MURDER

143

Cory lifted the flap and came into the tent, she could hit him

in the face with …

There was an explosion of lights and sound that made

Hannah’s senses reel. Cory had turned on the bright lights

and music. Santa’s Winter Wonderland tree lot was in full

swing. Through Hannah’s slightly blurred perspective behind

the plastic sheeting, the red and green Christmas train

chugged its way around the perimeter of the area, the colored

lights on the huge Christmas trees in the corners flashed on

and off, and the loudspeakers blared the strains of “ We Wish

You a Merry Christmas ” sung by a chorus of penguins with

red and green stocking caps next to the cash register.

For one long moment, Hannah just stood there, too shocked

to do more than blink. And then she saw Cory coming

straight toward the thawing and flocking tent with an ax in

his hand, and her survival instinct kicked in. When in doubt,

attack. It was one of her father’s favorite phrases. She’d always thought it was original with him until she’d heard it in

an old movie. But it seemed appropriate now, and Hannah

wasted no time thinking about it. She just waited until Cory

lifted the flap and stepped inside, and then she hurtled forward and blazed away with double-barreled spray cans, covering his face with pink flocking before he could even raise

his arms.

Cory screamed as the spray hit his eyes. He clawed at her

but a blind, pink-flocked adversary was not that difficult to

elude. Hannah stepped to the side, sprayed him again, and he

dropped the ax. Hannah grabbed it and tossed it into the

stand of trees behind her.

He was trying to wipe his eyes and Hannah knew it would

be only a matter of time before he recovered enough to strike

out at her. She had to render him immobile while he was still

reeling from pain and shock.

The netting machine. The moment that Hannah remembered the machine she’d seen right outside the entrance to the

144

Joanne Fluke

tent, she grabbed his arm and pushed him through the opening. Another spray in the eyes and another shove with her

hand, and he fell onto the chute where trees were placed for

netting so that they could be carried home on the roofs of

cars. Two more sprays for good measure and she turned on

the machine. With a grinding of gears caused by a burden

that was twice as heavy as usual, Cory was carried forward

to be wrapped with several layers of netting that rendered

him immobile and covered him with bright yellow plastic

mesh from head to toe.

There was a phone on a pole decorated like a candy cane

with red and white stripes. Hannah dialed nine, the usual

code to get an outside line, and was rewarded by a dial tone.

Nine-one-one seemed unnecessary. Cory was trussed up like

a mummy, and there was no way he could get free. Instead of

dialing the police, Hannah called Norman.

“Hi, Hannah!” Norman sounded glad to hear from her. “I

tried calling you a couple of minutes ago, but your cell phone

was off.”

“It’s recharging,” Hannah said, crossing her fingers at the

little white lie she’d just told, and hoping he wouldn’t be too

upset with her if he ever discovered that she had it in her

purse, but it was turned off and she’d forgotten it was there.

“Did you hear from Doc Knight?”

“He called me back about five minutes ago. I was way off

base, Hannah. He checked and Wayne’s liver was fine.”

“That’s okay. I’m sure Melinda would have tried to poison

him if she’d known that her plant was poisonous. But it doesn’t

matter now. I’ve got the killer. It’s Cory.”

“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.

146

Joanne Fluke

“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.”

CANDY CANE MURDER

147

“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?”

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Joanne Fluke

“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.

! % { # 9

CANDY CANE BAR COOKIES

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack

in the middle position.

1 cup butter (2 sticks, 1⁄2 pound)

1 cup white (granulated) sugar

1 egg (just whip it up with a fork in a glass)

1⁄4 teaspoon peppermint extract

1⁄2 teaspoon salt

2⁄3 cup finely crushed miniature candy canes (mea -

sure 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.

! % { # 9

149

! % { # 9

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 melted

chips like frosting with a rubber spatula or frosting knife.

Cool completely and then cut into brownie-sized pieces.

! % { # 9

150

Index of

! Recipes #

Peppermint Martini

14

Pepper Mint Martini

14

Lemon Whippersnappers

38

Regency Seed Cakes

52

Quiche Lorraine

64

Holiday Quiche

68

Christmas Date Cookies

79

Chocolate Candy Cane Cookies

90

Devil’s Food Cookies

103

Linda’s Pecan Shortbread Cookies

113

Angel Pillows

128

Candy Cane Bar Cookies

149

Baking Conversion Chart

These conversions are approximate, but they’ll work just fine

for Hannah Swensen’s recipes.

VOLUME:

U.S.

Metric

1⁄2 teaspoon

2 milliliters

1 teaspoon

5 milliliters

1 tablespoon

15 milliliters

1⁄4 cup

50 milliliters

1⁄3 cup

75 milliliters

1⁄2 cup

125 milliliters

3⁄4 cup

175 milliliters

1 cup

1⁄4 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.

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 flipflops.

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

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Laura Levine

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 fiftysomething 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 decora-160

Laura Levine

tions 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 alreadydamp 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

THE DANGERS OF CANDY CANES

161

time. It’s a life-threatening hobby, I know, but it adds zest to

my days and breaks up the monotony of writing about NoLeak 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 goodbye.

“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.”

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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

Seymour.”

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.

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163

And if all that weren’t bad enough, I have to spend an entire week feeling like a blimp next to my cousin Joanie, a perfect size two—and that’s after giving birth to Dexter.

Suffice it to say, the last time I wore a size two, I was in

preschool.

All of which explains why I turned down that cheeseburger. I simply had to shed a few pounds before Florida.

True, I was feeling a bit hungry, but I made up my mind to

stop off at the market and buy myself a nice healthy 100calorie apple. That would tide me over till dinner. No burgers

for me. No way. No how.

Okay, so I didn’t stop off at the market for an apple. I

stopped off at McDonald’s for a quarter pounder. What can I

say? I got in my car with the noblest of intentions, but the

smell of Maxine’s burger hounded me like a hari krishna at

an airport, and I couldn’t resist.

After licking the last of the ketchup from my fingers, I

drove to the home of Garth Janken, Seymour’s recently deceased customer. Janken lived in the megabucks north-ofWilshire section of Westwood, a bucolic bit of suburbia,

which—in the interests of protecting the innocent and

staving off a lawsuit—I shall call Hysteria Lane.

The houses were straight out of a Town & Country spread,

dotted with gracious elms and white picket fences running

riot with rosebushes.

At this time of year, however, landscaping took a backseat

to Christmas decorations. Clearly the people on Hysteria

Lane took their decorating seriously. No mere Christmaslights-and-a-tree-in-the-window on this block. Everywhere I

looked, I saw animated Christmas figures. Santas waved,

reindeers nodded, elves pranced. For a minute I thought I’d

made a wrong turn and wound up at Disneyland. A far cry

from my own modest neck of the woods, where the only animated figure I’d ever seen on a lawn was Mr. Hurlbut, the

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guy in the duplex across the street, after he’d had one eggnog

too many.

The theme of Garth Janken’s house was Christmas in

Candyland. I could tell this was the theme by the gold-embossed

CHRISTMAS IN CANDYLAND banner draped out front. Candy

canes and sugarplums dotted the pathway to the front door,

and perched on the roof on a carpet of pink flocking, amid a

jungle of even more candy canes, was an elfin creature that I

assumed was either the Sugarplum Fairy or Mrs. Claus after

gastric bypass surgery.

As I climbed out of my car, I saw a mailman approaching.

I decided to question him, hoping he’d seen something that

would get Seymour off the hook.

“Excuse me.” I flashed him my most winning smile. “Can

you spare a few minutes?”

“I’m afraid I’m sort of busy right now,” he said, sorting

through some letters. “These weeks before Christmas are

nuts.”

He was an energetic guy, in a pith helmet and USPS shorts,

tanned and well-muscled from toting all that mail in the sun.

What a difference from my mail carrier, a somewhat less than

motivated employee who manages to deliver my Christmas

cards just in time for Valentine’s Day.

“I promise it won’t take long. I’m investigating Garth

Janken’s death.”

“You a cop?”

“No,” I demurred, “I’m a private investigator.”

He looked me up and down, taking in my elastic waist

jeans and unruly mop of curls lassoed into a scrunchy.

“You’re kidding, right?”

I get that a lot. There’s something about elastic waist jeans

and scrunchies that tend to take away your credibility as a

P.I.

“No, I’m not kidding. I’m representing Seymour Fiedler of

Fiedler on the Roof Roofers, and I want to ask you a few

questions about Mr. Janken’s death.”

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165

“Man, what a mess,” he said, shaking his head. “They’ll

never get the blood out of the driveway.” He looked over at

the Jankens’s house and sighed. “Poor Mrs. Janken. Such a

nice lady. I hope she’ll be okay.”

“Do you know if Mr. Janken had any enemies?”

He barked out a laugh.

“Ring a doorbell on this street, you’ll find an enemy. Garth

was an attorney. One of those sue-happy characters always

threatening to haul somebody into court. Just about everybody disliked the guy.”

“Anybody dislike him enough to want to see him dead?”

He blinked in surprise.

“You think what happened to Garth was murder?”

“Possibly.”

His eyes took on a guarded look.

“Hey, I don’t want to go accusing anybody of murder.”

Rats. I hate it when people are discreet.

Then he took a deep breath and continued.

“But Mr. Cox sure looked like he wanted to kill him sometimes.”

Yippee. He wasn’t so discreet after all.

“Mr. Cox?”

He pointed across the street to a mock Tudor house with

an elaborate display of animated reindeer out front.

“Willard Cox. He and Garth were always at each other’s

throats. Especially this time of year, over the Christmas decorations.”

“They fought over Christmas decorations?”

“It’s nuts, I know. But the neighborhood association gives

out an award for the best decorations, and the competition

gets pretty fierce. Folks around here will do anything to win.

You know what Garth’s dying words to his wife were? Not ‘I

love you’ or ‘Hold me close.’ No, his dying words were, ‘Call

in a decorator and finish the roof!’ Which is exactly what she

did as soon as the police let her.

“Anyhow, Garth always won the contest and it drove

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Willard crazy. Before Garth and his wife moved here, Willard

used to take home the prize every year. He was constantly accusing Garth of stealing his ideas and sabotaging his displays. Last year he claimed Garth beheaded his Santa Claus.

Things really blew up a few months ago when Garth ran over

Pumpkin.”

“Pumpkin?”

“Willard’s dog. Willard and his wife used to keep Pumpkin

out in the front yard. She barked a lot and Garth was always

complaining about her. One day Pumpkin got loose from the

yard while Garth was backing out of his driveway, and he

ran her over. He claimed it was an accident, but Willard was

convinced he did it on purpose. That’s when I thought he was

gonna kill him.”

Wow, this guy was a fount of information, Wolf Blitzer

with a mailbag.

But the fount was about to run dry.

“Hey,” he said, checking his watch, “I’ve really got to go

now.”

“Just one more question.” I trotted after him as he started

up the street. “You ever see anybody up on the roof in the

days before Mr. Janken’s death?”

“Nope. Nobody but the roofers.”

Sad to say, it was an answer I was to hear over and over

again in the days to come.

I thanked him for his time, and headed back to Candyland

to speak with the bereaved widow.

Cathy Janken was a real-life version of the sugarplum fairy

on her roof—a delicate blonde with porcelain cheeks and

enormous blue eyes. She came to the door in a pastel pink

sweat suit the same color as the flocking on her roof, her

platinum hair caught up in a wispy ponytail.

I gazed at her enviously. Sure, her husband had just died.

But on the plus side, the woman actually managed to look

skinny in a pink sweat suit. If I dared to wrap my body in

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167

pink velour, I’d bear an unsettling resemblance to the Michelin man.

“Mrs. Janken?” I asked, trying to figure out if her ashen

pallor was a result of grief or sunblock.

“Yes,” she said, blinking out into the bright sunshine.

“Can I help you?”

Something told me she might not want to talk to me if she

knew I was a private eye, not when she was in the midst of

suing my client for several million dollars. So I’d decided to

try another tactic.

“I’d like to speak with you about your husband’s unfortunate demise,” I said in my most professional voice. “I’m an

insurance investigator with Century National.”

I flashed her my auto insurance card which I’d cleverly had

laminated on my way to McDonald’s. It’s amazing how laminating things makes them look official.

“You representing Seymour Fiedler?” she asked.

“Yes, I am.”

Doubt clouded her baby blues. “I don’t know if I should

be talking with you. What with the lawsuit and all.”

“I’m afraid you have to, Mrs. Janken. California state law.

Plaintiff in a wrongful death suit must give a deposition to

the defendant’s insurance representative.”

A law I’d just made up on the spot. But she didn’t know

that. At least I hoped she didn’t.

“Okay,” she sighed. “C’mon in.”

Bingo. She bought it!

She ushered me into her living room, a fussy space done in

peachy silks and velvets.

Above the fireplace was a framed portrait of Cathy and a

fleshy man with dark, slicked-back hair, a feral grin, and a

predatory gleam in his eyes that even the artist couldn’t quite

camouflage. Presumably, the late Garth Janken. I could easily

picture this barracuda fighting tooth and nail to win the

Christmas decorating contest.

Cathy perched her wee bottom on a silk moiré sofa, and I

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took a seat across from her on a dollhouse-sized armchair. I

teetered on it cautiously, hoping I wouldn’t break the darn

thing, whose arms were as fragile as twigs.

Resting on a coffee table between us was a cut glass bowl

of candy canes.

I happen to have a particular fondness for candy canes,

along with just about anything else containing the ingredient

sugar, but no way was I going to have one, not after that

burger I’d just scarfed down.

“Help yourself,” Cathy said, gesturing to the bowl.

Somehow I managed to say no.

“Garth loved those things.” At the mention of her husband’s name, her eyes misted over with tears. “I always told

him they’d ruin his teeth, but he couldn’t resist. ‘Just one,’ he

used to say. ‘It’s not going to kill me.’

“Oh, God,” she moaned. “If only he hadn’t gone up on

that roof!”

Suddenly the mist in her eyes became a downpour, and she

was crying her heart out.

Now I happen to be a world class cynic, but it was hard to

believe the sobs racking her body were an act. For whatever

reason, Cathy Janken seemed to have genuinely loved her

husband.

“Can I get you something?” I asked. “Some water?”

“No, I’m okay.” She took a hankie from the pocket of her

sweatpants and blotted her tears. “I’ve been like a faucet ever

since the accident.

“So,” she said, forcing a smile, “how can I help you?”

I took a deep breath and began my spiel, choosing my

words carefully. She seemed awfully fragile, and I didn’t want

to start her crying again.

“We at Century National are very sorry for your loss,

Mrs. Janken, but we don’t believe our client is responsible for

your husband’s death. Mr. Fiedler insists every shingle was

firmly nailed down when he completed the job.”

“They certainly weren’t nailed down when Garth fell.”

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169

“Actually, there’s a distinct possibility your husband’s

death was not an accident.”

“What?” Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Can you think of anyone on the block who might’ve

wanted to see him dead?”

“No, of course not. True, Garth had his differences with

some of the neighbors. He could seem tough on the outside,

but he was a pussycat underneath. You just had to know how

to handle him.”

Something told me “handling him” involved lots of fishnet

stockings and peekaboo lingerie.

“But I can’t believe anybody wanted him dead.”

“Not even Mr. Cox? I was talking to your mailman just

now, and he said there was quite a bit of animosity between

the two of them.”

“Willard Cox is certifiably insane!”

Her porcelain cheeks flushed pink with anger.

“Last year he accused my husband of beheading his Santa

Claus! Did you ever hear of anything so ridiculous? The head

probably fell off in the wind. The year before that, he said

Garth stole the nose off his Rudolph. He was just jealous because Garth kept beating him in the decorating contest. He

even accused Garth of bribing Prudence Bascomb.”

“Prudence Bascomb?”

“President of the homeowners association. She judges the

contest each year. Garth didn’t have to bribe her. Garth won

because his decorations were the best!”

I wasn’t about to say so out loud, but I wasn’t convinced

Garth’s decorations were the best on the block. I’d seen the

prancing reindeer on Willard Cox’s lawn and they looked

pretty darn impressive. I wondered if Garth had indeed been

bribing the judge. I could easily imagine the barracuda in the

portrait with payola up his French cuffs.

“I’m telling you,” Cathy said, as if sensing my doubts,

“Willard Cox is crazy.”

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“I heard he accused your husband of purposely running

over his dog.”

“Can you believe it?” Once again, her cheeks were dotted

with angry pink spots. “He ran around telling everybody

that Garth was a dog killer! Garth threatened to sue him for

defamation of character. That finally shut him up.”

“So do you think it’s possible that Mr. Cox might have

wanted your husband dead?” I asked.

She chewed on her pinky, and gave it some thought.

“I hadn’t really considered it before, but I suppose so.”

“And are you certain nobody else on the block might have

wanted him … um … gone?”

“No. Nobody on this street is as crazy as Willard. The

man is nutty as a fruitcake.”

She was wrong about that. It turned out that Willard Cox

had some stiff competition in the nutty-as-a-fruitcake department. As I would, much to my regret, soon discover.

Chapter

! Three #

“Feliz Navidad, honeybun!”

Kandi Tobolowski, my best friend and constant dinner companion, raised her margarita in a toast. We were

seated across from each other in our favorite Mexican restaurant, Paco’s Tacos, a colorful joint famous for their yummy

margaritas and burritos the size of silo missiles.

I took an eager gulp of my margarita. I’d spent a fairly

frustrating afternoon questioning the neighbors on Hysteria

Lane about Garth Janken’s death. Willard Cox, my leading

suspect, hadn’t been home when I’d rung his bell. The few

neighbors who were home on a weekday afternoon were no

help whatsoever. They all agreed that Garth had been an unpopular guy, but nobody had any idea who might have hated

him enough to kill him, nor had they seen anyone up on the

roof in the days before his death—except for Seymour’s

roofers in their distinctive red Fiedler on the Roof baseball

caps.

So it felt good to be here at Paco’s, mellowing out with my

good buddies, Kandi and Jose Cuervo.

“You’ll never guess where Dennis and Kate and I are going

for Christmas this year,” Kandi beamed excitedly.

Dennis and Kate were Kandi’s parents, a pair of avant

garde freethinkers who thought it “cool” to be on a first

name basis with their only child. (My parents, on the other

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hand, would never dream of letting me call them by their first

names. I was practically in college before I even knew their

real names weren’t “Mommy” and “Daddy.”)

“We’re going skiing!” Kandi gushed. “In Aspen.”

“Do you even know how to ski?”

“Well, no,” she admitted, “but it doesn’t matter. I can fake

it.”

“Kandi, I don’t think you can fake skiing.”

“We’ll take lessons. It’ll be fun!”

She grinned at me over her margarita, and suddenly I was

flooded with envy.

Kandi would have fun. I could just picture her sipping hot

toddies by a roaring fire, flirting with a cute ski instructor,

while I was sipping Metamucil at the Tampa Vistas clubhouse, listening to my father and Uncle Ed fight over who

won at shuffleboard.

By now our basket of chips was empty (final score: Jaine,

17; Kandi, 11⁄2), and I was happy to see our waiter approaching with our main courses. I’d debated between the low-cal

chicken tostada and a simple grilled mahi mahi. It was an interesting debate. But in the end I went with two deep-fried

chimichangas smothered with sour cream.

Kandi, as always, ordered the chicken tostada. Which is

why she’s an enviable size six—on a fat day.

I speared a hunk of guacamole from the top of my chimichanga. Yum!

“So where are you off to for Christmas?” Kandi asked, ignoring her tostada, although how anyone can ignore their

dinner—even something as boring as a tostada—is beyond

me. “Florida again?”

I nodded wearily.

“What are you going to do with Prozac? You’re not taking

her with you, are you?”

Once again, I nodded.

“You’ve got to be crazy. Didn’t the airline threaten some

kind of lawsuit last year?”

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173

“Yes, but they never went through with it.”

There’s no doubt about it. Flying with Prozac is as close as

you can get to hell without actually dying. Last year, she

yowled nonstop for thirty minutes until the flight attendant

broke down and brought her a first class meal.

She invariably manages to escape from her carrier and

makes a beeline down the aisle for the one person on board

violently allergic to cats. Last Christmas, Prozac’s victim was

not only allergic, but terrified of cats, and ran headlong into

an oncoming beverage cart, knocking a carafe of very bad

coffee into the lap of a nearby passenger. Hence the threatened lawsuit.

“I still don’t see why you can’t leave her home and have

someone come in and feed her,” Kandi said.

“Last time I tried that, I came back to find kitty pee on

every pillow in my apartment. I was lucky I still had an

apartment.”

“Can’t you leave her in a kennel?”

“I’m still paying off the medical bills from the last place

she stayed. How she managed to bite her way through that

kennel attendant’s work gloves, I’ll never know. But the poor

guy had to be rushed to the emergency room for stiches. Anyhow, I can never go back there again. I’d be violating the restraining order.”

Kandi shook her head in disbelief.

“Someday I’m gonna see that cat on America’s Most

Wanted.”

We plowed through our meals (well, I plowed; Kandi

plucked), and as Kandi chattered about her nifty new ski togs

and the chalet she and her parents had rented, I couldn’t help

but feel sorry for myself. For once I’d like to spend Christmas

with my parents, just the three of us. A nice quiet Christmas,

sleeping in the guest room, free from invidious comparisons

to my bikini-clad cousin Joanie.

Oh, well. I couldn’t let myself wallow in self pity. So I did

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what I always do when I’m feeling sorry for myself: I took a

deep breath, squared my shoulders, and ordered dessert.

I woke up the next morning still in a funk about my trip to

Florida.

As I lay in bed, I thought of Kandi enjoying an elegant

candlelit dinner with her parents while I sat watching Uncle

Ed pick Christmas turkey from his teeth with a matchstick.

But there was nothing I could do about it. Like it or not, I

was stuck at Tampa Vistas for the holidays. Hauling myself

out of bed, I shoved all thoughts of Florida to that dusty corner of my mind reserved for unpaid bills and tax estimates.

After a nutritious breakfast of Paco’s leftovers, I hunkered

down on the living room sofa with the morning paper.

A headline in the Calendar section caught my eye.

GIRLFRIENDS CHANGE LIVES

I read the article with interest. It was about a volunteer organization called L.A. Girlfriends, founded by a nun named

Sister Mary Agnes, where women volunteered to become mentors to motherless girls. It was a touching story, filled with

heartwarming tales of women like me who’d managed to

make a difference in the life of a young girl.

And suddenly I felt ashamed. Big time. I bet Sister Mary

Agnes wasn’t sitting around feeling sorry for herself. No, Sister Mary Agnes was out there, doing good in the world. It

was high time I forgot my petty discontents, and did something noble with my life.

“I’m so ashamed of myself,” I said to Prozac, who was

curled up next to me on the sofa.

You should be. You haven’t scratched my back for a whole

six minutes.

“But that’s all going to change. I’m going to forget about

my trivial cares, and do something worthwhile.”

You mean like getting me my own TV?

“I’m going to make a difference in the world!”

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175

I’d like flat screen, if possible.

Wasting no time, I called the offices of L.A. Girlfriends and

made an appointment to see them that morning. I’d zip over

there on my way to Hysteria Lane.

I hurried off to shower and dress, filled with a newfound

sense of purpose. Not only would I get Seymour Fiedler off

the hook for that pesky criminal charge, but I’d bring joy to

the heart of a motherless child.

I wondered if Mother Teresa started like this.

I was hoping to meet Sister Mary Agnes when I showed up

at the modest mid-Wilshire offices of L.A. Girlfriends, but

the birdlike woman manning the reception desk explained

that the good Sister was away on a fund-raising tour. I’d be

meeting with one of her valued associates, she informed me,

leading me down the hallway for my interview.

“Ms. Austen,” she said, opening the door into a small but

sunny office, “meet Tyler Girard.”

I blinked in surprise. I hadn’t been expecting to see a guy,

and certainly not one this cute. He had the kind of boyish

good looks I’m particularly fond of. Big brown eyes, sandy

hair that flopped onto his forehead, and a smile—as I was

about to discover—sweeter than a Hershey’s Kiss.

“So nice to meet you, Ms. Austen,” he said, flashing me

his sweet smile.

Usually I’m wary when it comes to members of the sloppier sex. You’d be wary, too, if you’d been married to The

Blob. That’s what I call my exhusband, a charming fellow

who wore flipflops to our wedding and clipped his toenails

in the sink. But flying in the face of past experience, my heart

was doing carefree little somersaults.

“Have a seat,” he said, “and I’ll tell you about L.A. Girlfriends.”

As he talked about how Sister Mary Agnes started L.A.

Girlfriends fifteen years ago in a church basement, I found

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myself staring at the laugh lines around his mouth and wondering if he liked old movies and Chinese food as much as I

did.

This totally inappropriate reverie went on for some time

until I came to my senses. I hadn’t come here to meet a guy, I

reminded myself. I was here to do good in the world. I

quickly banished all romantic thoughts from my mind and

forced myself to focus.

“So,” Tyler said, after he’d finished giving me a rundown

on the organization, “tell me a little about yourself.”

I told him about my life as a jack-of-all-trades wordsmith—writing ads, brochures, resumes, and industrial films—

and how lately I’d been wanting to do something more

meaningful with my time, to contribute something to society,

as it were, and that L.A. Girlfriends seemed like the perfect

venue for my charitable impulses.

I chattered on in this noble vein for a while, carefully omitting any references to the Jaine Austen who has been known

to watch Oprah in the middle of the afternoon with a cat and

a pint of Chunky Monkey in her lap.

He nodded thoughtfully throughout my spiel.

“Have you ever worked with young people before?”

“I used to babysit when I was a teenager. But I don’t know

if that counts. Most of the time,” I admitted, “the kids were

asleep.”

For what seemed like an eternity but was probably only

seconds, he looked into my eyes, saying nothing. I could see

he was trying to get a reading on me. Oh, dear Lord, I prayed.

Please don’t let him see my shallow, selfish side, the side that

filches ketchup packets from McDonald’s and tears the Do

Not Remove Under Penalty Of Law tags off pillows.

Finally he broke his silence with a smile.

“I have good vibes about you, Ms. Austen.”

He had good vibes about me! I was going to be an L.A.

Girlfriend!

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177

“Why don’t you fill out our application? We’ll do a background check on you, and get back to you in a few days.”

Phooey. It looked like I wasn’t a shoo-in, after all.

“Don’t worry,” he said, seeing the disappointment in my

eyes. “I don’t anticipate any problems. I’m sure you’ll check

out just fine.”

He flashed me another achingly sweet smile and I left his

office on a high, ready to start my new altruistic life, thinking

of how I’d soon be bringing joy to a motherless young girl.

Okay, so I was thinking about that smile of his, too. Heck,

I’m only human.

Chapter

! Four #

This time, the Coxes were home when I rang their bell.

Willard’s wife, Ethel, came to the door, a short, rosy

cheeked woman in an old-fashioned housedress and apron,

her hair a cap of tightly permed gray curls.

“Can I help you?” she asked, wiping her hands on her

apron.

I flashed her my trusty Century National card and told her

I was an insurance investigator looking into Garth’s death. It

had worked so well with Cathy Janken, I figured I’d try it

again.

“Oh, my,” she said, shaking her curls in disbelief. “I still

can’t believe that poor man is dead.”

“You didn’t happen to see anybody on the roof in the days

before he died, did you?”

“Only those roofers,” she said. “The ones with the red

baseball caps.”

“Do you mind if I talk to your husband? Maybe he saw

something.”

She hesitated a beat, trying to decide whether I was a burglar posing as an insurance investigator.

I guess I passed inspection.

“Come in, won’t you, Ms.—what did you say your name

was? I didn’t get a very good look at your card.”

“Austen. Jaine Austen.”

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179

“Such an interesting name!” she said, her eyes lighting up.

“Are you any relation to the real Jane Austen?”

“Afraid not.” I smiled weakly, having answered that question about 8,976 times in my life.

“Willard’s out back,” she said, waving me inside. “Come

with me.”

I followed her past a living room that clearly hadn’t been

decorated since Nixon was president, and into her homey

kitchen.

“I was just fixing lunch,” she said as my eyes zeroed in on

a bowl of egg salad on her kitchen counter, thick with mayo

and studded with chunks of hard boiled eggs.

Yikes, it looked good. I hadn’t had lunch, and I was starving.

“He’s in the yard.”

“Who?” I asked, lost in thoughts of egg salad.

“Willard. My husband.”

“Oh, right.”

“He’s putting CDs in the orange trees.”

“CDs in the orange trees?”

“It’s supposed to scare away the squirrels. Personally, I

think it’s a lot of nonsense, but Willard insists it works.

“Willard, dear,” she called out the back door, “there’s an

insurance investigator who wants to talk to you.”

I walked out into the yard, lush with bougainvillea and orange trees. Yes, I know it’s not fair that we Californians get

to pick oranges off our trees in December, but on the downside, we get to crawl along on the freeways at ten miles an

hour for most of our commuting lives.

Willard Cox was standing on a ladder at one of the orange

trees, stringing CDs from the branches, an athletic man in his

seventies. The guy was obviously capable of climbing onto

the Jankens’s roof, I thought, as I watched him move with

agile grace.

“Hello, Mr. Cox,” I called up to him. “Mind if I have a

word with you?”

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Laura Levine

“Just a minute,” he barked, with clipped military diction.

“I’ll be right down.”

Seconds later, he clambered down from the ladder, the CDs

on his orange tree twinkling in the reflected light of the sun.

“Keeps the squirrels away,” he said, pinging one of the

CDs. “They don’t like the glare. Bet my wife told you they

don’t work, but they do.”

He snapped his ladder shut and propped it against the

garage.

“So you’re an insurance investigator.” He looked me over

with piercing gray eyes.

Uh-oh. It wasn’t going to be easy to fool this guy.

“Yes. I’m representing Seymour Fiedler, the roofer who

was working on Mr. Janken’s house.”

“Is that so? What company you with?”

“Century National,” I said, praying he wouldn’t ask me

for identification. He’d never fall for my phony laminated

card.

I breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t.

“So how can I help you?” he asked.

“We at Century National don’t believe Mr. Janken’s death

was an accident. We believe someone tampered with the

shingles on the roof.”

“What are you saying? You think it was murder?”

“Yes, we do.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. I hate to speak ill of the dead,”

he said, not hating it a bit, “but that man was a no good

cheat and a liar.”

“I heard he beat you a few times in the Christmas decorating contest,” I prompted.

Blood rushed to his weathered face.

“He didn’t win fair and square. He bribed the judge, that’s

why he won all the time. Not only that, he cheated. Last year

he beheaded my Santa Claus! He claimed it fell off in the

wind, but it didn’t just fall off. It was sawed off!

“Let me show you something.”

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181

He grabbed the ladder and I followed him as he brought it

into his garage, a spotless haven complete with workbench

and fancy built-in storage cabinets. A handyman’s dream.

Propped up along one of the walls, in stark contrast to the

white cabinets, were a chorus line of large red-and-white

striped neon candy canes.

“Garth saw these being delivered to my house. And before

I had a chance to put them up, he had candy canes up on his

roof. He stole my idea!”

“Oh, Willard, honey. He didn’t steal your idea. It was a

coincidence.”

We turned and saw Ethel standing in the doorway.

“Please, Ethel. He saw those candy canes being delivered,

and beat me to the punch.”

“Whatever you say, dear,” she sighed. “I just came to tell

you lunch is ready. You’re welcome to join us if you like, Ms.

Austen. I’ve made an extra sandwich.”

“Oh, no,” I said, thinking of all the mayo in the egg salad.

Not after those chimichangas I had last night. I really had to

exercise some self-restraint if I expected to cram myself into a

bathing suit in Florida. “Thanks, but no.”

Two minutes later I was sitting across from Willard and

Ethel at their vinyl-topped kitchen table tucking into one of

Ethel’s heavenly egg salad sandwiches.

What can I say? I’m impossible.

When I finally came up for air, I resumed questioning the

Coxes.

“Do you have any idea who might’ve wanted to see Garth

dead?”

“Me, for starters,” said Willard.

Ethel put down her sandwich, horrified. “Willard, how

can you say such a thing?”

“He killed Pumpkin, didn’t he?”

“It was an accident, Willard. A tragic accident. I simply

can’t believe Garth would run over a helpless little poodle on

purpose.”

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“Well, I can.”

At that moment, there was so much hate in his eyes, I

thought he really might be the one who sabotaged the roof.

“I can’t pretend I’m sorry he’s dead,” he said, as if reading

my thoughts, “but I didn’t do it.”

“Anybody else on the block dislike him enough to want to

see him dead?” I asked.

“There’s Mrs. Garrison next door,” Willard said. “She

hated his guts ever since he reported her to the city for illegally removing a tree from the front of her house. She had to

pay a big fine, and she was furious.”

“You think she might’ve loosened those tiles on the roof?”

“I doubt it.” Ethel smiled wryly. “She’s eighty-six and uses

a walker.”

“How about Libby Brecker?” Willard suggested, beginning to enjoy this game of finger pointing. “She looks like a

potential killer to me.”

“What an awful thing to say, Willard!”

“I’m serious,” Willard insisted. “There’s something about

that woman that’s downright creepy. She’s just a little too

perfect, if you know what I mean. Like one of those Stepford

Wives.”

“Just because she takes pride in her house doesn’t make

her a Stepford Wife.”

Ethel rolled her eyes, exasperated.

“I haven’t felt right about Libby since the day she moved

in,” Willard said, ignoring his wife’s objections. “They say

she’s a widow. I’d like to know what happened to her husband.”

“I’m sure he died of perfectly natural causes,” Ethel said,

taking a dainty bite of a gherkin pickle.

“That’s the trouble with you, Ethel. You’re too trusting.

You believe any cock and bull story someone hands you.”

“What was Libby Brecker’s relationship like with Mr. Janken?” I asked, steering the conversation away from Ethel Cox’s

personality flaws and back to the murder.

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183

“Hated him,” said Willard.

“I’m afraid she did,” Ethel conceded. “She accused Garth

of poisoning her roses. Those roses of hers were her pride

and joy.”

“Why would Mr. Janken want to poison her roses?”

“Libby claims Garth was getting even with her for calling

the police when one of his parties got too loud.”

“Which house is Libby’s?” I asked, eager to question this

promising suspect.

“It’s the two-story Spanish across the street,” Willard said,

“with the Swarovski Rudolph on the lawn out front.”

“The Swarovski Rudolph?”

“Rudolph the Reindeer’s nose is a Swarovski crystal,”

Ethel said. “Lord only knows how much it cost!”

“I tell you,” Willard said, wagging his gherkin at me,

“there’s something strange about that woman.”

I thanked the Coxes for their time and their egg salad and

headed back outside, contemplating the nature of life on

Hysteria Lane. Who would’ve thought there’d be so much

hostility lurking beneath the surface of this picture-perfect

block? It made the Middle East look like a picnic in the

Amish country.

I was in the middle of a war zone, all right. Trouble was, I

didn’t know the good guys from the bad.

The nose on Libby Brecker’s Rudolph was indeed a red

crystal, in all probability a genuine Swarovski.

I found Libby on her lawn spritzing it with Windex. She

was a plump woman with bright brown eyes and hair so

glossy, I could practically see my face in it.

Once again posing as an insurance investigator, I flashed

her my Century National card and explained that I was looking into Garth’s death on Seymour’s behalf.

“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Go ahead,” she chirped. “Ask away.”

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Laura Levine

By now she was down on her knees, buffing the runners on

an elaborate wooden sleigh that was probably once owned

by Currier & Ives.

I asked her if she’d seen anyone on the roof in the days before Garth’s death and like everybody else I’d spoken with,

she gave me the same disappointing answer.

“Just the roofers. Who, incidentally, seemed to be doing an

excellent job. I was thinking of using them myself, but after

what happened to Garth, that’s not going to happen.”

Poor Seymour. I was certain most people would react the

way Libby had. If word of Garth’s death got around, his

business would be ruined.

“Of course, Garth was foolish to go up on the roof in the

first place,” she said. “You really need to hire a professional

for that. I always do. But then I’m acrophobic. Dreadful fear

of heights,” she added, in case my vocabulary didn’t extend

beyond three-syllable words. “I get dizzy in high heels. Ha

ha.”

(Translation: If you’re hinting at foul play, sweetie, don’t

even think of trying to pin this on me. )

“Are you sure you didn’t see anyone else up on the roof,

other than the roofers?

“Omigosh!” she cried, hitting her forehead with the palm

of her hand. “I just remembered!”

At last! A lead!

“My cookies!” she said. “I’ve got cookies in the oven!”

So much for leads.

“C’mon inside, and we’ll talk there.”

I followed her into her house, past a border of newly

planted rosebushes, little stubs with the nursery tags still on

them. Probably replacements for the ones that had been poisoned.

“Take your shoes off,” Libby instructed, kicking hers off.

“I just waxed and buffed the floors, and I don’t want to track

in any mud.”

We put our shoes on something Libby called her “mud

THE DANGERS OF CANDY CANES

185

rug,” an area rug so pristine, it was hard to imagine it had

ever been sullied by a speck of actual mud.

“I’ll be right back,” she trilled. “Make yourself comfortable in the living room.”

She pointed to a room off the foyer and then scurried to

the back of the house.

I made my way through an arched entranceway to the living room.

Yikes, I thought, looking around. The place was a real-life

issue of Martha Stewart Living.

The furniture was upholstered in a palette of white and

beige, accented by colorful throw pillows and strategically

placed vases of fresh-cut flowers. Cinnamon spice potpourri

scented the air. And framed in the window was a magnificent

Christmas tree, studded with what looked like exquisite

handmade ornaments—angels and snowflakes and fragrant

pomander balls. What a masterpiece. It made the one at Rockefeller Center look like a blue light special at Kmart. I wondered if the resourceful Libby had grown the darn thing

herself.

Padding around the room in my socks, hoping I wouldn’t

skid into a tailspin on the freshly waxed floors, I came across

a pine étagère filled with artfully arranged photos and mementos.

There was Libby on the beach with a sunburned potbellied man, both of them wearing leis, smiling into the camera. Her deceased husband, I presumed. There were several

pictures of twin boys at various stages in their lives, from diaper days to high school graduation. But what caught my attention was a framed newspaper photo of Libby grinning at

the camera, clutching a trophy. The headline above the photo

read: LIBBY BRECKER, 42, WINS ANNUAL ROSE COMPETITION

FOR FIFTH CONSECUTIVE YEAR. And indeed, proudly displayed

and dramatically lit on a center shelf were five golden trophies from the West Los Angeles Gardening Club for Most

Beautiful Rose.

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Interesting, I noted, how the roses got better shelf space

than her husband and kids.

Libby was crazy about her roses, all right. Crazy enough, I

wondered, to have killed someone she thought poisoned

them?

“I see you’re looking at my family pictures.”

I turned to see Libby sailing into the room with a tray of

cookies and milk.

“The twins just went off to college this year,” she said, putting the tray down on a gleaming pine coffee table. “Golly,

I’ve missed them. Empty nest syndrome, you know.”

Why did I get the feeling she was secretly relieved not to

have to worry about the twins tracking mud onto her floors?

“I brought us some cookies.”

She waved me over to the matching white sofas that

fronted the fireplace and I sat across from her, sinking into a

luxurious down cushion.

“Have one,” she offered. “They’re chocolate chip.”

As if I didn’t know. I can smell a chocolate chip cookie

baking in Pomona. And these looked particularly scrumptious, studded with chunks of chocolate and walnuts.

Of course, I couldn’t possibly allow myself to have a cookie,

not after the brownie I’d just had at Willard and Ethel’s.

(Okay, so I had a brownie at Willard and Ethel’s. Okay, two

brownies. Oh, don’t go shaking your head like that. I’d like

to see what you’re eating right now.)

The last thing I needed was another calorie clinging to my

thighs. But I couldn’t say no, could I? Not after all the trouble she’d gone to put them on a tray and bring them out to

me. No, under the circumstances, the only polite thing to do

was eat a cookie. But just one, that was all.

“Thanks,” I said, grabbing one. “They look scrumptious.”

“They are,” she said, with a confident nod.

I took a bite. I thought I’d died and gone to cookie heaven.

With great effort, I forced myself to resume my questioning.

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187

“So do you know anyone on the block who might’ve

wanted to see Garth dead?”

“Of course not!” Libby exclaimed, plucking an errant

cookie crumb from her lap. “He wasn’t a very popular man,

but nobody actually wanted him dead.”

“Nobody?” I asked, suppressing the urge to reach for another cookie. “Are you sure there wasn’t anybody who had it

in for Garth?”

“Well, maybe Willard Cox,” she conceded. “He and Garth

fought like cats and dogs. But I doubt Willard actually

climbed up on Garth’s roof and jimmied the shingles, if that’s

what you’re getting at.”

“Speaking of Mr. Cox,” I said, grateful for the opening

she’d just given me, “he happened to mention an altercation

you had with Garth.”

“Me?” A brief blip of annoyance flashed across her face.

“Yes, he said you accused Mr. Janken of poisoning your

roses.”

“Willard said that? How absurd!” She laughed a tinkly

laugh about as genuine as Maxine Fiedler’s hair color. “I

never accused Garth of any such thing.”

“I heard the same thing from a few other people,” I lied,

trying to rattle her.

But she was a cool customer.

“Golly, no,” she smiled serenely. “Garth and I had a perfectly cordial relationship. I pride myself in bringing out the

best in even the most difficult people.”

“So you don’t think he poisoned your roses?”

“Not at all,” she cooed. “Roses get sick and die all the time.

I’m sure Garth had nothing to do with mine dying, and if

Willard Cox or anyone else said anything to the contrary,

they’re sadly mistaken.

“Gracious!” she said, jumping up from the sofa. “Look at

the time!

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“If I don’t get started refinishing the twins’ bedroom shutters, they’ll never get done in time for Christmas break.”

Her lips were smiling but her eyes had turned to steel. My

audience with Libby had clearly come to a close.

I retrieved my shoes from her “mud rug” and as I did, I was

gratified to see a defiant pink dustbunny clinging to the baseboard of her floor. Somehow the little devil had managed to

escape annihilation during Libby’s recent waxing and buffing

fest.

More power to you, little dustbunny, I thought, as I put on

my shoes.

I thanked Libby for her time and headed back out to my

Corolla.

I wasn’t buying her Little Miss Sunshine act, not for a

minute. I’d bet my bottom Pop Tart her relations with Garth

had been about as cordial as a Ku Klux Klan reception for

Martin Luther King.

No, Libby Brecker had been lying through her perfectly

whitened teeth. Now all I had to do was prove it.

Chapter

! Five #

That night, after a Spartan dinner of tuna and a toasted

English muffin (honest, that’s all I ate!), I went out to the

storage space behind my duplex and dug out my Christmas

tree.

It was one of those wimpy tabletop models, with the ornaments already glued on—a sorry sight compared to the towering extravaganza at Libby’s.

I used to have real trees with real ornaments, but Prozac,

convinced the ornaments were evil spirits from hell, was constantly diving at them with the ferocity of a kamikaze pilot.

The poor trees never stood a chance.

And so I was stuck with my pathetic tabletop model.

I plopped it down on an end table, and after dusting it off

and draping it with tinsel, I turned to where Prozac was

lounging on the sofa.

“How does it look, sweetie?”

She glared at it through slitted eyes and got to her feet. Tail

erect and waving in anticipation of an ornament ambush, she

cautiously approached it. Then she put her nose to one of the

branches and took a sniff.

“So?” I asked. “What do you think?”

She sniffed under the tree, then turned to me.

What? No presents?

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Then, having decided the tree was free of lurking enemies,

she curled up and went to sleep.

Minutes later, I settled down next to her on the sofa with a

cup of cocoa and a stack of Christmas cards. I’d long since

conceded defeat to Prozac in the photo-card skirmish, and

had picked up some cards with an old-fashioned drawing of

Santa on the cover.

I got out my address book and began my task. I tried to

think of heartfelt personalized messages in twentyfive words

or less, but I couldn’t concentrate. Ever since I’d left Libby’s

house that afternoon, I’d had the nagging feeling I’d seen

something significant there. An elusive something I couldn’t

quite put my finger on.

Now I drummed my pen against my teeth, trying to remember exactly what it was. Images began flitting through

my brain: The Swarovski Rudolph, the family photos, the

newspaper clipping, the trophies, the handmade Christmas

angels, the “mud rug,” the defiant pink dustbunny—

And that’s when it hit me. It wasn’t a dustbunny I’d seen

clinging to Libby’s baseboard—it was a piece of flocking.

Pink flocking. Just like the pink flocking I’d seen on Garth’s

Candyland roof!

True, Libby could have been working on a project of her

own that involved pink flocking. The woman was probably

working on more projects than the NASA space team. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help wondering if she’d picked up that

piece of pink fluff while jimmying the shingles on Garth

Janken’s roof.

Yes, folks. It’s very possible that Libby Brecker’s latest project had been Attempted Homicide.

Armed with my Dustbunny Discovery, I paid a visit to the

cop in charge of the Janken case, Lt. Frank DiMartelli.

DiMartelli worked out of the West Los Angeles precinct, a

concrete bunker of a building in a none-too-glamorous part

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191

of town. I spent a good twenty minutes on a wooden bench

exchanging pleasantries with a 6’4” transvestite named Cheyenne before the good lieutenant ushered me to his desk.

A laconic guy with droopy bloodhound eyes, DiMartelli

nodded absently as I told him of my suspicions, all the while

fiddling with a chocolate Santa on his desk. Occasionally he

picked up a yellow legal pad and jotted down a note, but I

had the sneaky suspicion he was working on his Christmas

list.

“In other words,” he said when I was through, “you’re accusing Libby Brecker of murder because you saw a dustbunny on her baseboard.”

“It wasn’t a dustbunny. It was a piece of flocking.”

“Are you sure it was flocking?”

“Of course, I’m sure.”

He shot me a penetrating look from beneath his droopy

lids.

“Pretty sure, anyway,” I hedged.

“We’ll check into it,” he said. “When hell freezes over.”

Okay, so he didn’t say the part about hell freezing over, but

I knew that’s what he was thinking. Clearly he’d written me

off as an interfering nutcase.

“Well, thanks for your time,” I said, not feeling the least

bit grateful. “And bon appetit,” I added, with a nod to the

chocolate Santa.

Then I got up and headed out the door.

I glanced back just in time to see him wad up the notes

he’d just taken and toss them in the trash.

All in all, not a terribly satisfying meeting.

There was, however, some good news to report that week.

I’d just come home from my fruitless visit to Lt. DiMartelli,

and was stretched out on my sofa, trying to dredge up the energy to tackle my Christmas cards. I’d abandoned my original plan to write heartfelt personal messages, settling for the

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slightly less imaginative “XOXOXO, Jaine.” But now even

X’s and O’s seemed like a lot of work, and I was lying there

staring at the ceiling, when the phone rang.

After fishing it out from between two sofa cushions, I

heard a soft male voice come on the line.

“Jaine? It’s Tyler Girard.”

Omigosh, the sweetie from L.A. Girlfriends!

I bolted up, suddenly rejuvenated.

“Congratulations, Jaine. You’re now officially an L.A.

Girlfriend.”

“That’s wonderful!” I squealed.

“I told you there wouldn’t be any problems. We’ve already

matched you with your Girlfriend.”

“When do I meet her?”

“I’ll fax you her background information and phone number, and you can set up a date.”

“I can’t wait!” I said, eager to start my life of selfless giving.

“I’ll also send along a copy of our Girlfriends Guidelines.

Some rules and regulations you need to follow. Nothing major.

Suggested venues for your dates, stuff like that.”

“How can I ever thank you for giving me this marvelous

opportunity?”

“No need to thank us, Jaine. We’re happy to have you on

board. Oh, and while I’ve got you on the phone, there’s

something else I’d like to ask you.”

No, I’m not married, and yes, I’d love to go out with you.

But he was not, alas, about to ask me out on a date.

“You mentioned at our meeting that you’re a writer.”

“Yes, I am.”

“It so happens we’ve been looking for someone to write

press releases for us. Have you ever done any PR?”

Okay, so it wasn’t a date, but it was the next best thing. A

potential job, always a welcome prospect at Casa Austen.

“Oh, yes,” I assured him. “I’ve done lots of PR. Why, just

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193

last year I won an award for a promotional campaign I

wrote.”

“Really? Who was your client?”

Drat. I was hoping he wouldn’t ask me this.

“Um. Toiletmasters Plumbers.”

Not exactly the Fortune 500 image I was hoping to impart.

“And what were you promoting?”

Phooey. I was hoping to avoid this one, too.

“A new product of theirs. Called Big John.”

“Big John?”

“A large-sized commode for large-sized people.”

“Really? And you won an award for that?”

“Yes,” I said, with as much dignity as I could muster. “The

Golden Plunger Award from the Los Angeles Plumbers Association.”

Miraculously, he did not burst out into gales of derisive

laughter. On the contrary, much to my amazement, the next

words out of his mouth were:

“Do you think you might be interested in doing some

work for us?”

“Absolutely,” I assured him.

“Great! I’ll introduce you to Sister Mary Agnes at the

Christmas party, and you can set up an interview with her.”

“The Christmas party?”

“Yes, every year L.A. Girlfriends has a big Christmas

bash.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing you there.”

Was it my imagination, or was there a hint of romance in

his voice? Was Tyler possibly angling for an L.A. Girlfriend

of his own?

I hung up in a happy glow. I’d started out to do something

charitable, and already I was being rewarded. Not only was

there a possible job on my horizon, there might even be a

date. With a really nice guy.

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Laura Levine

But the biggest reward, I reminded myself, would be the

satisfaction I’d get from making a difference in the life of a

motherless girl.

Yes, I, Jaine Austen, was about to leave the world of the

Self-Involved and become one of life’s Noble Givers.

Chapter

! Six #

Ihad a date with an angel.

Really. That was my L.A. Girlfriend’s name: Angel Cavanaugh, a twelve-year-old only child living with her dad,

whose interests were listed on her profile as “outdoor activities” and “the arts.”

When I phoned to set up the date, she was in the shower,

and her father took the call.

“We’re so grateful you’re doing this,” he said. “It means

the world to us.”

How wonderful to feel so appreciated. Why hadn’t I discovered this volunteer stuff years ago?

I asked him what Angel wanted to do on our date, and he

said anything I planned would be okay with her.

Then I hung up and went into a planning frenzy, making

and discarding a dozen ideas. I finally decided that, since

Angel liked outdoor activities, it might be fun to drive out to

the Santa Monica Pier and toss a frisbee on the beach. One of

the rules in the Girlfriends Guidebook was to stay away

from expensive venues. The girls, they warned, mustn’t see

their mentors as a source of financial support. Which was

lucky for me, since I was having trouble enough supporting

myself.

The day of my “Girlfriends” date dawned clear and

bright, with a hint of winter chill in the air. A Los Angeles

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Laura Levine

winter, that is—the temperature had dipped all the way down

to the low seventies. A perfect day for a trip to the beach.

And so it was with an air of eager anticipation that I fed

Prozac her Savory Salmon Entrails and nuked myself a bagel.

I couldn’t wait to get started on the first chapter of my new

altruistic life. After a quick shower, I threw on a pair of jeans

and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and grabbed a hoodie in case it

got chilly out on the pier.

“Bye, Pro,” I called out, when I was ready to leave on my

great adventure. “Wish me luck.”

She looked up from where she was napping on my keyboard.

I still don’t see why you have to spend the day with some

needy kid when you could stay home and scratch my back.

But she couldn’t work a guilt trip on me. Not today. I

headed out to my Corolla, brimming with good intentions,

Mother Teresa in elastic-waist jeans.

I drove over to the address Angel’s dad had given me,

which turned out to be a low-rent apartment building a fender’s

throw from the 405 freeway. It was one of those two-story

affairs with an outdoor stairway that looked like it had been

a motel in a former life. As I climbed the metal steps to the

Cavanaughs’s apartment on the second floor, I could hear the

dull roar of the freeway in the background.

Kevin Cavanaugh answered the door, a skinny guy in his

late thirties. With hollow cheeks and dark circles under his

eyes, he had the look of a guy in desperate need of a vacation.

Or, barring that, a nap.

“So happy to meet you,” he said, pumping my hand. “C’mon

in.” He ushered me into his living room, and once again I

was reminded of a motel. All the essentials were there—sofa

and TV and coffee table, but none of the frills. No sign of a

woman’s touch anywhere.

“Angel, honey.” he called out. “Jaine is here.”

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197

We stood there smiling awkwardly at each other, waiting

for Angel to come out. When some time had passed and there

was still no sign of her, he shouted, “You ready, or what?”

“I’m commmmming!”

And then, to my amazement, a twelve-year-old hooker

walked into the room.

Her skinny body was jammed into spandex capris and a

midriff-exposing T-shirt, the words JAIL BAIT emblazoned in

sequins across her flat chest. Completing the outfit were a

pair of kitten-heel flipflops and a faux leopard skin

minipurse.

Good heavens. She looked like she was auditioning for a

remake of Taxi Driver.

“For Pete’s sake, Angel,” her dad sighed. “You’re not

going to wear that, are you?”

“Yessss.” She rolled her eyes. “I am.”

“Well, come and say hello to Jaine,” he said, shrugging

helplessly.

Angel clomped over on her kitten heels and gave me the

once-over.

Up close I could see that underneath her cloud of heavily

teased dishwater blond hair, she was actually quite pretty.

Clear gray eyes, nice little nose. Slightly protruding teeth, but

all in all, a cute kid.

“She’s my girlfriend?” she whined, eyeing my elastic-waist

jeans and baggy T-shirt. “I told them I wanted someone who

looked like Jennifer Anniston. Somebody who dresses nice.”

Uh-oh. Maybe my new life of selflessness wasn’t going to

be so rewarding, after all.

“Angel, that’s no way to talk,” her dad chided. “Apologize

this minute.”

“Okaaaaay,” she said, with another roll of her eyes. “I’m

sorry.”

“Kids,” he said, shooting me an apologetic smile. “What’re

you gonna do?”

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“A little discipline might help.”

Of course, I didn’t really say that. Lord only knew what it

was like trying to rein in this kid.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, with a confidence I didn’t

feel. “I’m sure we’re going to get along just fine.”

I shot her a hopeful smile. “Right, Angel?”

“Let’s go already,” was her cheerful reply.

“Do you have to go to the bathroom before you leave?”

Kevin asked her.

“No, I don’t have to go to the bathroom.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yesss. I’m sure.”

“What about a sweater? You’re gonna need one in that

top.”

“Your father’s right, Angel,” I said. “We’re going to the

beach. It might get chilly out there.”

“I don’t need a sweater,” she snapped. “Now are we going, or what?”

Kevin Cavanaugh shot me one last apologetic smile as we

headed out the door. I was beginning to understand his hollow cheeks and baggy eyes.

“Good luck.” With a feeble wave goodbye, he shut the

door behind us. How I envied him being on the other side of

that door.

Angel and I started down the metal steps, Angel clomping

along in her rickety heels.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay in those shoes?”

“Yes,” she hissed. “I’m going to be okay.”

“Here’s my car!” I said, trying to sound chirpy as I led her

over to my Corolla.

“This is it?” She eyed my geriatric Corolla with unalloyed

disdain. “Ugh. If I wanted to ride around in a crummy car, I

could hang out with my dad. And even our car is nicer than

this.”

“Just get in,” I said, resisting a sudden impulse to leap in

and drive off without her.

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199

She settled down on the passenger seat with a petulant

plop.

“Buckle your seat belt,” I instructed.

“I don’t want to buckle my seat belt. It’ll wrinkle my top.”

“Buckle your belt!” I said through gritted teeth.

With an exasperated sigh, she buckled the belt and we

took off.

“I don’t want to go to the beach,” she whined as I swung

onto Santa Monica Boulevard and headed out to the ocean.

“I want to go to the mall.”

“We’re not going to the mall.”

“But I hate the beach. I want to go shopping.”

“It said on your profile you liked outdoor activities.”

“I do. I like shopping at outdoor malls.”

“Forget it, Angel. We’re not going shopping.”

“But you’re my Girlfriend. Aren’t you supposed to buy me

gifts?”

“No, I’m not supposed to buy you gifts. It specifically says

so in the Girlfriends Guidebook.”

“Oh, fudge.” Only that’s not the F word she used. “I

woulda never signed up for this stupid Girlfriends thing if I

knew there weren’t gonna be any presents.”

“You’re not getting any gifts. And watch your language.”

We rode the next few minutes in a tense silence, broken finally by Angel announcing:

“I gotta go to the bathroom.”

“For crying out loud, Angel, your dad told you to go back

in the apartment.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“It’s too late now,” I snarled. “Hold it in.”

“Okay, okay. Don’t have a snit fit.”

By now my knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

The enormity of my mistake was beginning to hit me.

I no longer felt the least bit like Mother Teresa. No, as I piloted our way those final blocks out to the pier, I felt like a

lion tamer in a cage without a whip and a chair.

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The Santa Monica Pier juts out into the Pacific, a rustic

boardwalk dotted with restaurants and souvenir shops, right

next to a small amusement park.

The minute I parked the car, Angel sprinted out to use the

bathroom at one of the restaurants. I followed her inside and

found myself in a tacky seafood joint with fishermen’s netting

draped on the walls and a giant stuffed swordfish hanging

over the bar. As Angel hustled off to the ladies’ room, I took

a seat on a bar stool and eyed a bottle of Jose Cuervo. You’ll

be ashamed of me, I know, but I seriously contemplated ordering a margarita. At eleven in the morning. But sanity prevailed. Instead I asked for a glass of water, and gulped down

a few Tylenol to quell the headache that was now throbbing

in my skull.

I sat there for a while, waiting for the pills to take effect

and ruing the day I ever saw that story in the paper about

L.A. Girlfriends.

Then I checked my watch and realized that ten minutes

had passed since Angel had gone down the corridor to the

ladies’ room. That’s an awfully long time for a trip to the

bathroom. And suddenly I panicked. Dire scenarios began

flashing in my brain. What if she’d run away? What if she

slipped out a back door? Or wriggled out a bathroom window? For all I knew, she was turning tricks in the men’s

room. Oh, Lord. Her father would never forgive me.

I jumped off the barstool and raced down the corridor to

the ladies’ room, or as it was known in this particular establishment, The Little Mermaids’ Room.

“Angel?” I shouted, pounding on the door. “Are you in

there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

My knees buckled with relief.

“What’s taking you so long?”

“I’m coming. I’m coming.”

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201

A few seconds later, she sauntered out with enough

makeup on her face to stock a Cover Girl display.

“What on earth have you done to your face?”

“My dad doesn’t like me to wear makeup, so I wait till I’m

out of the apartment to put it on.”

I considered making her take it right off again, but I knew

it would be a battle royale and frankly, I didn’t have the energy.

“Let’s go.” I took her by the hand and hustled her outside.

“So what’re we supposed to do now?” she asked, squinting into the sun.

My first choice, going back inside for a round of margaritas, was clearly out of the question.

“How about a ride on the merry-go-round?” I suggested.

“Are you kidding?” she sneered. “That’s for kids.”

“What about the roller coaster?”

“Nah. I don’t want to mess my hair.”

“Then let’s just walk around the pier.”

“Okay, but if we run into any kids from my school, pretend you don’t know me.”

I ground my teeth in annoyance, wondering if anybody

would notice if I tossed her over the pier.

And right away I felt ashamed. I really had to stop this

negative thinking, and give the kid a chance. So Angel was a

little difficult. That was all part of being a mentor. I bet Sister

Mary Agnes dealt with lots of difficult kids over the years. I

had to try to establish an emotional rapport, like they said in

the Girlfriends Guidebook, and get her to open up to me.

“So tell me about yourself,” I said. “What’s your favorite

subject in school?”

“Puh-leeese. I hate that place. It’s like a prison. They won’t

even let you wear bustiers.”

“You have any idea what you want to do when you grow

up?”

“Marry a rich guy and move to Bel Air.”

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Why was I not surprised?

I asked her a few more questions, most of which were

greeted with monosyllabic grunts. It was like talking to a fire

hydrant.

“Look,” she said, when I’d finally run out of steam.

“There’s a souvenir shop.”

“Forget it, Angel. I’m not buying you a present.”

“Well, you have to buy me lunch,” she pouted. “I’m hungry.”

For once, we were on the same page. I was a little peckish

myself.

“How about a burger?” I said, pointing to a nearby burger

stand.

“I don’t want a burger,” she whined. “I want nachos.”

Needless to say, they didn’t have nachos at the burger

stand two feet away from us. So we trekked to every restaurant and snack shop on the pier till we finally found a place

that sold them.

I got a burger and Angel got her precious nachos and we

settled down on a bench to eat them.

“Mmm, this burger is good,” I said, wolfing it down with

impressive speed.

Angel took two bites of her nachos and yawned. Then, before I could stop her, she tossed them in the trash.

“What did you do that for?” I wailed. “We traipsed all

over the pier for those stupid nachos.”

“I wasn’t hungry any more,” she shrugged.

“Why’d you throw them away? I could’ve eaten them.”

“I bet you could,” she said, her voice ripe with innuendo.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” All wide-eyed innocence. “You said you could

eat them, and I agreed.”

“C’mon.” I wadded my burger wrapper and slammed it

into the trash. “Let’s go play frisbee.”

“Do we have to?”

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203

“Yes, we have to.”

“But I’ll ruin my shoes.”

“So take them off.”

I took her by the hand and practically dragged her down

to the beach.

“I’m cold,” she whined, as we made our way toward the

ocean.

“Your dad told you to take a sweater.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“Take mine.”

I took off my hoodie and handed it to her. She looked at it

like I’d just handed her a dead rat.

“Do you want it, or don’t you?”

“Oh, all right,” she said, putting it on. It hung on her tiny

body like a bathrobe.

I reached in my purse and fished out the frisbee I’d brought

along for our carefree day at the beach. Then I tossed it to

her, only to have her gaze at it vacantly as it whizzed by.

“Do I have to go get it?” she moaned, staring at where it

had landed. “It’s so far away.”

“Yes, Angel. You have to get it. That’s how playing frisbee

works. If you miss the frisbee, you have to go get it.”

She took her sweet time and sauntered over to pick it up.

At the rate she was going, I’d be on Medicare by the time she

threw it back to me. At last she got it and tossed it back. A

feeble toss that landed practically at her feet.

“Now it’s your turn to get it,” she smirked.

My jaw clenched in annoyance, I ran over to her and

picked it up. I was standing so close to her when I tossed it

back, she had no choice but to catch it.

“Okay,” I grunted, “now throw it back.”

I’d had gum surgery more fun than this.

Then, to my surprise, she flung her arm back and hurled

the frisbee with decathlon force. I watched as it sailed into

the ocean.

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“Your turn to get it,” she trilled.

For a minute I was tempted to let it float out to sea, but

that’s just what the little brat wanted.

So I took off my shoes, rolled up my jeans and waded out

into the surf. The ocean was rough, and for a minute it

looked like the frisbee was a goner, but then I saw it drifting

back toward the shoreline.

I raced over and snatched it out of the water, holding it

aloft in triumph.

So there, you little monster!

I stood at the shoreline, waving the frisbee at Angel and

savoring my victory. Which was a major mistake. If I hadn’t

been standing there flapping that damn frisbee, I would’ve

seen the wave that was about to break right behind me. And

break it did, with a big wet thud against my fanny. The next

thing I knew, I was sopping wet and dripping with seaweed.

I looked over at Angel. For the first time all day, she was

smiling.

I checked my watch, and to my dismay, I saw that we’d

been at the beach for little more than an hour. Funny, it felt

like decades. I’d planned on spending the whole afternoon

with her, but I simply could not face five more minutes with

this brat.

“C’mon,” I said, yanking her by the elbow. “Time to go

home.”

“Fine with me,” she snapped, and we trudged back together in icy silence to my car.

I dried myself off as best I could with a mildewy beach

towel from the trunk of my car, then sped back to Angel’s

apartment with my foot on the accelerator, cursing every red

light in our path.

At last, we pulled up in front of her building and got out of

the car.

“So,” she said, as we headed to the rickety metal staircase,

“you taking me to the L.A. Girlfriends Christmas party?”

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205

Was she crazy? Not if my life depended on it. I didn’t care

how nice Tyler was. Or what sort of job Sister Mary Agnes

might offer me. Never in a million years was I seeing this

spawn from hell again.

“Probably not. I think I’m going to be out of town on a

business trip.”

Was it my imagination, or did I see a flicker of disappointment in her eyes?

“Who cares?” she said, with an exaggerated shrug. “I didn’t

want to go anyway. I bet it’s just a bunch of dorks standing

around drinking punch.”

And then, out of nowhere, she started gasping for air.

“Angel, what’s wrong?”

She shook her head, unable to speak, and groped around

in her purse. Finally she found what she was looking for. An

inhaler. She clamped her lips around it and began pumping

intently.

After a few terrifying seconds, she began breathing normally again. “Quit worrying,” she said, seeing the fear in my

eyes. “It’s nothing. Just asthma. I’ve had it since I was a little

kid.” She tossed the inhaler back her purse. “Well, see ya

round.”

Then she started up the steps to her apartment, her bony

shoulders stiff with pride.

As I watched her pathetic leopard skin purse flap against

her hip, I was suddenly overcome with guilt. This poor kid

was not only motherless, she had a debilitating illness. What

sort of cold-hearted bitch was I to bail out on her after just

one hellish date?

“Wait a minute,” I called out.

She stopped in her tracks and turned to look at me.

“Yeah? What is it?”

“That business trip. I think I maybe be able to get out of

it.”

“Don’t do me any favors. You just feel sorry for me because I’ve got asthma.”

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“That’s not true,” I lied. “I really think I can make it.”

She shot me a skeptical look.

“Honest.” By now I was begging. “I really want to go.”

“Well, okay,” she said, clomping back down the steps to

my side. “And in case you decide to bring me a gift, here’s

what I want.” She thrust an ad torn from a newspaper into

my hand.

The kid never gave up, did she?

Then she tore up the steps to her apartment and began

banging on the door with the relentless drive of a jackhammer.

“Pop!” she shrieked. “Open up!”

Kevin Cavanaugh opened the door, his face crumpling at

the sight of her.

“Back so soon?” he called out to me over the roar of the

freeway.

I pretended I didn’t hear him and, with a merry wave,

dashed off to the sanctuary of my Corolla.

Chapter

! Seven #

Iwoke up the next morning, still recuperating from my encounter with Angel Cavanaugh (or, as I was now calling

her, Rosemary’s Other Baby).

I’d staggered home from our date, damp and shivering,

and spent the next hour or so soaking in the tub, Prozac gazing down at me from her perch on the toilet tank.

I told you you should’ve stayed home and scratched my

back.

I’d whiled away the rest of the day mindlessly watching

sitcom reruns, getting up only to run out for some Chinese

takeout. Okay, so I ran out for some Ben & Jerry’s, too—to

reward myself for surviving a whole hour and forty-six and a

half minutes (but who’s counting?) with Angel.

Now, after a restless night dreaming I was being chased

down the Santa Monica Pier by a giant nacho, I lay in bed,

gazing up at the ceiling. I thought about bailing out on L.A.

Girlfriends and leaving Angel to another mentor, preferably

one who’d spent some time as a prison warden.

But then I remembered how vulnerable she’d looked gasping at her inhaler, and I knew I had to give her another chance.

Somehow, I vowed, prying myself out of bed, I had to make

our relationship work.

I’d just sloshed some Hearty Halibut Guts into a bowl for

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Prozac and was standing at the kitchen counter, breakfasting

on a cold egg roll, when the phone rang.

Seymour Fiedler came on the line, sounding light years

more cheerful than the last time we’d spoken.

“Good news, Jaine. I just talked with my lawyer, and I

may be off the hook for Garth Janken’s death.”

“That’s great, Seymour.”

“Now the cops think it was premeditated murder. In fact,

they just brought somebody in for questioning. A guy named

Willard Cox. Apparently they found some incriminating evidence linking him to Garth’s death.”

“What evidence?”

“I have no idea. All I know is they’re questioning him.”

“Do you want me to continue my investigation?”

“You may as well. Just in case they change their minds.”

I hung up with an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Some of it was probably indigestion from that egg roll. But

mainly, I was concerned about Willard. Something in my gut

told me he was innocent.

I know he hated Garth, but there’s a big difference between wishing somebody were no longer around to bother

you, and actually trying to kill him. Besides, if Willard were

really the killer, would he have been so openly vitriolic about

Garth?

No, my gut was telling me that the cops had brought in the

wrong suspect for questioning.

But what, I wondered, was the incriminating evidence

they’d found?

I decided to pay a little visit to Ethel Cox and find out.

I made my way past the frolicking reindeer on the Coxes’s

front lawn and rang the bell.

Ethel came to the door, still in her nightgown. A far cry

from the happy hausfrau I’d met the other day, her gray curls

had lost their bounce and her once rosy cheeks were drained

of color.

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209

“Ethel,” I asked, in what had to be one of the Top Ten

World’s Most Rhetorical Questions, “are you okay?”

“Willard’s gone!” she cried, her eyes wide with fear. “The

police took him away for questioning!”

“Try not to worry, Ethel. They’ll probably release him in a

few hours. Let me come in and make you some tea.”

She nodded numbly and allowed me to lead her down the

hallway to her kitchen.

Minutes later, we were seated across from each other with

steaming cups of tea, laced with lemon and plenty of sugar.

The warmth from the tea seemed to calm her a bit.

“Oh, Ms. Austen,” she said, taking a grateful sip. “It’s just

awful. The police found a Fiedler on the Roof cap in Willard’s toolbox out in the garage. They think he was the one

who loosened those shingles on Garth’s roof.”

So that was the evidence Seymour had been talking about.

“I don’t know how it could’ve gotten there,” she said, bewildered.

Clearly this woman didn’t have a suspicious bone in her

body.

“Somebody may have put it there, Ethel. To frame Willard

for Garth’s murder.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Did any of the neighbors have access to the garage?”

“Actually, they all did. There’s a little door on the side of

the garage we never lock. In case the gardener wants to get

in.

“To think,” she said, the color rushing back to her cheeks,

“that some awful person would try to blame Garth’s death

on Willard. Who would do such a terrible thing?”

The first person who sprang to my mind was my lead suspect, Libby Brecker. Hadn’t she said she’d been watching the

roofers work? What if she’d seen one of them leave his cap

behind? How easy to snatch it up, disguise herself as a roofer,

and clamber up the roof to set Garth’s deathtrap. And how

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easy to slip over when the Coxes were away and plant the

cap in Willard’s toolbox.

My musings were interrupted by the shrill ring of a phone.

“Oh, dear!” Ethel said, jumping up. “Maybe that’s Willard!”

She hurried out of the room, her granny gown billowing

behind her.

I sat there, stirring my tea, wondering whether Libby

Brecker was indeed Garth’s killer and/or whether Ethel had

any brownies left over from the other day.

I know. I’m impossible, thinking about food at a time like

this. I bet Sherlock Holmes never sat around wondering if

Dr. Watson had any brownies in his kitchen.

I was in the midst of giving myself a stern lecture when

Ethel came bursting through the door.

“Willard’s in jail!” she cried.

“They arrested him?”

She nodded miserably. “He got into a fight with one of the

police officers and threatened to ‘punch his lights out.’ Now

they’re holding him without bail.”

She sank into a kitchen chair, dazed.

“Oh, Willard,” she moaned, “what have you done now?”

Then she turn to me and said: “Do you know how to write

a check, Jaine?”

I nodded, confused. Where the heck had that come from?

“Willard told me to pay the gas bill.”

“And?”

“And I don’t know how to write a check. Can you believe

that? I’m seventy-two years old, and I don’t know how to

write a check.”

She put her head on the table and burst out sobbing.

“Oh, God. What am I going to do without him?”

I jumped up and wrapped my arms around her.

“Don’t worry, Ethel. They can’t keep him there for long if

he’s innocent.”

She looked up at me, her eyes wild with panic.

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211

And in that moment I knew that, even worse than the fear

of coping by herself, Ethel was afraid her husband might

have really killed Garth Janken.

After teaching Ethel the fine art of check writing, I left her

with a hug and a promise to keep in touch, and headed out

into the bright sunshine, convinced that somebody had

planted that roofer’s cap in Willard’s toolbox. I simply couldn’t

believe he’d be foolish enough to leave it there himself.

My money, as you know, was on Libby Brecker. But I had

no proof she was the killer. I wasn’t even certain that the

flocking I saw on her rug came from Garth’s roof, or that it

was indeed flocking.

I had no idea where to turn next. My interviews with the

residents of Hysteria Lane had been a bust, yielding no leads

whatsoever. No juicy gossip about Decorating Wars or poisoned roses. Just some tepid complaints about Garth hosting

loud parties, turning away trick or treaters at Halloween,

and being—in the words of eighty-six-year-old Mrs. Garrison—“an old grouchpuss.”

It was one of those moments when a lesser detective would

have given up hope and drowned her frustrations in Ben &

Jerry’s. But not me. I wasn’t about to waste valuable detecting time driving around in search of ice cream. No, sir. I

drowned my frustrations in an Almond Joy I found buried at

the bottom of my purse.

Actually, the rush of sugar was just what I needed. Standing there, inhaling my candy bar, I remembered that there

was someone I still hadn’t questioned—Prudence Bascomb,

president of the local homeowners association. The lady

Willard had accused of taking bribes from Garth.

Old Mrs. Garrison had pointed out her house to me, but

so far I hadn’t been able to catch her at home.

Licking chocolate from my fingers, I crossed over to Prudence’s impressive white colonial.

Interesting, I noted, that her only Christmas decoration

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was a simple wreath on the door. Perhaps as judge of the decorating contest, she’d decided to put herself above the fray.

I rang her bell, but there was no answer. I was just turning

back down the path when I saw the mailman coming up the

street.

“Hey, there!” he waved, the sun glinting off the hair on his

well-muscled forearms. I still couldn’t get over the difference

between this guy and my mail carrier, who bears an uncanny

resemblance to Frankenstein’s aide-de-camp, Igor.

I guess everything gets more attractive when you live north

of Wilshire.

“How’s your investigation coming along?”

“Slowly,” I sighed. “This is where Prudence Bascomb lives,

right?”

“Yep,” he said, coming up the path with her mail. “But

she’s never home during the day. She’s an attorney.” He deposited the letters in her slot with brisk efficiency. “Has her

own law office. In Century City, I think.”

“Thanks. I’ll try reaching her there.”

“No problem,” he said, hustling off on his rounds.

I whipped out my cell phone and got the phone number

for Prudence Bascomb, Esquire, then called her office to set

up an appointment.

“Her first available slot is two weeks from Monday,” her

secretary informed me curtly.

The Law Biz was clearly booming for Prudence.

“I was hoping for something a bit sooner. Like today.”

“Are you kidding?” she said, as shocked as if I’d just asked

her for a loan. “That’s out of the question.”

“Just tell Ms. Bascomb I want to talk to her about Garth

Janken’s death.”

“Hold on,” she commanded. For the next few seconds I

was treated to the soothing strains of classical music, and

then Ms. Congeniality came back on the line.

“Can you be here in twenty minutes?”

I could, and I was.

Chapter

! Eight #

Prudence Bascomb got up to greet me, a tall, cool redhead

in a designer suit that cost more than a Kia.

To call her fortieth floor corner office “impressive” would

be like calling the Grand Canyon “large.” Furnished with

sleek modern furniture straight out of a decorator’s showroom and carpeting so plush I could hardly see my Reeboks,

it was an executive’s dream come true.

But the most impressive feature was the view. Sweeping

floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a breathtaking panorama

of the city. On a clear day, which it was, you could see out to

the ocean.

With an office practically in the clouds, one thing was certain: Prudence Bascomb was not afraid of heights.

I stood in the doorway, suitably awed.

“Come in,” she said, waving me inside. “Have a seat.”

She gestured to a sleek chrome and leather chair.

I sat down across from her, marveling at her sculpted

cheekbones and startling green eyes.

“Can I have my secretary get you an Evian?”

“No, thanks.”

When it comes to no-calorie water, I’m always able to Just

Say No.

“Then let’s get started, shall we? You wanted to talk about

Garth Janken’s death?”

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“Yes, I’m afraid his fall from the roof may not have been

an accident.”

“Oh?” she said, her face an impassive Chanel mask.

“I think someone tampered with the shingles. Someone

who wanted to kill Garth.”

“Isn’t that a little far-fetched?” she asked with a dismissive

smile.

“Not really. In fact, the police think so, too. They just arrested Willard Cox this morning.”

“Willard Cox?” Her brows lifted a fraction of an inch, her

version of surprise. “I knew he and Garth had their differences, but murder? I find that hard to believe.”

“I agree with you. I think somebody else is trying to frame

him for Garth’s death. The real killer.”

“And who might that be?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I came to see you. Do you know

anybody who might’ve wanted to see Garth Janken dead?

Anybody he was at odds with?”

She smiled wryly.

“Garth Janken was ‘at odds’ with half the neighborhood.

The man made enemies like Pringles makes potato chips. But

I can’t believe anybody on Hysteria Lane is a killer.”

Same old, same old, I thought, stifling a sigh.

“Wait a minute,” she said, tapping a perfectly manicured

nail on her cheek in thought, “there was somebody else he

was fighting with.”

I sat up, interested.

“Who?”

“Peter Roberts. Garth’s law partner. I heard through the

grapevine that he and Garth were going through a particularly vicious split up.”

How foolish of me. All along I’d been limiting my suspects

to people on Hysteria Lane. I should’ve known that a guy

like Garth would make enemies wherever he went.

“Not that I’m saying Peter killed Garth, mind you,” Pru—

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215

dence quickly added. “I’m not about to implicate anybody in

a murder.”

Spoken like a true attorney.

“Well,” she said, her cool smile still lodged firmly in place,

“if those are all your questions … ?”

“Just one more,” I said, coming to the point of my visit.

“What was your relationship with Garth like?”

“Mine?” She laughed a laugh singularly devoid of mirth.

“I hardly knew him. Just to wave and say hello.”

“You judged his house every year in the Christmas decorating contest, didn’t you?”

For the first time since I walked in the door, a look of discomfort flitted across those gorgeous green eyes.

“Oh, yes. The contest. One of my chores as president of

the homeowners association. I’ve really got to step down one

of these days. It takes up way too much of my time.”

“He won first prize five years in a row, didn’t he?”

She reached for a crystal water glass at her elbow, and

took a careful sip.

“Garth may not have been very popular, but he was amazing when it came to Christmas decorations. A true artist.”

“Willard Cox says he was bribing you.”

Bingo. I’d hit a nerve. Prudence’s eyebrows shot up a

whole half inch.

“That’s absurd!” she said, an angry flush creeping up her

cheeks. “Do I look like I need the money?”

I had to admit she didn’t. But something about that contest had her worried. I’d bet my bottom Pop Tart on it.

“Garth Janken won first prize every year because he deserved to,” she said, in a tone that brooked no further discussion. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve really got to get back to

work.”

And before I knew it, I was in an elevator, zipping down

forty-plus floors to the Peon Level of the garage.

I headed to my car, filled with a much-welcome sense of

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accomplishment. My ten minutes with Prudence Bascomb

had yielded two important facts.

Fact Number One: There was something decidedly fishy

about the Hysteria Lane Christmas decorating contest.

And Fact Number Two: Garth Janken had a law partner

who hated his guts.

But both of those facts paled in comparison to Fact Number Three, one I was about to discover as I made my way

toward the exit—that parking in Prudence’s Century City

garage was a jaw-dropping fifteen bucks an hour.

I made a mental note to write a letter to the mayor about

the exorbitant parking rates in Century City and headed

back to my apartment for a bite of lunch.

In spite of the Almond Joy I’d wolfed down on Hysteria

Lane, I was hungry. I had an untouched order of pork potstickers in my refrigerator which I intended to demolish the

minute I got home.

Back in my apartment, I raced past the eternally napping

Prozac and made a beeline for the kitchen. I grabbed the potstickers from the refrigerator and put them in the microwave,

counting impatiently as the seconds ticked by. It’s amazing

how long thirty seconds can seem when you’re starving.

Then, wouldn’t you know, just when I’d snatched them

out, the phone rang.

Argggh! Why does the phone always ring when you’re

about to shove a potsticker in your mouth?

“I’ll be right back,” I promised the little darlings, and

raced to the living room to get the phone.

“Yes?” I growled, answering the dratted thing. Probably

some stupid telemarketer.

“Am I speaking with Jaine Austen?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“It’s Tyler Girard.”

Oh, shoot. In my frenzy to get at those potstickers, I hadn’t

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217

recognized his voice. Why had I been so grouchy? I wanted

him to think I was sweet and upbeat, not a snarling harpy.

“Oh, hi, Tyler!” I gushed.

“It sounds like you were in the middle of something.”

“Well, yes, actually. I was baking cookies for the homeless.”

Huh? Where had that come from? Why on earth had I

made up such an outrageous lie?

“For the Union Rescue Mission,” I added in a fit of lunacy,

referring to a local soup kitchen.

“Really? I didn’t know they accepted homemade goods. I

thought the stuff had to be packaged for security reasons.”

“Oh, they know me down there. I’ve been doing it for

years. In fact, they call me The Cookie Lady.”

If I told one more lie, I’d be struck by lightning.

“So,” he asked, “how was your date with Angel Cavanaugh?”

“Fine! Terrific. We definitely began to bond.”

Would the whoppers never end?

“That’s so gratifying to hear. It’s always nice to know

we’ve made a good match. I hope we’ll see you at the Christmas party.”

“We?”

I smelled a Significant Other lurking in the wings.

“Yes, I told Sister Mary Agnes all about you, and she can’t

wait to meet you.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. The “she” in his “we” was Sister

Mary Agnes.

“Well, you’d better get back to those cookies.”

“Cookies?”

“For the homeless.”

“Oh, right. My cookies.”

I hung up, vowing to some day actually donate cookies to

the homeless, and praying that Angel wouldn’t spill the beans

about our disastrous date. Then I hurried back to the kitchen

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for my potstickers, whose heavenly aroma had now drifted

out into the living room.

What happened next was absolutely heartbreaking. Sensitive readers may want to get out their hankies.

I bounded into the kitchen, only to find Prozac curled up

on the kitchen counter, belching softly, surrounded by what

just five minutes ago had been my potstickers. Now they

were mangled bits of dough, pathetic dim sum corpses.

Prozac, the little devil, had burrowed her way through the

doughy wrappings and devoured every speck of pork inside.

“Prozac!” I wailed. “How could you? That was my lunch.”

And quite delicious it was, too.

I picked up a limp piece of dough and stared at it balefully.

“How can one cat eat so much, so fast?”

Pretty impressive, huh?

For a desperate instant I considered eating the shards of

dough, but don’t have the vapors. I didn’t.

Instead I had a nutritious lunch of English muffins and

martini olives.

After which, I put in a call to Garth’s law partner, Peter

Roberts.

“Law offices of Janken and Roberts,” a perky receptionist

answered. “Oops, I mean law office of Peter Roberts.”

Interesting, I noted, that Janken had top billing in the law

practice.

“May I help you?” she asked in a friendly voice, about a

zillion times more friendly than Prudence Bascomb’s dragon

lady secretary.

I asked if I could speak with Peter.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, he’s in court all week. Would you like to

leave a message?”

Once again, I posed as an insurance investigator looking

into Garth Janken’s death, and asked her to please have Mr.

Roberts call me back as soon as possible.

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219

“Of course,” she promised. “I’ll get the message to him

right away.”

Not two minutes after I hung up, the phone rang.

Wow, that was fast. Miss Perky really had gotten the message to him right away.

I answered it eagerly.

“Mr. Roberts?”

“No, this is not Mr. Roberts,” a no-nonsense woman

replied. “Am I speaking with Jaine Austen?”

“Yes.”

“This is Elizabeth Drake from Century National Insurance

Fraud Unit.”

Gulp. I smelled trouble ahead.

“Ms. Austen, we received a call from a Mrs. Libby Brecker,

inquiring about a Century National investigator named Jaine

Austen.”

Damn that Libby.

“The only Jaine Austen we have on our records is you, and

you’re a customer.”

“A loyal customer, too,” I hastened to assure her.

“Be that as it may, I must insist that you cease posing as a

Century National representative or we shall be forced to terminate your policy.”

After much groveling and promising to behave myself, I finally got off the phone.

Oh, well. It served me right for trying to pawn off my insurance card on Libby. I should’ve known that a woman who

spent her days Windexing reindeer noses would turn out to

be a sniveling tattletale.

Somewhat shaken from my brush with the formidable Ms.

Drake, I settled down on my sofa to work on my Christmas

cards while I waited for Peter Roberts to return my call.

By the time I’d XOXOXO’d my way through my address

book at five P.M., I still hadn’t heard from him.

It wasn’t until later that night when Prozac and I were in

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bed watching Roman Holiday (Prozac has a thing for Gregory Peck), that he finally called.

I launched into my theory about Garth’s roof being sabotaged and asked him if he had any idea who might have done

it. I wasn’t the least bit surprised to learn he had no idea,

none whatsoever.

But then I got down to why I was really calling.

“By the way,” I said, trying to sound casual, “I hear that

you and Mr. Janken were on the verge of dissolving your

partnership.”

“As a matter of fact, we were. We’d been together fifteen

years, and we decided it was time to call it a day. It was an

amicable parting of the ways.” Accent on the amicable.

“Garth and I were very good friends.”

He sounded about as believable as a congressman running

for office.

“That’s not what I heard. I heard your break-up was

pretty ugly.”

“Whoever told you that was wrong,” he said, daggers in

his voice. “Dead wrong.”

And then he did a little casual questioning of his own.

“My secretary tells me you’re an insurance investigator.

Exactly who do you work for?”

“Oh, no,” I said, eager to stay out of the clutches of the

Century National Fraud Unit. “Your secretary must’ve misunderstood. I’m a private investigator.”

“Is that so? Got a license?”

“Of course,” I lied, and got off the phone before he could

grill me any further.

That was no help at all. Peter Roberts would go to his

grave, or possibly mine, insisting that he and Garth Janken

were best buds. How the heck was I going to find out the truth

behind their split up?

And then I remembered his perky secretary, and thought of

an idea.

Chapter

! Nine #

The next afternoon I got gussied up in a bizgal pantsuit I

keep around for job interviews and IRS audits, and

headed downtown to pay a little visit to Peter Roberts’s secretary.

Peter’s office was in a glass-and-steel high rise right off the

freeway. A glance at the directory in the lobby told me the

place was a veritable beehive of attorneys.

I took the elevator up to the twelfth floor and made my

way down the hallway to The Law Offices of Janken and

Roberts. I was happy to see that Peter hadn’t gotten around

to taking Garth’s name down from the door. It would make it

that much easier to bring it up in conversation.

I checked my watch. Ten of five. Right on schedule.

Launching Phase One of my plan, I took a deep breath and

poked my head in the door. Peter’s secretary, a pert Latina in

her early twenties, sat at her computer, biting her lower lip in

concentration as her fingers flew over the keyboard.

“Oh, hi!” she grinned, when she noticed me. I was relieved

to see that she was as friendly in person as she had been over

the phone. “I’m afraid Mr. Roberts isn’t in right now. He’s

away in court all week.”

Just what I’d been counting on.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

“Me?”

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“Yes, I just had a job interview down the hall and I’m

wondering if you can tell me what it’s like working here in

the building. I’m trying to scope the place out before I make

a decision.”

“No problem,” she said, waving me in. “Give me a sec

and I’ll be right with you. I was just finishing up for the day.”

Exactly why I’d waited till late afternoon to drop by.

I sat down across from her, gazing enviously at her creamy

olive skin and eyelashes thick as velvet. I really had to start

moisturizing more often.

“Finito!” She closed out her program with a flourish and

swiveled to face me.

“So which attorney did you interview with?”

“Allison Whittaker,” I said, reeling off a name I’d seen on

one of the offices down the hall. “Of Whitttaker and Wertz.”

Her lush lashes blinked in surprise.

“Allison’s secretary is leaving? Betty?”

“Yes, Betty,” I nodded.

“I wonder why she didn’t tell me. I guess her husband

must’ve landed that job in Bakersfield.

“Hold on a sec,” she said, reaching for the phone. “I’m

gonna call Betty and congratulate her.”

Acck. This was definitely not part of my plan.

“You can’t do that!” I cried.

“Why?”

“Um. Because Betty just went home. I saw her get on the

elevator.”

“Oh, well,” she shrugged. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

Much to my relief, she put down the receiver and began

filling me in on the doings at Whittaker and Wertz.

“You’ll like working for Ms. Whittaker. Once in a while

she’ll ask you to pick up her dry cleaning, but that’s about as

bad as it gets. Watch out for Wertz, though. Their office is

known around here as Whittaker and Flirts. The man comes

on to all the secretaries. Which is pretty nauseating, considering he has a wife and three kids and a gut the size of the

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223

Goodyear Blimp. He made a pass at me my first day on the

job. My boyfriend was furious when he found out. Correction. I should say, my fiancé. Hector and I just got engaged

last month.”

She thrust out her left hand, beaming with pride. A tiny diamond sparkled on her wedding finger.

“How lovely,” I cooed.

“It’s a whole half-carat. I told Hector I didn’t need a real

diamond. I said, Hector, cubic zirconia is good enough. But

he insisted. Nothing but the best for my Sylvia, that’s what he

said. That’s my name, incidentally. Sylvia Alvarez.”

“I’m Charlotte,” I lied, just in case she remembered my

name from my earlier phone call. But her mind was miles away

from office business.

“Hector and I are getting married in June!” she announced

proudly.

“How wonderful. Congratulations.”

“Hey, let me ask you something.” She opened her desk

drawer and pulled out a copy of Modern Bride.

“Which dress do you like better?” she asked, pointing first

to a picture of an elegant Vera Wangish A-line and then to a

frilly traditional nipped-at-the-waist model.

“They’re both really nice.”

“But if you had to choose.”

“I guess I’d go with the A-line.”

“Really?” Her brow furrowed in doubt. “I like the clean

lines, but I’ve always dreamed of getting married in a Cinderella dress.”

“With a figure like yours, you’re bound to look great in either one.”

A little shameless flattery couldn’t hurt. And besides, I

wasn’t lying. The fattest part of her body were her eyelashes.

“You don’t think I need to go on a diet?”

Why do the skinny ones always want to go on a diet?

“Absolutely not,” I assured her. “You look amazing.” And

then I added, in what I must confess was a brilliant segue: “I

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guess you stay thin working for two attorneys. They must

keep you hopping. What are they like, anyway?”

“Oh, I only work for Mr. Roberts. Mr. Janken is deceased.”

She lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “A horrible

accident. He fell off his roof putting up Christmas decorations! Did you ever hear of anything so gruesome? I told my

father, ‘Papi, don’t you dare put Christmas lights on the roof

this year. You could fall and hurt yourself. A tree in the window is good enough.’”

It looked like little Sylvia was a bit of a chatterbox. Now

all I had to do was get her to chatter about Garth and Peter.

“What about Mr. Roberts? What’s he like?”

And just like that, an invisible screen slammed down between us.

“Oh, he’s a very nice gentleman,” she said, stiffly.

Although perfectly willing to share the details of her wedding and her parents’ Christmas decorations, she wasn’t

about to badmouth her boss, not yet, not until she knew me

better. Clearly I’d have to win her trust.

Which was where Phase Two of my plan went into effect.

“So,” I asked. “Is there a place to have lunch here in the

building?”

“Oh, sure. There’s a coffee shop downstairs. The food’s

pretty good.”

“Any place to unwind after work?”

“There’s The Legal Eagle, right next door. They have a

fantastic happy hour. People from the building go there all

the time.”

Just what I wanted to hear.

“I love their buffalo chicken wings. I’ve tried to make

them at home, but I can never get the spices right. I think I’m

adding too much cumin. Or maybe it’s chili powder. I always

get the ‘c’ spices confused.”

“Hey,” I said, as if I’d just thought of it on the spur of the

moment. “Want to go there right now? I’m sort of wiped out

from that interview and I could really use a margarita.”

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225

“I don’t know,” she hesitated. “I really should get home.”

“My treat. For helping me out.”

She flashed me another grin. “Okay, what the heck? Hector’s working late tonight anyway.”

She locked up the office and off we trotted to The Legal

Eagle, Phase Two of my plan now in full swing. With any

luck, I’d get Sylvia tootled enough to dish the dirt about

Garth and Peter and their “amicable” split up.

Sylvia was right about those buffalo wings. They were

scrumptious. Spicy, but not too spicy. I absolutely could not

allow myself to eat more than two. Three, tops. Okay, five at

the outside.

Happy Hour had just begun when we showed up and the

place was doing a brisk business. It was one of those ersatz

turn of the century pubs with a massive mahogany bar and

mock gaslight sconces on the walls. We managed to snag two

seats at the bar, in grabbing distance of the buffalo wings,

and I quickly proceeded to order us two frosty margaritas.

I was thrilled to see Sylvia suck hers up like a Hoover.

This was going to be a piece of cake. She’d be tootled in no

time, and dishing the dirt with a trowel!

Or so I thought.

She got tootled all right, but all she wanted to talk about

was that dratted wedding of hers.

“So do you really like the A-line?” she asked, the minute

we were seated.

It took me a minute to realize she was still talking about

her wedding dress.

“Oh, yes,” I assured her, “it’s lovely.”

“I’m afraid it’s too plain.”

“Then maybe you should go with the Cinderella dress.”

“I know, but that might be too fussy.”

I took a healthy slug of my margarita. Yes, this was definitely going to be tougher than I thought.

No matter how much I tried to deflect the conversation

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away from her wedding, she kept coming back to it like a

well-trained homing pigeon. I learned every detail of her floral arrangements (violets, to match her bridesmaids’ lilac

gowns), her deejay (Hector’s cousin Ricardo, aka “Little

Ricky,” who, in case you’re interested, does a dynamite Elvis

impersonation), and the cake (an agonizing fifteen minute

dissertation on the merits of yellow cake with chocolate cream

frosting versus white with strawberry preserves). I thought

I’d died and gone to Wedding Planning Hell.

“The thing that’s really got me worried,” she said, starting

in on her second margarita, “is Estella.”

“Estella?”

“Hector’s mother. What a witch. I can’t tell you how awful

she’s been.”

Oh, yes, she could. And she did. Another excruciating half

hour dragged by as I heard each and every one of Estella’s

many character flaws.

By now I’d long passed my five-Buffalo-wing limit and was

inhaling them faster than the speed of light.

“She’s always criticizing me,” Sylvia whined. “Nothing I

ever do is good enough. The first time I cooked dinner for

Hector and his parents, I made a roast chicken. Okay, so I

was stupid and didn’t know anything about cooking, and I

forgot to take out the plastic bag with the liver and gizzards

and stuff.

“Well, you’d think the world came to an end. That was

three years ago, and to this day, Estella tells anybody she

meets about the time I cooked the chicken with the plastic

bag inside.”

I tsk-tsked in sympathy, desperately trying to keep my eyelids propped open.

“I just know she’s going to ruin my wedding. Somehow

she’ll think of a way to screw things up. I wouldn’t be surprised if she interrupts the ceremony to tell that stupid

chicken story.”

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227

“I’m sure she won’t do that.”

“Don’t bet on it,” she said, polishing off her second margarita and signaling the bartender for a third. “The woman is

capable of anything. Did I ever tell you about the time I

caught her going through my underwear drawer?”

“Yes, I believe you mentioned that about ten minutes

ago.”

“Let me tell you, it’s been utter hell to live through.”

And listen to, too.

“At least there’s no stress at your office,” I said, gamely

trying to steer the conversation back to Garth and Peter.

“Your boss sounds like a really nice guy.”

“He’s okay, I guess,” she said, licking the last of the salt

from the rim of her margarita glass. “Although he can be awfully fussy when it comes to his coffee. He swears he can tell

the difference between Equal and Sweet ’N Low. Heaven forbid I make a mistake and get him Sweet ’N Low—”

Enough, already! I had to be firm and nip this Artificial

Sweetener Tangent in the bud.

“I guess you must really miss Mr. Janken.”

“Are you crazy? He was one nasty S.O.B.”

“Really?” I sat up straight, finally interested in what she

had to say.

“Thank goodness I wasn’t his secretary. He ran through

them like water. Couldn’t keep one to save his soul. So demanding. He made Estella look like a saint.”

“How did he get along with Mr. Roberts?”

“He didn’t. Peter put up with him for years, but finally he

had enough. He wanted to dissolve the partnership. At first

Garth didn’t seem to care. But then when he learned that his

biggest client was switching his account over to Peter, he hit

the roof. Garth stormed into Peter’s office, screaming at the

top of his lungs.”

At last—after packing away three margaritas and two $12

shrimp cocktails—she was finally on a roll!

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“I was sitting at my desk, and I heard him clear as day: If

you think you’re taking The Great Litigator with you, he

shouted, you’re crazy! ”

“The Great Litigator?”

“That’s what Garth called his client, because the guy was

constantly suing people. You’re not taking him or anybody

else with you, he told Peter. I know what you did back in

Ohio, and I’ve got evidence to prove it. I intend to report you

to the bar association. And when I do, you’re going to lose

your license so fast your head will be spinning. ”

“Ohio? What did Peter do in Ohio?”

“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “Little Ricky called to

talk about wedding music then and I got distracted.”

Darn that Little Ricky.

Oh, well. I’d still gotten quite an earful. Garth had been

threatening Peter with disbarment. Which sounded like a viable motive for murder to me.

“Gosh, look at the time,” I said, making a big show of

checking my watch. “It’s been fun chatting, but I really

should be going.”

“Thanks for the margaritas, Charlotte. And the shrimp

cocktails. I can’t believe I ordered two of them.”

Neither could I. But I assured her it had been my pleasure

and waved to the bartender for the check.

He brought it over with impressive speed, and just when I

was stifling a gasp over the total, I heard someone say:

“Hey Sylvia, how’s it going?”

I looked up and saw a tall well-dressed black woman

heading toward us.

“Betty!” Sylvia blinked, confused. “What are you doing

here? Charlotte said she saw you leaving hours ago.”

Oh, crud. It was Betty, the secretary I was supposed to

have met this afternoon.

“Do I know you?” she asked me, puzzled.

“Sure,” Sylvia piped up. “You guys met when Charlotte

interviewed for your job today.”

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229

“What are you talking about?” Betty said. “I’m not leaving my job. And I didn’t go home hours ago.”

Uh-oh. My cue to exit.

“Well, see ya round.”

And without any further ado, I slapped fifty bucks on the

bar, grabbed a chicken wing for the road, and got the heck

out of there.

I drove home, filled with a sense of accomplishment—and

enough Buffalo wings to stock a chicken farm.

Thanks to my successful, if costly, rendezvous with Sylvia,

I now had a new suspect to add to my list.

Garth had been threatening to rat on Peter Roberts to the

bar association. What incriminating evidence had Garth been

holding over Peter’s head? And more important, how the

heck was I going to get my hands on it?

I’d bet my bottom Pop Tart it was stashed away somewhere in Garth’s house.

Which meant I had no choice, really, but to tootle over to

Hysteria Lane and break into the place.

Chapter

! Ten #

At seven A.M. the next morning, I was parked across the

street from Cathy Janken’s house on my first ever professional stakeout.

It had been hell hauling myself out of bed at six to get

ready for this gig, but now that I was here I was starting to

feel quite Private Eye-ish. I’d come fully prepared with breakfast, lunch, a thermos of coffee, and an audiotape of Anna

Karenina I’d bought ages ago and never got around to listening to.

And, of course, a bottle to tinkle in.

Hey, I’d seen Stakeout I and II. I knew the ropes.

I was prepared to camp out in my car until I saw Cathy

leave her house. At which point I’d scoot over and do a little

Breaking and Entering.

I was keeping my fingers crossed, though, that none of my

stakeout accessories would be necessary. I remembered the

sweat suit Cathy had been wearing when we first met, and I

was hoping she was one of those maddeningly noble people

who start the day with a workout at the gym.

But no such luck.

Hour after hour dragged by with no sign of Cathy.

By eight A.M., I’d finished my breakfast. By nine A.M., I’d

finished my lunch. I tried to get into Anna Karenina, but in

spite of three cups of coffee zinging through my veins, I was

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231

bored to tears. By the time the last chapter rolled around, I

was rooting for the train.

Five hours, four coffees, and two diet Cokes later, I was

desperate to take a tinkle.

I took out the empty liter bottle of Sprite I’d brought along

for this purpose and eyed it with dismay. How on earth was I

ever going to do this? I could never get my aim straight in the

ladies room at my gynecologist’s office; no way was I going

to do it in a Sprite bottle. Had I lost my mind, bringing along

a bottle with such a tiny neck?

Now what the heck was I supposed to do?

I couldn’t very well ring a neighbor’s bell and ask to use

their bathroom.

For a few agonizing minutes I tried to hold it in, but it was

impossible. With an angry curse, I started the car and sped

over to the nearest Jack in the Box where I availed myself of

their facilities. Okay, so I picked up an order of fries while I

was at it. It had been ages since I’d eaten my lunch at nine

A.M., and I was hungry.

Grabbing my fries, I got in the Corolla and raced back to

Hysteria Lane. Just my luck, Cathy had probably strolled out

of the house the minute I’d gone.

But no. Lady Luck finally decided to give me a break.

Just as I was pulling back into my stakeout space, I saw

Cathy come out of her house and drive off in her SUV.

The minute she was gone, I leapt out of the Corolla and

grabbed a gift-wrapped box from the backseat. There was

nothing actually inside the box. I’d brought it along in case

one of the neighbors saw me snooping around. I’d just tell

them I was bringing Cathy a Christmas gift. Clever of me,

wasn’t it?

A darn sight smarter than the Sprite bottle, anyway.

I reached back in the car for a final handful of fries, then

trotted across the street and rang Cathy’s bell. I wanted to

make sure nobody was home. Maybe there was a cleaning

lady inside just waiting to pounce on me.

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But nobody answered the door, and satisfied that the coast

was clear, I crept around the side of the house, testing for

open windows.

Everything was sealed tighter than a Beverly Hills facelift.

And suddenly I was overcome with doubts. What if none

of the windows were open and I had to force open one of the

doors? I’d brought along my professional Breaking and Entering Tool (a shish kebab skewer I’d grabbed at the last

minute), but really, I had no idea how to force open a door. I

had a hard enough time getting the wrapping off a CD. What

made me think I’d be able to hack my way past a dead bolt?

And even if I did, what if Cathy had an alarm system? True,

there weren’t any security signs out front, but what if she had

one?

Just when I was about to slink back to the Corolla in defeat, I spotted a small window above a jasmine bush at the

back of the house. The bush was camouflaging the window,

but on closer inspection, I saw that it was open.

Thank heavens. I wouldn’t have to force any doors and set

off any alarms.

I scurried to the window and tossed my empty Christmas

package under the jasmine bush. Then I hoisted myself up to

the ledge, which was no easy feat with those prickly jasmine

branches scratching my fanny.

Shoving my upper body in the room, I saw that it was a

guest bathroom. What a lucky break that Cathy had left the

window open.

And that’s when my luck came to a screeching halt. The

upper half of my body sailed through the window without

incident, but sad to say, my lower half did not have such an

easy time of it. Somewhere in the dreaded hip/tush zone, I’d

come to a standstill. Yes, like 99 percent of all the bathing

suits I’ve ever tried on in my life, the window frame was too

small for me. My hips simply wouldn’t squeeze through.

In defense of my hips, I should tell you that the window

THE DANGERS OF CANDY CANES

233

was pretty darn small. That’s probably why Cathy had left it

open in the first place. Clearly she wasn’t expecting any

anorexic cat burglars. I should’ve realized I might not have

squeezed through, but I hadn’t, and it was too late now. I’d

just have to climb down and give up this stupid breaking and

entering plan.

I started to push myself back out of the window. But, to

my horror, I couldn’t budge.

Oh, crud. I was stuck.

What a nightmare. Eventually one of the neighbors was

bound to notice a tush hanging out of Cathy Janken’s house.

Why the heck had I scarfed down all those chicken wings last

night? Not to mention breakfast—and lunch—this morning.

And that last handful of fries. What if those last few fries had

wedged me in for good?

By now I was in an advanced state of panic. Any minute

now the cops would come and arrest me! My name would be

splashed all over the papers. I could see the headlines: FANNY

BANDIT FOILED IN REAR ENTRY!

Just when I was cursing the day I ever heard of Seymour

Fielder and Fiedler on the Roof Roofers, I noticed a jar of

hand lotion on the bathroom counter. Could I possibly use

that as a lubricant and grease my way loose? It was a long

shot, but worth a try. I reached for the lotion, but it was just

out of my grasp. Grinding my teeth in frustration, I tried

once more.

And then a miracle happened. Somehow, in stretching my

muscles, I must’ve loosened up that fraction of an inch I’d

needed to set myself free. Because suddenly I found myself

popping through Cathy’s window like a human champagne

cork.

I slid onto her imported tile counter, gasping for air, and

clinging to a towel rack for dear life.

Me and my hips had made it, after all.

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Laura Levine

Plucking jasmine blossoms off my rear, I set out in search

of Garth’s home office. After everything I’d just been through,

I sure hoped he had one. I found what I was looking for at

the front of the house, across from the living room: A masculine library cum office, with built-in bookcases, leather furniture and hunting prints galore. Very British Lord of the Manor.

But what caught my eye was the cherrywood desk by the

window, complete with laptop and hand-tooled leather

desk accessories.

Wasting no time, I scooted over to it and began rifling

through the drawers.

The top drawer contained the usual assortment of rubber

bands and paperclips, as well as a bottle of Viagra and a lifetime membership card from The Hair Club For Men.

I now knew that the impressive mane of hair I’d seen in

Garth’s portrait wasn’t his own, and that he’d needed a little

help in the dipsy doodle department. All very interesting, but

no help whatsoever in my search for incriminating evidence

against Peter Roberts.

I hoped I’d have better luck with the two deep file drawers

on either side of the desk. The first one contained nothing but

some old computer manuals and a pair of gym socks. And

the other was locked.

Oh, well. I’d just have to break out my trusty shish kebab

skewer and bust the lock open.

But, as I was about to discover, shish kebab skewers are

totally useless when it comes to breaking a lock. After a frustrating ten-minute struggle, I gave up on the skewer and finally managed to pry the drawer open with Garth’s Mark

Cross letter opener.

Much to my relief, I saw that it was filled with files.

I quickly started rifling through them. First, under the P’s

for Peter. Then the R’s for Roberts.

Nothing.

Then I remembered what Sylvia overheard Garth saying to

Peter: I know what you did back in Ohio.

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235

I looked under the O’s. And sure enough, there it was: A

file labeled OHIO.

Inside I found a single piece of paper: a reprint of a newspaper clipping from the Cleveland Plain Dealer, dating back

twenty years, about the arrest of Peter Robert Simmons, 19,

for grand theft auto.

You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that

Peter Roberts and Peter Robert Simmons were one and the

same. Young Peter had no doubt gone straight, dropped the

Simmons from his name, and become a successful attorney.

And he would’ve gone on suing people happily ever after if

Garth hadn’t dug up his criminal past and threatened to rat

on him to the bar association.

All of which meant Peter Roberts had a perfect motive for

murder.

That clipping had just catapulted him to the Number One

spot on my suspect list. I debated about whether I should

take it with me and hand deliver it to the cops, but I decided

against it. Removing it from the house without a warrant

would probably be tampering with state’s evidence. I’d just

have to leave it there, and tell the cops about it later.

I was putting it back in the drawer when I saw a familiar

name on one of the files. In my earlier haste to find Peter’s

name, I hadn’t noticed it. But now it popped out like a neon

sign. Right behind PLUMBING EXPENSES, I saw a folder labeled

PRUDENCE.

I reached for it eagerly, and pulled out an 8 x10 photo of a

gorgeous redhead, posed against a velvet backdrop, wearing

nothing but a smile and a Gstring. Down at the bottom of

the picture, it said: Brandy Alexander, Stripper Extraordinaire.

I’d never seen that naked body before, but the face was unmistakable. It was Prudence Bascomb. A lot younger and a

lot trashier. But it was Prudence, all right.

Holy Moses. Garth hadn’t been bribing Prudence to win

the Christmas decorating contest. He’d been blackmailing

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her. For all I knew, he was putting the squeeze on her for

money, too.

What a mother lode of evidence I’d just uncovered. Between digging up dirt on Peter and Prudence, Garth had been

one busy little extortioner.

Thrilled with my discoveries, I returned Prudence’s file to

the drawer and headed back out to the foyer. I just hoped

Cathy wouldn’t notice the mangled lock on the desk.

I was about to slip out the front door, when I glanced into

the living room and saw the bowl of candy canes that had

been there the day I first visited Cathy.

Gosh, they looked good.

Oh, for crying out loud. What was I thinking? Hadn’t I

just gone through the humiliation of having my hips wedged

in a bathroom window? I couldn’t possibly allow myself to

feed them one more empty calorie! Absolutely not. No way.

No how.

As if.

Two seconds later I was sprinting into the living room,

reaching for one of the little suckers.

Just as I was about to grab it, I heard the front door open.

“Come on in,” I heard Cathy saying.

Damn it! Cathy was home, and she had someone with her.

I looked around for a place to hide. Not a closet or armoire in sight. So I made a mad dash for the sofa and crouched

down behind it.

Please don’t let them come into the living room, I prayed.

Let them go to the kitchen or the dining room. Anywhere but

the living room.

“Come on into the living room,” Cathy said.

Argggh.

“I can’t stay long, babe,” I heard a man reply as they

walked into the room. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

Whoa, Nellie. There was a man in the house and he was

calling Cathy “babe.” Something told me this wasn’t a condolence call.

THE DANGERS OF CANDY CANES

237

“C’mon, Jimmy,” Cathy cooed. “Work can wait. And besides, didn’t you have a present you wanted to give me?”

“So I did, dollface. So I did.”

Before I knew it, Cathy and this Jimmy guy were on the

sofa, going at it like two crazed rabbits. Clothes started flying—lace bra, thong undies, a pair of boxer shorts. Finally, a

man’s blue denim shirt sailed over the back of the sofa and

landed at my feet. And not just any blue denim shirt. I

blinked in amazement when I saw a US Postal Service logo

on the front.

Yikes. It looked like Cathy Janken was having an affair

with the hunky neighborhood mailman!

I’ll spare you the details of what happened next.

Let’s just say I’m surprised they didn’t set fire to the sofa

cushions.

“Oh, Jimmy,” Cathy sighed when it was over. “We’re going to be so happy together. You’ll never have to lift another

mail pouch for as long as you live. I’ve got more than enough

money for both of us. Garth left me a very wealthy woman.”

“You know I don’t care about money,” Jimmy protested

feebly.

Yeah, right. Just like I didn’t care about pepperoni pizza.

“I really gotta get back to work now, babe,” he sighed. “I

still got mail to deliver.”

Acck. The moment I’d been dreading. Any second now, he

was going to reach behind the sofa to pick up his shirt and

discover me cowering there.

I thought about making a run for the door, but was too

terrified to move.

“Don’t go,” Cathy pleaded. “Not yet. How about a nice

hot bath for two?”

Yes! Yes! Please take a bath! You both need one after the

gymnastics you’ve just been through!

“Let’s make it a quick shower. I got a million packages in

my truck.”

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Okay, a shower’s good, too. Just go!

And they did. Limp with relief, I heard them scampering

up the stairs.

The minute the shower started running, I crawled out

from behind my hiding space and raced into the foyer, past

Jimmy’s mail cart, and out the front door.

The last thing I heard as I made my break for freedom was

Cathy singing “ Besame Mucho” at the top of her lungs.

So much for the grieving widow.

My muscles had been through the wringer that afternoon,

what with crouching behind a sofa for twenty minutes and

being shot like a cannonball from a bathroom window.

So the minute I got home, I ran myself a steamy, musclerelaxing bath, billowing with strawberry-scented bubbles. I

sank down into it and sighed in ecstasy.

What a difference forty-eight hours makes.

Just two days ago, I had one measly suspect, and now I

had them coming out of my ears.

For starters, there was Cathy Janken. I was still reeling

over the tender love scene I’d just witnessed. Clearly her tears

on my first visit had been an act. She probably disliked Garth

as much as everybody else. Maybe even more. The question

was, had she bumped him off to bankroll a happy new life

with her macho mailman?

Next, there was Peter Roberts. Garth was threatening to

expose his criminal past and get him disbarred. Had Peter

sent him tumbling to his death before Garth could carry out

his threat?

And what about Prudence Bascomb, aka Brandy Alexander, stripper extraordinaire? Did she scamper up Garth’s roof

to put an end to his pesky blackmail demands?

Last but not least, there was Libby Brecker. I hope you

haven’t forgotten that pink flocking stuck to her baseboard. I

THE DANGERS OF CANDY CANES

239

sure hadn’t. No, she was still very much alive and well on my

suspect list.

“So who did it?” I asked Prozac, who was sprawled on top

of the toilet tank. “What do you think?”

I think it’s time you got out of that tub and fixed me dinner.

She jumped down from the toilet and started waving her

tail in her patented Feed Me wag.

“Forget it, Pro.”

Minced Mackerel Guts would be nice.

“It’s not going to happen.”

With bacon bits on top.

“I am not budging from this tub. Not for at least a half

hour. There’s dry food in your bowl if you want some.”

But I want Minced Mackerel Guts.

More tail waving, accompanied by a plaintive yowl.

“You’ll get your Minced Mackerel Guts. In a half hour.

Not a minute sooner.”

Okay, be that way.

She shot me a dirty look and slunk out the door.

I really had to start disciplining that cat more often; the

way she bossed me around was disgraceful. No wonder she

ran riot on an airplane. She was spoiled rotten. I vowed that

from then on, I was going to be a new sterner cat owner.

I was lying there, feeling quite proud of the new Disciplinary Me, when Prozac came sashaying back in the room with

a brand new pair of pantyhose dangling from her mouth.

How that cat manages to open my lingerie drawer is beyond me, but she does it all the time. I’m surprised she hasn’t

figured out how to call for pizza.

I think I’ll nibble on your pantyhose while I’m waiting for

dinner.

Needless to say, thirty seconds later, I was in the kitchen,

water puddling around my ankles, opening a can of Minced

Mackerel Guts.

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Prozac stood at my feet, gazing up at me with what I could

swear was a smirk.

I thought you’d see it my way.

“Some day I swear I’m going to put you up for adoption.”

Yeah, yeah. In the meanwhile, don’t forget the bacon bits.

Chapter

! Eleven #

You know how sometimes you go to sleep with a problem

and you wake up the next morning and the answer to

your problem is staring you right in the face?

Well, that may happen to you, but it sure didn’t happen to

me.

I got up the next morning, still clueless about which of my

suspects had sabotaged Garth’s roof.

Oh, well. I’d just have to let everything percolate in my

brain and hope that the answer would come to me eventually. In the meanwhile, I needed to take time off from the case

and go Christmas shopping.

Every year I vow to buy gifts early and avoid the lastminute crunch. But you know me. I make a lot of vows I

don’t keep. (See Discipline the Cat Vow.) In just a matter of

days I’d be boarding a plane to Florida and so far, I hadn’t

bought a single gift. I couldn’t afford to procrastinate one

minute more.

So, fortified with a wholesome breakfast of peanut butter

on a Pop Tart, I headed off to do battle at the mall.

I zipped over to Century City and pulled into a coveted

parking space right near the escalators, congratulating myself

for getting out of the apartment by ten A.M. and beating the

crowds.

My game plan was simple.

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This year, I would not stand in a daze agonizing over what

to buy. I would be a kamikaze shopper, choosing my gifts

quickly and decisively.

It didn’t matter what I bought, anyway. Whatever the gift,

my mom always says, “Oh, darling. I could’ve bought it for

less on the shopping channel.” Really, if you bought my mom

a new house, she’d tell you she could get it for less on the

shopping channel.

No, this year, I would march into Macy’s and buy practical

gifts that everybody could return for something they really

wanted. No dithering, no shilly-shallying. If I stuck to my

schedule I’d be out of there in an hour.

Hah!

Three hours later, I was still wandering around in a daze,

wasting time looking at impractical, impossible-to-pack items

like rotisserie cookers, musical flowerpots, and macrame hammocks (perfect for Cousin Joanie’s Chicago condo).

By the time I finally managed to get my act together and

pick out my unimaginative assortment of ties, scarves, pajamas and slippers, the stores were crowded and long lines

were snaking at the registers. What would’ve taken minutes

to buy hours ago, now took forever.

Finally, when the whole horrible ordeal was over and my

credit card lay gasping in my wallet, begging for mercy, I

headed over to the food court to reward myself with a corn

dog and fries.

Which, I have to say, were pretty darn delicious.

I sat there, inhaling my food, grateful that I had a whole

364 days before I had to go through this nightmare again.

And then, just as I was polishing off my fries, I remembered Angel Cavanaugh, and her sledgehammer hints for a

Christmas gift.

I’d checked out the L.A. Girlfriends guidebook, and sure

enough, although normally frowned upon, “modest gifts” were

permitted at Christmas.

I rummaged in my purse till I found the newspaper ad

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243

Angel had given me, for a pair of jeans from a store named

Hot Stuff. Scrawled in the corner of the ad, in Day-Glo pink

marker, were the words: “I wear a size 0.”

I almost choked on my Coke when I saw what they cost:

Eighty bucks!

No way was I spending $80 on that kid. Twenty dollars

was “modest” enough for me and my MasterCard.

Then I remembered Angel sucking at that inhaler of hers,

gasping for air, and a wave of sympathy washed over me. I

thought of her crummy apartment and her overworked dad.

Something told me she wasn’t going to be getting a lot of gifts

this Christmas. Or any other Christmas, for that matter.

Oh, what the heck? I was already in hock to MasterCard

for decades to come. What was another $80?

With a weary sigh, I tossed my corn dog wrapper in the

trash, and set out to buy a pair of Hot Stuff jeans.

Luckily, there happened to be a Hot Stuff store in the mall.

But not-so-luckily, when I got there, I discovered they were

sold out of jeans in Angel’s miniscule size 0.

“Would you like me to see if I can find a pair in another

store?” the bouncy teenage clerk asked.

Hot Stuff was one of those stores geared to the Clearasil

Set, whose idea of a size Large was my idea of a handkerchief.

“That would be great.”

She called around and minutes later got off the phone,

grinning.

“Good news! They’ve got one pair left out in Glendale. I

told them to hold it for you.”

“Glendale?”

I gulped in dismay. Do you know what it’s like getting

from Century City to Glendale in L.A. Christmas traffic?

Think the Donner Party, with palm trees.

No way was I going to trek all the way out there for Angel

Cavanaugh.

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Then once more the image of Angel sucking on that inhaler flashed before my eyes, and the next thing I knew I was

crawling along on the freeway, watching my fingernails grow.

I swear, I would’ve made better time on a walker.

It took me nearly two hours to get there, and another

twenty minutes to circle around looking for a parking spot.

Finally I found one at the far end of the lot and hiked over to

the Hot Stuff store.

A vacant-eyed teenager sat at the checkout counter, chatting on the phone in what I could only assume was a personal

call.

“She didn’t! Really, Cheryl? She actually said that? Why,

I’d never speak to her again if I was you, Cheryl. No, sir. I’d

tell her exactly where she could put that pom-pom of hers!”

I stood there listening to this fascinating monologue for a

few minutes, then finally managed to get her attention.

“Hey! You, with the phone glued to your ear. You’ve got a

customer. Remember us? The people you’re supposed to be

helping?”

Okay, so what I really said was “Ahem,” but she got the

message.

“Hold on a sec,” she said to Cheryl, then turned to me

with an irritated sigh. “How may I help you?”

“You’re supposed to be holding a pair of jeans for me at

the register.”

She stared at me blankly. “I don’t have any jeans here.”

“Sure, you do. They called a couple of hours ago from

Century City.”

“I dunno about any call. I just started my shift five minutes

ago.”

“Could you please just look behind the counter for a pair

of jeans.”

“Oh, all right.”

With a grudging sigh, she poked behind the counter.

“Nope,” she gloated. “No jeans here.”

“Are you sure?”

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245

“Look for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

I looked, and she was right. Nada. Zip. A jeans-free zone.

Grinding my teeth, I showed her the ad from the paper.

“You have any of these jeans?”

“Over there,” she said, pointing vaguely to a rack in the

back of the store.

I hurried over to the rack and checked out the jeans.

Thank heavens, there was one pair left in a size 0. I was just

about to reach for them when I felt someone tap me on my

arm.

I turned to see a short roly-poly woman at my side.

“Would you mind helping me out?” she said, smiling

sweetly. “I need one of those sweaters.”

She pointed to some sweaters stacked on a shelf above the

jeans.

“No problem,” I said.

“Thank you so much! I need a pink one in a size small. It’s

for my niece. All the kids seem to love this place.”

“Don’t I know it,” I said, reaching up to get the sweater.

I turned to hand it to her and I saw, to my consternation,

that she’d taken my size 0 jeans from the rack.

“Excuse me. I was going to buy those.”

“Oh?” she said, still smiling sweetly. “So was I.”

“But I saw them first.”

“Well, I’ve got them now.”

For the first time I noticed a glint of steel behind that smile

of hers.

“You don’t understand. I called the store and told them to

put these jeans on hold for me.”

“What a pity they didn’t.”

“I drove out here all the way from Century City in rushhour traffic.”

“And all for nothing!” she tsk-tsked. “Well, thanks for

helping me with the sweater.”

She traipsed off with the jeans clutched to her ample

bosom. And I went a tad ballistic. I charged after her, lunging

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for the jeans like a bull with anger management issues. But

she wasn’t about to let go of them. Not without a fight.

And that’s exactly what happened.

I’m ashamed to say we had a most undignified tussle over

those jeans.

I leapt into the fray with confidence. My roly-poly adversary was a good twenty years older than me. Surely I could

take her down.

But she was a surprisingly tough fireplug of a lady. After

much mutual pushing and clawing, she managed to land a

powerful shove that left me flat on my fanny, the contents of

my purse scattered on the floor around me.

“Bye, now!” she trilled, skipping off to the register. “And

thanks again for the sweater.”

Muttering a string of curses not fit for your delicate ears, I

gathered my belongings and stormed over to the checkout

counter, where the clerk was ringing up her sale.

“I just love the holiday season!” she chirped to the bored

teenager. “It’s such a happy time of year, don’t you think?”

“Whatever,” grunted the clerk.

“I hope you can live with yourself,” I hissed in Ms. Fireplug’s ear.

But she went on chatting, blithely ignoring my eyes boring

holes in her back.

Finally the clerk finished her end of the transaction and

asked Ms. Fireplug for her credit card.

“Of course, dear!”

She reached into her purse, and suddenly her good mood

vanished.

“My wallet,” she gasped. “I’ve lost my wallet!”

“Hah!” I crowed. “That’s what you get for being such a

lowdown sneak.”

“If you’re not gonna buy this stuff,” the clerk sighed, “I

gotta do a void.”

“I’ll take those jeans,” I piped up.

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247

Together the clerk and I managed to pry the jeans from

Ms. Fireplug’s fingers. And after the original sale was voided,

I whipped out my credit card and paid for them.

Now it was Ms. Fireplug’s turn to stand glaring at me.

“There you go, Ma’am,” the clerk said, handing me the

jeans in a gift box. “Have a nice day.”

“Oh, I will. I most definitely will.”

Then I reached into my pocket for a little something I’d

found when I’d been crawling on the floor picking up the

contents of my purse.

“I believe you dropped this in our scuffle,” I said, tossing

Ms. Fireplug her wallet.

And then I headed out into the mall, the sweet sounds of

her curses following in my wake.

I had just started the Himalayan trek back to my car when

I noticed a store that stopped me in my tracks. The place was

called The Cap Shack, and a sign in the window said: PERSONALIZED BASEBALL CAPS FOR ALL OCCASIONS.

And there in the corner of the window was a bright red

cap with the words Fiddler on the Roof embroidered across

the front. Fiddler, not Fiedler. The play, not the roofers. It

was the only theatrical title among the Old Fart, I Love Grandma, and Kiss Me, I’m Irish baseball caps on display. What, I

wondered, was it doing there?

Suddenly the wheels in my brain, rusted from a day at the

mall, started spinning. I had a hunch how the Fiddler cap got

there and I marched inside to see if I was right.

A skinny kid with a bobbing Adam’s apple sat behind the

counter, a baseball cap on his head.

“Welcome to The Cap Shack,” he intoned with all the enthusiasm of a funeral director.

“Hi, Francis.” I knew his name was Francis because it said

so on his hat. “I’m hoping you can help me out.”

“You looking for work? Trust me. You don’t wanna work

here. It stinks.”

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“No, I’m not looking for work. I just want to know if you

keep a record of your job orders.”

“Sure. We keep ’em for six months.”

“You think I could take a look at them?”

“Sorry,” he said, with a lugubrious shake of his head, “I’m

not allowed to divulge personal information about our customers.”

Now before I write another syllable, you’ve got to promise

that what happened next stays between us. Don’t go ratting

on me to Century National, okay?

In spite of the stern warning I’d received from Elizabeth

Drake, I whipped out my Century National insurance card

and gave one last performance as Jaine Austen, Insurance Investigator. (I swear, Elizabeth, if you’re reading this, I’ll never

do it again!)

“You’re really investigating a murder?” Francis asked, his

eyes bugging with excitement.

“Yes,” I nodded solemnly. “And I need to see those

books.”

Lucky for me, Francis was a gullible soul, and minutes

later I was sitting behind the counter poring through a thick

looseleaf binder of Cap Shack back orders.

It wasn’t long before I came across what I’d been hoping

to find—a work sheet for a red Fiedler on the Roof cap.

All along I assumed someone had stolen one of Seymour’s

caps to sabotage Garth’s roof. But I was wrong. Someone

had the cap specially made to order. Someone who later planned

to take advantage of Willard Cox’s very public feud with

Garth and frame him for the murder.

Eagerly, I checked out the customer’s name.

Claudia Jamison.

It had to be a pseudonym. Oh, well. What did I expect?

That the killer would use her real name?

But at least now I knew it was a woman.

The question was—which woman? Cathy, the cheating

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249

wife? Prudence, the ex-stripper? Or Libby, the Stepford

homemaker?

Unfortunately, “Claudia” had paid for the cap in cash, so

there was no way to track her down through a credit card.

“Do you remember this woman?” I asked Francis, showing him the work order. “Claudia Jamison?”

I had a feeling this guy had trouble remembering his own

name, but it was worth a shot.

“Are you kidding?” he said. “You know how many customers we get in here?”

Not many from the looks of it, but I wasn’t about to contradict him.

“Wait a minute. Here’s my supervisor. Maybe he’ll remember.”

I looked up to see Francis’s “supervisor,” a beanpole of a

kid who couldn’t have been more than eighteen.

“Hey, Denzel,” Francis said to his boss. “This lady’s an insurance investigator. She’s investigating a murder.”

“Cool.” Denzel smiled, revealing a mouthful of braces.

“Do you remember this order, Denzel?” I asked, showing

him the work sheet. “For a Fiedler on the Roof baseball

cap?”

His eyes lit up with what looked like actual intelligence.

“As a matter of fact, I do. We made a mistake on it, and

had to do it over again. The first time we wrote Fiddler on

the Roof.

“Actually,” he said, pointing to the red cap in the window,

“that’s our mistake over there.”

I gave myself a mental pat on the back. That’s what I’d

thought had happened.

“Do you remember the lady who ordered it?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Really?” I felt like kissing him, braces and all. “What did

she look like?”

“She was a tiny lady, wearing a pastel sweat suit.”

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Ta-da. Puzzle solved. At last I knew who’d climbed up

Garth’s roof.

Not tall, statuesque Prudence. Or plump, stumpy Libby.

Neither one of them was remotely tiny. But Cathy, a delicate

doll of a woman, fit the description to a “T.” And she had a

pastel sweat suit; she’d been wearing one the day I first came

to visit.

What’s more, her initials were C. J. As in Claudia Jamison.

Yes, folks. It looked like I’d just found myself a killer.

Chapter

! Twelve #

It had been ages since I’d scarfed down that corn dog at

lunch, and by the time I got home, I was starving.

And I wasn’t the only one. Prozac looked up from her

perch on top of the TV and greeted me with a hostile stare.

Where the heck have you been? I’m fainting with hunger.

“Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,” I said, dumping my

Christmas gifts on the sofa. “There are cats in Asia who

could live for a week on one of your snacks.”

Just move it, okay?

After feeding Prozac a gourmet dinner of Luscious Liver

Tidbits and grabbing a fistful of pretzels for myself, I put in a

call to Lt. DiMartelli, eager to tell him about Claudia Jamison aka Cathy Janken. But he wasn’t there, so I left a message, begging him to pretty please get back to me as soon as

possible.

I figured I’d wait for his call soaking in the tub with a glass

of wine and a pepperoni pizza. But when I checked my phone

messages, all plans for a catered bath went flying out the window.

Hey, Jaine. Tyler Girard’s voice came on the machine. I’m

calling to remind you tonight’s the night of the L.A. Girlfriends Christmas party. Hope you haven’t forgotten.

Acck! I sure had.

The fun starts at seven. See you there!

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Seven? Holy mackerel. It was already 6:45.

Kissing my bath goodbye, I showered and dressed with

Indianapolis 500 speed.

Then I grabbed Angel’s gift and headed for the door.

“Bye, Pro!”

She didn’t look up from where she was snoring on my

computer keyboard. Now that she’d gotten what she wanted,

she had no more use for me.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was my exhusband.

I drove over to the party, humming an off-key version of

“Frosty the Snowman,” not the least bit tired from my eight

grueling hours at the mall.

On the contrary, I was feeling quite perky at the thought of

seeing Tyler. How nice of him to call and remind me about

the party. I couldn’t help thinking that he was interested in

me. And not just as a volunteer.

I pulled into the parking lot of St. Philomena’s, a beautiful

old church out in Santa Monica where the party was taking

place, and checked my hair in the rearview mirror. Not a

pretty picture. There’d been no time to blow it straight, and

now I was stuck with the ever-popular Finger in the Light

Socket Look.

Oh, well, I thought, getting out of the car, there was nothing I could do about it. At least I’d managed to throw together a decent outfit: jeans, a red cashmere turtleneck, and a

yummy pair of high-heeled suede boots I’d bought on sale at

Nordstrom.

Pulling my sweater down over the dreaded hip/tush zone, I

sucked in my gut and headed inside.

The unmistakable aroma of Swedish meatballs greeted me

like an old friend when I walked in the door. The party was

in full swing, L.A. Girlfriends milling about, filling their

plates from a buffet table groaning with goodies.

A Christmas tree was set up in a corner of the room. And

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253

in an ecumenical nod to the minorities, a Hanukah menorah

and Kwanzaa candleholder were both aglow with candles.

I was relieved to see that most of the Girlfriend Volunteers

were pleasant, average-looking gals, much like Yours Truly,

hovering in the non-threatening Middle to Upper Middle of

the 1-10 scale.

When it came to Tyler Girard, I didn’t need any competition, thank you very much.

“Hey, Jaine. I was afraid you weren’t going to make it.”

Speak of the darling devil, there he was at my side, smiling

that endearing smile of his. I’d been so busy scoping the competition, I hadn’t seen him come up behind me.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said, thinking how nice he looked in

his chinos and crew neck sweater.

“Oh, I understand. Traffic’s a bear. Sister Mary Agnes just

called. She’s going to be late, too.”

“How nice,” I murmured.

Uh-oh. That hadn’t been the right thing to say, had it? I’d

been staring at Tyler’s eyes, trying to decide if they were

brown or hazel, and hadn’t really been paying attention.

“I meant, how nice that I’ll finally get a chance to meet

her.”

“She’s really looking forward to meeting you, too.” Then

he glanced down at my Hot Stuff package. “I see you

brought a present for Angel.”

“Who?”

“Angel. Your Girlfriend.”

Drat. I really had to stop staring at him and concentrate.

“Oh, right.”

“It looks expensive. I hope you didn’t go over the twenty

dollar limit.”

“Actually, I did. I know I shouldn’t have, but it’s something Angel had her heart set on.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Well, Angel and I really bonded on our date.”

At that moment I caught a glimpse of Angel at the buffet

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table, and the sight of her skinny arms reaching out to fill her

plate brought on a fresh wave of sympathy for the kid.

Maybe we hadn’t bonded on our date. But I knew we would,

eventually.

“I’m so glad it worked out,” Tyler said. “I was afraid she

might be a handful.”

“Oh, no,” I fibbed. “Not at all.”

“Well, now that you’re here, let’s go get you some dinner.

You hungry?”

“A little,” I said, trying not to look like the kind of person

who can pack away a dozen Swedish meatballs in a single

seating.

“We’d better grab your chow before the festivities begin.”

“Festivities?”

“Yes, after dinner, we open the presents and then Sister

Mary Agnes gives a little speech. And then we wrap things up

with dessert and coffee.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Oh, it will be.”

He beamed me another heart-melting smile which I beamed

right back at him. And then, just as we were establishing

meaningful eye contact, a willowy blonde came sashaying

over to his side—one of the few 9’s in the crowd—and

grabbed him by the elbow.

“Tyler, honey,” she cooed. “I’m going to steal you away.”

I glared at her, fuming.

“Beat it, blondie.”

Okay, I didn’t really say that. I just stood there, faking a

stiff smile, fighting my impulse to strangle her.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” she said. “I want to introduce you

to my husband!”

With that my smile turned genuine, and my homicidal urges

subsided. This harmless woman was married.

Tyler shrugged helplessly.

“Catch you later,” he called out to me as she pulled him

away.

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255

I stood there for a dreamy minute wondering what it

would be like to be caught by Tyler, preferably in the Honeymoon Suite of the Four Seasons Hotel.

Then I headed over to the Christmas tree. This whole L.A.

Girlfriends thing had worked out wonderfully well. True, my

initial date with Angel was a bit of a disaster, some might say

of Titanic proportions, but that was bound to change. Gradually she’d open up to me, and we’d form a bond that would

no doubt last all our lives.

I put Angel’s gift under the tree, lost in a reverie of Angel

all grown up and graduating from Berkeley, valedictorian of

her class, thanking the woman who changed her life, Jaine

Austen Girard, when I heard someone calling my name.

I turned and saw Kevin Cavanaugh, in a frayed sport coat

that hung loosely on his thin frame.

“I’m so happy to see you here,” he said. “I thought maybe

you’d given up on Angel, the way you raced off the other

day.”

“Oh, that. I had an emergency with my cat. A dental problem. Abscessed tooth. Had to be pulled. You don’t know

what it’s like trying to find a cat dentist on a weekend.”

What was wrong with me? Couldn’t I just tell a fib without writing a novel about it?

“I’m just glad you’re here. You don’t know how much this

means to Angel. I realize she can be difficult, but she’s had a

pretty rough time of things.”

“Oh, I know,” I nodded sympathetically. “What with her

asthma and all.”

“Asthma?” Kevin blinked, puzzled. “Angel doesn’t have

asthma.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell me that’s what she told you.”

“Well, actually—”

“No, I mean it. Don’t tell me. If I hear that kid has told

one more lie, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

He shot me a pleading look, his pale eyes watery with de-256

Laura Levine

spair. The guy was just a step away from jumping off a cliff

into a mental breakdown. And I wasn’t about to push him

over the edge.

“Oh, no!” I assured him. “She never said that. I must’ve

misunderstood. I’ll go have a little talk with her now and

straighten everything out.”

I gave him a cheerful wave goodbye, hoping he couldn’t

see the vein in my neck that was throbbing with fury, and

marched over to Angel, who was still at the buffet table.

I thought of all the trouble I’d been through to get those

jeans, the hours stuck in traffic, the horrible battle with Ms.

Fireplug. All because I felt sorry for the poor little asthmatic

waif. I was so mad, I was surprised steam wasn’t coming out

of my ears.

I found Angel in front of the Swedish meatballs, poking

another little girl in the chest.

“But I can’t afford to pay you protection money,” the

other kid wailed.

Stepping between them, I took the other kid by the shoulders and knelt down so we were face to face.

“Don’t pay Angel a dime, sweetheart,” I told her. “If she

threatens you again, call me. I’ll take care of it.”

I gave her one of my business cards, then got up and

turned to Angel, breathing fire.

“Did you bring my present?” she had the nerve to ask.

“Yes,” I snarled, “I brought your present.”

“Good. I’m gonna get it right now and make tracks outta

here. This party’s nothing but a bunch of dorks.”

“Not so fast, kiddo,” I said, grabbing her by the elbow.

“We need to talk. In private.”

My hand a vise around her wrist, I dragged her to a small

pantry behind the buffet. Inside was a table laden with the

desserts that were to be served after the gift-opening ceremonies. I was glad to see that nobody else was there.

“Whaddaya want?” she whined, as I yanked her inside

and shut the door behind us.

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257

“The truth. I know you don’t really have asthma.”

She shot me a defiant stare.

“So?”

“So, you lied to me.”

“And you fell for it.”

And then she smirked. The little monster was actually

proud of herself.

“What about that inhaler?”

“I found it in the garbage.”

Still smirking.

“I’m really angry, Angel.”

“Oh, wow. I’m shaking in my shoes.”

“Do you have any idea how much I paid for those jeans?”

“Yeah. $79.99. Plus tax.”

And then, with that smirk planted firmly on her face, she

said one more word that pushed me over the edge:

“Sucker.”

“That’s what you think, kiddo,” I hissed.

I turned and started for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To get my gift back.”

“You can’t do that!” she wailed.

“Oh, yeah? Watch me.”

I’d just made it to the door and was about to reach for the

knob when I felt something soft and squishy hit me in the

neck.

I scraped it off and looked down at the remains of a chocolate éclair on my fingers. And my cashmere sweater. And my

beautiful suede boots. Which, needless to say, weren’t so

beautiful anymore.

Angel’s smirk had now blossomed into a malicious grin.

I marched back to the dessert table, determined to wipe it

off her face, and grabbed an éclair.

“You wouldn’t dare hit a kid,” Angel sneered, as I held it

aloft.

I hated to admit it, but she had a point. I was a grown

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woman. I wasn’t actually going to demean myself by getting

into a food fight with a twelve-year-old, was I?

Apparently, yes.

Because the next thing I knew I was smushing that éclair in

Angel’s face. And loving every minute of it.

“Hah!” I cried.

Actually, I only got as far as “H—” Because just then, she

lobbed me in the mouth with a double fudge brownie. (Which,

I might add, was quite delicious.)

But for once I did not take time to savor my chocolate. I

lobbed her right back with a wedge of pumpkin pie, and she

zapped me with a fistful of mocha mousse. I retaliated with a

volley of Christmas trifle, and she let me have it with a hunk

of marshmallow-studded Jell-O.

I don’t know how long we continued in this disgraceful

vein. All I know is she’d just dumped the entire contents of

an eggnog bowl over my head when I heard:

“Jaine, what’s going on here?”

Wiping eggnog from eyes, I looked up and saw Tyler in the

doorway, staring at us, aghast.

“She attacked me!” Angel said, suddenly the wide-eyed innocent.

“She started it!” I cried.

“She squished an éclair in my face,” Angel sniffled, summoning fat tears to her eyes.

Man, this kid deserved an Oscar.

“Did you actually hit her with an éclair?” Tyler asked me,

radiating disbelief.

“Only because she hit me first!”

“And then she threw pumpkin pie at me. And trifle, too!”

Angel moaned piteously, channeling Orphan Annie, Little

Eva, and Tiny Tim all in one.

Tyler’s disbelief had turned to disgust.

“How could you, Jaine? She just a little girl.”

“Oh, no, Tyler. That’s where you’re wrong. She’s not a little girl. She’s the devil’s spawn. Five minutes with this kid is

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259

like a year in Guantanamo. I drove two hours in freeway

traffic to buy her a pair of $80 jeans and had to fight Ms.

Fireplug all because I thought she had asthma which was a

total lie, and I don’t care if I did find Garth’s killer at the

mall, she got the inhaler from the garbage!”

Okay, so I was rambling a tad. I was upset.

“Killer? What killer?” Tyler asked. “And who’s Garth?”

I never got to answer his questions because just then we

were joined by another visitor.

“What on earth is happening in here?”

Tyler gulped. “Sister Mary Agnes!”

I looked over at the stumpy woman standing in the doorway, and blinked in disbelief.

Omigosh.

It was Ms. Fireplug!

Whatever happened to the good old days when nuns wore

wimples and long black robes so you knew they were nuns

and didn’t wind up wrestling them to the floor for a pair of

Hot Stuff jeans?

I mean, really, if I’d had any idea that Ms. Fireplug was a

nun that afternoon, I would’ve handed over the jeans, wished

her a Merry Christmas, and trotted off to the food court to

drown my frustrations in a frozen yogurt.

“I knew she was trouble the minute I saw her,” she now

said to Tyler.

“Do you two know each other?” he asked.

“We’ve met,” I managed lamely.

“She stole my wallet.”

“That’s not true!” I protested. “She dropped it and I was

returning it to her.”

Tyler stared at me, slack jawed, disillusionment oozing

from every pore. Whatever spark I’d felt between us had

been stomped to oblivion.

“It’s no use trying to explain,” I sighed. “I’ll just go.”

“Maybe you’d better,” he said softly.

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By now a gaggle of L.A. Girlfriends had gathered around

the pantry door, whispering among themselves.

With as much dignity as I could muster under the circumstances, I plucked a piece of fudge brownie off my fanny and

walked past the gauntlet of their disapproving glares.

Outside the church, I passed a statue of Philomena, the patron saint of lost causes. She seemed to be gazing down at

me, pity in her eyes.

Sorry, kiddo, I could almost hear her saying. Wish I could

help, but you’re too much of a lost cause, even for me. Try

Bernadette over at Lourdes.

Then I trudged to my car and drove home in a cloud of humiliation and assorted desserts, leaving chocolate stains on

the seat of my Corolla that I have to this day.

Chapter

! Thirteen #

For two blissful seconds the next morning I had no memory of the Girlfriends debacle, but then it all came rushing

back to me like an overflowing septic tank.

What was wrong with me, getting into a food fight with a

twelve-year-old? I was a failure as a volunteer and a disgrace

to freelance writer/private eyes everywhere.

What’s more, I’d totally scotched things with Tyler, and

had about as much chance of getting a writing gig from Sister

Mary Agnes as I had of fitting into Angel’s size 0 jeans.

Which, incidentally, I never did take with me when I left. So

the little brat would get to wear them, after all.

Oh, well. I had to keep reminding myself that if I hadn’t

been out in Glendale, I would never have discovered Garth’s

killer.

I made up my mind to forget about last night’s fiasco and

get back to Garth’s murder, which, after what I’d just been

through, was beginning to look like a ride in the wine country.

I put in another call to DiMartelli, but he wasn’t in. The

desk sergeant told me he was expected around noon, and I

planned to be there the minute he walked in the door.

Willard Cox would be convicted and serving a life sentence

before the good lieutenant ever returned my call, and I was

determined to tell him my story.

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After a gourmet breakfast of Pop Tarts and Pancreas Entrails (the entrails were for Prozac), I got dressed and drove

over to my dry cleaner. I figured I might as well get some errands done while I waited for DiMartelli to show up.

The clerk had a hearty chuckle when I asked him if he

could get eggnog/éclair/brownie/chocolate mousse stains off

my cashmere sweater and suede boots. Yes, indeed. Just about

broke the meter on his giggle-o-meter.

I bid him a haughty goodbye and was heading back to my

car with my ruined clothing when I realized I hadn’t filled

Ethel Cox in on what I’d discovered at the mall. She had no

idea that, thanks to yours truly, her husband would soon be

out of jail. So I decided to make a quick pit stop at Hysteria

Lane and tell her the good news.

“Sweet little Cathy Janken?” Ethel blinked in surprise. “A

killer?”

We were seated across from each other in her living room,

where I’d just finished telling her about my adventures at The

Cap Shack.

“Absolutely,” I nodded. “She’s having an affair with another man and wanted out of the marriage. So she sabotaged

the roof, then later planted her specially ordered roofer’s cap

in Willard’s toolbox to frame him for the murder.”

“Oh, dear.” Ethel shook her head in dismay. “That’s just

awful. To kill her own husband, and then to blame poor

Willard.”

Clearly she hadn’t glommed onto the plus side of the story.

“Don’t you see, Ethel? As soon as I tell the police how

Cathy Janken aka Claudia Jamison ordered that roofer’s cap,

Willard will be off the hook.”

“Do you really think the police will let him go?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Oh, Jaine! That’s wonderful!” And for the first time since

this mess began, I saw a smile on her face. “How can Willard

and I ever thank you?”

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263

Just seeing her smile was thanks enough. After my dismal

failure as an L.A. Girlfriend, I was happy to finally bring joy

to someone’s life.

“I know!” she said. “Let’s celebrate with some tea and

homemade brownies.”

You’d think after last night’s flying dessert-a-thon I’d never

be able to look at another brownie again, but you’d be wrong.

“Sure,” I said, as always unable to resist the lure of chocolate.

“Make yourself comfy, sweetheart,” she said, bustling off

to the kitchen, “while I make the tea!”

Alone in the room, I got up to admire the Coxes’ stately

Christmas tree in the corner, heavily laden with elaborate

reindeer ornaments. With any luck, Willard would soon be

home to celebrate his reindeer-themed Christmas.

I wandered over to the fireplace, where a single stocking

hung from the mantel, embroidered with the name “Pumpkin.” Poor Pumpkin, I sighed. Clearly Ethel was having trouble letting go of her beloved pet.

I was just about to head back to the sofa when I noticed an

airline ticket lying on the mantel. Snoop that I am, I picked it

up and peeked at it. It was a round trip ticket to Bermuda, in

Ethel’s name, leaving Christmas day.

How odd. Why would Ethel be going to Bermuda at a

time like this? Maybe she had relatives there and was going

for emotional support. Still, it was strange she’d be leaving

Willard alone in his time of crisis.

And then I saw something else on the mantel, something

that sent a chill down my spine. It was a brochure for a

quaint bed and breakfast. It wasn’t the inn itself that jolted

me. In fact, it looked like a very lovely place. No, what made

the little hairs on my neck stand at attention was the name of

the inn: The Claudia Jamison House.

Holy Moses. Could it be? Was Ethel Claudia Jamison?

At that moment I became aware of footsteps behind me. I

whirled around to see Ethel coming at me—not with tea and

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brownies—but wielding one of Willard’s huge neon candy

canes.

The last thing I noticed before it came crashing down on

my skull was what Ethel was wearing:

A pastel sweat suit.

Just like Claudia Jamison.

I came to on the floor near the Christmas tree, my wrists

and ankles bound tightly with packing twine, my head throbbing like a bongo drum.

Ethel was kneeling over me, putting the finishing touches

on the twine around my ankles.

How wrong I’d been about Ethel. All along, I thought she

was a helpless housefrau. The woman was about as helpless

as a Sherman tank.

I tried to lift my head and set off a thousand drumbeats of

pain.

“Oh, dear!” Ethel looked around, startled. “I didn’t realize you’d come to. You poor thing,” she said, clucking in

sympathy, “your head must be pounding. I’d give you an aspirin, but you’ll be dead soon anyway. So why waste an aspirin?”

I gulped at this latest news bulletin, setting off a fresh

wave of bongo beats. If indeed I was headed for my final reward, I’d be darned if I was going to go without a fight.

“So you killed Garth,” I said, stalling for time.

“Well, duh, as you young people say. Of course I did. Such

fun pretending to be a roofer and loosening those shingles!”

“But why?”

“Because he killed Pumpkin. That was no accident. Garth

ran over my poor baby on purpose. So naturally he had to

die.”

“But I don’t understand. Why frame Willard for the murder?”

“Oh, Willard,” she said, with a dismissive wave. “I’m so

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265

tired of that man, always bossing me around. Gave me his

lunch order every day like I was a waitress at a restaurant. I

swear, I never want to cook another meal for him as long as I

live.”

So Cathy Janken wasn’t the only one who’d wanted to

dump her husband. I’d been pinning my suspicions on the

wrong desperate housewife.

“What a pill!” Ethel grumbled. “Forty-three years of marriage and we went on the same dratted vacation every summer. Fishing on Lake Arrowhead. I hung around the cabin all

day, bored silly, while he caught fish. And then I had to clean

the stinky things.

“I begged him to take me places. All my life I’ve wanted to

lie on the sand in Bermuda, but no, he’s so selfish. Everything’s got to be his way or no way.

“So you see, dear, I had to get rid of him.”

“Ever hear of a little thing called divorce?”

“Oh, no!” Ethel blinked, horrified. “I could never do that.

It’s a sin, you know.”

Yikes. Murder and sending her husband to jail was okay,

but divorce was a no-no. The woman had enough loose

screws to open her own hardware store.

“I’d never kill Willard. I just wanted him out of the way.

Besides, prison will be good for him. It’s time he learned to

take orders from somebody else for a change.”

Our cozy chat was interrupted by the sound of my cell

phone ringing in my purse.

“Don’t get up, sweetheart,” Ethel said. “I’ll see who it is.

Ha ha. That was a joke.”

“I got it.” And yet, I wasn’t laughing.

Ethel scooted over to the sofa where I’d left my purse and

checked out my caller ID.

“It’s the police.”

Great. Now they’re getting back to me.

“I’m afraid you won’t be returning this call,” she said. “Or

any other calls, for that matter.”

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She picked up a china tea cup from the coffee table and

headed back to me.

“What a shame,” she sighed. “If only you hadn’t interfered. I didn’t mind killing Garth, but you seem like such a

nice girl. I hate to have to kill you, too.”

“Then don’t. I swear, I won’t say a word to the cops. Honest. Garth was an awful man; he deserved to die. And as for

Willard, hey, prison’s not so bad.”

“I wish I could believe you,” she said, kneeling at my side,

“but I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Now drink this, sweetheart. I brewed it while you were

sleeping.” She gently propped my head into a sipping position. “It’s some lovely Constant Comment tea, with a tad of

rat poison.”

“Sounds tempting, but I’ll pass.”

“I really wish you’d drink it, dear. Otherwise I’ll have to

bludgeon you to death with my candy cane, and I really hate

getting my carpet all bloody. But I will if have to.”

“Just what do you intend to do with my body?”

“Oh, I’ll put it in the freezer till I get back from Bermuda.

I’ll figure out something then.

“Bottoms up,” she said, holding the tea cup to my lips.

“Just remember. If you don’t drink it, I’ll bash your head in.

And that won’t be very pleasant, will it?”

No way was I going to open my mouth and drink this

stuff. I had to do something to stop her.

“Okay,” I lied, “I’ll drink it. But can you grant me one last

wish before I die?”

“That depends. What’s the wish?”

“I’d really love one of your brownies. They were so darn

delicious.”

“How sweet of you to say so.” She blushed with pleasure.

“It’s so nice to get a compliment for a change. I must’ve

cooked 60,000 meals for Willard but did I ever get a thank

you? No, I did not.”

“So can I have one?”

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267

“I’m afraid they’re in the freezer.”

“Can’t you nuke one for me? And maybe heat up the tea?

It looks sort of cold.”

“Well, okay. But after the brownie, then you promise

you’ll die without a fuss?”

“Cross my heart.”

Much to my relief, she got to her feet and started off for

the kitchen.

“Don’t even think of crying out for help while I’m gone,”

she warned. “Otherwise I’m going to have to gag you.”

Damn. Plan A just went flying out the window.

As she skipped off to fix my Last Snack, my mind started

racing. How the heck was I going to get out of this mess?

I craned my neck, looking for something sharp to cut the

twine binding my wrists and ankles, but saw nothing.

Then I thought of another plan. It was a long shot, but it

was the only shot I had. My head throbbing with every

bump, I manage to roll myself behind the Christmas tree.

Lucky for me, Ethel was not an expert in bondage. She’d

bound me only at the wrists and ankles, which meant I could

still bend my knees and elbows. And that gave me some degree of mobility. I had just managed to prop myself into a sitting position with my back up against the wall when Ethel

returned with my brownie and poisoned tea.

“Oh, Jaine,” she sighed. “Aren’t you silly, trying to hide.

I’m certain to find you.”

She looked around the room and then spotted me behind

the tree, as I was hoping she would.

“There you are, you foolish girl!”

She started toward the Christmas tree.

This was it, the moment of truth.

I raised my knees to my chest and sent up a last desperate

prayer to the heavens.

Get me through this, and I swear I’ll never have a food

fight with a twelve-year-old or wrestle with a nun for as long

as I live!

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Then, with every ounce of strength in my body, I kicked

the tree trunk.

For a terrifying fraction of a second, it looked like it wasn’t

going to fall, but then my prayers were answered. Ethel’s eyes

widened in shock as the tree toppled over, sending reindeer

ornaments flying and pinning her underneath.

Now it was her turn to lie on the floor unconscious.

I scanned the wreckage for something sharp enough to cut

twine. Not two feet away, I saw my instrument of escape. A

shattered teacup, the one that had just a few seconds ago

held my poisoned tea.

I maneuvered myself over to it, and managed to pick up a

sharp shard of china. It wasn’t easy with my wrists bound together, but eventually I sawed through the twine on my ankles. Then I sprang to my feet and raced over to Ethel’s

phone. Somehow I managed to punch 911 and scream for

help.

Five minutes later, just as I was cutting through the twine

on my wrists and the cops were banging at the door, Ethel regained consciousness.

She looked up at me, bewildered, from under the tree.

“That’s the police,” I told her.

She moaned softly.

“Don’t get up, sweetheart,” I said. “I’ll let them in.”

Chapter

! Fourteen #

After checking out my story, the cops carted Ethel off to

the prison wing of County General Hospital. When I finally limped home, I swallowed a fistful of Tylenol and spent

the next heavenly hour or so soaking my aching muscles in a

marathon bath. After which I collapsed into bed where I

slept for twelve straight hours (near-death experiences tend

to tucker me out) until Prozac lovingly clawed me awake for

her breakfast.

In spite of a bump on my head the size of a potato puff, I

felt fine. And starving. If you don’t count those Tylenol, I

hadn’t had a thing to eat for nearly twentyfour hours. So

I drove over to Junior’s deli and treated myself to a hearty

breakfast of bacon, eggs, hash browns, and an English muffin with strawberry preserves.

I’d come home and was working off my breakfast with a

strenuous nap on the sofa, when somebody rang my doorbell.

You’ll never guess who it was.

Angel Cavanaugh.

She stood on my doorstep in a Hello Kitty T-shirt and flipflops, barely big enough to cast a shadow, a bouquet of flowers in her hand.

Her dad stood at her side, holding a shopping bag.

“Don’t you have something to say to Jaine?” he said,

nudging her with his elbow.

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“I’m really sorry,” Angel said, looking up at me with

sheepish eyes. “For lying to you. And for getting you in trouble with Sister Mary Agnes.”

Alert the media. She actually seemed to mean it.

“These are for you.” She held out a bunch of supermarket

daisies.

“Why, thank you!” I have to admit, my heart melted just a

tad. “Won’t you come in?”

I ushered them inside and hurried to the kitchen to put the

daisies in water.

When I came back out, they were sitting on the sofa.

Prozac, the shameless flirt, had wandered in from the bedroom and was shimmying in ecstasy against Kevin’s ankles.

“Wow, you’ve got a cat!” Angel said. “I always wanted a

cat.”

“I’m not sure you want this one.”

Prozac glared at me through slitted eyes. I swear, that cat

understands English.

Don’t listen to her, kid. I’m adorable.

With that, she leapt into Angel’s lap and began purring

like a buzzsaw.

“You have something else for Jaine, don’t you?” Kevin

said, once again nudging Angel with his elbow.

Reluctantly she plucked Prozac from her lap, and walked

over to me with the shopping bag her dad had been carrying.

“Here are the jeans,” she said, taking them out of the bag.

“You shouldn’t have spent so much money.”

This time, I could tell her heart wasn’t in it.

“That’s okay,” I said. “You keep them.”

“Thanks!” She grabbed them back so fast, she almost got

whiplash. “Can I go put them on?”

“Sure. You can change in my bedroom,” I said, pointing

down the hall.

“I can’t tell you how much those jeans mean to her,” Kevin

said when she’d dashed off. “Angel doesn’t get very many

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gifts. I’m all the family she’s got. And, as you can imagine,

she doesn’t make friends very easily.”

I could imagine, all right. In Technicolor and Dolby stereo.

“We’ve tried other mentoring programs, and you’re the

first person who ever stuck it out for more than an hour.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish. That’s why I’m so grateful to you. Anyhow, I

called L.A. Girlfriends and explained how Angel lied to you

about having asthma, and how she goaded you into the food

fight. Which, incidentally, she loved. She said she hadn’t had

so much fun since the time she fingerpainted on our living

room walls.” He shuddered at the memory. “It took three

coats of paint to cover that mess.

“Anyhow, Sister Agnes has agreed to take you back. That

is, if you want to see Angel again.”

He looked at me like a puppy begging for a bone.

Acck. The thought of a date with Angel without intravenous Valium was daunting, to say the least.

But before I could fumpher an excuse, Angel came bouncing back into the room in her new jeans.

“They’re great!” she beamed, a radiant smile lighting up

her pinched face. “Thank you so much.”

At the sight of that smile, my heart melted again.

“I was just telling Jaine the good news about L.A. Girlfriends.”

“Yeah,” Angel said. “They want you back. So how about

it, Jaine?”

Angel smiled shyly. “Will you be my Girlfriend?”

By now my heart was the consistency of a pint of Chunky

Monkey in the microwave.

“Of course,” I said. “I’ll be your Girlfriend.”

“Great! They’re having a sale at The Limited. Wanna go?”

“Forget it, Angel.”

“Hey,” she shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”

Okay, so it wasn’t going to be easy.

But like the kid said, it was worth a shot.

Epilogue

!

#

You’ll be glad to know that Ethel Cox got her wish. She

never has to cook another meal as long as she lives. The

state is providing her with three meals a day at a prison for

the criminally nutsy.

At first Willard visited her regularly, in spite of the fact

that she refused to see him. After a while, though, he gave up.

Last I heard, he was dating a woman he met in the Christmas

decorations department of Home Depot.

Peter Roberts and Prudence Bascomb (aka Brandy Alexander) are still practicing law, and frankly I’m glad I never got

around to telling the cops about what I’d discovered in

Garth’s file. So what if they’ve got dark secrets in their pasts?

What attorney doesn’t?

And remember Peter’s secretary, Sylvia Alvarez? I saw her

wedding picture in the paper not long ago. She and Hector finally tied the knot. I only hope the priest managed to get a

word in edgewise during the ceremony.

Even more good news: Seymour Fiedler and his merry

band of Fiedlers are back in business, plying their trade on

the roofs of Los Angeles. In fact, they just finished Libby

Brecker’s place.

Speaking of Libby, I saw her the other day when I took a

sentimental spin over to Hysteria Lane. She was out front,

buffing her door knocker. She congratulated me for my work

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273

on bringing Ethel to justice (the police were kind enough to

mention my name in their account of Ethel’s arrest) and told

me that Cathy Janken had sold her house and was living in

an apartment in Van Nuys. Contrary to Cathy’s expectations,

Garth left her saddled with debt, which may have been the

reason Jimmy the mailman dumped her for the UPS delivery

gal he’d been seeing on the side.

Angel and I “dated” for a few months, until her dad got

transferred to Sacramento. It was tough sledding at first (I

wanted to throttle her when she threw her house keys into

the La Brea Tar Pits to see if they’d sink), but gradually she

stopped acting out, and I grew quite fond of her. We never

bonded in the lovey-dovey way of my fantasies. But we definitely Scotch Taped.

Things were never the same between me and Tyler. Maybe

because it’s hard to have romantic feelings for a woman once

you’ve seen her with chocolate mousse up her nose. But mainly

because Tyler and Sister Mary Agnes (who, as the authorities

discovered, wasn’t really a nun) ran off to Acapulco with the

proceeds from an L.A. Girlfriends fund-raiser. I should’ve

known there was something fishy about a nun who’d go

mano a mano for a pair of Hot Stuff jeans.

Finally, I’m happy to report I had a very merry Christmas

that year.

Daddy and Uncle Ed got into a big fight over a Monopoly

game, and when Daddy threw Uncle Ed’s hotels—along with

his toupee—in the Tampa Vistas pool, Uncle Ed got so mad,

he checked his whole family into a Ramada Inn.

So Prozac and I had the guest room—and my parents—all

to ourselves. How lovely to eat all the Christmas cookies I

wanted, free from invidious comparisons to Cousin Joanie

and her string bikinis.

And the flight to Florida wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought

it would be. Prozac didn’t throw up on a single passenger.

Nope, this trip, she threw up on the captain.

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But Homeland Security finally took her off their Most

Wanted List, so we’re free to travel again.

Catch you next time.

PS. If you’re reading this during the holiday season, Prozac

and I want to wish you a marvelous Christmas, a heavenly

Hanukah and/or the coolest Kwanzaa ever.

Well, I do, anyway. Prozac just wants you to scratch her

back.

CANDY CANES OF

CHRISTMAS PAST

Leslie Meier

Prologue

!

#

Afire was crackling in the grate, Christmas carols were

playing on the stereo and Lucy Stone was perched on a

step ladder in the living room arranging strings of twinkling

fairy lights on an eight-foot balsam fir her husband Bill had

cut in the woods behind their old farmhouse on Red Top

Road in Tinker’s Cove, Maine.

“Watch out, Lucy,” warned Bill, coming into the room

with several battered brown cardboard boxes of ornaments.

“You don’t want to lose your balance and fall.”

“I’ve just finished,” said Lucy, slipping the last loop of

wire over a branch and stepping down from the ladder.

Bill put the boxes on the coffee table and stood back, arms

akimbo, admiring the tree. “It’s the best we’ve ever had, I

think. I’ve had my eye on that tree for a couple of years

now.”

“A special tree for a special Christmas,” said Lucy, wrapping her arms around his waist. “It’s Patrick’s first.”

“Not that he’ll remember it,” said Bill. “He’s only nine

months old.”

“We’ll remember. After all, it’s our first Christmas as

grandparents.”

As if on cue, the dog’s barking announced the arrival of

Toby and Molly and the baby, who had come from their

house on nearby Prudence Path. Feet could be heard clatter-278

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ing down the stairs as Zoe, at eleven the youngest of Lucy

and Bill’s children, ran to greet them. Behind her, moving

more sedately but unable to resist the allure of their nephew,

came her older sisters, Sara, who was a high school sophomore,

and Elizabeth, home from Chamberlain College in Boston,

where she was a senior.

“Look at how big he’s gotten!” exclaimed Elizabeth, who

hadn’t seen the baby since Thanksgiving.

“Can I hold him?” asked Sara.

“No, let me!” demanded Zoe. “Let me hold him!”

“Careful there,” cautioned Lucy, asserting her grandmotherly prerogative and scooping little Patrick up in a hug. Then

she sat down on the couch with him in her lap and began unzipping his snowsuit, revealing a blond little tyke in a plaid

shirt and blue jeans that matched his father’s, and his grandfather’s. She nuzzled his neck and Patrick crowed and

bounced in her lap, delighted to be the center of attention.

“Elizabeth, you can get the cookies and eggnog, and everybody else can start trimming the tree. Patrick and I will watch.

Right, Patrick?” But as soon as the boxes were opened and

the first ornaments taken out, Patrick was no longer content

to watch. He wanted to pull the paper out of the boxes and

touch the ornaments, too. Deftly, Lucy distracted him with a

cookie and took him over to the window, to look at the

Christmas lights strung on the porch.

“It’s starting to snow,” she said. “It’s going to be a white

Christmas.”

“Nothing unusual about that,” said Bill, who was attaching a hook to a round red ball.

“We’re only supposed to get a couple of inches,” said

Toby, pulling a plastic trumpet out of the box. “Hey, I remember this,” he said, blowing on it and producing a little

toot.

“Look at this one!” said Zoe. “It’s baby Jesus in his manger, and if you shake it the snow falls on him!”

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“Poor baby Jesus,” said Molly, making herself shiver. “He

must be cold.”

“It snowed on me in my crib, when I was a baby, right in

this house,” said Toby. “Right, Mom?”

“He’s making that up,” declared Sara.

“And how could he remember, if he was a baby?” asked

Elizabeth.

“That’s silly,” said Zoe. “It can’t snow in the house!”

Lucy looked around the room, at the strong walls and the

tight windows, the carpeted floor, and the brick fireplace

where the fire crackled merrily, and then her eyes met Bill’s.

“We-e-ll,” she said, “this house was in pretty bad shape

when we first moved here.”

“It was a nor’easter,” said Bill, exaggerating. “The wind

blew the snow through a crack. It was easy to fix, the window just needed some caulking.”

“See, I was right,” declared Toby.

“It was Christmas Eve,” said Lucy. “Toby was two. I

found him in his crib, with a little dusting of snow. But how

did you remember?”

“I think you must’ve told me,” said Toby. “To tell the

truth, it just popped in my head this morning when Patrick

woke up and I went into his room to get him.”

Lucy smiled fondly at her grandson, who looked so much

like his father at that age. Things had certainly changed since

that awful winter of 1983… .

Chapter

! One #

December 1983

Only a week until Christmas. Not that it felt like Christmas. Lucy Stone was crouched awkwardly on the

cracked linoleum kitchen floor in front of an elderly gas

range, trying to reach all the way back inside the broiler despite her six-month pregnant belly to relight the oven pilot

light that was always going out. No wonder, considering

how drafty the old house was.

The flame finally caught and she sat back on her heels,

gathering up the collection of wooden matches she’d used

and groaning a bit as she hauled herself to her feet. She tossed

the matches in the trash and washed her hands in cold

water—it took a while for the balky hot water heater to produce anything remotely warm, much less hot—before returning to the cookie batter she was mixing. Spritz cookies, just

like her mother always made. Except this year she had to

make them because she wouldn’t be seeing her mother, or her

father, this Christmas. They were staying in New York City

because Dad was making a poor recovery from heart surgery

and was lingering in the hospital, needing all Mom’s attention. That left Lucy, who could use some attention herself,

out in the cold.

Literally out in the cold, she thought, switching on the

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mixer to cream the butter and sugar together. It didn’t get

much colder than coastal Maine and that’s where she was, in

the nowhere town of Tinker’s Cove. It was certainly a far cry

from the Upper West Side of New York City, where she and

Bill and Toby, who was almost two, had lived in a tight threeand-a-half rooms overlooking Central Park. But what did

space matter when you had the entire park with playgrounds

and a zoo and even a carousel, and the American Museum of

Natural History and the Metropolitan Museum of Art just

steps away? When you could hop the subway to Battery Park

for a breath of sea air and a walk along the water? Or a night

out at a Broadway show? Or a quick trip to Bloomingdale’s

where they sprayed you with the newest fragrances and you

could find the cutest little outfits for Toby?

Lucy switched off the mixer and set it on the kitchen table,

then began adding the flour by hand. It was hard work but

she was glad to have something to occupy her, something

that would make it seem more like Christmas. Which was

weird, she thought, because Tinker’s Cove was one of those

picture-perfect New England towns that looked as if it could

be on a Christmas card. But even though the air smelled

piney and the houses all had wreaths with red bows and the

big fir tree in the center of town was decked with colored

lights, it wasn’t nearly as festive as Rockefeller Center where

they set up a proper Christmas tree above the skating rink

and played Christmas carols on loudspeakers and Fifth Avenue was filled with shoppers carrying bags that bulged with

presents.

Just the thought of presents made Lucy groan. There weren’t

going to be presents this year, at least not the lavish presents

of Christmases past. She and Bill had agreed to exchange one

modest gift apiece, reserving the rest of their limited budget

for toys for Toby. Limited being the operative word here,

thought Lucy, who had a fifty-dollar bill folded in the back of

her wallet and was keeping an eye on the assortment of

trucks and stuffed animals at the IGA, anxiously hoping they

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held out until Christmas Eve when Dot, the friendly cashier,

promised her prices would be cut by half.

Somehow she hadn’t expected it would come to this when

she agreed to Bill’s plan to dramatically change direction, exchanging a well-paying job as a stockbroker and their comfortable life in the city to realize his longtime dream of living

in the country and working with his hands. Back then he’d

just gotten a fat bonus and it seemed that they could easily

afford the fixer-upper farmhouse they’d found in Tinker’s

Cove. He’d learn by doing, he said, gaining the skills of a

restoration carpenter by refurbishing the big nineteenthcentury house room by room. But everything was more expensive than they anticipated and the fat bonus shrank rapidly,

going to the hardware store and the lumber yard and the

electric company and the grocery store and the oil company.

Especially the oil company. When Bill tore out the old, rotted

plaster and lath he discovered there was no insulation, and

sometimes not even proper studs, in the walls. Which meant

it was always cold even though the furnace ran constantly,

burning oil at a ferocious rate.

Even worse, Bill’s career change had alienated him from

his parents. Bill Sr. and Edna had seemed so jolly, so easygoing when Lucy first met them but that had all changed

when Bill announced his plan to give up corporate life. Bill

Sr. had listened stony faced as Bill explained his reasons for

quitting the brokerage firm he bitterly referred to as “Dewey,

Cheatham and Howe.”

“They don’t care about the clients, Dad, all they care about

is making a big profit. There’s so much pressure to churn accounts to generate commissions, to sell limited partnerships

and other products that aren’t going to produce a dime until

most of my clients are long gone. And there’s the insider trading. I tell you, it’s just a matter of time before the SEC gets on

to these guys.”

“You have a responsibility to your employer, son,” said his

father, looking grim. “They’re paying you handsomely to

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make money for them. It’s not some sort of welfare scheme,

you know.”

“You said it,” snapped Bill. “They’ve got me taking from

the poor and giving to the rich and I’m not going to do it.

We’re going to get out of this filthy town and go somewhere

where the air is clean and people are honest.”

“I’m warning you, son,” said Bill Sr. “I can’t approve of

you putting your family and your livelihood at risk like this.

Don’t come whining to me looking for a handout when the

wolf is at the door.”

Lucy smiled grimly to herself. Despite Bill’s high hopes

they hadn’t found either clean air or honest people. The local

weather forecast announced frequent bad air days, thanks to

prevailing winds that carried pollution from the entire country. And the big story last week in the town’s little newspaper

alleged that a sweet-faced church secretary, beloved by the

entire congregation, had embezzled several thousand dollars

for a trip to Las Vegas. Bill had succeeded, however, in bringing the wolf to the door, but there was no way he was going

to give his father the satisfaction of asking for help. That

would be admitting defeat and Bill wasn’t about to do that.

So they wouldn’t be seeing the elder Stones this year, either.

So here she was, she thought, looking around the kitchen

and not liking what she saw. There were no cabinets, no counters, just a stained old Kenmore gas range that was at least

twenty years old that stood next to a nasty old porcelain sink

with exposed plumbing beneath. The refrigerator stood across

the room in lonely splendor, its white porcelain door speckled with rust and its rounded top a slippery slope for anything that she set on top of it. Which she did, having no other

place to store things she didn’t want Toby to get into. The

wallpaper, a flamboyant pattern featuring black swirls punctuated with red and yellow teapots, was torn, and the patches

of plaster that were revealed were painted in various colors

of green and beige. Lucy regularly washed the green speckled

linoleum that covered most of the worn wood floor but no

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matter how hard or how often she scrubbed, it still looked

dirty and dingy. And this, she thought with a sigh, was just

the kitchen. She didn’t even want to think about the rest of

the house, especially the breezy, rattle-trap room that served

as a nursery where Toby was napping under a pile of quilts

and blankets.

The cookie dough was ready, she realized, mixed to perfection as she fumed about her situation and she chuckled to

herself. Anger and resentment were good when you needed

muscle power, but not good for the soul. Or for relationships, she thought, hearing Bill banging nails in the living

room. It was definitely time she adopted a more positive attitude. It was Christmas after all, and she wanted their first

Christmas in their own home to be special.

Lucy was smiling as she stuffed the dough into the cookie

press and screwed on the end cap. She heard the hiss of the

burner as the oven heated and she switched on the radio,

turning the dial until she found a station playing Christmas

carols. She hummed along, turning the crank and squeezing

out perfect little rosettes onto the cookie sheets. When she’d

filled both sheets she placed a bit of glazed cherry in the center of each cookie and slipped the pans into the oven, which

the thermometer she’d hung from the rack indicated was a

perfect three hundred and fifty degrees.

Toby was stirring upstairs so she climbed the rickety back

stairs that led to the second floor bedrooms. She pushed open

the door and peeked inside, ignoring the walls that had been

stripped down to the studs and the windows that rattled and

went straight to the crib, where Toby was sitting in a nest of

blankets and talking to himself.

“Did you have a nice nap?” she asked, lifting him out of

the crib, nosing his tousled hair and sniffing his sweet baby

scent, then took him by the hand and led him to the bathroom where he stood on a stool while she undid his overalls

and then slid him on the blue plastic kiddie seat that sat on

the toilet. The bathroom was another room that didn’t bear

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close examination, she thought, refusing to look at the spotted mirror on the medicine cabinet and the cracked pink tiles.

She checked the diaper he still wore for naps and found it

dry; something to smile about. “You’re getting to be such a

big boy!” she exclaimed, and was rewarded with a tinkle.

“You went in the toilet! Just like Mommy and Daddy!”

Finished, he raised his arms and bounced in the seat. Lucy

slid him off and stood him on the floor where he squirmed

and wiggled as she pulled on training pants and hooked his

overall straps. At the second click he bolted shoeless for the

door and she grabbed him by the back of his OshKosh’s.

“Shoes,” she said, leading him back to the nursery where he

protested loudly as she wrestled him into a pair of almost

new Stride Rite oxfords that were already getting a bit tight.

She was out of breath as she helped him down the back stairs

to the kitchen.

Funny, she thought, helping Toby onto his booster seat.

The cookies ought to be nearly done by now but there was

no delicious buttery smell. She filled his sippy cup with milk

and then reached for the oven door, intending to give him a

warm cookie. But when she peered inside the oven she discovered it was no longer hot, it was barely warm and the

cookies hadn’t even browned.

She bit her lip and walked across the room to the refrigerator, where she reached for the box of graham crackers that

was sitting on top. She opened it and pulled one out for Toby.

She stood there, looking at the dry little brown square of

cracker, and burst into tears.

“What’s the matter?” Bill was at her side in a flash, his

hammer still in his hand. “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’m

not okay at all. I can’t live like this. Look at us! We’re living

in a wreck!” Her voice rose and she went on, unable to stop

herself. “This is a big mistake. You’re never going to be able

to turn this dump into a house. You don’t know what you’re

doing. It’s been months and we don’t have walls, or electric

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outlets or hot water. We’re freezing and it’s only December. I

hate to tell you buddy but there’re two, three more months of

winter to get through.” She marched over to the stove and

pulled out the cookie sheets with her bare hands, slamming

them onto the table and raising a little cloud of flour. “And

the oven doesn’t work!” she shrieked, shaking with sobs.

“That’s simple,” he said, taking the box of matches off the

shelf and dropping to his knees, where he lit a match and

reached into the broiler producing a satisfying whoosh. “See,

all fixed,” he said, leaning back on his heels and giving her a

satisfied smile.

“It’s not fixed,” she said. “It’ll go out again, next time the

wind blows through these pathetic excuses for walls.”

“Mo’,” mumbled Toby, holding out his sippy cup for a refill.

Bill stayed in place, head bowed, while Lucy got the milk

container out of the refrigerator. “I know it’s tough, Lucy,

but I’m really making progress.”

“Great. That’s terrific,” she said, her voice dripping with

sarcasm. “And what are Toby and I supposed to do in the

meantime?”

Bill got to his feet and picked up Toby, hoisting him high

above his head and making him shriek with delight. Then he

settled him on his shoulders. “We’re managing. We’re doing

okay. You’re just feeling overwhelmed right now.”

Lucy looked at him, at his sweet sincere face and his

sparkling blue eyes. He needed a haircut and a hank of brown

hair kept falling into one eye; he shook it back and grinned at

her. She couldn’t resist that cocky grin. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“I know you’re working hard.” The oven, which had been

hissing, fell silent as the pilot light went out again. “I just

wanted to make my mom’s Christmas cookies.”

“We’ll get it fixed, I promise. I’ll call Sears right away.

Meanwhile, you need to get out of the house. You should

take some time to yourself, go into town, do a little shopping. Toby and I will hold the fort, right Toby?”

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Toby giggled. He loved sitting on his father’s shoulders.

Lucy considered. It had been quite a while since she’d had

any time to herself. “Okay,” she said. “That’s a good idea.

Thanks.”

“No problem,” he said, swinging Toby down to the floor

and taking his hand. “Come on, buddy. Let’s find your tools.

We’ve got some hammering to do.”

When Lucy left the house, she could hear them both banging away. Bill was nailing up sheetrock and Toby was imitating him, pounding the pegs on his toy workbench. I wonder

how long that will last, she thought, closing the door behind

her.

She slid behind the wheel of Auntie Granada, the secondhand Ford they’d bought for her to drive. It was another expense they hadn’t anticipated. Coming from the city they’d

been shocked to discover there was no public transportation

in rural Maine and that everyone had to provide for themselves. But Auntie Granada was one of the few things in their

new life that actually worked and Lucy enjoyed cruising

along the country roads with the radio blasting oldies. “I

Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” was playing as she turned

out of the driveway onto Red Top Road and headed for

town.

But where to go in town, she wondered, as she hummed

along to the tune. There was no Bloomingdale’s in Tinker’s

Cove, just a quaint little country store called Country Cousins

that sold duck boots and rugged plaid shirts and corduroy

pants. They had nothing at all for children, and only a few

decidedly unstylish items for women. Definitely not the sort

of place you went to spend your mad money.

Proceeding down Main Street she passed the newspaper

office and the police and fire stations, eventually coming to

Jake’s Donut Shack. She considered stopping there and treating herself to a hot chocolate, but dismissed the idea. The few

times she’d gone inside she’d felt uncomfortable, as if Jake’s

was some sort of exclusive club. Everybody seemed to know

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everybody else and regarded outsiders with suspicion. It was

the same, Bill had told her, at the local fisherman’s bar down

at the harbor. The Bilge had a faithful clientele of regulars

who were practically hostile to newcomers.

Reaching the end of Main Street, Lucy turned down Sea

Street to the town pier, where she circled the parking lot.

Nothing going on there, just a lot of boats sitting on shore

and a lot of ice covering the harbor.

Well, so much for my afternoon out, thought Lucy, I might

as well go home. So she headed back along Main Street where

she noticed lights glimmering through the arched windows of

the squat gray stone building that housed the Broadbrooks

Free Library. Maybe they’ll have some new magazines, she

thought, turning into the parking lot. Or maybe even a new

mystery.

The librarian looked up from the cards she was sorting at

the main desk when Lucy entered. She was a white-haired

crone but she greeted Lucy with a warm smile and a cheery

hello. “Are you interested in anything particular?” she asked,

eager to be helpful.

“Not really,” said Lucy.

“Ah,” said the old woman, looking at her shrewdly. “Just

need a bit of a distraction?”

“That’s it exactly,” said Lucy.

“You’re new in town, aren’t you? You and your husband

bought that old farmhouse on Red Top Road, right?”

Lucy was amazed. “How’d you know?”

The old woman flapped a veined and spotted hand. “It’s a

small town,” she said, with a shrug. “You’ve taken on quite a

challenge with that place. I understand the building inspector

was just about to condemn it.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Lucy. “But my husband is determined to fix it up.”

“Well, more power to him.”

Lucy smiled ruefully. “He’ll need it.”

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“It must be difficult for you,” said the librarian, nodding

at Lucy’s tummy. “Especially with a toddler on your hands.”

Lucy was taken by surprise at the woman’s directness and

was embarrassed to feel tears pricking at her eyes. She turned

away, blinking furiously. “I’m managing,” she finally said.

“Oh, dear,” fretted the old woman, “I didn’t mean to

upset you.”

“It’s been a difficult day,” admitted Lucy, wiping her eyes

with a crumpled tissue she found in her coat pocket.

“Well, I have just the thing,” said the librarian, coming

round the desk and taking her by the elbow. “Come on into

my office. I have a comfortable chair there and I can give you

a cup of tea. Would you like that?”

“I’d love it,” said Lucy.

It was warm and toasty in the office and the librarian, who

introduced herself as Miss Tilley, brewed a bracing cup of

tea. Lucy found herself downing several cups as she related

the day’s mishaps and actually found herself laughing as she

described her struggles with the oven.

“I very much doubt that Sears will get to you before Christmas,” said Miss Tilley, nodding sagely. “There’s just the one

repairman and I happen to know he’s flat out.”

“That’s too bad,” said Lucy, her face sinking. “I really

wanted to make those cookies.”

“Why not make them at my house?” suggested Miss Tilley.

“My oven’s working fine.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to put you to the trouble,” demurred Lucy. “Besides, I can’t really leave my little boy.”

“Bring him along. I love children.”

Lucy looked at the prim old lady, in her spotless white

blouse with a cameo pin at the neck and her dark plaid skirt.

“I don’t think …”

“Nonsense. I’ll expect you bright and early tomorrow. At

eight. That will give us plenty of time because the library

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doesn’t open until three on Thursdays.” She peered at her

through her wirerimmed glasses. “You know where I live?”

Lucy suddenly felt inadequate. “I know I should but I’m

afraid …”

“No reason you should know. You just moved here. I’m

on Parallel Street, which is aptly named because it’s parallel

to Main Street, at the corner of Elm. Do you know it?”

“I do,” said Lucy.

“And now, before you leave, perhaps I could suggest a few

books. Do you enjoy mysteries?”

Lucy’s spirits were much brighter as she drove home. She

had a small stack of well-thumbed mystery novels on the seat

beside her and she was taking a different route, following

Miss Tilley’s directions. It took her along Shore Road, past

enormous summer cottages perched high above the bay. The

view of rocky shore studded with tall pines, the dazzling expanse of blue ocean and the overarching blue sky was absolutely spectacular and Lucy began to feel once again that

living in Maine wasn’t so terrible after all.

New York City had nothing like this, in fact, the city could

be pretty depressing sometimes. The subway smelled awful,

the streets were full of litter, there was graffiti everywhere,

and you couldn’t walk down the street without having to

step over at least one homeless person. And most important

of all, Bill had truly been miserable at his job and that was

something she couldn’t tolerate. More than anything she

wanted him to be happy.

Coming to the end of Shore Road, Lucy turned onto

Packet Road which Miss Tilley assured her would eventually

lead her to her own Red Top Road after she passed a cluster

of houses. Lucy was exploring this new territory with interest

and when she noticed a sign advertising a yard sale she impulsively pulled off the road and followed the hand-drawn

arrow down a narrow dirt track of a driveway, eventually

coming to a stop in front of a ramshackle log cabin. With a

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sagging porch and broken windows patched with cardboard

and rags, it seemed to be in even worse shape than her house.

Undaunted, she turned off the ignition and got out of the

car, eager to see what bargains she might find. Lucy had discovered soon after moving to Maine that yard sales offered

the biggest bang for the buck, and a buck was just about all

she had to spend. You never knew what might turn up,

maybe she’d find a present for Bill, or a toy she could recycle

for Toby. He wouldn’t mind if it didn’t come in a box, brand

new.

But this yard sale didn’t really deserve the name. There

was only one small card table of household goods, with a

carton beneath. And the items for sale verged on the pathetic:

a stack of empty margarine tubs, a plastic ice cube tray, a few

tattered copies of Family Circle magazine, and a plastic Christmas wreath that had faded from green to beige. Lucy was

turning to go when the door opened and a young woman

popped out.

“Hey!” she yelled. “I didn’t hear your car.”

“That’s okay,” Lucy yelled back. “I was just leaving.”

The woman was zipping up her jacket, a dirty white parka

that had long ago lost its puffy look and had gone flat. She

tucked her dirty blond hair behind her ears and shuffled

across the dirt yard in leopard-print fuzzy slippers. She wasn’t

wearing socks and her bird-thin ankles were blue from the

cold.

“Did you see the box?” she asked, taking Lucy’s arm.

“There’s some good stuff in there.”

Lucy knew she was stuck. The woman, actually really only

a girl, now that she had a good look at her, wasn’t going to

let her go unless she bought something and Lucy didn’t

blame her. For the first time in her life she was experiencing

poverty and she recognized this woman as a longtime sufferer. The woman turned her head quickly, looking over her

shoulder, and Lucy spotted two little children peering out of

the broken window. She realized that this pathetic excuse for

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a yard sale was probably an effort to raise some money for

Christmas.

“Well,” said Lucy, reaching for her wallet. “I guess you

can never have too many containers for leftovers.”

The woman smiled, revealing a few missing teeth. “These

work great,” she said, nodding enthusiastically and reaching

for the pile of margarine containers. “Fifty cents?”

“Sure,” said Lucy, plucking two quarters from her purse

and reminding herself that she wasn’t getting rooked, paying

a ridiculous price for something she didn’t need, but should

consider it charity.

Encouraged by the sale, the woman pulled out the cardboard box from under the table. “Take a look,” she said.

“Some of this stuff is old.” She paused. “Real old. Like antique.”

Lucy planned to take a cursory look and then make a

quick escape, but her eye was caught by a gleaming flash of

red and white. She leaned closer, to investigate, and pulled

out a giant candy cane made of … of what? She thought it

was plastic but now that she was holding it she thought it

was glass.

“What’s this?” asked Lucy.

“A glass cane,” said the woman, shrugging. “Go figure.”

“There must be some story behind this,” said Lucy, intrigued.

The woman didn’t answer. She was looking down the

drive where an aged blue pickup truck was lumbering towards the house. “Do you want it?” she asked, obviously

nervous. “You can have it for a dollar.”

“Okay.” Lucy pulled out a dollar, the last of her week’s

grocery money.

“Thanks,” said the woman, stuffing it in her pocket. She

tilted her head toward the truck. “You better go now.”

Lucy turned and saw a heavyset man with a bushy red

beard getting out of the truck. Like nearly every man in

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Maine, he was wearing a plaid wool shirt-jacket, blue jeans,

and work boots. “What’s going on here?” he demanded,

clumping across the yard and grabbing the woman by the

wrist. “Didn’t I tell you, didn’t I say no way?”

“C’mon Kyle, you’re hurting me,” whined the woman,

trying to twist away.

“I don’t really … I mean, I’d be happy to give this back, if

it’s a problem,” said Lucy, eager to defuse a situation that

seemed to be getting out of control.

“You get out of here,” snarled Kyle, spraying her with

spittle. “This is between Dora and me.”

Lucy looked questioningly at Dora, who nodded her head

in quick little jerks.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“GET OUT!” bellowed Kyle. “I got a shotgun, if you need

convincing.”

“No,” said Lucy, backing away. “I’m convinced.”

She was shaking when she got back behind the wheel of

the car. She started the engine and backed around, catching

sight of Kyle and Dora in the rearview mirror just as Dora

broke free of his grip. Kyle raised his hand, and for a minute

Lucy thought he was going to hit Dora, but instead he turned

and waved at her, giving her a big gap-toothed smile.

Lucy stuck her hand out the window and waved back, signaling that she’d gotten the message. Everything was cool.

He wasn’t abusive, not at all. She’d just witnessed an unfortunate misunderstanding and the sooner she forgot all about

it, the better. It was none of her business, was it?

Or was it? Lucy wasn’t sure, as she bounced down the dirt

track. She was certain Dora was a victim of domestic abuse

but she hadn’t seen enough to go to the police, and she doubted

there was much they could do in any case. From what she’d

read, most abused wives declined to press charges against

their abusers for fear of even worse violence in retaliation.

But one thing was certain, she decided, trying to quell the

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queasy feeling in her stomach. She wasn’t feeling sorry for

herself any longer. There were people a lot worse off than she

was, and it was time to count her blessings: a gentle husband

who loved her, an adorable baby boy, a new friend. And if

the glass cane was really an antique, it would make a great

Christmas present for Miss Tilley.

Chapter

! Two #

When she arrived at Miss Tilley’s neat little antique house

Lucy began to feel hopeful that their old farmhouse

might someday look like something. Taking in the polished

wide plank floors, the windows with their tiny panes of

hand-blown wavy glass and the smoothly plastered walls and

ceilings she found herself sighing in admiration. “What a

lovely house,” she said, setting Toby and her tote bag on the

floor so she could take off her coat. She looked around eagerly taking in every detail as she pulled off his boots and

mittens and unzipped his snowsuit: the gleaming antique

pine furniture, the glowing colors of the Persian rug, the table

top Christmas tree trimmed with tiny glass balls, the silvery

sheen of the pewter plates displayed in a hutch, the portrait

over the fireplace where a bright fire blazed merrily.

“My father,” said Miss Tilley, indicating the rather stern

gentleman pictured in the oil painting. “He was a judge.”

“He does look judgmental,” said Lucy, quickly biting her

tongue. “No, I didn’t mean that. Judicious. He looks quite

judicious.”

“He was named after General William Tecumseh Sherman, you know, the Civil War general, and I was named after

Julia Ward Howe.” She smiled, her eyes twinkling. “It’s a

family tradition, naming people after relics of the past.”

Lucy scooped up Toby, who was heading for the fire, and

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perched him on her hip. “Toby was named after my great

grandfather Tobias.”

“It’s a good old-fashioned name,” said Miss Tilley, leading

the way to the kitchen.

“We were trying to avoid the Js,” said Lucy, using her free

hand to grab the tote bag that was overflowing with toys,

extra clothes and diapers, a bowl of cookie dough, a cookie

press and baking tins. “Names like Jason, and Justin, and

Jennifer are all the rage now.”

“I have noticed quite a few of them at the library.”

“Oh, my,” said Lucy, startled to see an enormous black

and chrome Glenwood coal stove taking pride of place in the

middle of the Miss Tilley’s kitchen. “That’s a beautiful stove

but I don’t know how …”

“Never mind that old thing,” said Miss Tilley, dismissing

the gleaming monster. “I have a modern electric stove, too.”

Indeed she did. A slim electric model was tucked into a

bank of cabinets that was built against one wall and also included a double stainless steel sink set beneath a window

with red and white gingham curtains. A porcelain-topped

table sat in the middle of the room, on top of a cozy red and

blue braided rug, and a hutch stood against the wall, filled

with blue and white Canton china. Lucy felt as if she’d wandered into a Tasha Tudor book.

“I prefer the table for baking,” said Miss Tilley, reaching

for Toby. “Now, young man, we need to let your mother get

on with her cookies.”

Lucy expected Toby to resist but instead he smiled and

reached out with his arms. The transfer was smoothly made

and Miss Tilley carried him into the living room where she

joined him on the rug and engaged him in building towers of

blocks which they knocked down with a ball. Toby found

this enormously entertaining and Lucy could hear him laughing as she set about the business of scooping dough into the

press and squeezing out the shaped cookies onto the tins,

then she decorated them with bits of candied fruit and col—

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ored sugar before popping them into the oven. Soon the

whole house was filled with the buttery scent of baking cookies. Lucy was just sliding the last pan into the oven when

Miss Tilley appeared, leading Toby by the hand.

“I think this young man is ready for a snack,” she said,

pulling an antique oak high chair out of the corner and setting it by the table. Lucy hoisted him into the chair and put a

couple of warm cookies on the tray while Miss Tilley poured

a small glass of milk. “Those cookies smell absolutely delicious,” she said.

“Please, have some. I’m going to leave you some, too,”

said Lucy, with a nod to the overloaded wire cooling racks

that were covered with dozens of perfect cookies, golden and

brown around the edges. “I really appreciate …”

“Nonsense,” said the old woman, with a wave of her

hand. “We’ve enjoyed ourselves, haven’t we, Toby?”

Toby took a bite of the cookie he was holding in his fat little hand. “Mmm,” he said.

“I agree,” said Miss Tilley, after taking a bite of cookie.

“Mmmm.”

Toby laughed and kicked his feet. “Mmmm.”

Lucy was amazed at how Miss Tilley could turn the simplest thing into a game, making sounds that Toby imitated,

playing peekaboo, reciting “This Little Piggy” while wiping

his fingers with a washcloth. Soon the last cookies were out

of the oven and Toby was rubbing his eyes.

“Why don’t you put him down for a nap?” suggested Miss

Tilley. “Then you could get off your feet for a bit while I

wash up these pans.”

“Oh, I couldn’t let you …” protested Lucy, even though

her feet and back were killing her.

“I insist,” said Miss Tilley, using the voice that had maintained quiet in the library for thirty-odd years. She nodded

toward a little downstairs room, the borning room she called

it, and Lucy settled Toby on a daybed, removing his shoes

and covering him with a handmade crocheted afghan. A copy

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of The Night Before Christmas was lying on the bedside table

so she sat on the side of the bed and read him a few pages,

closing the book when he was settled into a deep sleep and

going out to the living room. There she found Miss Tilley

waiting for her by the fire, along with two glasses of golden

sherry and a plate of cheese twists.

“I think we both deserve a bit of a treat,” said Miss Tilley,

lifting her glass.

Lucy was about to protest that she rarely drank alcohol,

and never in the morning, but the scene was so inviting that

she changed her mind. “This looks lovely,” she said, sinking

into the down couch cushions.

“It is,” said Miss Tilley, taking a sip and smacking her lips.

“Dry Sack. Yummy.”

The sherry was delicious and Lucy finished hers before she

remembered the glass cane which she had left out in the car.

She jumped to her feet. “I almost forgot,” she exclaimed.

“There’s something in the car I need to get.”

She hurried out and came back with the cane, awkwardly

wrapped in white tissue with a big red bow. “I have a Christmas present for you.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” protested Miss Tilley, stretching out her hands to take the gift.

“I hope you like it,” said Lucy. “When I saw it I thought of

you.”

“That is intriguing,” said Miss Tilley, examining the oddly

shaped package. “May I open it now?”

“Please do,” said Lucy, eagerly anticipating the joyful reaction she was certain the cane would evoke.

But when Miss Tilley tore off the tissue there were no

smiles, no raptures, no expressions of thanks. There was only

shock and stunned silence as a single tear traced a path down

the old woman’s wrinkled face until it reached the corner of

her mouth and she quickly licked it away with a flick of her

tongue.

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Lucy was dismayed at her reaction. “I didn’t mean to distress you,” she said.

“Forgive me,” she said, as if coming out of a trance. “I

was just overcome. This is wonderful. So thoughtful of you.

An antique glass cane.”

“I’ll take it back. I’ll get you something else,” said Lucy. A

bottle of Dry Sack came to mind. It would be expensive, but

at least she could be sure Miss Tilley would enjoy it.

“Not at all.” Miss Tilley got to her feet and laid the cane

on the mantel. “This is remarkable, a wonderful find. And so

festive.” Her voice became soft and reflective. “I haven’t seen

one of these in years.”

“So you know what it is. You’ve seen one before?”

“Oh, yes. There used to be a glass factory in town many

years ago and canes like this turned up frequently. But of

course they’re fragile and I suppose a lot of them got broken

and now they’re quite rare. This one is a real find.” She

looked at Lucy. “Do you mind telling me where you got it?”

Lucy blushed, embarrassed. “Actually, well, it was at a

yard sale.”

“A yard sale,” mused Miss Tilley, reaching for the sherry

bottle. “Would you like a bit more?”

“None for me, I have to drive home,” she said, watching

the old woman refill her glass, setting the bottle on the table

beside it.

“Where was this yard sale?” asked Miss Tilley, emptying

the glass of sherry and refilling it.

“Out on Packet Road.”

“Ah,” she said, nodding. “Kyle and Dora. How interesting.”

“That’s right,” said Lucy, who continued to be surprised at

the way Miss Tilley seemed to know everyone in town.

Miss Tilley sighed. “I suppose I owe you an explanation.”

“Not at all,” said Lucy, wishing desperately that Toby

would wake up and she could get out of there, away from her

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embarrassing gaffe and back home. But Miss Tilley was not

about to be deterred.

“It was Christmas Eve,” she began, taking another sip.

Her eyes had lost their focus and she was looking inward,

seeking the past. “I was just a girl. I’d been out skating on

Blueberry Pond and when I got home the house was quiet.

Very quiet, which was unusual, because my mother was an

invalid and there were usually people around, a nurse, a

cook, a maid. There was always someone in the kitchen, people going up and down the stairs. It was the stairs, you see.

She’d fallen down the cellar stairs. Mama was there at the

bottom, crumpled in a heap, and there was a glass cane, red

and white like this one, on the floor beside her. Smashed to

smithereens.”

Horrified, Lucy’s hand flew to her mouth. “I had no idea,”

she said.

“Of course not. How could you have known?” Miss Tilley’s voice was thoughtful. “Nobody knew, really. It was all

kept very quiet. Papa didn’t want people to know the details,

that Mama was wandering about the house as if nobody was

taking proper care of her. He let people assume that she died

a respectable death in bed, surrounded by her loving family.”

Lucy’s mind was full of questions but she wasn’t at all

comfortable asking them. She sat, trying to think of something appropriate to say, and watching as Miss Tilley refilled

the glass yet again.

“It was horrible. He made me help, you see. He made me

help carry Mama upstairs to her bed.”

“Who did?” It popped out before Lucy could stop herself.

“Papa did. He took her by the shoulders and told me to lift

her by the ankles. He said she wouldn’t, she couldn’t be very

heavy, not after being sick for so long, but she was heavy. We

kind of bumped her up the stairs, two long flights. And then

he sent me back downstairs to sweep up the glass and tidy

the basement while he put her in a fresh nightgown and tied

her hair with a ribbon and tucked the covers around her,

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folding her hands around a Bible and laying them on her

chest.” Miss Tilley looked her straight in the eye. “Then he

called the doctor.”

Lucy found her eyes going to the portrait over the mantel.

The stern, righteous man pictured there suddenly didn’t look

quite so respectable. That gleam in his eye, was it the light of

truth and justice, or was it something more sinister?

Lucy thought of her own great grandfather Tobias. He

wore flannel shirts and khakis in the house, where he spent

his days reading and watching baseball on TV from his armchair in the living room and making wooden furniture in his

basement workshop, but he never went outside in such casual clothes. He put on a starched white shirt, a dark suit,

shiny black shoes and a hat for the short walk down the

street to buy the newspaper. “Times change,” said Lucy.

“When I was a little girl I wore white gloves to church. And

my great grandfather wouldn’t go out of the house without a

hat.”

Miss Tilley nodded. “Straw between Memorial Day and

Labor Day, felt for the rest of the year.”

“Exactly,” said Lucy, smiling. “So it’s not surprising that

your father would want to protect his family from gossip.

Every funeral’s the same: everybody wants to know all the

details. Did she smoke? Was it expected or was it sudden?

Did she suffer? I can see why he wanted to keep some things

private. He wanted to preserve your mother’s dignity, even in

death.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Miss Tilley. “Mama

rarely got out of the house except to go to church on Sunday

even before she got sick. She may have looked like a fine lady

then, in her silk dress and her flowery hat, but at home she

worked like a slave. Everything had to be just so for Papa.

She even ironed his morning paper before he read it.”

Lucy had never heard of such a thing and her eyebrows

shot up.

“Oh, yes,” continued Miss Tilley. “He had to have fresh

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linens on his bed every night, fresh towels every day, starched

napkins and those shirts of his.” She rolled her eyes. “The

slightest little wrinkle, even a pucker from the iron and he’d

have a fit. My goodness, the hours my poor mother spent at

the ironing board. There was no permanent press then and if

there had been Papa certainly wouldn’t have allowed it.

When I think of her, before she got sick, I think of her standing at that ironing board, her sleeves rolled up and her hair

falling down, her face shiny with sweat.”

“She didn’t have any household help?”

“Not until she got sick.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she got sick on purpose,” said

Lucy, attempting a joke.

Miss Tilley’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, she would never do

that. It was the doctor who insisted that she needed bed rest

and even then she would try to get up and make sure everything was just as Papa liked it.”

“Perhaps that’s what she was doing the day she fell,” said

Lucy. “She was probably weak and collapsed.”

“An accident?” Miss Tilley looked at her empty glass and

reached for the bottle, sighing when she realized it was empty.

“I don’t think it was an accident.”

Lucy glanced at the portrait. “You don’t?”

“There was a tense atmosphere in the house that morning.

That’s why I went skating. I wanted to get out.”

“Did they have an argument of some sort?” asked Lucy.

“No. I never heard them fight, but I’d know that something was wrong. Papa would be very abrupt, his tone would

be very sharp, and Mama would watch him anxiously, as if

she were afraid of him.”

“Oh dear,” said Lucy, remembering the scene she’d witnessed the day before, with Kyle and Dora.

“I’ve always suspected that Papa pushed her down the

stairs.”

Lucy gasped. “That’s a terrible thing to think about your

father,” she finally said.

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“Yes, it is,” agreed Miss Tilley, looking up at the portrait.

“I loved him, I still do, but every time I look at that picture I

have the same dark suspicion. If only I could know for sure

what happened that day.”

Lucy thought of the book she was reading, Josephine Tey’s

Daughter of Time about a British police inspector who attempts to solve the fifteenth-century murder of the Little

Princes in the Tower of London. “Maybe we can try to solve

the mystery,” she said. “Just like Inspector Grant.”

“I thought you’d like that book,” said Miss Tilley. “But it’s

fiction. This is real life.”

“But that mystery was hundreds of years old. Your mystery is much more recent.”

“But the princes and Richard III were historical figures,

things were written about them, there were documents and

books.”

“A lot of which was propaganda put out by Richard’s enemies.”

“And a lot of it was written quite a bit later, long after

anyone who might have known the truth was dead,” agreed

Miss Tilley.

“Which is not the case here,” said Lucy. “You were on the

scene.”

“But it’s been so long,” said Miss Tilley.

“Why don’t we give it a try,” coaxed Lucy. “You might be

surprised what you remember.”

Chapter

! Three #

Miss Tilley sat primly on the little Victorian sofa with her

ankles neatly crossed and gazed out the window, collecting her memories. “Papa was a terribly difficult man to

live with,” she began, rubbing the knobby knuckles of one

age-spotted hand with the other. “He was always conscious

of his position as a judge and believed his own behavior—

and that of his family—had to be above reproach.”

“That’s understandable,” said Lucy, with a little smile. “If

a judge is going to enforce the law he has to obey it, right?

Otherwise he’d be a hypocrite.”

“This went beyond obeying the law,” said Miss Tilley,

speaking slowly, her gaze turned inward. “It was as if he believed he had received the rules for acceptable behavior from

a Higher Power, rather like Moses receiving the Ten Commandments.” She gave a small, rueful smile. “Only there were

a lot more than ten, and Mama and I, and my sister Harriet—she was named for Harriet Tubman—had to follow them

to the letter. We all rose at six, except for Mama who got up

earlier, and we had to be washed, and combed and dressed,

with our beds made and our rooms tidied before breakfast,

which was served in the dining room at six-thirty sharp.” She

looked at Lucy. “From time to time Papa would conduct a

surprise inspection and, oh dear, there was such a fuss if a

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slipper was left lying on the carpet or the windowsills were

dusty.”

“What sort of fuss?” asked Lucy. “My mother says her father used to spank her with a hairbrush.”

“Nothing like that. No hairbrushes. It was worse, really.

We’d have to listen to a long lecture on irresponsibility and

wickedness and ungratefulness and by the end I would feel

absolutely worthless. And, of course, there’d be no breakfast

for the sinner who would have to remain in her room to reflect on her crime until Papa decided—or remembered—to let

her out.”

“He locked you in your room?”

“He didn’t have to. We simply didn’t dare leave until we’d

received permission.”

Lucy, an only child who had always been able to convince

her father to grant her every wish, found this hard to understand. “And what about your mother? Did he treat her like

that, too?”

“Oh, yes. If Mama failed to live up to his expectations he

would scold her, too.” She shook her head. “Looking back it

all seems ridiculous. A piece of burnt toast was treated as if

you’d burned down the house. It was all out of proportion,

but we were so cowed we didn’t realize it. Except for Harriet.

She was always more rebellious than I and refused to give up

her friends from school—Papa considered them unsuitable

companions—even when he threatened to send her away to

boarding school. She was convinced that he was too miserly

to pay tuition and she was right. Papa predicted she would

come to a bad end and I guess she did, at least in his book.

She ran away with a young man Papa did not approve of. He

was a labor organizer and a big supporter of Franklin Delano

Roosevelt, and of course Papa believed Franklin Delano

Roosevelt and his wife, Eleanor, were earthly embodiments

of Satan himself.” She paused and licked her lips. “Especially

Eleanor.”

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“My great grandfather Tobias thought that, too,” said

Lucy. “What happened to Harriet?”

“I’m ashamed to say that I don’t know.”

Lucy was shocked. “You don’t know?”

“No. Papa disowned her and we never heard from her

again.” She sighed. “It was a great sadness to my mother. In

fact, it was right after Harriet eloped that Mama’s health

began to fail and she became bedridden.

“I suspected she had tuberculosis and I knew she was terrified of being sent to a sanatorium. That’s what they did

back in those days. They packed people off to the mountains

and hoped the good clean air and lots of hearty food would

cure them. Mama didn’t want to leave home so she insisted

she had woman troubles because all you had to do was say

that in those days and everyone changed the subject fast.”

Lucy couldn’t resist chuckling. “It’s not so different now,

at least in my house.”

Miss Tilley shook her head. “No. I don’t imagine your

home is anything like that. My parents’ house was a house of

secrets. When you’re afraid the truth will get you in trouble,

you lie. You hide things. Everything becomes dangerous,

even ideas, so you keep them to yourself. That’s what happened to us. Mama, Papa, and I became strangers to each

other, strangers living in the same house.”

The baby inside her kicked and Lucy placed her hands on

her tummy. “A house of secrets and strangers,” she said.

“Exactly,” said Miss Tilley, with a little nod. “But it all

changed when Papa hired a nurse to take care of Mama. He

resisted for a long time, but when I fell ill, too, the doctor insisted. Papa didn’t like the idea, of course, especially when

the doctor recommended a nurse who was obviously Italian.

As you’d expect, Papa did not approve of anyone whose

name ended with a vowel—and he wasn’t too keen on the

Irish either. Angela DeRosa was her name and I’ll never forget it because she was just like an angel to me, and to Mama,

too. She was like a breath of fresh air, so efficient, so caring.

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You felt better the moment she entered your room, you just

did. She was young and pretty and sang to herself as she

made the beds and spooned out the medicine. But Papa always grumbled about having to pay a nurse as well as a cook

and a maid.”

Now we’re getting somewhere, thought Lucy, mentally

adding the nurse, the maid, and the cook to the judge as possible suspects. “What was the cook like?”

“Her name was Mrs. Sprout, if you can believe it.” Miss

Tilley snorted. “Helen Sprout. She was no angel, that’s for

sure. She was big and fat, and grouchy and she slammed

around the kitchen, banging pots, and chopping up chickens

with a cleaver, and punching the bread dough, and pounding

potatoes with a big wooden masher. I stayed clear of her,

that’s for sure.”

“Were you afraid of her?”

Miss Tilley reflected. “I guess I was, now that I think

about it. There was something out of control about her. She

was unpredictable, like a human whirlwind. Plates would

break, smoke would billow from the stove, the sink would

overflow, things like that were always happening.”

“How was the food?”

“Fine. Really good. It was the oddest thing. You’d think

everything would be awful, burned to cinders, but it wasn’t.

And after Papa had a taste of her apple pie, why there was no

question about letting her go. He loved all her cooking, but

especially her pies. That woman certainly had a knack—even

Mama’s pie crust wasn’t as flaky as Mrs. Sprout’s.”

“My mother makes good pies,” said Lucy, “and she’s tried

to teach me but mine are never as good as hers.” She thought

of her father, drifting in and out of consciousness in the hospital, and her mother who was spending every free minute

with him and suddenly wanted desperately to talk with them.

Later, she promised herself, maybe after dinner when Bill

gave Toby his bath. “What about the maid?” she asked.

“Which one?” chuckled Miss Tilley. “We went through quite

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a few of them, if I remember correctly. There was a Brigid,

and several Marys, and a Margaret. They never lasted very

long.”

“Your father?”

“Oh, no. He never took any notice of them. It was Mrs.

Sprout. She made them work awfully hard. And I think some

of them were afraid of Mr. Boott,” said Miss Tilley, giving an

involuntary little shudder.

Lucy’s interest perked up. “Boott? Was he related to the

Bootts on Packet Road?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Kyle is probably his grandnephew. Mr. Boott never married. He was a sort of handyman. He cut the grass and painted the trim and tended the

coal furnace and sometimes he drove Mama when she went

to see the doctor.”

“Did he have a first name?”

“Oh, yes. Emil.” Miss Tilley paused. “You know, I think

that’s why I didn’t like him. I didn’t like his name.”

“Maybe there was some other reason?” prompted Lucy.

“Well, he was a convict, a trusty, from the county jail.”

Lucy’s eyebrows shot up. “A prisoner?”

“Yes. Papa had some arrangement with the sheriff and

men from the prison often worked for him. They painted the

house, I remember. Things like that.”

“No wonder you were afraid. They must have been in jail

for a reason, right?”

“I don’t think Mr. Boott did anything very terrible, or

Papa wouldn’t have had him around the house.”

“But he was in jail for a long time, right? So it must have

been a fairly serious crime.”

“You’re right, Lucy. I never thought of it that way before.

He must have worked for us for at least twenty years and he

was a prisoner the whole time.”

“Twenty years is a long sentence,” said Lucy.

“Even for Papa,” said Miss Tilley. “He was tough but he

rarely sentenced anyone for more than a year or two at most.”

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She paused. “Only the very worst criminals, like murderers

and embezzlers got long terms. He believed in getting them

back to work as fast as possible so the taxpayers wouldn’t

have to support them, or their families.”

“Your father sounds like a peach,” said Lucy, sarcastically.

“Speaking of peaches, I almost forgot Miss Peach.”

“Miss Peach?”

“Oh, that wasn’t her real name. That’s what Mama called

her, because she was from Georgia. She was my father’s secretary. Miss Katherine Kaiser.”

“It sounds as if your mother was a bit jealous.”

“I think she was and who could blame her? Miss Peach

was everything she wasn’t. She had a career as a trained secretary, she was independent, she could spend her salary any

way she wanted. And what she wanted was to buy clothes.

She always looked lovely, in beautiful suits and hats and

high-heeled shoes with peep toes. And she went to the beauty

salon every morning just to have her hair combed! Harriet

and I were pretty impressed, you can be sure of that. Imagine! Going to the salon just to have your hair combed.”

“That is pretty impressive,” said Lucy. She heard Toby

stirring in the borning room and struggled awkwardly to her

feet, belly first, and cracked the door to take a peek. He was

sitting up in bed, sucking his thumb. She quickly changed his

diaper, then he scrambled off the bed and ran out to the living room, stopping short when he saw Miss Tilley.

“I think he forgot me,” she said.

But Toby hadn’t forgotten. “Mmmm,” he said, remembering the game they’d played earlier.

“Mmmm,” she went, right back at him, and he laughed.

“I guess I better get this little fellow home for lunch,” said

Lucy. “Come on Toby, let’s pick up your toys.”

It was a slow process but eventually everything was packed

up, including the cookies, and Toby and Lucy were zipped in

their winter jackets, and muffled in hats, scarves, and mittens, ready to go.

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“Thanks for everything,” said Lucy. “It wouldn’t be

Christmas without the cookies. And I haven’t forgotten

about your mother. We’ve got a list of suspects and I’m going

to see what I can dig up.”

“Suspects?”

“Your father, Emil Boott, Mrs. Sprout, Angela DeRosa,

Katharine Kaiser, even the maids—any one of them could

have given your mother a fatal push down the stairs.”

“I never thought of it that way but I suppose you’re right.

They’re all suspects.”

But when Lucy had finally strapped Toby into the car seat

and stowed everything in Auntie Granada’s enormous trunk,

and was starting the car, she realized she had to add another

suspect to her list: tuberculosis. As Miss Tilley had told her,

the disease had ravaged families right up until World War II

when lifesaving treatments were developed. It seemed a lot

more probable that poor, ill Mrs. Tilley had fallen down the

stairs as a result of a coughing fit or a fainting spell than at

the hands of a household intimate.

Chapter

! Four #

When Lucy got home she found Bill had heated up the

pot of split pea soup they had been having for lunch

for the past week. The soup never seemed to end, it just got

thicker with each reheating even though they kept thinning it

down with the vegetable cooking water Lucy always saved.

The chunks of ham and carrot which had been plentiful in

the beginning had become scarcer with each reheating, however.

“‘Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold,’ ” chanted Lucy,

as she unzipped Toby. “‘Pease porridge in the pot nine days

old,’ and that’s no lie. It’s lovely pea soup for lunch again.”

Toby didn’t seem to mind. He kicked his feet in the high

chair and spooned the stuff up eagerly, chasing down the little oyster crackers that Lucy sprinkled on top. She wasn’t

quite as enthusiastic but reminded herself that homemade

pea soup was nourishing and tasty and certainly helped stretch

the food budget. She was trying to think of something new to

do with a pound of hamburger for supper when Bill came in

the kitchen to heat some water for tea.

“Daddy! Daddy!” chortled Toby, flinging a spoonful of

soup over his shoulder.

“So how did the cookie baking go? I’d be happy to conduct a taste test,” he asked, automatically reaching for the

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sponge and wiping the soup spatter off the wall, where it had

landed.

Watching him, Lucy wondered why he bothered. Another

stain on the wall would hardly matter. “Sorry,” she said,

rousing herself. “Toby already did that. He said they were

fine.”

Hearing his name Toby laughed, then picked a cracker out

of his soup with his fingers and stuck it on his nose.

“I don’t know if he’s entirely reliable in matters of taste,”

said Bill. “I’ve had a lot more experience when it comes to

cookies.”

“You mean you don’t wear them?” asked Lucy.

“Exactly,” said Bill, plucking the cracker off Toby’s nose

and popping it in his son’s little mouth. “I know that food

goes in the mouth.”

“Down!” ordered Toby, who had lost interest in lunch and

was raring to go.

The kettle shrieked as Lucy wiped his hands and face with

a washcloth and set him on the floor, where he made a beeline for the wooden crate that served as a pot cupboard. She

put tea bags in two mugs, filled them with hot water and

arranged a half-dozen cookies on a plate and, stepping nimbly over the pots that Toby was scattering on the floor, carried it all back to the table.

“Mmm,” said Bill, savoring a bite of cookie.

“Mmm,” said Toby.

Bill raised his eyebrows curiously. “Mmm?” he said

“MMM,” hummed Toby, louder than before.

“It’s a game Miss Tilley taught him. He loves it.”

Bill’s next mmm was very soft, but Toby didn’t take the

hint. His MMMM was louder and longer than ever.

“Is there a way to stop it?” asked Bill, reaching for another cookie.

“Don’t go mmm anymore,” said Lucy.

“MMMMM!”

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“I will if you will,” said Bill. “So did you have an interesting morning?”

“A lot more interesting than I bargained for. You know

that cane I bought for Miss Tilley?” When Bill nodded she

continued. “Well, she started to cry when I gave it to her. It

seems her mother actually died on Christmas Eve many years

ago, this must have been back in the thirties, and a red and

white glass cane was found smashed beside her body.”

“That’s quite a coincidence,” said Bill, taking a slurp of

tea.

“I know. And it gets weirder. She told me she’s always suspected her mother was killed by her father. He was a mean

old character if ever there was one.”

“She told you all this while you were baking cookies?”

“Uh, well, Toby fell asleep and we drank some sherry,” admitted Lucy. “I only had a very small glass but Miss Tilley

pretty much drained the bottle. I think it may have loosened

her lips.”

“I guess so,” said Bill. “It doesn’t seem the sort of conversation you have with a new friend.”

“Not at all, but that’s the funny thing. It didn’t feel as if we

were getting to know each other, it seemed as if we’d known

each other forever. Like we were old friends, maybe in some

earlier reincarnation or something.”

Bill looked at her skeptically. “I think you need to get out

more, Lucy.”

“Well, I was thinking I might do a little investigating and

see if I can’t find out how her mother really died. There were

a lot of people in and out of the house and one of them might

have been a murderer.”

“How are you going to do that? They’ve probably all been

dead for years.”

Lucy looked down at her empty mug. “I don’t exactly

know myself,” she admitted. “But people don’t live in a vacuum. There are bound to be records, newspaper accounts.

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After all, old cases do get solved from time to time. That’s

what the mystery I’m reading is about.”

“That’s a book, this is real life,” he said. “And besides,

you’re already overlooking an obvious clue.”

“I am?”

“Sure, the cane.”

“You’re right!” exclaimed Lucy, hopping up and running

around the table to kiss him. “In fact, it just so happens that

I bought the cane from some people named Boott, and the

Tilley family had a handyman named Boott. And, get this, he

was a trusty from the jail.”

“Sounds like a prime suspect to me,” said Bill, scratching

his chin. “I’m thinking of growing a beard. What do you

think?”

“I think you’d look like a real Mainer.”

He pulled her into his lap. “It will be scratchy at first,” he

said, giving her a long, lovely kiss.

“Mmmm,” said Lucy. “I won’t mind.”

“MMMM!” hummed Toby, banging a pot with a wooden

spoon.

Surprised, they jumped apart, laughing. “I guess I better

get back to work,” said Bill. “That sheetrock isn’t going to

hang itself.”

Lucy took the dirty dishes over to the sink and began

washing them, looking out the window as she worked. She

had a clear view of the rutted dirt driveway, the fence with its

missing and broken pickets, and the road that nobody except

the mailman ever seemed to use. And here he was now, in his

little Jeep.

Checking to see that Toby was busy with his pots she

threw her coat over her shoulders and ran down the driveway, hoping the day’s mail included something good. A big

fat check would be best, maybe they’d overpaid their income

tax and the IRS was sending them a refund. But she’d settle

for a card from a friend, or a Christmas gift.

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Opening the flap on the front of the box, she smiled to see

a small package wrapped in brown paper and string along

with the usual bills and junk mail. The return address indicated it came from her mother, which surprised her because

she knew her mother was spending all her time at the hospital with her father.

Back inside the kitchen, she found Toby was still busy arranging the pots so she threw the coat over a chair and sat

down at the table to open the package. She slipped off the

string and paper and found a slim little book, an old and

worn copy of O. Henry’s famous story, “The Gift of the

Magi.” It wasn’t wrapped and there was no card but she didn’t

need one, she knew it came from her father. It was his tradition

to read the story every Christmas.

Now, she realized, he was sending it to her so she could

carry on the tradition. It was his way of saying goodbye. She

pressed the musty, brown volume to her chest and tears filled

her eyes.

“Book!” said Toby, attempting to climb into her lap.

She wiped her eyes and hoisted him up onto her lap. Then

she began reading aloud, expecting Toby to lose interest. But

he didn’t. He was content to sit in her lap and listen as she

read the familiar story of Della, who sold her beautiful hair

to buy a gold chain for her husband’s pocket watch, and Jim,

who sold his pocket watch to buy combs for Della’s hair. In

the end, he had a watch chain and no watch and she had

combs for her hair but no hair to hold them, but they had

their love for each other which was the best gift of all.

Finishing the story, she set Toby in his high chair with a

sippy cup of juice and a handful of Cheerios and reached for

the phone, dialing the number she had learned as a child. Her

mother answered.

“I got the book. Thank you so much.”

“He insisted. I told him I didn’t have time, it’s a long bus

ride to Montefiore you know, but he kept after me and kept

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after me. You’re wasting your strength I told him, you should

be thinking about getting well instead of worrying about a

Christmas present for Lucy, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Well I really appreciate it. I know how much Dad needs

you.” She paused. “How is he?”

“The same.”

Lucy reached over and stroked Toby’s silky head. He

popped a Cheerio in his mouth and smiled at her. “The

same? What does that mean?”

“It means he’s not getting better and he’s not getting

worse.”

“Can’t they try something different? Some new medication?”

“He won’t let them.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s refusing treatment.” Lucy heard the anger in her

mother’s voice. “He’s giving up.”

Lucy found herself slumping, as if a heavy blanket of sadness had dropped on her. “Do you want me to come?” she

asked.

“There’s no need.” Her mother’s voice was sharp.

“But if he’s dying … ,” Lucy paused, realizing it was the

first time since her father became ill that she’d said the word,

“if he’s dying I want to say goodbye.”

“He isn’t going to die. I’m not letting him. I’m seeing a

lawyer and I’m going to court and I’ll become his guardian

and then I’ll tell the doctors to do whatever they can to keep

him alive.”

Lucy bit her lip. “Are you sure that’s the right …”

“Of course it’s the right thing to do. I have to go now.”

Then there was a click and the line went dead.

Lucy wanted to tear her clothes and pull her hair, she

wanted to yell at her mother, she wanted to feel her father’s

strong arms around her one more time, but she couldn’t do

those things so she lifted Toby onto his feet, standing him in

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the high chair, and gave him a big hug. Inside her, the baby

seemed to do a somersault.

Toby wasn’t interested in hugs and after his long morning

nap he wasn’t interested in his usual after-lunch nap. He was

interested in banging pots but Lucy was developing a headache, so she decided to take him outside for a walk around

the yard. It wasn’t Central Park, with its zoo and merry-goround, but it did offer fresh air and occasional sunshine.

Toby needed a hand getting down the porch steps, but

then he was off and running, heading down the driveway.

Lucy ran after him, scooped him up and swung him around,

pointing him in the opposite direction. He tried to dodge past

her, determined to flirt with death in the road, but she blocked

him and scooped him up again. “Let’s find a ball,” she said,

and this time he ran for the safer territory of the backyard.

As she followed she thought about her conversation with her

mother and tried to sort out her feelings.

It seemed to her that through the years she had played out

this same scenario many times. She had always felt closer to

her father than her mother, but whenever any real intimacy

began to develop her mother would somehow intervene. It

started when she was quite small. If Pop invited her to go for

a walk down the street to the candy store, her mother would

come up with some chore he had to do first and the little

walk would be forgotten. Even when she was in college she

could remember several instances when he called to say he

would be in the area on a business trip and would take her

out to dinner, just the two of them, but it never happened. A

sudden crisis always seemed to arise—Mom suddenly developed a mysterious ailment or her car was making a suspicious noise—and he’d have to cut the trip short and return

home.

Toby had found the ball, a big playground ball, and was

running with it. When he got about ten feet from her he

threw it to her, making a great effort, and she laughed at the

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sight. He was so cute. She couldn’t imagine shutting him out

or turning away from him, but that’s what her mother had

done to her. She’d always felt like a third wheel, like an intruder in her parents’ life together, and she’d assumed that

was the natural order of things. Now she knew differently.

She caught the ball and threw it back, gently, so Toby could

catch it.

Back in the house she put a Care Bears tape in the VCR for

Toby and set a pot of water to boil, planning to cook macaroni for American chop suey. It wasn’t fine cuisine, but it sure

stretched a pound of hamburger. While she waited for it to

boil she called Miss Tilley at the library. After thanking her

for letting her bake the cookies and minding Toby and giving

her sherry, Lucy got to the point of her call. “Do you know

anything about the glass cane your mother had?” she asked.

“Was it a family treasure?”

“I’d never seen it before, nobody had,” replied Miss Tilley.

“Perhaps it was a gift she was intending to give someone?”

“I don’t know where she would have gotten it. She hadn’t

been out of the house for months.”

“Maybe someone gave it to her,” suggested Lucy.

“She was too sick for visitors by then.”

“I see,” said Lucy.

“I’m afraid I’m not being very helpful,” said Miss Tilley.

“On the contrary,” said Lucy, who was beginning to think

she was on to something. She might not be Sherlock Holmes,

but she could use his method. It was simple logic that if the

glass cane wasn’t in the house before the murder, and if Mrs.

Tilley had no way of obtaining it herself, then the killer must

have brought it. Find the owner of the cane and she would

find the murderer.

She was explaining this to Miss Tilley when the pot began

to steam and the lid rattled. “Oops, got to go,” she said, “before the pot boils over.”

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Next morning it was the diaper pail that was demanding

attention. Now that Toby was becoming more interested in

using the toilet, the pail filled more slowly and had plenty of

time to ripen. She sniffed the familiar odor and decided something had to be done. Fortunately, the septic system hadn’t

been giving much trouble lately, the sink and bathtub drained

nicely, the toilet flushed properly without even a hiccup, so

Lucy decided to risk running the washer. She filled it with hot

water, added detergent and bleach, and dumped in the diapers. The machine chugged and swished and Lucy enjoyed

the sense of virtue that came from knowing she wasn’t polluting the planet with disposable diapers. Not that she wouldn’t,

of course, if she could have afforded them. But that didn’t

lessen the fact that she had made the ecological choice.

The cycle had almost finished and she was considering

running a second load when she heard an ominous bubbling

sound in the kitchen sink. She went into the bathroom and

discovered the toilet was burping, a sure sign that the cesspool was nearing capacity and needed time to drain. That

second load would have to be done at the Laundromat.

Lucy put the diapers in the dryer and got it going, then she

packed up the dirty laundry, zipped Toby into his snowsuit,

and advised Bill not to flush unless absolutely necessary. She

didn’t mind having to go to the Laundromat. It got her out of

the house, and she planned to make a second stop at the

Winchester College museum to inquire about the glass factory.

A light snow was falling as she steered Auntie Granada toward Main Street, passing the large old sea captains’ houses

that had been built in the town’s nineteenthcentury heyday.

Back then there were huge fortunes to be made at sea, taking

ginseng to China, and bringing back tea, and porcelain, and

furniture. Those days were gone but the substantial houses

had endured and were decked in holiday greenery, with

wreaths and swags and garlands. A few even had decorative

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arrangements of fruit—pineapples, and oranges, and apples—

fixed above their doors. Continuing on past the Community

Church she spotted the traditional creche on the lawn and

decided to show it to Toby.

She parked right in front of the church and climbed the hill

to the creche, holding Toby by the hand. Another woman

was already there, with a little girl a few years older than

Toby.

“Hi!” said Lucy. “What a charming creche.”

She wasn’t exaggerating. The creche featured a collection

of large plaster figures depicting Mary and Joseph, the shepherds, and the animals. In a wooden manger filled with straw

a plaster baby Jesus lay with his plump arms and legs in the

air.

“If that’s a newborn baby, Mary is a better woman than

I,” said the woman.

Lucy looked at her, taking in her smartly tailored black

coat with padded shoulders, her Farrah Fawcett hairdo, her

red lipstick and her high-heeled platform boots. The little girl

was also beautifully dressed, in a red wool coat with leggings, and a matching hat that screamed Saks Fifth Avenue’s

children’s department. “Pardon me for saying so, but you

don’t look as if you’re from around here,” she said. “I’m

Lucy Stone and this is Toby. We just moved here a few

months ago from New York.” Then she added, “City,” just

to be clear.

“Sue Finch, and this is my daughter, Sidra. We’ve been

here about a year.” She sighed meaningfully “We used to live

in Bronxville but my husband, Sid, didn’t get tenure so he decided to become a carpenter.”

“That’s too bad,” said Lucy, expressing heartfelt sympathy. “My husband wanted to get back to the land and work

with his hands. He used to be a stockbroker.”

“Why Maine?” asked Sue.

“Bill read an article years ago in Mother Earth News… .”

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“I think Sid read the same one! So here we are.” Sue held

out her hands. “Strangers in a strange land.”

Lucy laughed. “Look, I have to get going, but would you

like to exchange phone numbers? Maybe we could get together for tea and sympathy?”

“You’ve got a deal,” said Sue, scribbling on a piece of

paper and giving it to Lucy.

Lucy tore off the bottom half and wrote her number on it.

“Call anytime,” said Lucy, visualizing the calendar full of

empty white squares that hung on the kitchen wall.

“I will,” said Sue. “By the way, do you think you could

give us a lift to the IGA? My car got a flat and Mike at the

garage said it won’t be ready before noon.”

“No problem,” said Lucy, as they walked down the hill together. Sidra, she noticed, was making faces at Toby and he

was clearly fascinated.

But when they got to the car, she was embarrassed by the

mess of toys and papers, not to mention the dirty laundry,

and began to try to clear the passenger seat for Sue.

“Never mind,” she said, seating herself on top of some

crumpled junk mail.

But Lucy did mind. She figured her new friendship was

over before it began. Who would want to hang out with a

slob like her?

Lucy had a laundry basket full of neatly folded clothes sitting beside her on the front seat and Toby was nodding off in

his car seat in the back when she pulled into the museum parking lot at Winchester College. The college’s venerable brick

buildings and quad reminded her of her own college days

and she felt a bit wistful as she maneuvered Toby out of the

car seat and into the umbrella stroller. She decided to take

Toby for a little walk around the quad before going to the

museum, hoping that the motion would lull him to sleep and

the little toddler dozed off before she was halfway around.

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She enjoyed the reaction of the students she passed: the boys

generally ignored Toby but the girls all smiled at him, probably imagining themselves as mothers some day. Good luck to

them thought Lucy, whose back was beginning to ache.

Back at the museum, Lucy wheeled Toby inside, pausing to

examine an Egyptian mummy that was displayed in the front

hall. Wondering how it ended up in this backwater corner of

Maine, she studied a directory posted on the wall and discovered the curator’s office was on the third floor. She took the

elevator and when the doors slid open encountered a thirtyish man wearing the academic uniform of tweed jacket, oxford shirt and bow tie. “Can I help you?” he asked, raising

his eyebrows.

Lucy assumed he didn’t get too many visitors, especially

not mothers with toddlers in tow. “I’m looking for the curator,” she said.

“Well you found him,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m

Fred Rumford. What can I do for you?”

“I’m Lucy Stone,” she said, taking his hand and finding it

pleasantly warm and his shake firm. “I’m looking for information about a glass factory that used to be here in town.”

“Come with me,” he said, ushering her back into the elevator and pressing the number two. “We have a display.”

The second floor of the museum was devoted to local industry such as fishing and farming, and a corner featured enlarged photos of the Brown and Williams Glass Company, as

well as samples of the wares it produced such as bottles, oil

lamps, and fancy dishes. There wasn’t a glass cane in sight,

but the photos of workers caught her eye. One picture of office workers had a list of names beneath the rather glum

group and she leaned closer for a better look. Sure enough,

she realized with mounting excitement, there was Emil Boott

standing in the back row, dressed as the others were in a dark

suit. His face was round and bland and gave no hint that he

was a criminal, headed for prison.

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She pointed him out. “See that fellow there, in the wirerimmed glasses? He did something very bad and was sent to

prison for twenty years.”

“You don’t say,” said Fred. “He looks nice enough.”

“You never can tell, just by looking at someone,” said

Lucy, thinking of the photos she’d occasionally seen in the

newspaper of murderers and other criminals. She studied

them, looking for a clue to what made them commit such evil

acts, but they usually looked like anyone else.

“Back in the nineteenth century they used to think there

was a criminal physiognomy, that you could identify criminals by the shape of their heads,” said Fred.

“If only it were that simple,” said Lucy, with a sigh. “I’m

interested in a particular item, a glass cane,” she said.

“A whimsy.”

“A what?”

“Whimsy. They were items the workers made out of leftover glass at the end of the day to amuse themselves.”

“Would there be a record of who made them, or who

bought them?”

Fred shook his head. “No. In fact, since they had to be left

out overnight to cool, they were often appropriated by whoever got to work first the next morning.”

“So a fellow like this Emil Boott, an office worker, could

have taken a cane or two if he got to work early, before the

glassblowers.”

“Well, sure,” said Fred. “But I don’t think he went to

prison for twenty years for taking a whimsy.”

Lucy bent closer and took another look at the man identified as Emil Boott and remembered Miss Tilley saying that

her father only gave long sentences to the very worst criminals, like murderers. Had he misjudged Emil Boott when he

put him to work around the house? Had Emil Boott killed

Mrs. Tilley?

“You’re right. He must have been more than a petty

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thief,” agreed Lucy, wondering how she could find out exactly what crime Emil Boott had committed to earn such a

long sentence.

Fred cleared his throat. “I really have to get back to

work,” he said, with a sigh. “Budget projections are due next

week.”

Lucy’s face reddened. “Oh, don’t let me keep you. I really

appreciate your help. Is it okay if I look around a bit?”

“Be my guest,” said Fred, pushing the elevator button.

“We don’t get too many visitors, except for school groups.”

The doors slid open and he stepped aboard. “Don’t miss the

mummy,” he said.

Lucy started to ask how the museum came to possess a

mummy, but before she could form the question the doors

closed and Fred was gone. “Another mystery,” she said to

Toby. “This town is full of them.”

Chapter

! Five #

When they lived in the city Lucy had always looked forward to the weekend when Bill didn’t have to go to

work. That meant they could sleep a little later, and then

enjoy a leisurely breakfast while deciding what to do with the

rest of the day. Sometimes it would be a car trip out of the

city, with a stop at a farm stand. Sometimes it would be an

excursion to the zoo or the botanical gardens, or a museum.

And other times they would simply go for a walk, perhaps

stopping for a big doughy pretzel or a hot dog from a street

vendor. It didn’t matter what they did, really, because there

was a special holiday feel to the weekend that made it special.

But now that Bill worked at home, weekends were just the

same as every other day. He couldn’t take the time, he said,

because there was so much work to be done on the house.

And anyway, there wasn’t really anywhere interesting to go.

Tinker’s Cove didn’t offer much in the way of culture apart

from the library and the museum, and Lucy was already familiar with them. The movie theater was only open in summer; it closed up tight for the winter. There was nature, of

course, lots of it. Acres and acres of woods, lakes and ponds,

and the endless expanse of ocean. But, oddly enough, everybody seemed to take it for granted and there was very little

public access. Hunters roamed the woods, to be sure, but

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there were few easy trails suitable for family hiking. And

most of the shore was privately owned, and rocky to boot,

except for the little town beach. There was no open expanse

for walking, like the beaches she knew on Cape Cod.

So here it was, a bright and sunny Saturday morning, and

Lucy was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and

leafing through the Pennysaver newspaper, looking for something to do. Toby was by her side, in his high chair, supposedly eating scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast. Maybe he

would be the next Jackson Pollack, thought Lucy, watching

as he smeared the eggs on the tray.

“Ready to get down?” she asked, reaching for a washcloth

to wipe his face and hands.

“No.” He shook his head and began chewing on a toast

triangle.

“Okay,” she said, turning the page and studying the

“Things to Do” column. That’s what it was called, but there

was precious little that interested her. Goodness knows she

didn’t need Weight Watchers, she wasn’t interested in seeing

the new holiday line of Tupperware products, she didn’t have

money to spend on Mary Kay cosmetics and, darn it all,

they’d missed the pancake breakfast with Santa at the fire

house. “Maybe next year,” she promised Toby. “We’ll keep

an eye out for it.”

Toby rewarded her with a big smile, revealing a mouth full

of half-chewed chunks of toast. Not a pretty sight, even if he

was her own child. She turned back to the paper, where an

announcement for an open house at the historical society

caught her eye. Maybe someone there would be able to give

her some leads on her investigation, especially concerning her

prime suspect, Emil Boott. “It says there will be refreshments,”

she promised Toby, ignoring his protests and removing a

soggy wad of toast from his little fist and cleaning him up.

“Better save some room for punch and cookies.”

It was almost eleven when Lucy parked Auntie Granada in

front of the Josiah Hopkins House and wrestled Toby out of

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the car seat. As they walked along the uneven blocks of sidewalk to the open house she examined the antique house that

housed the historical society. Built circa 1700, according to a

sign next to the front door, the little Cape-style house was

supposed to be the oldest house in town. It was named for its

builder, Josiah Hopkins, who was reputed to be the first European to settle in Tinker’s Cove. The white clapboard house

appeared to be quite small from the front, with a low roof set

over two pairs of windows and a center door, but a series of

ells had been tacked onto the back as the family grew and

stretched in an uneven line that ended at a lopsided barn.

Unsure whether she should knock on the wreathed door or

just walk in, Lucy paused on the grindstone that served as a

stoop. “I thought there’d be more people,” she told Toby, as

she hoisted him up and perched him on her hip. She was just

about to knock when the door flew open.

“We saw you coming,” said a little old lady who bore an

unnerving resemblance to an apple-head doll. Her hair,

which was carefully curled and blued, was an odd contrast to

her wrinkled and puckered face. Her eyes, however, were

sharp as ever and didn’t miss a thing. “Ellie, Ellie,” she

called. “Come and meet this adorable little tyke.”

She was quickly joined by another little apple-head doll of

a woman, right down to the matching hair. “Isn’t he the little

man!” she proclaimed. “Come in, come in.”

Lucy set Toby on his feet and unzipped his jacket, then

grasping him firmly by the hand, introduced herself.

“Oh, you’re the young folks who bought the old farmhouse on Red Top Road,” said Ellie. “Emily, they’re the folks

who bought the place out by the Pratts.”

“We’re the Miller sisters,” said Emily. “We’re twins. I’m

Emily and this is Ellie.”

“You can tell us apart because I’m the pretty one,” said

Ellie, repeating what Lucy suspected was a well-worn joke.

Lucy made a quick mental note, observing that Ellie was

wearing the pink twin set and Emily was in blue.

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“Never mind her,” said Emily. “We’re so glad to welcome

you to our open house. Do enjoy the house and we’ll be

happy to answer any questions you have, and be sure to have

some holiday punch and cookies in the dining room.”

“Thank you,” said Lucy, who was admiring the wide plank

floors and the simple woodwork which had been painted a

deep shade of red. A small fire blazed in the hearth, which

was ringed with a simple wooden bench, a rocking chair and

a tall settle. Cheery print curtains hung at the windows and a

hutch displayed a collection of antique china.

“All the furnishings have been donated by our members,”

said Emily, noticing her interest.

“Did your members do the restoration work, too?” asked

Lucy, keeping a watchful eye on Toby, who was fascinated by

the fire.

“Most of it. We also hired some craftsmen. We got a lot of

advice from the state historical commission.”

“I see,” said Lucy, eager to see the rest of the house. She

took Toby by the hand and together they explored the kitchen, with its enormous hearth, the buttery where food was

stored, the pantry where dishes were kept, and climbed the

cramped little staircase to the tiny bedrooms tucked under

the eaves. Pulling Toby away from a display of antique toys

she went back downstairs to the dining room, where blackand-gold Hitchcock chairs surrounded a cherry drop-leaf

table that held a crystal punch bowl with a silver ladle and

enough cookies for an army.

“Would you care for some punch?” asked Emily, popping

through the door. Or was it Ellie, wondered Lucy, afraid

she’d mixed up pink and blue.

“Be sure to taste the mincemeat cookies,” advised Ellie, or

was it Emily?

“Thank you,” said Lucy, holding the crystal cup so Toby

could drink from it, then handing him a cookie. “It’s a beautiful house,” she said, taking a bite of a lemon bar. “It must

have taken a lot of work.”

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“A labor of love,” said Emily.

“That’s right,” said Ellie, nodding along.

“I wonder,” said Lucy, excited by an idea that was taking

shape in her mind, “does the society have information about

the early residents of Tinker’s Cove? I’m thinking of census

records, genealogies, wills, things like that.”

The two Miller sisters exchanged a glance.

“We used to,” said one.

“Before the fire,” said the other.

“It was all lost.”

“We were lucky to save the house and the furniture.”

“Oh, dear,” said Lucy, feeling extremely disappointed.

The sisters exchanged another glance.

“Would you like to sit down, dear?” asked one.

“Is there something in particular that you want to know?”

asked the other. “Because most people in town have deep

roots. Their families have been here for a very long time.”

“A long time, that’s right.”

Lucy sat down and the sisters refilled her cup and passed

her a plate of cookies. She sipped and nibbled and thought.

She was reluctant to admit that she was investigating Mrs.

Tilley’s death, which might or might not have been murder,

but she didn’t want to pass up this opportunity, either. So far,

the Miller sisters were her only lead.

“Well,” she began, “I’m doing some research on a household. Sort of a social history, if you know what I mean. A

well-off family and their helpers.”

The sisters nodded. “Like that TV show.”

“Upstairs, Downstairs.”

“Right,” agreed Lucy. “I have all the information I need

about the upstairs family, but it’s the downstairs folks I’m

having trouble tracking down.”

The sisters nodded.

“I need information about a man named Emil Boott.”

They shook their heads. “There’s a family named Boott

out on Packet Road,” said Emily.

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“Oh I don’t think she wants to visit them,” said Ellie, with

a sniff.

“Oh, I’ve met them,” said Lucy. Seeing the sisters shocked

expressions she quickly added, “At a yard sale.”

“I’d steer clear of that lot, if I were you,” said Emily.

“Oh, yes. Oh, dear yes,” chimed in Ellie. She lowered her

voice. “Kyle’s a bit, um, unpredictable.”

“So I gathered,” replied Lucy, with a nod. “Is there a violent streak in the family?”

The ladies exchanged glances but didn’t reply. Lucy sensed

she’d gotten all she was going to get from them concerning

the Boott’s and pressed on. “Angela DeRosa?”

They shook their heads.

“Katherine Kaiser.”

The sisters exchanged glances, again, and sighed in unison.

Lucy had the distinct feeling they knew something but

weren’t going to share it with her. She continued down her

list. “Helen Sprout.”

The two broke into smiles and giggles. “There are lots of

Sprouts around,” said Emily.

“Old Hannah Sprout, she must be going on eighty herself,

lives over in Gilead.”

“I bet she’d love to talk to you.”

“I bet she would, too.”

Lucy was about to ask how she could contact Hannah

Sprout when she suddenly remembered Toby. He’d been right

there, eating cookies, and now he was gone. She jumped to

her feet. “Where’s Toby?”

“He can’t have wandered far,” said Ellie.

“No, no, no,” agreed Emily.

But Lucy was imagining the worst as she searched frantically through the maze of little rooms. He might have fallen in

the fire. He might have fallen down the stairs. He might have

wandered out a back door. He might have been abducted.

Then she heard one of the sisters sing out, “I found him.”

Lucy hauled herself up the crooked little staircase as fast as

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she could, considering her condition. She was out of breath

when she found Toby sitting on the floor in the room that

was decorated as a child’s nursery, surrounded by that valuable collection of antique toys. The toys, and Toby, appeared

to be unharmed.

“Isn’t it sweet?” trilled a sister.

“He found the toys!”

“I hope nothing’s broken,” said Lucy, pulling him to his

feet and leading him to the stairway. She took a deep breath.

“We’ll pay if there’s any damage.”

“Oh, no, no, no damage,” chorused the sisters. “No harm

done.”

As Lucy zipped up Toby and buttoned her coat and headed

straight for the door, she had the feeling that a tragedy had

been barely averted. “Thanks for everything,” she said, as

the door closed behind her and she let out a big sigh of relief.

Toby didn’t see it quite the same way, however. Once outside he yanked himself free and threw himself on the brown

grass, shrieking and kicking his heels in a full-blown temper

tantrum. “Horsey! Horsey!” he repeated, over and over, at

the top of his lungs.

Lucy had read about two-year-olds and their famous temper tantrums in the child care books, but so far she hadn’t experienced one. She stood there, in the middle of town, trying

to remember the recommended course of action. Nothing

came to her except an acute sense of embarrassment. Thank

heavens nobody seemed to be on the street, at the moment,

but if Toby continued screaming that was sure to change.

The last thing Lucy wanted was to attract a crowd.

“Toby, stop it!” she said, in her firmest, most authoritative

voice.

He kicked his heels harder.

Maybe bribery? The experts discouraged it, but it had

been remarkably successful on the few occasions she’d tried

it. “Toby, stop fussing and be a good boy and I’ll buy you

some ice cream.”

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The screams grew louder.

It was time to bring out the big guns. “Toby, if you don’t

stop that this minute I’m going to get in the car and leave you

here all by yourself.”

Not a good idea. The shrieks were now punctuated with

hysterical sobs. Lucy felt her cheeks reddening, she felt angry

and incompetent and frustrated and embarrassed, all at once.

And now, she saw, a group of women were advancing down

the sidewalk. Mature, matronly women who had mastered

the art of motherhood. She had to get out of there. Adrenaline

surged, she grabbed Toby by the hood of his jacket and the

seat of his pants, and, tucking the screaming and kicking boy

under her arm, she hauled him to the car and wrestled him

into the car seat. Once he was securely strapped in, she slid

behind the steering wheel and caught her breath.

The group of women, she noticed, nodded approvingly.

One even smiled sympathetically at her and she gave them a

little wave. Then, resolutely closing her ears to the din coming from the backseat, she started the engine and pulled onto

Main Street, right in the path of a battered blue pickup truck.

The driver honked and swerved, missing a collision, but

Lucy’s heart was racing when the truck braked and the driver

turned to glare at her. To her horror it was Kyle Boott, and he

looked as if he was spoiling for a fight. Stomach churning,

she rolled down the window and stuck her head out, stretching her lips into a smile. “I’m soo sorry,” she yelled. “I didn’t

see you. No harm done, I hope.”

He didn’t answer and for a moment Lucy thought he was

going to get out of the truck, but instead he slammed it into

gear and took off, leaving rubber. Weak with relief she turned

round to face Toby “It’s all your fault!” she declared. “How

can I drive with you making this racket?”

Confronted with his mother’s anger, Toby ratcheted up his

screaming, which was now punctuated with sobs and hiccups. By now Lucy was sobbing, too, and all she could think

of was to get home. So once again she gripped the steering

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333

wheel with trembling hands and turned on her blinker and

checked her mirrors and very slowly and carefully pulled out

of her parking spot.

The drive home was nightmarish. Lucy drove slowly and

extra carefully, concentrating on the road as if she were taking a driver’s test, and trying not to worry about Toby. How

long could he keep this up? Could he stop? Maybe she

should go to the emergency room? But then they’d probably

call in social services, maybe they’d decide she couldn’t cope

and would take Toby away from her. Maybe she was a bad

mother, maybe she shouldn’t have children.

She was following this train of thought when she turned

onto Red Top Road and the house came into view and Toby

fell asleep, all at once. By the time she’d turned into the driveway he’d sunk into a deep sleep, punctuated by hiccups. He

didn’t even stir when she lifted him out of the car seat and

carried him into the house.

“Look at that sweet little guy,” cooed Bill, who was fixing

himself a cup of tea in the kitchen.

“Appearances can be deceiving,” muttered Lucy, lugging

the baby upstairs and settling him in his crib.

Bill had followed and watched as she slipped off Toby’s

jacket and shoes and covered him with a blanket. “He’ll

probably wet the bed,” she observed, with a sniffle.

“So what’s the big deal?” asked Bill, leaning against the

door jamb and sipping his tea. “He’s just a baby.”

“This so-called baby of yours is a monster,” snapped Lucy.

“You should have seen the tantrum he had, right in the middle of town.”

“What do you expect?” asked Bill. “He’s almost two years

old and they don’t call it the ‘terrible twos’ for nothing.”

Lucy suddenly felt very alone. He didn’t understand and

she didn’t have the energy to make him. “I’m tired. I’m going

to lie down for a bit,” she said.

“I was hoping you’d go to the lumber yard for me,” said

Bill. “I don’t ask for much but I could use a little help now

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and then, you know. I’m beginning to think I’m a one-man

show.”

Lucy’s chin dropped and she turned to face him. “Oneman show! Is that what you think?”

“Well, yeah,” said Bill, rising to his full height. “I don’t see

you pitching in.”

Lucy stared at him, speechless. “Pitch in yourself,” she finally said and marched out of the nursery, across the hall and

into the bedroom. She would have slammed the door but

that would have wakened the baby.

She lay there, staring at the stained and cracked ceiling,

and listened to Bill’s footsteps as they retreated down the hall

to the front stairs. By the time he’d reached the bottom, she

was sound asleep.

Two hours later she woke with a start, awakened by Toby’s

cries. Just regular cries, she realized with relief, he wasn’t

having another tantrum. She threw off the covers and shoved

her swollen feet into her slippers and shuffled into his room.

He stopped crying when he saw her and she picked him up,

nuzzling his damp head with her nose and getting a distinct

whiff of ammonia. As she expected his overalls were soaked

and all the bedding needed to be changed. She sighed and led

him into the bathroom, where she set him on the potty.

“Are you up?” Bill’s voice echoed up the stairwell.

“Up and at ’em,” she yelled back.

“Someone named Sue called,” he said.

Lucy suddenly felt better.

“I got her number and said you’d call back.”

“Thanks,” said Lucy, pulling off Toby’s wet overalls, even

his socks were soaked. She sighed. It would be a while before

she could make that call.

Chapter

! Six #

“Idon’t think this is such a good idea, Lucy,” complained

Bill. He was standing in front of the mirror in the bedroom and fiddling with a necktie. “I can’t believe I wore a tie

every day back in the city. This thing is an instrument of torture.”

“You look very nice,” said Lucy, adjusting the tie and giving him a little kiss.

“I can’t really take the time,” he continued. “Why don’t

you and Toby go and I’ll finish insulating the nursery?”

Lucy held his jacket for him. “Don’t be silly. It’s the last

Sunday before Christmas and we haven’t been to church even

once. It will give you some Christmas spirit.”

“I’ve got plenty of Christmas spirit,” said Bill, slipping his

arms into the sleeves.

Lucy set her jaw in a stubborn expression. “Well, I want to

hear the carols,” she said, pulling the jacket up over his

shoulders and smoothing it out. “Do it for me.”

Bill rolled his eyes. “You are a stubborn woman, Lucy

Stone.”

Lucy’s temper flared. “I don’t think …”

“But I love you anyway,” he said, silencing her with a kiss.

When they arrived at the little white Community Church

with the tall steeple they found it was bursting at the seams

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but people cheerfully slid down the pews and squeezed together to make room for everyone. Lucy assumed the crowd

was made of folks her mother called “Christmas and Easter

Christians,” people who only came to church on holidays, a

group which Lucy had to acknowledge she and Bill had

joined. But a quick perusal of the bulletin revealed that the

usual sermon would be replaced by the Sunday School’s annual pageant, a local tradition which brought entire families

out in force. She nudged Bill, who was holding Toby in his

lap, and pointed out the notation.

“It ought to be really cute,” she whispered.

“Hmph,” said Bill.

But even he was smiling when the children, dressed as

shepherds, advanced down the aisle, some holding stuffed

lambs and other animals, including a few neon colored Care

Bears, and arranged themselves in a tableau vivant around

the teenagers playing Mary and Joseph. Mary was keeping a

nervous eye on baby Jesus, who was a real baby, and Joseph

seemed ready to flee; Lucy wondered if they were presenting

a more accurate version of the actual events than they knew.

The arrival of the youngest children, dressed as angels in

white robes and homemade wings, with tinsel haloes, was

greeted with coos from the congregation, and everyone joined

in singing “Away in a Manger.” Then came the Three Wise

Men, a trio of high school girls with fake beards, robes, and

turbans made out of upholstery material (Lucy recognized

the pattern as one her mother had chosen years ago for a slip

cover) accompanied by the singing of “We Three Kings,”

which was followed by Lucy’s favorite, “Silent Night.” When

it was over the entire congregation burst into applause. This

was new to Lucy, and an indication that it had indeed been

some time since she had been to church and things had

changed while she’d been away.

When the service was over most people trooped down the

aisle to the front of the church where there was a door lead—

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337

ing to the parish hall where coffee was served. Bill started to

go in the opposite direction, but Lucy stopped him.

“Let’s get a cup of coffee,” she pleaded. “Maybe we’ll

meet some people.”

Bill was less than enthusiastic. “Aw, Lucy… .”

She cut him off. “It won’t kill you to be sociable, you

know,” she said, taking Toby by the hand and marching

down the aisle. Bill followed, a glum expression on his face.

The parish room was crowded and there was a happy buzz

as adults greeted each other and children, still dressed in their

shepherd and angel costumes, dashed around and helped

themselves to more cookies than was wise before lunch. Appetites would certainly be spoiled, thought Lucy, accepting a

Styrofoam cup of rather weak looking coffee. She chose a

plain sugar cookie for Toby and looked around for a familiar

face. Bill, she noticed, was already deep in conversation with

a man she recognized from the lumber yard. She was sipping

her coffee and feeling rather hurt that he hadn’t thought to

include her in the conversation when she saw the Miller

twins approaching her.

“So nice to see you, Lucy,” said Emily.

“And Toby, too,” said Ellie. “Maybe he can be in the

pageant next year. He’ll be old enough to be an angel.”

“He will have to be quite an actor to pull that off,” said

Lucy, remembering the previous day’s tantrum.

The two ladies’ eyebrows shot up in surprise, then Ellie

smiled. “It’s a joke, dear,” she told her sister. “Just look at

that angelic little face.”

Lucy looked at Toby, trying to see him through another’s

eyes. He was angelic looking, she realized, with his blond

curls and pink cheeks. “Thank you,” she said. “It was a

lovely pageant. I really enjoyed it.”

“They do it every year,” said Emily. “It’s always the

same.”

“And it’s always wonderful,” said Ellie. “We were in it,

years ago.”

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“Ellie got to be Mary,” complained Emily. “It wasn’t fair.”

“Emily was supposed to be Joseph,” said Ellie. “She wasn’t

happy about it.”

“No, I wasn’t. I got Hannah Sprout to take my place. Oh,

my goodness, here she comes.”

Lucy watched as a tall, gray-haired woman in a bright red

suit with a Christmas brooch pinned on the shoulder crossed

the room. “Good morning, ladies,” she said, looking curiously at Lucy. “Wonderful pageant, wasn’t it?”

“We were just telling Lucy here, oh, this is Lucy Stone and

her little boy Toby. They moved into the old farmhouse on

Red Top Road.”

“Nice to meet you, Lucy. I’m Hannah Sprout.”

“We were telling Lucy about the time you had to play

Joseph in the pageant because Emily wouldn’t wear that

beard.”

“I don’t blame her one bit,” said Hannah. “That thing was

scratchy. But, my word, that was a long time ago. We were

just kids.”

“Actually, Lucy’s interested in the old days,” said Emily.

“She was asking about your mother.”

Hannah turned to face Lucy. “Mother? What do you want

to know about her?”

Toby was pulling on Lucy’s hand so she picked him up and

balanced him on her hip. She was beginning to put one and

one together. Hannah Sprout, she realized, must be Helen

Sprout’s daughter.

“Was your mother a cook? Did she work for Judge Tilley?”

asked Lucy.

“She sure did. But why do you want to know about that?

That was ages ago. Before the World War.”

“I’m doing a bit of research. I’m trying to write a sort of

Upstairs, Downstairs sort of thing.”

“For TV?” Hannah’s eyes were big.

“Possibly,” said Lucy, relieved to see Bill coming toward

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her. Toby was squirming in her arms and her back was beginning to hurt. She greeted him with a big smile, handing over

Toby as she introduced him to the ladies.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked, perching Toby on his

shoulders.

“Actually, I’d like to chat a bit more. Would you mind taking Toby outside to play?”

“Take him to the general store,” suggested Emily.

“They have penny candy,” said Ellie.

“You have to go to Country Cousins after church,” added

Hannah. “It’s the Eleventh Commandment.”

Bill knew when he was beat. “Okay,” he said, nodding at

Lucy. “I’ll meet you at the car in ten minutes.”

“Every mother deserves a break now and then,” said Hannah, nudging Lucy.

“A break, that’s right, a break,” chorused Ellie and Emily.

“So tell me about your mother,” said Lucy. “Did she ever

talk to you about Judge Tilley and his wife?”

“All the time,” said Hannah. “It was so sad, you see. ‘That

poor woman,’ she used to say. ‘How she suffers!’ She was

talking about Mrs. Tilley, of course. She was very ill and nobody, really, was taking care of her. The judge was occupied

with important matters and the two daughters, well, Mother

always said she thought Mrs. Tilley kept her true condition

from them, didn’t want them to worry or fuss. Not that it did

her a lot of good, considering how that wicked Harriet ran

off with that labor union fellow, eloped she did, and I don’t

think she was ever heard of again. But it wasn’t until the

judge finally hired that nurse that things began to improve. A

blessing that was, at least that’s what Mother used to say.”

“Did your mother ever talk about Mrs. Tilley’s accident?”

“Did she? She talked about nothing else for the longest

time. She was devastated, you see, because she wasn’t there.

The cellar stairs were right off the kitchen, you see, and if

she’d been there she could have stopped her from going

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down. She never would have let her attempt those stairs, not

if she was there, but it was Christmas Eve and the judge told

her to go home to her own family.”

“Was the judge usually that considerate of the staff?”

asked Lucy.

“Now that you mention it, he certainly was not. He made

sure he got every cent’s worth he could out of them, and

more.” Hannah leaned closer. “Mother didn’t think much of

him,” she whispered. “Not that she actually came out and

said it in so many words but I got the idea that the judge was

having an affair with that secretary of his.”

Emily and Ellie nodded and chimed in, encouraged by

Hannah’s frankness. “She was a fast one,” said Ellie.

“Put on airs,” sniffed Emily.

“I heard she went to the beauty salon every morning to get

her hair combed,” said Lucy.

“She did worse than that,” crowed Hannah.

“She did?” Emily and Ellie were all ears.

“Now, remember, this was a long time ago, when people

felt differently about what we call single mothers nowadays.

They used to be called unwed mothers and that was most

certainly not a term of approval.” Hannah nodded knowingly. “But a week or so before poor Mrs. Tilley finally got

her blessed release and went to her heavenly reward, that secretary left town for six months or more to care for a sick relative.”

“Ooh,” said Emily, her mouth round with shock.

“I never,” added Ellie, with a sharp intake of breath.

“So you think she was pregnant, with Judge Tilley’s

child?” asked Lucy.

Hannah winked. “Oh, I never said that.”

“Oh, no,” said Emily, shaking her head.

“No, not at all,” said Ellie, pursing her lips.

“I see,” said Lucy, understanding that in this case no

meant yes. Then she remembered Bill, who was waiting for

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341

her outside, in the cold. “I’ve got to get going, but thanks for

all the information. It’s been very interesting.”

“Oh, yes, interesting,” said Emily, nodding.

“Very interesting,” said Ellie, licking her lips.

Lucy took her time walking around the church to the lot

where Bill had parked the car. She rarely had a moment to

herself and she was determined to make the most of it. A

couple of inches of snow had fallen overnight and the reflected sunlight made everything bright. It wasn’t too cold,

though, and she was enjoying the fresh air and the quiet, as

the snow muffled sounds.

She was thinking how strange it was that Judge Tilley’s affair with his secretary was still a delicate subject, almost as if

it had happened yesterday instead of fifty or more years ago.

And even stranger, that their love child had remained a secret

to many people for all those years. She was especially curious

about the fact that even though Katherine Kaiser’s child was

born around the time of Mrs. Tilley’s death, the lovers had

not gotten married. Why not? They could have waited for a

decent interval, tied the knot, and then added the child to

their family claiming it was adopted. But the fact that hadn’t

happened seemed to indicate the need to continue keeping

their relationship a secret. And that, Lucy thought, could

have been because the judge didn’t want people talking and

speculating about his wife’s death. It might have appeared a

bit too convenient, and might have drawn attention to the

judge and his mistress as possible murderers. And then there

was the fact that he had dismissed Mrs. Sprout early on

Christmas Eve. Did he want her out of the way?

Lost in thought, Lucy would have walked by the car if Bill

hadn’t honked. Startled, she jumped, then climbed in beside

him. Toby was sitting in his car seat, contentedly nibbling on

a long pretzel stick. “Two cents at the general store,” said

Bill, with an approving nod.

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“Quite a bargain,” said Lucy.

Bill shifted into reverse and backed out of the parking

space. “So what were you thinking about? Christmas? The

baby? You were miles away, you know.”

“Both,” said Lucy, smiling at Bill and rubbing her tummy.

She hardly wanted to admit she was thinking about a scandal

and murder. “Weren’t those kids cute?” she asked.

Back home, Lucy decided to leave the pea soup in the fridge

and splurged by making tuna-melt sandwiches for lunch.

Toby could barely keep his eyes open to finish his and Lucy

gratefully settled him down for what she hoped would be a

long nap. Then, ignoring Bill’s suggestion that she strip the

ugly old wallpaper in the hall, she picked up the phone and

called Sue.

“Sorry I missed your call yesterday, I was napping,” said

Lucy.

“Good for you. I was wondering if you’d like to grab some

coffee tomorrow morning. At Jake’s, maybe?”

“Sure,” said Lucy. “Ten? Eleven?”

“Let’s make it ten-thirty,” said Sue. “The place quiets

down around then.”

“Great,” said Lucy, who was already looking forward to

their get-together. “Gee,” she added, in a burst of candor,

“this is pathetic. I can’t tell you how excited I am about actually having some place to go and getting out of the house.”

“I hear you,” said Sue. “Sometimes I just pack my bag and

head to my mother’s for a night, just to get some time to myself.”

Lucy felt a stab of jealousy. “Does she live nearby?”

“Boston. Close enough, but not too close, if you know

what I mean. The drive’s long enough that I have time to decompress, get rid of that ‘I’d like to kill my husband’ feeling.”

Lucy was a bit shocked by Sue’s frankness. “Doesn’t your

husband mind when you leave?”

“No. To tell the truth, I think he enjoys it. I mean, he prob—

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ably wants to kill me sometimes, too, impossible as that

seems.”

“Not that impossible,” said Lucy. “I think that if anybody

was counting they’d discover that lots more wives are killed

by their husbands than vice versa.”

“I know,” agreed Sue. “And I can never quite understand.

Take that awful guy in Boston who shot his wife and killed

her and then shot himself to make it seem like they were attacked by some entirely innocent black man—all that fuss

when he could have just filed for divorce.”

“Divorce is no picnic, either,” said Lucy. “Imagine thinking you’re in a perfectly happy marriage and then one fine

day, your husband looks at you over the morning paper and

says ‘Honey, it’s been great, but I’ve found this hot little chick

and I like her much better than you, she never nags me about

taking out the trash like you do, so what do you say we get a

divorce?’ ”

Sue laughed. “I see your point. If he shoots you, well, he’s

a real bastard and all, but at least you can go to your death

without feeling like a failure because he’s having an affair.”

“Yeah,” agreed Lucy, thinking of Judge Tilley’s insistence

on maintaining appearances. “Like it was a perfect marriage

right up to the moment he killed you.” From the distance,

she heard Bill calling her. “Gotta go save my marriage by

stripping the wallpaper in the front hall.”

“Honey, you’d do better to strip yourself.”

“Point taken,” said Lucy. “See you tomorrow.”

Chapter

! Seven #

Lucy knew she couldn’t leave Toby with Bill when she

met Sue for coffee so she didn’t even ask. She was as big

a believer in women’s liberation as anyone, but it was unrealistic to expect anyone to keep an eye on an active

preschooler while working with dangerous tools to perform

tasks that required a great deal of concentration. Bill had

explained this to her so many times that she’d come to believe it, though she did wonder why it didn’t apply to her.

After all, she managed to keep an eye on Toby while she

chopped up chicken with a cleaver, or used pins and needles

to mend a tear, or boiled up a kettle of water to cook pasta.

Those were every bit as dangerous as his work with saws,

and hammers and nails.

She explained it all to Sue when she joined her at a table in

the back corner of Jake’s Donut Shack. As Sue had predicted,

the place was quiet, with only a scattering of retirees who

had time to linger over their morning papers.

“Bill,” she told Sue, “has a male brain. He can only concentrate on one thing at a time, which makes it impossible

for him to mind a child at the same time he’s cutting a board.

I, on the other hand, have a female brain, which we know is

larger and generally superior in that it can accommodate several thoughts at once.”

CANDY CANES OF CHRISTMAS PAST

345

“Right,” said Sue. “Like how there’s a designer handbag

sale at Filene’s Basement and a coat sale at Jordan Marsh.”

“Exactly,” said Lucy, smiling and nodding.

“I fundamentally agree with you,” said Sue, tearing open a

pink packet of low-calorie sweetener and stirring it into her

coffee, “but what I can’t quite figure out is how, if we’re so

smart and all, we always seem to get stuck with the kids.”

“It’s because,” said Lucy, taking a sip of coffee, “we remember the fact that we actually have a child. Men’s brains

can’t handle that information, which is why they tend to lose

the children on the rare occasions that they take them anywhere.”

“I think you’re on to something,” said Sue. “My husband,

Sid, completely forgot he was supposed to pick up Sidra from

nursery school the other day.”

“Nursery school,” said Lucy, wistfully, watching as Toby

ripped open a sugar packet and poured the contents all over

the table. “I wish we could afford nursery school.”

“You know,” said Sue, setting down her cup, “you’re not

alone. I bet there are a lot of people here in town who need

child care but can’t afford it. Maybe we could get some sort

of cooperative going or something.”

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” said Lucy, watching as

Toby licked his finger and then dipped it into the sugar. For

some reason the repeated licks and dips reminded her of a

video she’d seen at the American Museum of Natural History. “If he used a spoon, he’d be as smart as a chimpanzee,”

she said.

Sue looked at her oddly. “I’m going to talk to some people,

see if we can’t get some start-up money from the Seaman’s

Bank. Maybe the church. Maybe the town, even. There’s definitely a need here.”

Toby was squirming, trying to get out of the high chair. “I

guess it’s time to go,” said Lucy, reluctantly. “We ought to do

this again. It’s been great to have an adult conversation.”

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Sue smiled. “Men don’t count, do they?”

“No,” said Lucy, grinning. “But they are good for killing

spiders, opening jars, and heavy lifting.”

“I’ll call you,” promised Sue.

Toby seemed to have lots of energy so Lucy decided to

take him for a little walk before putting him back in the car

seat for the ride home. It was a typically gray December day,

the temperature was around the freezing mark and the snow

lingered on lawns and was piled alongside the cleared roads

and sidewalks. She held Toby’s little mittened hand tightly as

they walked along Main Street, careful not to step on any

cracks, just like in the A.A. Milne poem. They played the

name game as they walked along, naming the colors of cars,

the kinds of stores and the items displayed in their windows,

the shapes of the signs. But all the while, Lucy’s mind was

busy mulling over the information she’d uncovered in her investigation. Everything she’d learned so far pointed to two

suspects: Judge Tilley himself and Emil Boott. Mrs. Sprout,

the cook, was out for the simple reason that Lucy liked her

daughter, Hannah, and found her account of life in the Tilley

household entirely believable. She was also inclined to cross

the nurse, Angela DeRosa, off the list of suspects. Nobody

seemed to have a bad word to say about her. And then there

was Miss Peach, Katharine Kaiser. Nobody seemed to have a

good word to say about her, but Lucy didn’t have a sense that

anybody suspected her of murdering Mrs. Tilley. Lucy was

inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt, especially since

she’d been pregnant at the time. She found it hard to believe

that a woman could be both a creator and a destroyer of life,

especially at the same time. But maybe that was a fallacious

assumption, she told herself, especially considering Miss

Kaiser’s self-indulgent and independent lifestyle. But there

was an even more compelling reason to cross her off the list:

Miss Kaiser had been out of town, purportedly caring for a

sick relative, when Mrs. Tilley died.

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347

It wasn’t long before they reached the library and Lucy decided to pay a visit to Miss Tilley. She wanted to update her

on the progress of her investigation, but she wanted to do it

as delicately as possible. After all, a father’s infidelity would

be a sensitive subject for anyone.

Miss Tilley was sitting in her usual spot at the circulation

desk when Lucy and Toby entered and greeted them warmly.

As far as Lucy could see there wasn’t anybody else in the library, so she could talk frankly. She pulled off Toby’s hat and

mittens and unzipped his jacket and let him loose in the children’s corner, where he made a beeline for the box of toys

and began pulling them out and tossing them over his shoulder.

“Toby! That’s no way to play,” she reminded him.

“Never mind,” said Miss Tilley. “We’ll help him tidy up

afterward.” She leaned forward. “How’s the investigation

going? I’m eager to hear what you’ve learned.”

Lucy looked at Miss Tilley, taking in her frail, birdlike

shape and her wispy white hair, caught in a bun that barely

held together despite an enormous quantity of hairpins. She

seemed the very model of a typical old maid, right down to

the cameo pin that caught both wings of her starched white

lace collar. Suddenly Lucy wasn’t sure she wanted to bring up

such a sexually charged topic as Judge Tilley’s infidelity.

“I understand you’ve been talking to Hannah Sprout,”

coaxed Miss Tilley.

“That’s right,” admitted Lucy, wondering if she was doing

the investigating or being investigated. “How did you know

that?”

“I ran into Emily Miller at the IGA. This is a small town,

you know, and all we really have to talk about is each other.”

It was true. Lucy thought of the “Social Events” column in

the weekly Pennysaver newspaper that included items such as

“Mrs.William Mason and her daughter, Mrs. Henry Tubbs,

entertained Mrs. Hildegarde Wilson and Miss Susan Wilson

for tea on Wednesday afternoon,” and “Mr. and Mrs. James

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Nesmith recently took a motor trip to Prince Edward Island

in Canada where they visited with Mrs. Nesmith’s cousin,

Winifred MacDonald.” She always read it, finding it oddly

fascinating since she rarely recognized any of the names.

“Well, she’s right. I did talk to Hannah Sprout at the coffee

hour after church on Sunday… .”

“So you’re a churchgoer?” inquired Miss Tilley.

“Occasionally,” said Lucy. “It was the Christmas pageant.

I think the whole town was there.”

“Not me,” said Miss Tilley. “I’m boycotting.”

Lucy was surprised. “Why?”

“Oh, something that happened a long time ago. I’ll tell

you about it sometime.”

“Okay.” Now Lucy was truly flummoxed. She’d been encouraged by the fact that Miss Tilley probably knew all about

her conversation with Hannah Sprout, but now it seemed the

librarian was setting limits and she was afraid once again of

offending her. “Well,” she began, blurting it out all at once,

“Hannah Sprout said her mother thought your father was

having an affair with his secretary, and she left town for six

months because she was pregnant with his child.”

Lucy held her breath, waiting for Miss Tilley’s reaction.

“Papa always was one for the ladies,” said Miss Tilley,

smacking her thigh with her hand. “He was an old devil.”

Lucy exhaled. “So you’re not upset.”

“Not a bit. It just confirms what I always thought.”

“You thought he had an affair with Katherine Kaiser?”

“I thought he was a mean, selfish hypocrite.”

Lucy couldn’t help it. She was shocked. Not knowing quite

what to say, she looked across the library to the children’s

corner, where Toby was pushing a wooden truck across the

floor.

“I suppose the affair could be a motive for killing your

mother,” she finally said. “But why didn’t he marry Katherine Kaiser?”

CANDY CANES OF CHRISTMAS PAST

349

“I expect he thought it would be an admission that he

wasn’t as pure as the driven snow.”

The baby kicked and Lucy rubbed her stomach. “I can’t

quite imagine a man turning his back on his own flesh and

blood like that and letting somebody adopt his child.”

“I don’t think men make the connection between the sex

act and the arrival of a child nine months later. Not unless

they’re married, that is.”

“Not even then,” said Lucy, laughing.

“Well, you would know better than I. I can only draw on

what I’ve observed. And my experience as a child, but it

seems to me that men throughout history have had remarkably little interest in assuming responsibility for their offspring, especially female and illegitimate offspring. My father

always behaved as if Harriet and I were my mother’s hobby,

like stamp collecting or knitting, and had nothing to do with

him.”

Just then there was a crash and Toby began to cry, so Lucy

jumped up and hurried over to the children’s corner, where

she found Toby had knocked over a tower of blocks which

came tumbling down on his head. She picked him up and

kissed the boo-boo, a little bruise on his forehead, assuring

him that he was all better. When she returned to the circulation desk, carrying him on her hip, Miss Tilley had a cookie

waiting for him. She sat down with him in her lap.

Miss Tilley beamed at him, tickled his tummy and gave

him another cookie. “So where do we go from here?” she

asked.

“Well, I guess I better get Toby home for lunch before you

spoil his appetite with any more cookies,” said Lucy.

“I was referring to the investigation.”

Toby leaned back against his mother, chewing on the cookie.

“Well,” said Lucy, “I think we can safely eliminate two suspects: Mrs. Sprout and Miss Kaiser. Your father sent Mrs.

Sprout home on Christmas Eve, so she wasn’t there when your

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mother fell. According to her daughter she always blamed

herself for leaving, wishing she could have prevented the

fall.”

“And it appears that Miss Kaiser, vain and wicked vixen

that she most certainly was, was also out of town and otherwise occupied at the time of my mother’s death.”

“But both those facts tend to point toward your father,”

said Lucy, smoothing Toby’s hair with her hand. “But we also

can’t eliminate the handyman, Emil Boott, and the nurse.”

Miss Tilley shook her head. “I knew Angela. I simply can’t

believe she would have hurt a hair on my mother’s head. Or

anyone else’s, for that matter.”

“Well, there is a link of sorts between Emil Boott and the

glass cane. He worked in the office at the glassworks, but

that’s all I’ve been able to find out about him.”

Miss Tilley leaned forward. “I never trusted him, you

know. There was something about him, the way he looked at

me, that made me afraid.”

Lucy tapped her chin thoughtfully. “The glassworks must

have kept records about their employees. Do you have any

idea what happened to them when it closed?”

“No, I don’t,” said Miss Tilley. “But I do know someone

who may be able to give you some information about Emil

Boott. His name is Sherman Cobb, he’s a lawyer here in town

and his father was the sheriff who ran the prison when my father was on the bench.”

“I’ll talk to him,” promised Lucy, “but now I’ve got to get

this little boy home for his nap.”

Toby’s eyes were drooping when Lucy buckled the car seat

and she drove as fast as she could, hoping to get home before

he fell asleep. She knew from experience that if he dropped

off, even for a minute, she’d never get him to settle down for

a nap.

But as she sped along the route that was already becoming

so familiar to her, she found herself thinking about men and

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women. She and Sue had been joking when they made fun of

their husband’s short attention spans but she sensed that

Miss Tilley had a deeper antipathy toward men. Lucy remembered reading somewhere that a woman’s relationship

with men depended on her relationship with her father. A

woman like herself, who had a strong relationship with a

caring father, generally had successful relationships with

men. Daddy’s girls, who had flirtatious relationships with

their fathers, rarely found men who measured up. And girls

who were abused or neglected by their fathers had destructive relationships with men, or avoided them altogether.

It was all pseudo psychology, she admitted, turning into

the driveway, but she thought there was some truth to it, especially in Miss Tilley’s case, but it did make her wonder if

she could trust the librarian’s assessments of Judge Tilley and

Emil Boott. She turned off the ignition and turned around to

see if Toby was still awake and that’s when she heard the

boom and felt the car shake.

The noise, she realized, had come from the house. Something had blown up inside the house. Toby was shrieking in

the backseat, strapped into his car seat. She was still sitting

in the car, hanging on to the steering wheel for dear life. But

Bill was inside the house. She didn’t know what to do. She

hopped out of the car and ran toward the house, then she ran

back to the car, afraid the house might blow up with her inside, leaving Toby an orphan. She was standing, flapping her

arms, torn between her husband and her son, when the door

opened and a puff of smoke blew out, followed by Bill. She

ran to him.

“Ohmigod, what happened?” she cried, taking in his sootblackened face, singed eyebrows and hair. He was holding

his hands out in front of him, the sleeves of his shirt and

sweater were burned off and the skin was red and black and

blistered.

“I tried to fix the stove,” he said.

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“Get in the car,” she ordered.

“No, Lucy. Don’t start the car. Get Toby and we’ll go to

the neighbors.”

“Right, right,” she said, yanking the door open and unsnapping the car seat straps with shaking hands. Bill was already halfway down the drive, walking like an automaton.

He must be in shock, she thought, hurrying to catch up to

him.

They could hear the sirens before they even reached the

road; the neighbors they didn’t even know must have called

the fire department. So they stood there and waited as an engine and a ladder truck and, finally, an ambulance, screamed

to a halt in front of their house. Forty minutes later it was all

over. Bill’s burns were treated and wrapped in gauze, the gas

was turned off, the house was vented, and they were given

permission to go inside.

“You got off lucky this time, believe me,” said the fire

chief. “The whole house coulda gone, you coulda been cooked.

So if I were you I wouldn’t attempt any more repairs. Leave

the gas appliances to the professionals.”

“Right,” said Bill, thoroughly chagrined.

“Whew, that was a close one,” said Lucy, surveying the

damage. The stove had opened and collapsed like a cardboard box, and everything else in the room was covered with

a greasy gray film. That included the ceiling, the walls, the

sink and refrigerator, the table and chairs, even the floor,

which also had big, muddy footprints.

“Like the man said, it could have been worse,” said Bill.

Lucy remembered that awful moment after the boom,

when she didn’t know if Bill was alive or dead. “I was so

afraid,” she said, tears springing to her eyes.

“I know,” said Bill, enfolding her and Toby in his bandaged arms. “I didn’t see my whole life go before my eyes but

I did see you, both of you,” he said. “And at that moment, I

loved you so, so much. It was really, really intense.”

“How about now?” asked Lucy.

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“Well, I still love you but I gotta admit I’d trade you both

for a pain pill.”

“I’ll call Doc Ryder right away,” said Lucy. “He can call a

prescription in to the pharmacy.”

When she finished talking to the doctor, Lucy carried Toby

upstairs and settled him down in his crib for a belated nap.

The tired little boy was asleep the moment his head hit the

pillow. Returning to the kitchen she found Bill staring at the

remains of the stove.

“Lucy, what do you say we give each other a new stove for

Christmas?”

“My thoughts exactly, Santa,” said Lucy, slipping into her

jacket and reaching for the car keys. “But next time, try coming down the chimney, okay?”

“Very funny,” he said. “And hurry back with those pills.”

An icy drizzle was falling when Lucy left the house and

had turned to snow by the time she got to town. She drove

slowly and carefully down Main Street, which was slick with

icy patches and, observing the signs that prohibited parking

in front of the pharmacy, slid into a spot a few doors down.

The sidewalk was icy, too, and she was relieved when she

made it to the door without falling.

Inside, at the prescription counter, the pharmacist greeted

her and told her the prescription would be ready in a few

minutes. Lucy was tired, so she decided to sit in the waiting

area. Turning the corner to the secluded nook that held a few

chairs and tattered magazines, she found Dora Boott crouching there with a baby in her arms.

“Hi,” she said. “Remember me? I bought the glass cane.”

Dora raised one hand to cover her face as she turned toward Lucy. “Hi,” she said, mumbling into her upturned collar.

Lucy wasn’t fooled. It was clear that Dora had recently

suffered a severe beating, probably at the hands of her husband. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

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“Baby’s sick,” she said, avoiding meeting Lucy’s eyes.

“Doc said he’s got to have some medicine.”

Lucy’s eyes fell on the baby, who was lying listlessly in his

mother’s arms. His face was quite flushed and his hair damp,

he obviously had a high fever. “And what about you?” asked

Lucy. “Did you have an accident?”

“Yeah,” growled Kyle, suddenly coming around the corner. “She walked into a door.”

“I don’t think so,” said Lucy, leveling her eyes at him. “It

looks to me as if somebody hit her.”

“C’mon,” he said, grabbing Dora by the arm and yanking

her to her feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

“But, Kyle,” protested Dora, in a whisper. “We haven’t

gotten the medicine.”

“I’ll come back tomorrow and get it,” he growled, pulling

her toward the door.

“But the doctor said he needs it tonight,” she whispered,

even more softly.

“Shut up!” he growled, shoving her. “I’ve had just about

enough of you. Now git!”

Bowing her head and curving her body protectively

around the baby, Dora obeyed, shuffling down the aisle toward the door in her bedroom slippers. Kyle followed, turning to glare at Lucy before slamming the door open and

leaving. The door had just closed behind them when the

pharmacist called out “Boott” and plopped the little bag of

medicine onto the counter.

Jumping to her feet, Lucy grabbed the bag and raced after

them. Running toward the glass door, she could see them

standing outside, face to face, on the sidewalk. Dora was apparently pleading with her husband, begging him not to leave

without the prescription. Kyle was becoming increasingly

frustrated and Lucy could see him raising his hand, ready to

smack Dora on the head, as she pushed the door open and

went flying across the icy sidewalk, right into Kyle.

Recovering her balance, she watched in horror as he slid in

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slow motion toward the curb just as a small, gray sedan

driven by an elderly woman came skidding sideways across

the street. The woman’s mouth was an O and her eyes were

wide with shock as Kyle stumbled, then momentarily regained his feet and finally fell beneath the car which rolled

right over him before coming to a stop. Only Kyle’s arm was

visible; his hand twitched a few times and then was still.

Speechless, Lucy turned to Dora, who was still hugging the

baby.

“Thank you,” she said, looking Lucy straight in the eyes

and taking the prescription. She glanced at the tag stapled to

the bag and pulled herself up to her full height. “Three

ninety-nine,” she said, her voice clear as a bell. “I guess I’d

better go inside and pay for this.”

Chapter

! Eight #

Lucy just couldn’t get over it. She felt sick every time she

thought of the accident, which she replayed over and

over in nauseating slow motion in her mind. But as awful as

Kyle’s death was, she had to admit it had its upside. Now

Dora and the children could begin a new life without the

constant fear of his violent outbursts. And Dora’s recovery

had been amazingly quick, she didn’t seem to have the least

shred of grief for her late husband. In fact, the elderly driver

of the car that hit him was far more shaken than Dora and

had to be taken to the hospital for observation. Not Dora,

though. She refused the sedatives offered by the doctor and

when the EMTs expressed their condolences she only said,

“Well, he had it coming. The wages of sin, I guess.”

Lucy soon discovered there was also a positive side to Bill’s

accident with the stove, too. Since he couldn’t work on the

house with his bandaged hands he was free to mind Toby

while she went on a fact-finding mission at the appliance

store. She felt almost giddy the next morning as she hopped

down the porch stairs and slid behind Auntie Granada’s

steering wheel, without having to break her back wrestling

Toby into the car seat. Then she was off, flying down Red Top

Road with the radio blaring Donna Summers and BeeGees

tunes, mixed in with Christmas carols. She hummed along,

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357

tapping her foot to the beat, and before she knew it she was

making the turn onto Main Street.

Proceeding at a more sedate pace she passed the library,

the Community Church and the town hall. Slack’s Hardware

and the Appliance Mart were in the next block, but her eye

fell on the sign for Sherman Cobb’s law office. Funny, she

thought as she braked and turned into the parking area beside the little white clapboard building, she’d never noticed it

before. But now here it was, right in front of her, and there

would never be a better time to ask him about Emil Boott.

When she entered the office’s neat little waiting room she

was greeted by the receptionist, a tall woman about her own

age with long brown hair. The plaque on her desk gave her

name: RACHEL GOODMAN.

“Hi,” she said, “what can I do for you?”

“I’d like to talk to Mr. Cobb,” said Lucy.

“I’m afraid he’s not in,” said Rachel. “His partner, my

husband Bob, is available.”

“I’m afraid I need to speak to Mr. Cobb,” said Lucy.

“Bob is a very good lawyer,” said Rachel, smiling. “And

I’m not just saying that because he’s my husband. He really

is.”

“I’m sure he is,” said Lucy, laughing. “I’m not here about

a legal matter. I’m doing some research on local history and

Miss Tilley, the librarian, suggested I speak to Mr. Cobb.”

“I see,” said Rachel. “Well, he just went out for his morning cup of coffee. He should be back in a few minutes if you

want to wait.”

Lucy looked at the comfy plaid couch, the brass lamp and

the stack of magazines on the pine coffee table and decided

she could spare a few minutes. “Thanks,” she said. “I think I

will.”

She tucked her gloves in her pockets and unbuttoned her

coat, making herself comfortable on the sofa. Before she’d

become a mother she never would have believed that the op-358

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portunity to spend a few minutes checking out the latest

magazines would seem like such a luxury. She picked up a

copy of People magazine and began flipping through the

pages.

“I’ve seen you around town,” said Rachel, breaking into

her thoughts. “You have a little boy, don’t you?”

“That’s right. Toby’s almost two.”

“And you live out on Red Top Road?”

“I guess I’ll have to get used to everybody knowing all

about me,” said Lucy. “It wasn’t like this in the city.”

“I suppose not,” said Rachel. “Tinker’s Cove is a pretty

small town. Everybody knows everything about everybody.”

“You said it,” said a middle-aged gentleman, coming through

the door. He had salt-and-pepper hair and was wearing a suit

underneath his red-and-black plaid jacket.

“Mr. Cobb, this is Lucy Stone. She wants to ask you about

some local history.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right man,” said Cobb, setting

his paper cup of coffee on Rachel’s desk, hanging his jacket

on the coat tree and extending his hand toward Lucy. She

grasped it in hers, then Cobb opened his office door with a

flourish and she preceded him through it. Once inside he

pulled out a chair for her and she sat down, facing his desk.

He sat down facing her, carefully setting his coffee on the

blotter.

“So it’s local history you’re interested in,” he prompted.

Lucy looked around the office, which was decorated with

Civil War memorabilia including Matthew Brady photographs, a small and tattered Confederate flag in a frame, and

a shadow box containing two lead bullets and a minnie ball.

“Actually, I’m looking for information about a man named

Emil Boott. He was a trusty who worked for Judge Tilley.”

“Emil Boott, Emil Boott, the name sounds familiar but I

don’t remember him. Kyle Boott, of course. Now that was

quite an accident. Everybody’s talking about it.”

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Lucy blushed. “I feel just terrible about that,” she said.

He looked at her curiously. “Don’t tell me you were the

woman who … ?”

“I’m afraid I was. I slipped on the icy sidewalk at the same

moment that poor woman lost control of her car. It was a

freak accident.”

“I’d say it was good work,” said Rachel, appearing in the

open doorway. “He was a brute and certainly won’t be

missed.”

Sherman Cobb pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, and

Rachel scurried back to her desk. “May I ask why you want

to know about Emil Boott? Is it something to do with the accident?”

“Oh, no. It’s just a coincidence. I’m interested in social history, sort of an American Upstairs, Downstairs. I’m studying

the late Judge Tilley’s household, in fact.”

“For a television show? Do you write for TV?”

“Possibly,” said Lucy, aware that she was prevaricating.

“Right now I’m thinking more along the lines of a story for a

women’s magazine. How times have changed, that sort of

thing.”

“I expect you’ll find they’ve improved quite a bit,” said

Sherman, prying the lid off his coffee. “I’m a Civil War reenactor and I can tell you life wasn’t very comfortable back

then. Clothes were itchy, shoes didn’t fit very well, food was

monotonous and a bath was a real luxury.”

“And that’s only the male side of things,” said Lucy.

“Think of all the work the poor women had to do.”

“It killed a lot of them, you know. The old cemetery behind the Community Church is full of old sea captains who

have three or four wives buried beside them. You’d think

going to sea would be dangerous but it was more dangerous

for the women staying home.”

“Childbirth was the big killer,” said Lucy, patting her

tummy. “I, for one, am thankful for modern obstetrics.”

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“And disease, well into this century. The judge always

maintained that Mrs. Tilley died of exhaustion but most people thought it was TB.”

“Did you know the family well?” asked Lucy.

“Not Mrs. Tilley. I came along after she was gone. But

Judge Tilley took an interest in me. You could say he was my

mentor.”

“Really?” Lucy was surprised. “Everything I’ve heard seems

to indicate he was rather stern and forbidding.”

“There was that side to him, definitely. But he helped pay

for my schooling, right up through law school. And he gave

me plenty of encouragement and good advice when I started

to practice.” He took a swallow of coffee, then chuckled. “I

often wonder what he’d think of the present day system.”

“What do you mean?”

“The judge believed justice should be swift and sure. He

actually tended to give rather short sentences, he wanted

folks to learn their lesson and get back to work supporting

their families. I’ve talked to some of people he sent to the

county jail and they’ve told me jail was a picnic compared to

the talking-to he gave them. Made them think, he did. He

wouldn’t approve of all these long trials and people sitting on

death row for years and years of appeals.”

“Did he ever sentence anyone to death?”

“No. He didn’t believe in it. He said that should be left to

God.”

Lucy shook her head in amazement. “I had an entirely different impression of him.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” said Cobb. “He was a tough taskmaster, believe me. I clerked for him when I graduated from

law school and I have never worked so hard.”

“You worked for him, but you don’t remember Emil Boott?”

“I worked at the courthouse. I was never invited to the

house.”

“Isn’t that odd?”

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Cobb shrugged. “The judge was a private man. He drew a

distinction between his work and his home.”

Lucy nodded, remembering Miss Tilley’s assertion that she

had grown up in a house of secrets.

“Come to think of it,” continued Cobb, “my father did the

same thing. He was the county sheriff, he ran the jail, and

you can be sure my mother and I had absolutely no contact

with the inmates.”

“There must be records at the jail, right?” asked Lucy.

“Well, this was some time ago, and I don’t know if they

kept all those old records or not. It’s certainly worth checking

out, though. I do know that my father would have kept

meticulous accounts of the inmates’ progress. He was a big

believer in prison reform, you see, and thought it was important to rehabilitate the prisoners, not just punish them.”

Cobb’s phone gave off a little beep and he glanced at the

clock. “I’m sorry, but that was Rachel, reminding me that I

have an eleven o’clock appointment.”

“I’d better get going, then,” said Lucy, rising. “I can’t

thank you enough for your time and your knowledge.”

Cobb blushed. “Nonsense. I enjoyed our little chat.”

Back in the waiting room, Rachel helped Lucy into her

coat. “Was Mr. Cobb able to help you?” she asked.

“He was very helpful,” said Lucy, fastening the buttons.

“You know,” said Rachel. “I have a little boy, too. Richie.

He was two last month. Maybe we could get together for a

playdate? I only work mornings so I’m free in the afternoons.”

“That’s a great idea,” said Lucy, jumping at the chance.

“What about this afternoon?”

“Let’s say two o’clock.” Rachel scribbled down the address.

“Great,” said Lucy, taking the slip of paper. “See you later.

By the way, do you know where the county jail is?”

Lucy felt like kicking herself as she proceeded on foot

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down the street to the appliance store, leaving the car in the

parking lot. The sun was actually peeking through the clouds

and it seemed too good to waste. But what on earth must

Rachel think of her, seizing on her invitation like that? She

was probably already regretting getting involved with a

woman who knocked people underneath cars and visited the

jail. Respectable people stayed as far away from jail as they

could, didn’t they? She hoped Rachel didn’t think she had

some personal interest in the jail, like an incarcerated relative, something like that. Then again, she reminded herself,

Rachel worked in a law office and her husband was a lawyer,

and lawyers often had to go to the jail to interview their

clients, at least they did on TV. Maybe she didn’t think Lucy’s

interest in the penal system was at all unusual.

She hoped so, she decided, stepping inside the Appliance

Mart and viewing the ranks of harvest-gold, avocado-green,

and poppy-red refrigerators and washing machines. What

happened to white? she wondered. And how soon could she

get a stove delivered?

Not until after Christmas, she discovered.

“I’ll take a floor model,” begged Lucy.

“I’m sorry,” said the salesman, writing up the order.

“Three weeks is the soonest I can promise.”

“But how am I going to cook?” wailed Lucy.

“My wife finds a Crock Pot quite handy,” said the salesman. “And we have those in stock.”

Reluctantly, Lucy reached for her wallet and unfolded the

fifty dollar bill she’d been saving for Christmas presents. She

felt badly about it, but as she headed home with an electric

frying pan as well as the Crock Pot, she had to admit that life

certainly seemed a bit brighter with the prospect of a hot

meal.

Bill, however, wasn’t quite as enthusiastic. “What do you

mean we can’t get a stove for three weeks?”

“That’s what the man said,” said Lucy, with a shrug.

“And where have you been all this time? Do you know

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what it’s like to be stuck in the house for hours on end with a

two-year-old when you don’t feel all that well?”

Lucy folded her hands on her tummy and looked at him.

Was he kidding? She was about to ask that very question in a

rather sarcastic tone when she noticed the sheen of perspiration on his forehead. It certainly wasn’t from the heat; the

furnace could barely keep the house above sixty degrees.

“I’ll get you one of those pain pills,” she said. “Why don’t

you have a little rest while I make lunch?”

A beef stew, a bit light on the beef but with plenty of

healthful vegetables, was simmering in the Crock Pot when

Lucy and Toby left for the playdate at Rachel’s house. Lucy

was curious to see Rachel’s place; until now Miss Tilley’s

house was the only house in Tinker’s Cove that she’d been inside of.

She was a bit disappointed to discover the Goodmans lived

in a modern ranch, part of a small development tucked behind the school complex. The houses were all variations on a

single theme featuring a picture window with three rather

stunted rhododendron bushes beneath. The Goodmans’ house

was gray with white trim.

When Rachel opened the door, however, Lucy was enchanted by the vibrant Persian rug on the living room floor

and the curvaceous Victorian settee that sat beneath that picture window. “This is lovely,” said Lucy, as Rachel took their

coats and hung them in the hall closet.

A hall closet, she realized, was something you took for

granted in a modern house but was definitely lacking in her

own antique farmhouse. Modern houses certainly had their

advantages. She was pretty sure Rachel had a working stove,

too.

Following her into the kitchen, she noticed that Rachel not

only had a stove and a side-by-side refrigerator, she also had

a dishwasher. But the modern appliances were offset by

cheery gingham curtains, a pot rack holding baskets and

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bunches of herbs, and a gorgeous golden oak table and

chairs.

“I have to admit I’m dying with jealousy,” said Lucy,

stroking the table’s gleaming surface. “What a find.”

“It didn’t look like that when we bought it, believe me,”

said Rachel. “It was painted pea green.”

“Who refinished it?”

“Bob. It’s a hobby of his.”

“Make yourself comfortable,” said Rachel, setting the kettle on the stove. “I’ll get Richie. He’s a little shy.”

When she returned, Richie was clinging to her hand and

holding a sad looking binky against his cheek. But when

Rachel spilled a basket of Fisher-Price trucks and little people

on the floor the two boys were soon absorbed in play.

“Have you lived here in Tinker’s Cove for long?” asked

Lucy, accepting a cup of tea.

“A couple of years,” said Rachel, taking a pressed oak

chair opposite Lucy’s.

“What brought you here?”

“Bob answered Sherman Cobb’s ad,” said Rachel, stirring

some milk into her tea. “He saw an article about Maine in

the Mother Earth News.”

Lucy laughed. “So did my husband! And do you know Sue

Finch? I met her the other day. Her husband read that article,

too.”

“That article has a lot to answer for,” said Rachel, in a

rather dark tone. She sipped her tea. “Sue Finch? She’s that

woman with the Farrah Fawcett hair and high heels?”

“That’s her,” said Lucy.

“Fashion’s not really my thing,” said Rachel, smoothing

the sleeves of her orange sweater. “That’s one of the things I

like about Tinker’s Cove. But I am glad to see more young

people moving in. I mean, I went to a Women’s Club meeting

when we first moved here and there wasn’t a single woman

under fifty. And all they wanted to talk about was their most

recent operations.”

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“Miss Tilley—the librarian—isn’t like that at all,” said

Lucy. “In fact, I’m helping her solve a family mystery.”

“She’s a character,” said Rachel, watching as the two little

boys headed down the hall to Richie’s room. “They seem to

be getting along well.”

“Yeah. I’m sure Toby really misses his playmates from the

city. I used to take him to the park almost every day.”

“So tell me about this article you’re working on,” coaxed

Rachel.

She listened intently as Lucy recounted her investigation.

“It’s interesting that Miss Tilley never married, don’t you

think?” she said, when Lucy had finished.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it seems she had an unresolved conflict about marriage and the role of women, probably because of her parents’ troubled relationship.”

“You sound like a psychiatrist,” said Lucy.

“Actually, I was a psych major in college.”

“So tell me, doctor,” began Lucy. “Was it a psychosis or a

neurosis?”

“I’m not sure,” said Rachel, “but I think something was

definitely not right in the Tilley household. So what’s your

next step?”

“Well, I want to get over to the county jail to look for information about Emil Boott.”

Rachel glanced at the clock on the wall over the sink. “It’s

only three, why don’t you go now? I’ll keep an eye on the

boys.”

Lucy couldn’t believe it. “Really? You’d do that?”

“Sure. They’re happy as clams and if they get tired I’ll let

them watch Sesame Street.”

“I’ll be back before Sesame Street is over, I promise,” said

Lucy, grabbing her bag.

It only took Lucy about fifteen minutes to make the drive

over to the neighboring town of Gilead, and before she knew

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it she had parked the car and was climbing the hill to the

fortresslike county jail. Built of gray stone, it looked like a

medieval castle with towers and turrets, but instead of a

moat it had a tall chain-link fence topped with vicious looking coils of razor wire. Once inside, however, she was pleasantly greeted by a rather plump uniformed guard.

“I’m sorry but visiting hours are on Mondays, Thursdays,

weekends and holidays,” he said, folding his chubby pink

hands on the counter. “I can take a message if you want.”

“I’m not here to visit anyone,” said Lucy, feeling slightly

offended. “I’m looking for information about a former prisoner named Emil Boott.”

“Never heard of him. Must’ve been before my time.”

“Around 1930, I think.”

“That was some time ago,” he said, scratching his smooth

chin. “Was he a relative of yours?”

Lucy was about to protest, then thought better of it. “Actually, yes. Emil was the black sheep of the family. I’m writing a family history, you see, and I want to include him. Do

you have records going that far back?”

“Don’t get much call for ’em but I s’pose we do, down cellar.”

“Could I look?” asked Lucy.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” said the guard,

shaking his head.

Lucy bit her lip in disappointment. “Is there some way … ?”

“I’ll jes’ run down and see what I can find. You keep an

eye on things up here for me, okay? If anybody comes lookin’

for me tell ’em I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” said Lucy. She’d never been in a jail before but

she had the distinct impression they were generally somewhat stricter than this. If she were so inclined, she realized,

spotting a big metal hoop filled with keys, she could let

everyone out.

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She wasn’t so inclined, however, and was sitting on a convenient chair when the guard returned carrying a dusty cardboard box. “You’re in luck,” he said. “I found a big, thick

file. Emil Boott must have been here for quite a while.” He

set the box on the counter and took out a fat manila folder,

which he opened. “Yup. Twenty years for embezzlement,” he

said, closing the file and sliding it across the counter to her.

Lucy’s heart was beating fast as she took the file. What secrets did it hold? But when she’d gone through every page

she wasn’t much wiser. As the careful notations documenting

his days in the prison showed, Emil Boott was a model prisoner. His photo, a close-up much clearer and larger than the

group shot in the museum, revealed a rather ugly, pockmarked face and Lucy could well imagine why Miss Tilley

was afraid of him, but his records showed he was the mildest

of men. He never denied embezzling several hundred thousand dollars from his employer, the Brown and Williams

Glass Company, but he claimed he planned to give the money

to workers who had been cheated out of overtime wages due

them.

The jury hadn’t been convinced, and even if they had been

sympathetic, Judge Tilley’s instructions made it clear that if

they believed Boott had broken the law he must be found

guilty. Embezzlement, he told them, was not a minor crime

but an assault on the very foundations of civilized society. As

for Boott, he accepted his punishment without bitterness, according to Sheriff Cobb’s notes, and was soon assigned to the

prison’s woodworking shop. From there he moved on to a

work-release program and was eventually assigned on a permanent basis to Judge Tilley’s household. Upon his release,

after serving his sentence of twenty years, he wrote a remarkable letter to the Sheriff.

Dear Sheriff Cobb, he wrote, It is with great sadness that I

will soon depart these walls that once appeared so forbidding

but within which I found a true home. It is here that I

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learned the good Lord above forgives us all if only we ask for

forgiveness. It is here that I learned the value of work and

friendship. And it was through my work here that I met that

most remarkable of women, Mrs. Leonora Tilley, whose kindness toward me, a vile criminal, I shall always remember. If

anyone is certain of admission to Heaven it is certainly she

and I hope that by following the pure path of virtue which

she has showed me that I will someday join her there. Your

most grateful and humble servant, Emil Boott.

Lucy sat for a long time, reading and rereading the letter.

Finally, the guard asked, “Lady, are you all right?”

“Yes I am,” she said, folding the paper and returning it to

the file. “I’m fine.”

And so was Emil Boott, she decided, as she left the prison.

He may or may not have been a Depression-era Robin Hood

who stole from the rich and gave to the poor, but she was

convinced he would never have harmed a hair on Mrs.

Tilley’s head.

“So how’d it go?” asked Rachel, opening the door for her.

The two little boys were sitting side by side on the couch, apparently under Big Bird’s spell.

“I found the information I was looking for,” said Lucy, recounting her discovery of the letter, “but it only proved Emil

Boott didn’t kill Mrs. Tilley.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Rachel. “Maybe he had a guilty

conscience and was trying to prove his innocence.”

“Ah, Dr. Freud, thank you for that insight. I never would

have thought of that.”

Rachel smiled and shook her head. “You would assume,

though, that with his criminal record he would have been a

suspect if there was any indication of foul play.”

“There was never an investigation,” said Lucy. “After all,

she’d been sick for a long time. Her death was not unexpected.”

“I saw a lot of TB when I was in the Peace Corps,” said

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369

Rachel. “I was in Haiti and it’s practically epidemic there.

People die of it all the time.”

“So you think that’s what killed her?”

“Probably,” said Rachel, joining the boys on the couch as

the familiar tune for Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood began to

play. “Want to stay for Mr. Rogers? I love Mr. Rogers.”

Chapter

! Nine #

Lucy and Bill didn’t need an alarm clock: Toby woke them

up every morning around six o’clock. On Christmas Eve

he was reliable as ever but Lucy ignored his cries, hoping Bill

would go so she could catch a few more minutes of sleep.

Then she remembered Bill’s burned and bandaged hands and

got up. Bill hadn’t heard a thing, he was sleeping soundly.

Toby was standing up in his crib when Lucy went into the

nursery. She shivered a bit in her in flannel nightgown but

Toby was warm and toasty in a fleecy footed sleep suit. She

picked him up and nuzzled his head with her chin, surprised

to find that his hair was damp. He didn’t seem to have a fever

so she couldn’t imagine where the dampness came from. She

looked around the room for a leak and discovered a dusting

of snow on his pillow. It had snowed during the night, she realized, and some of the snow must have blown through a

crack in the wall. No wonder she was chilly, she realized,

staring at the snow. The temperature in the unheated room

must be below freezing, or the snow would have melted.

This was crazy, she thought, hugging Toby close and carrying him downstairs where it was somewhat, but not a

whole lot warmer, and sat him in his potty seat. “We’re going

to have a white Christmas,” she told him, listening for the

tinkle. “It’s Christmas Eve and tonight… .” She bit her

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tongue. There was no sense getting the little guy all excited

about Santa Claus because the truth was that Santa didn’t

have much for him. Most of the fifty dollars she was going to

spend on half-price toys at the IGA had gone for the electric

frying pan and Crock Pot. That meant all Toby was going to

find under the Christmas tree were the two packages Bill’s

folks had sent him, and the $50 savings bond her mother had

sent.

The tinkle began and ended and Lucy didn’t move. Really,

all she wanted to do was go back to bed and sleep through

Christmas.

“Up!” Toby, still perched on the potty seat atop the toilet

was growing impatient. Lucy helped him down, zipped up

his sleep suit and watched him run into the kitchen. Well, she

thought, at least he didn’t know what Christmas was supposed to be like. Maybe the tree would be exciting enough

for him.

The tree, she thought, her emotions taking a nose dive. Bill

had cut the tree a couple of days ago and set it outside in a

bucket of water, intending to bring it inside on Christmas

Eve. Now he wouldn’t be able to do it, so she would have to

cope with the bucket of ice and the eight-foot tree all by herself. Could she do it?

A clatter, alas not the “clatter and pawing of each little

hoof,” but a clatter of pots spilling onto the floor brought her

into the kitchen. Toby had found his favorite toys. Goodness

knows she had no use for them, without a stove. But the

Crock Pot, she discovered when she lifted the lid, did a fantastic job cooking oatmeal overnight. Too bad she couldn’t fit

a turkey in there for Christmas dinner.

When Lucy and Toby finished their bowls of oatmeal there

was still no sign of Bill so Lucy made a tray and took it upstairs to him. She found him sitting in bed, awkwardly holding a pencil and scratching away at a yellow legal pad.

“I thought you were asleep,” she said.

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“Just doing some figures,” he said, putting the pad aside so

she could set the tray on his lap. “Oatmeal, again,” he said.

Lucy almost started to remind him that it was cheap and

filling but caught herself. Christmas Eve was going to be hard

enough this year and there was no sense dwelling on the negative. “It’s oatmeal à la Crock Pot,” she said, with a big

smile. “Surprisingly good. I even put in some brown sugar

and a few raisins.”

“Ooh, goody,” said Bill, rather sarcastically. “I hope you

didn’t blow the budget.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” asked Lucy, glancing at the

legal pad. “Budgeting?”

Bill shrugged. “Since I can’t work I thought I’d put together some financial projections, figure out what materials

we need, see where we stand.”

Lucy was collecting clothes for herself and Toby, intending

to take them downstairs where it was warmer to get dressed.

“Don’t take too long,” she said. “I’m going to bring in the

Christmas tree so we can decorate it.”

“Can you manage? It’s pretty heavy.”

“Sure I can,” said Lucy, flexing her arms in a muscle-man

pose. “‘I am woman. Hear me roar.’” She raised her chin and

gave a wolf howl and Bill actually smiled for the first time

since the explosion. Christmas presents didn’t have to be

wrapped, she reminded herself as she went downstairs. Sometimes a smile would do.

Lucy was singing “Deck the Halls” when she and Toby

went out to get the tree, and Toby was chiming in on the fa la

la la las. Some six inches of snow had fallen, but it was light,

fluffy stuff, and Lucy had no trouble shoveling it off the

porch and making a path to the car. Toby had a little shovel,

too, but he preferred to roll around in the snow like a frisky

little puppy. Lucy knew it wouldn’t be long before he was

wet and cold, so she immediately addressed the issue of the

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tree, which was now frozen solid in the bucket. She considered loosening it with boiling water, but without a stove she

didn’t have a way to boil water. The hair dryer might work,

she decided, but she’d have to find an extension cord.

The really good thing about two-year-olds, Lucy decided

as she stood outside in the snow attempting to defrost the

tree with the hair dryer, was that they really didn’t know how

things were supposed to be so they didn’t mind when things

didn’t go according to plan. So long as Toby got his three

meals and two snacks, his Sesame Street and bedtime story,

things were fine with him. She watched as he knocked the

snow off the bushes, making snow showers, and gave the tree

a budge. It moved, and she noticed that a small puddle was

beginning to form in the bucket. She wiggled it a bit more

and the puddle grew larger. Toby was now climbing onto the

bottom porch step and jumping off into the snow, repeating

the process again and again. Then he decided to go up two

steps.

“Don’t do that,” she warned, as he launched himself, landing hard on the bottom step instead of the soft snow. He

started to wail and she turned off the hair dryer.

Bill was still working on the figures when she took Toby

inside. She stripped off his wet clothes, set him in the high

chair next to Bill and gave him a cup of instant hot cocoa,

made with lukewarm water from the kitchen tap. Then she

was back outside and this time the tree came out of the

bucket. She hugged it in a prickly embrace and dragged it

across the lawn to the front door, then pulled it trunk first up

the stoop and into the front hall. Then, because her heart was

thumping, she sat on the stairs to rest and catch her breath.

Now all she had to do was set it in the stand, string the lights,

get the ornaments out of the attic, and trim it. Not bad, since

she had all day. But first, she realized, hearing Bill yelling in

the kitchen, Toby must have finished his cocoa and wanted

down from the high chair.

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“You smell like a pine tree,” said Bill.

“It put up a heck of a fight, but I won. I’ve just got to get

it in the stand, put the lights on and it will be ready for the

ornaments.”

“Don’t forget that box your mom gave you at Thanksgiving,” reminded Bill, as she lifted the tray so Toby could

scramble down. “I think it’s in the pantry.”

Lucy had forgotten all about it, but when they visited at

Thanksgiving her mother had insisted she take the ornaments, old family pieces she said she no longer used since

she’d bought a small artificial tree. Lucy hadn’t even looked

inside the box, she’d been tired from the long drive and Bill

had unloaded the car. Now, as she set the box on the table

and peeked inside she saw shining and glittery reminders of

her childhood. There was a red and silver plastic trumpet

that made a horrible noise if you blew on it, a “Baby’s First

Christmas” card picturing a baby lamb that hung from a

twisted red cord, several heavy glass kugels in the shape of

grapes.

“I wasn’t allowed to touch these,” said Lucy, lifting out

the red and green and silver ornaments. “They’re very

old.”

“They’re really beautiful,” said Bill.

Lucy remembered her mother hanging them carefully, one

by one, on sturdy bottom branches of the tree. Lucy always

held her breath until the delicate operation was complete,

and waited impatiently for the magic moment when her father would plug in the string of lights and the kugels would

glow as if lit from within.

Suddenly nostalgic, Lucy decided to call home.

“Merry Christmas,” she said, by way of greeting, when

her mother answered the phone.

“It’s not Christmas yet and it’s not merry, either,” said her

mother.

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“That’s why I called,” said Lucy. “To cheer you up. And to

thank you for the ornaments. I’d forgotten how beautiful the

kugels are.”

“Don’t let Toby play with them.”

As if she would. Lucy sighed. “How’s Dad?”

“They’re giving him oxygen.”

“Does it help?”

“He keeps pulling off the mask.”

Lucy knew her father hated having anything on his face or

head, not even hats or Halloween masks. “He hates …”

“I know, I know,” replied her mother, sounding tired. “He

could try to cooperate. It’s only for his own good.”

“I guess you’ll be spending Christmas at the hospital.”

“Of course.”

Suddenly, Lucy felt quite bereft. She wanted—she needed—

her parents’ attention right now, but she couldn’t have it. Her

father was hovering near death and her mother was so consumed with caring for him that she hadn’t even asked Lucy

how she and Bill and Toby were doing. “Well, I’ll be thinking

of you,” she said.

“I’ll call if there’s any change,” said her mother, then hung

up.

“And ho, ho, ho to you,” said Bill, who had been listening.

“I could call my parents and then we’d be so depressed we

could commit suicide and end it all.”

“You should call them,” said Lucy. “They sent that nice

box of presents… .”

“That was my mom,” said Bill.

“And you’d feel better if you worked things out with your

dad. I feel better, I do, just hearing my mother’s voice.”

“Liar,” said Bill.

“Well, at least I have the satisfaction of knowing I tried.”

“That’s something I guess. You’re a good daughter.”

“And you’re a bad son,” said Lucy, perching on his lap

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and stroking his hair. Bits here and there felt stiff and brittle,

singed from the explosion. “You should call them.”

“You know that’s why you fell for me,” said Bill, changing

the subject. “The good girls always go for the bad boys.”

And then he turned her face toward his with his bandaged

hand and kissed her.

“Bad boys are the best kissers,” said Lucy, coming back

for seconds.

A couple of hours later it really was beginning to feel a lot

like Christmas. Now that the tree was decorated the living

room’s half-finished sheetrock walls, stained ceiling and uneven floorboards weren’t so noticeable. Swedish meatballs

were cooking in the Crock Pot, giving off a spicy, beefy

aroma. When Toby woke from his nap Lucy got the popcorn

popper going for a snack and popped a Christmas video in

the VCR.

“Light the tree for him,” said Bill, settling beside them on

the couch.

Lucy hopped up. “Good idea,” she said, crouching on all

fours and reaching behind the tree to retrieve the end of the

cord. She plugged it into the socket—and everything went

black.

“What the hell!” exclaimed Bill. “This shouldn’t happen.

The first thing I did was have the house rewired.”

“Well I guess it wasn’t done right,” said Lucy.

“Maybe it’s a blackout,” said Bill. “Maybe everybody’s

lights are out.”

“Maybe you ought to go down in the cellar and check the

circuit breakers,” said Lucy.

“Maybe you could light a candle, in the meantime,” said

Bill.

“We don’t have any candles,” said Lucy. “Get the flashlight.”

“The flashlight’s dead,” said Bill.

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377

“Don’t we have any batteries?”

“I used ’em up.”

“Well you should’ve bought more.”

“You’re right, I should have, but I didn’t. They’re expensive and I’ve been trying to economize.”

Lucy’s jaw dropped. She had no idea things were this bad.

“I can’t do this, Bill,” she said, her voice steely. “We’re going

to have a baby in a few months and I am not bringing that

baby home to this.” She waved her arm. “Do you know there

was snow in Toby’s crib this morning? Snow! Inside the

house, in his bed, on our child. That is unacceptable.”

“I’ll caulk the window… .”

“No.” Lucy shook her head. “I’m not staying. I don’t

know where I’m going—maybe my mother’s, maybe your

folks’, maybe a friend, I don’t know—but I am taking Toby

someplace where there are walls that keep out the weather

and lights that work and a stove that cooks.”

Bill looked at her for a long time. “You’re right,” he finally

said. “I’m a failure. I tried, and I can’t do it. I was kidding

myself. I’ll never be a restoration carpenter. It’s time to go

back to Wall Street.”

Lucy had wanted to hear those words for months, but now

that Bill had actually said them she didn’t feel happy at all.

Instead she felt guilty and terribly sad. “I didn’t mean for you

to give up your dream. You can finish up here and I’ll stay at

my Mom’s and come back with the kids when the house is

ready.”

Bill shook his head. “We’re broke.” He shrugged. “And

besides, being with you and Toby means more to me than

any stupid, unrealistic dream.”

“You worked so hard.”

“It wasn’t enough,” he said. “But I’m okay with it.” He

looked out the window at the rapidly dimming sunlight. He

opened his wallet and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. “This is

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it, the family fortune. I guess I’ll get some batteries, so we can

get the lights back on.”

He left and Lucy sat in the darkening room, holding Toby

in her lap and blinking back tears. This was not the way

Christmas was supposed to be.

Chapter

! Ten #

Asharp rap on the door roused Lucy and she stood up,

perched Toby on her hip, and wiped her eyes with the

back of her hand before opening the door. It was Wilf Lundgren, the postman, with a package.

“This came in the last delivery and I thought I’d bring it

along since it was on my way,” he said, looking for all the

world like Santa with his red nose and cheeks. “Otherwise

you wouldn’t get it until Tuesday, Christmas being on Sunday and all.”

“Thanks,” said Lucy, her voice still thick from crying.

“Have you got some trouble here?” asked Wilf, looking

past her into the dark kitchen. “I see the lights are out.”

“I must’ve overloaded a circuit.” Lucy shifted Toby to the

other hip. “My husband went to get some flashlight batteries.”

“Is that all? I’ve got a flashlight in the truck,” he said,

turning and hurrying down the walk to the driveway. In a

moment he was back carrying the biggest flashlight Lucy had

ever seen and marching straight to the pantry and lowering

himself through the hatch to the cellar. “Better unplug a few

things,” he said, before ducking beneath the floor. “Ready?”

he called.

Lucy dashed around the kitchen, unplugging appliances,

and scurried into the living room to turn off the TV.

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“Ready,” she called back and in a moment the lights were on

and the Christmas tree was radiant with glowing colors.

“Well, isn’t that a beautiful sight?” said Wilf, who had

emerged from the cellar and was standing in the doorway.

Toby, excited by the sight of the tree, was bouncing in her

arms. “Now it feels like Christmas,” said Lucy, setting him

down and keeping a watchful eye as he toddled toward the

tree. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“It was nothing,” said Wilf. “Just being neighborly, that’s

all.”

“Well, I really appreciate it,” continued Lucy, who was

terrified of the old-fashioned root cellar beneath the pantry

and the spiders and mice and snakes she imagined lurked

there. “I mean, you went down into the cellar … and you

brought that package, too, when you didn’t have to. It was

really awfully nice of you … can I give you a cup of coffee or

something before you go back out in the cold?”

“I wouldn’t mind a cup,” said Wilf, amused by Lucy’s extreme expressions of gratitude.

“The pot’s still hot,” sang Lucy, pouring a cup for him and

one for herself, too, and setting some of her precious Christmas cookies on a plate. Toby had followed them into the

kitchen and she hoisted him into his high chair, pouring a

glass of apple juice for him.

“Very good,” said Wilf, approvingly, chewing on a cookie.

“Looks like you’ve got company,” he observed, glancing out

the window.

“Probably Bill,” said Lucy, going to the door. But it wasn’t

Bill, it was Miss Tilley she saw walking carefully along the

path.

“Come in, come in,” said Lucy, opening the door and shivering in the cold blast. “Come out of the cold.”

“I was just making my rounds, oh, hi there, Wilf,” began

Miss Tilley. “And I thought you might like some of my eggnog. It’s an old family recipe.”

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“That’s so kind,” said Lucy, accepting two old-fashioned

glass milk bottles filled with creamy liquid.

“I wouldn’t mind trying some of that,” said Wilf.

“You know, I didn’t get a chance to taste it myself,” said

Miss Tilley. “I wanted to make my deliveries and get home

before the snow starts.”

“Well, let’s all have some,” said Lucy, popping into the

pantry to get the punch cups she received as a wedding present but had never used.

“If you’re getting cups, you’ll need some more,” called

Miss Tilley. “The Miller sisters have just pulled into the driveway.”

“Really?” asked Lucy, staggering out with the heavy crystal punch bowl filled with a dozen cups. “What brings them

here?”

“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” chorused the sisters, entering the kitchen which was becoming a bit crowded.

“We brought you some cookies,” announced Emily, or

was it Ellie?

“That’s right. We made them ourselves,” added the other,

holding out an enormous tin with a jolly Santa design. “Sand

tarts.”

“I haven’t had those in years,” said Wilf.

“My mother used to make them,” said Miss Tilley.

“Well, let’s all have some eggnog and cookies,” invited

Lucy. “Can I take your coats?”

She was just hanging the ladies’ matching red coats on the

hooks by the door when there was another knock on the

door. Lucy was beginning to wonder if this was some sort of

planned invasion, or perhaps it was just what people in small

towns did at Christmas. Whatever was going on, the table

was filling up with people and the house was filled with chatter and laughter. She opened the door, hoping whoever it was

had brought food, and found Sherman Cobb holding a foilcovered pan that looked like it contained a turkey. A turkey!

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And behind him she recognized Rachel Goodman and Richie,

along with a man she assumed was Bob, Rachel’s husband.

They were all holding foilcovered dishes, except Richie, who

had a can of cranberry sauce.

“What is all this?” she asked.

“We heard your oven was broken,” began Sherman, smiling in Miss Tilley’s direction. “So we brought you Christmas

dinner. Are you going to let us in?”

“Oh, please, please do come in,” said Lucy.

“By the way, we haven’t met, but I’m Rachel’s husband,”

said Bob. “Do you have a stereo?”

“In the living room,” said Lucy.

“Great. I brought some Christmas cassettes,” he said,

handing off a bowl of stuffing and heading down the hall

with a shopping bag slung over his arm. Moments later the

house was filled with Bing Crosby’s mellow voice.

Lucy was standing there, holding a bowl of stuffing and

trying to decide what to do with the turkey when there was

yet another knock on the door and Fred Rumford stuck his

head in.

“Hi, everybody,” he called, marching in and setting a jug

of wine and a case of beer on the table. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!” they all cried back.

“Now it’s a party,” said Wilf, reaching for a beer.

“Where’s your dining room?” asked Rachel. “I think we

better set the food up there.”

“This way,” said Lucy, feeling rather dazed as she lead the

way. “I can’t believe this.”

“I hope it’s all right,” said Rachel. “You didn’t have other

plans, did you?”

“No, no. We were just going to have a quiet celebration,”

confessed Lucy, shaking out a cloth and spreading it on the

table. From the kitchen she heard voices and laughter, there

was music in the living room and Toby and Richie were chasing each other through the rooms. “This is much better.”

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“Good,” said Rachel, setting down the turkey. “Now we’ll

need plates and silverware… .”

“In the pantry. I’ll be right back.”

Entering the kitchen she encountered Sue Finch, who had

arrived with her daughter and a man dressed in a Santa suit.

“This is Sid,” she said.

“Not Sid, Santa,” he replied, hoisting a bulging red bag.

“And I brought presents.”

The party was in full swing when Bill arrived. Plates were

filled, glasses were emptied, music was playing, and the kids

were dancing around the tree. Everybody was having a great

time.

“What’s all this?” he asked.

“The neighbors dropped by to wish us a Merry Christmas,” said Lucy, giving him a peck on the cheek. “Eggnog?”

“Sure,” he said, taking a cup and shaking his head in

amazement.

Lucy and Bill were still amazed several hours later, when

everyone had left and they were tidying up.

“I just can’t believe it,” said Bill. “They gave us an entire

Christmas. Food. Drink. Even presents for Toby.”

“I think Miss Tilley organized it,” said Lucy, clearing off

the kitchen table. She was gathering up paper napkins and

wrapping paper when she found the package Wilf had delivered. “I forgot all about this,” she said, taking a closer look.

“It’s from your parents.”

Bill glanced over. “It’s probably fruitcake,” he said with a

marked lack of enthusiasm. “They send them every year.”

“Oh,” said Lucy, rather disappointed. “I suppose it’s nourishing, with all that fruit and nuts.”

“If you can digest it,” said Bill.

“Don’t you want to open it?” asked Lucy. “Maybe it’s not

fruitcake. Maybe it’s a surprise.”

“My parents don’t do surprises,” said Bill, cutting the tape

with a knife. “It’s fruitcake.”

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Lucy took the box and opened the top, hoping he was

wrong. He wasn’t. Inside was a gold and brown tin with

MOTHER’S TRADITIONAL HOLIDAY FRUITCAKE printed on the

top. “There’s a note,” she said, handing him a cream-colored

envelope.

“You open it,” said Bill, whose hands were still bandaged.

“It’s probably just a printed card. ‘Holiday Greetings from

the Stones.’ ”

“So it is,” said Lucy, “but there’s something else.” She unfolded a piece of notepaper and a blue check fell out onto the

table.

“Is that a check?” asked Bill, who had seen it out of the

corner of his eye.

“It is,” said Lucy, sitting down.

“The usual fifty bucks?”

“Not exactly,” said Lucy, who was holding the little slip of

paper in trembling hands. “More like fifteen thousand.”

Bill’s jaw dropped. “Say that again.”

“It’s for fifteen thousand dollars,” repeated Lucy. “And

there’s a note.”

Bill took the check. “I can’t believe it. What possessed

him?”

“Read the note,” said Lucy, handing the folded piece of

paper to him.

Bill’s eyes quickly scanned his father’s neatly printed,

squarish letters.

“Out loud,” prompted Lucy.

He cleared his voice. “ ‘Dear Son, Your mother and I figured this might come in handy about now. We’ve had some

experience with home renovations and we know they always

cost more than you expect.’” Bill snorted in agreement. “ ‘We

also want to wish you well in your new endeavor which

we’re sure will be successful.’ Mom must have twisted his

arm,” said Bill, pausing.

“Give your father some credit,” said Lucy. “Is that all?”

“No. He goes on. ‘I have to confess, now that I’m facing

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retirement and looking back on my career, I wish I’d had

your courage and pursued my dreams instead of a paycheck.

Love, Dad.’”

“Wow,” said Lucy.

“Wow,” echoed Bill. “I guess I’d better give him and Mom

a call.”

Later that night, while Bill snored gently beside her, Lucy

was still too excited to sleep. She knew people always said

Christmas was a time of miracles, but this was the first time

she had actually experienced it. For the most part, truth be

told, Christmas had always been a bit of a disappointment,

never quite living up to the hype. But this, this was amazing.

Now Bill would be able to finish the house and start his new

career. And, even better, the ruptured relationship with his

parents that had hung over them like a dark cloud had been

cleared. Now they could look forward to family gatherings,

and Toby would once again have grandparents to shower

him with love and attention.

Lucy smiled and turned over, spooning her body against

Bill’s. She would never forget the way her new Maine friends

and neighbors had given them such a wonderful Christmas.

Living in Tinker’s Cove certainly had its advantages; she

couldn’t imagine her neighbors in New York City behaving

like this. There, people gave to charity, but they didn’t concern themselves with their neighbor’s misfortunes. In fact, she

realized, she herself had never given a thought to little Miss

Delaporte down the hall in 12G, who was at least eighty and

never had a visitor. Maybe she could have dropped in with a

plate of cookies, but she’d never bothered to take the time.

From now on, she resolved, she would be more like Miss

Tilley. She would take an interest in her neighbors and if she

saw someone in need, she would try to help. In a way, that’s

what she had tried to do when she attempted to solve the

mystery of Mrs. Tilley’s death. But it hadn’t gone the way

she’d hoped. Her eyes were heavy and her breathing was becoming regular, she was sinking into sleep, and her last thought

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was regret that she had failed to bring peace of mind to Miss

Tilley.

Christmas dawned clear and bright, the sunlight magnified

by the fresh snow that had fallen during the night. Outside

was a glittering white wonderland and inside was the usual

chaos as Toby opened his presents: new clothes and books

and a go-cart from Bill’s parents, and an impressive assortment of marked-down plastic trucks and balls and a supersized teddy bear Bill had picked up when he bought the

batteries. When they added the recycled toys that Sid Finch

had brought, it added up to quite a pile and Toby was happily investigating his haul, playing first with one and then

another. Lucy and Bill took advantage of the moment to exchange their gifts for each other.

“You go first,” said Lucy, handing him a cheerfully

wrapped present.

“I thought we’d agreed… .” protested Bill.

“It’s little enough,” said Lucy, smiling as he unwrapped a

Walkman cassette player.

“This is great,” he said. “How’d you know I wanted

one?”

“I didn’t. I just thought you might like to listen to music

while you work.”

“I do. This is perfect. Thanks. Now you go,” he said,

handing her a drugstore bag tied with a big red bow. “Sorry

about the wrapping.”

“I guess I’ll forgive you this time, since your hands are

burned.”

“Right,” he said. “Open it.”

Lucy withdrew a paperback book, a compendium of New

England crimes. “This is great,” she said, delighted. “How’d

you think of it?”

Bill blushed. “Well, I knew you were interested in what

happened to Miss Tilley’s mother, and you’ve been reading

mysteries.”

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“That was very thoughtful. Thank you,” she said, opening

the book and scanning the table of contents. One listing immediately caught her eye: The Angel of Death. Settling back

into the corner of the couch she turned the pages and began

reading, fascinated by the story of a nurse who was thought

to have killed more than twenty of her patients using a variety of hard-to-detect methods such as drug overdoses, poison

and smothering. “Oh my God,” she breathed, her eyes glued

to the page.

“I didn’t think you’d like it this much,” complained Bill,

who was feeling ignored.

“You won’t believe this. This woman, this nurse, she’s the

one who killed Mrs. Tilley. It fits, exactly. It all fits.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. It’s all here. Even her name. Well, her aliases. Anne

DePasquale, Andrea Dale, Anita DeSouza. Always a first

name beginning with A and a last name beginning with D.

Angela DeRosa, that was the name she used when she was

supposedly caring for Mrs. Tilley. Everybody thought she

was an angel, but she was actually killing off her patients.”

“How’d they figure it out?”

“People started getting suspicious when none of her patients ever seemed to recover,” said Lucy. “One man who

happened to be a chemist analyzed the medicine she was giving his wife and found it was arsenic and went to the police.”

“Did they arrest her?”

“They tried,” said Lucy, reaching the end of the chapter,

“but she killed herself before they could take her into custody. A lethal dose of strychnine.”

“She must have been nuts,” said Bill, lifting Toby onto his

lap and opening a picture book.

“I’ve got to call Miss Tilley,” said Lucy, heading for the

phone.

Miss Tilley answered the phone with a cheerful “Merry

Christmas.”

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“Merry Christmas to you,” replied Lucy. “And thank you

for yesterday. It was a wonderful surprise.”

“I think everyone enjoyed themselves,” said Miss Tilley. “I

put quite a bit of brandy in the eggnog, just to help things

along.”

“So that’s your secret,” said Lucy. She paused. “I think I’ve

found your mother’s murderer—and it wasn’t your father.”

“Who was it?”

“The nurse. Angela.”

“No, no. She was so kind… .”

“It’s in a book. She killed at least twenty of her patients,

maybe more.”

“She was convicted?”

“No. She killed herself before there could be a trial. There

was an investigation, though, and some of her victims were

exhumed and their bodies contained poison.”

“I can hardly believe it.”

“Nobody could. That’s how she had so many victims.”

“Papa never liked her.”

“He had good instincts.”

“He was innocent!” announced Miss Tilley, joyfully.

“Absolutely,” said Lucy. “I just wanted you to know, but

I’ve got to get back to my family… .”

“Thank you. This was a wonderful Christmas present.

The best Christmas present I ever had.”

“But I still don’t know where the cane came from,” said

Lucy. “Maybe it was a gift from Emil Boott.”

“Or maybe my mother planned to give it to my father as a

Christmas gift.”

“We’ll never know,” said Lucy.

“No, that will have to remain a mystery,” said Miss Tilley.

“Merry Christmas!”

! % { # 9

CHRISTMAS SPRITZ COOKIES

Lucy’s mother always made these cookies every Christmas. They require a cookie press, which is a gizmo rather

like a caulking gun that is available in kitchen supply

stores.

11⁄4 cups sugar

2 cups butter

2 eggs

5 cups flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon almond extract (or vanilla)

Cream butter, adding sugar gradually. Add unbeaten eggs,

then sift dry ingredients and extract. Dough will be stiff.

Fill cookie press and press cookies out onto cookie sheet

and decorate. (Lucy sprinkles colored sugar on the long

strip cookes and puts bits of candied cherry in the center of

the flower shapes.)

Bake at 375 degrees for 10–12 minutes, remove to rack

to cool. These cookies keep well in a tightly sealed tin, but

you’ll have to hide it well if you want to save them for

Christmas.

! % { # 9

389

! % { # 9

SAND TARTS

These cookies are named for the dusting of cinnamon

sugar that looks like sand. They’re delicious and not very

well known anymore. Lucy remembers them from her childhood, when her grandmother used to make them. This is

her recipe, written in her style.

Cream 1⁄2 cup butter.

Add:

1 cup sugar

2 beaten egg yolks

1 tablespoon milk

1⁄2 teaspoon vanilla

Beat mixture until light.

Sift together:

11⁄2 cups flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

1⁄2 teaspoon salt

Add to first mixture and blend well. Chill for several

hours. Roll dough very thin and cut with a star or circle

cookie cutter. Place on buttered baking sheet and put a

split blanched almond on each cookie. Brush with unbeaten egg whites and sprinkle with mixture of 1 tablespoon sugar and 1⁄4 teaspoon cinnamon.

Bake at 375 degrees for 10 minutes. Cool on racks.

! % { # 9

390

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.

850 Third Avenue

New York, NY 10022

“Candy Cane Murder” copyright © 2007 by Joanne Fluke

“The Dangers of Candy Canes” copyright © 2007 by Laura Levine

“Candy Canes of Christmas Past” copyright © 2007 by Leslie Meier

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any

form or by any means without the prior written consent of the

Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

ISBN: 0-7582-3685-9

Table of Contents

Candy Cane Murder 1

The Dangers of Candy Canes 153

Candy Canes of Christmas Past 275

Table of Contents

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Prologue

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter