Strawberry Shortcake Murder
Page 1
STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE MURDER
Hannah stared at the hammer glistening in the light. It was out of place, but perhaps Boyd had been doing some repairs and had forgotten to put it away.
“He’s…He’s over here,” Danielle whispered.
As Danielle led her toward Boyd’s Grand Cherokee, Hannah spotted the plastic cover of her cake carrier. It had rolled under his car and was peeking out by the rear wheel. They rounded the side of the Jeep, and Hannah gasped. Jordan High’s head basketball coach was sprawled out on the cement floor of his garage, lying in a gooey pile of cake, whipped cream, and crushed strawberries.
Hannah stepped closer and swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. The red splotches on the concrete weren’t from the crushed strawberries; they were from Boyd’s crushed skull. He was dead; there was no doubt in Hannah’s mind. No one could lose that much blood and live….
Books by Joanne Fluke
CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE MURDER
STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE MURDER
BLUEBERRY MUFFIN MURDER
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE MURDER
A Hannah Swensen Mystery
JOANNE FLUKE
KENSINGTON BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
For my kids.
You asked for your favorite recipes.
Here they are in novel form.
STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE MURDER
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Index of Recipes
Preview
About the Author
Chapter One
The sound of a crash startled Hannah Swensen awake. It was the middle of the night, she lived alone, and someone was in her condo. She sat up and grabbed the first thing handy, her goose-down pillow, before her sleep-numbed mind realized that it wasn’t a very effective weapon. She had to wake up and take action. Then she heard a second noise, coming from the direction of her kitchen. The intruder was dragging something across the linoleum floor.
Hannah peered into the darkness, but all she could see was the dim outline of the window. She knew that turning on her bedside lamp would only make her a more visible target, and she quickly dismissed that option. Hannah slid out of her warm bed to retrieve the baseball bat she’d kept in the corner of her bedroom ever since the night she’d suspected that Ron LaSalle’s killer was staking out her home. Thankfully, all that was in the past, now that the murderer was behind bars.
The noises from the kitchen continued as Hannah crept down the hallway, bat grasped firmly in both hands. A less courageous person might have stopped to dial nine-one-one on the bedroom extension, but the concept that someone had invaded her home made Hannah see red. There was no way she was going to cower in the closet, waiting for someone from the sheriff’s department to arrive. She had the advantage of knowing every inch of her condo in the dark, and her bare feet were soundless on the thick-pile carpet. With a little luck and a better swing than she’d had in Little League, she could bash the intruder over the head before he even knew what had hit him.
The dim light filtering in through the miniblinds at the kitchen window revealed no dark shape pressed against the walls, no threatening figure crouched beneath the table. But there was a curious chewing sound that didn’t cease as she stepped through the doorway. What kind of burglar would break into her home and take a break for a late-night snack? Hannah moved closer, bat at the ready, and gave a relieved sigh as she spotted a pair of startled yellow eyes near the bottom of the refrigerator. Moishe. She should have known better than to leave a pot of catnip out on the kitchen counter.
Hannah turned on her heel and headed back to the bedroom, leaving her orange-and-white feline chewing and purring simultaneously. There was no sense in reprimanding Moishe. The damage was done, and he’d simply ignore anything she said. He was a cat, and Hannah had learned that it was just the way cats were. She’d clean up the mess in the morning.
It seemed as if she’d no sooner climbed back in bed and closed her eyes, than the alarm went off. Hannah glanced at the dial, it was six in the morning, and she swore with more vehemence than usual as she reached out to shut it off. She flicked on the lamp next to her bed and yawned widely as she massaged the back of her neck. Moishe was back in her bed, hunkered down on her pillow and purring loudly. No wonder her neck was stiff. He’d stolen her favorite pillow again.
Hannah sighed deeply and began the painful process of mentally preparing herself for the million and one things she had to do today. It had been a late night. Mike Kingston, the supervisor of detectives at the Winnetka County Sheriff’s Station, had taken her to a party at the Lake Eden Inn, and she hadn’t gotten home until after midnight.
“Move it, Moishe.” Hannah roused the disreputable tomcat she’d rescued from the streets and reclaimed her pillow. Then she slipped her feet into the fur-lined moccasins by the side of her bed and made her way to the kitchen. Coffee was a necessity at this hour of the morning, and she’d set the timer on her coffeemaker so that it would be ready when she woke up.
It was December in Minnesota and the morning sky was masquerading as night. Daybreak wouldn’t come for another hour and a half. Hannah had no sooner switched on the banks of fluorescent tubes that gave her gleaming white kitchen the luminescence of an operating room, than the phone rang. There was no one else who’d call this early and Hannah groaned as she reached for the receiver. “Good morning, Mother.”
Of course Delores Swensen wanted to know all about her date with Mike. Hannah gave her a brief description as she poured her first cup of coffee and gulped it, scalding hot. What was a little pain compared to the blessings of caffeine? Once she’d reported that Mike had driven her out to the Lake Eden Inn, they’d enjoyed a buffet dinner with the contestants who’d arrived for the Hartland Flour Dessert Bake-Off, listened to the after-dinner speech by Clayton Hart, the owner of Hartland Flour, and gone back to her shop to mix up the cookie dough for today’s baking, there was nothing else to say. “That’s it, Mother. Mike was really nice, and I had a good time.”
Hannah tucked the phone between her shoulder and her ear and grabbed the broom to sweep up the dirt and shards of pottery from the catnip pot. There were no leaves left. Moishe had scarfed up every one. Then she opened a new box of kitty crunchies for Moishe, who was insistently and none too gently rubbing against her ankles, and answered her mother’s question. “No, Mother. Mike didn’t mention marriage. The subject’s never come up.”
Hannah rolled her eyes as she dumped dry cat food into the Garfield ceramic bowl she’d found at Helping Hands, Lake Eden’s thrift shop. Delores believed that a woman who was almost thirty and still unmarried just wasn’t trying hard enough. Hannah disagreed in principle and especially in her own case. She didn’t want to get married at this time in her life. Actually, she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to marry.
Hannah placed the receiver on the counter and turned on the faucet, filling Moishe’s water bowl to the brim. She set it down next to his food bowl, and whispered an aside to him, “She’ll start in on the baby thing next. I’d better head her off at the pass.”
“It’s not like I’m dying to have children, Mother.” Hannah settled the phone against her ear again. “I’ve got Tracey and I see her almost every day. Between the shop and catering, I wouldn’t have time to be a good mother anyway.”
Delores launched into her predictable argument and Hannah half listened while she poured herself a second cup of coffee. It was nothing new; she’d heard it all before. Hannah’s niece, Tracey, couldn’t possibly take the place of Hannah’s own child, Hannah didn’t know what she was missing, and there was no joy like holding your own baby in your arms. When Delores got to the part about ticking biological clocks, Hannah glanced up at her own kitchen clock, shaped like an apple and another acquisition from Helping Hands. It was time to end the conversation, and that wouldn’t be easy. Delores didn’t like to be stopped short in the middle of one of her lectures.
“I’ve got to run, Mother. I promised to be at the school in less than an hour.”
Just saying that she was in a hurry didn’t sway Delores from her purpose. She had to give one last warning about Mike Kingston and how she didn’t think he was interested in marriage. Hannah was forced to agree with that assessment. Mike’s wife had been killed two years earlier, and Hannah knew that he was in no hurry to remarry. But then Delores brought up the subject of Norman Rhodes, Lake Eden’s bachelor dentist, and Hannah let out an exasperated sigh. Her mother had been in league with Norman’s mother, Carrie, in trying to promote their romance ever since Norman had come to town to take over his father’s practice.
“I know you’re close to Carrie, but you’re both trying to make something out of nothing,” Hannah responded quickly, before Delores could go into her litany of Norman’s virtues. “I like Norman. He’s nice, he’s intelligent, and he’s got a great sense of humor. But we’re just good friends, and that’s all there is to it.”
Delores still wasn’t through, so Hannah used a trick she’d learned from her younger sister, Andrea. She clicked the disconnect button a couple of times, and said, “I think there’s something wrong with my phone. If we get cut off, I’ll call you back later when I get to the shop.” Then she started to say something else and cut herself off in the middle of her own sentence.
Hannah replaced the receiver and stared at it for a minute. The phone didn’t ring again, and she gave a smile of satisfaction. Andrea had sworn that no one would suspect that you’d deliberately hung up on yourself.
Twenty minutes later and freshly showered, Hannah pulled on a pair of worn jeans that were a little tighter around the waist than they’d been when she’d bought them, and a long-sleeved beige pullover that bore the legend “GOT COOKIES?” on the front in red block letters. She loved the color red, but she’d never been able to find a shade that didn’t clash with her hair.
After refilling Moishe’s food bowl and tossing him a couple of kitty treats that were supposed to be made from real salmon, Hannah hurried down the steps to the underground garage and climbed into her candy-apple red Suburban. She’d bought it when she’d first started her business over two years ago, and she’d found a local sign painter to letter the name of her shop, The Cookie Jar, in gold script on both doors. It even had a vanity license plate “COOKIES,” and it was a mobile ad for her business. At least Stan Kramer, Lake Eden’s only accountant, claimed that it was when he filled out her tax forms.
Hannah was about to back out of her parking space in the underground garage when she heard a shout. Her downstairs neighbor, Phil Plotnik, was waving his arms and pointing at something near the front of her truck. He held up one hand in a gesture to stay put and walked over to unplug her head bolt heater cord from the strip of electrical outlets that lined the garage wall. Hannah nodded her thanks and gave him the high sign as he wound it around her front bumper. She always snapped a couple of extension cords each winter, before she got used to the fact that her truck was plugged in. Phil had saved her the cost of one replacement.
It wasn’t snowing as Hannah drove up the ramp and emerged into the icy predawn darkness, but the wind was whipping up the loose flakes that had fallen during the night. When she rolled down her window to use her electronic gate card to raise the wooden bar at the exit of the complex, the frigid air whistled into her truck. Hannah turned up the fur collar on her parka and shivered. It couldn’t be more than twenty degrees outside.
The heater didn’t kick in with its welcome burst of hot air until she’d turned north onto Old Lake Road. It would be a full five minutes before it could warm the cavernous interior of her truck, and Hannah kept her collar turned up. But she did pull off one of her leather gloves to reach back and grab a bag of cookies.
Hannah never sold day-old baked goods, and the cookies were leftovers from the previous day’s baking. She packed them up in bags after she’d closed her shop for the night and stowed them in the back of her Suburban. They never went to waste, and Hannah’s generosity was legendary in Lake Eden. The younger children called her the “Cookie Lady,” and they were all smiles when she pulled up in her truck and passed out samples. One free cookie could turn into a sale, especially if a child went home and clamored for Mom to go down to The Cookie Jar to buy more cookies.
Hannah was munching a leftover Old-Fashioned Sugar Cookie as she approached the Cozy Cow Dairy and stopped for the light at the intersection of Old Lake Road and Dairy Avenue. Pete Nunke was standing by his truck, checking his orders under the bright lights of the loading dock, and Hannah gave a polite beep on her horn as the light turned to green and she drove on by. Pete was a good deliveryman, but she still missed Ron LaSalle.
Ten minutes later, Hannah pulled into the parking lot at Jordan High. It was seven in the morning, much too early for either the teachers or the students, and she found a prime parking spot right in front of the auditorium. A huge green banner hung over the double doors, declaring that it was the site of the Hartland Flour Dessert Bake-Off.
“Morning, Hannah.” Herb Beeseman, Lake Eden’s marshal and the only law-enforcement officer on the city payroll, greeted her with a smile as she pushed through the door. “You’re right on time.”
Hannah grinned back and handed over the small bag of cookies she’d brought in from her truck. “This is like bringing coals to Newcastle, but they’re your favorites, Molasses Crackles.”
“Coals to Newcastle?” Herb looked puzzled for a moment, then he laughed. “I get it. You think the contestants will want me to be their official taster?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. After all, you’re the only one here.”
“That’s right.” Herb looked pleased at the thought. “I can’t leave my post, but Mr. Hart said you could go right in. I turned on the lights for you.”
Hannah was surprised as she stepped through the inner doors. She’d graduated from Jordan High and had been in the auditorium more times than she could count. Today, it looked completely different. The raised wooden stage, which was used for school plays and programs, had been converted into four individual kitchen sets with temporary waist-high partitions between them. All the electrical wires and plumbing pipes had been enclosed in large conduits that ran into a space below the kitchen counters and could be easily removed when the contest was over. One of the stipulations Jordan High’s principal, Mr. Purvis, had made was that nothing could damage the stage floor.
Once she’d climbed the steps to the stage, Hannah examined each of the kitchens. They were identical, with new appliances and working sinks and dishwashers. Refrigerators hummed s
oftly, stovetops glistened, and there was a full complement of kitchenware on each set. Once the contest was over and the grand prizewinner had been declared, Mr. Hart would donate all of the equipment to the home economics department at Jordan High. He’d also promised to completely renovate the cafeteria and the school kitchen over the summer, a gesture that had the head cook, Edna Ferguson, singing his praises all over town.
It took a while to test the appliances and inspect each of the four kitchen sets. As the senior judge on a panel of five, it was her responsibility to make sure that the kitchens were identical in every way. Once she was satisfied that everything was working, Hannah said good-bye to Herb and hurried back out to her truck. It was seven-thirty, and she had to help her assistant, Lisa Herman, get ready for the morning crowd that would be waiting at The Cookie Jar when they opened at eight.
When Hannah pulled into her parking spot in back of her bakery, Lisa’s old car was in the adjoining spot. There was a heavy coating of ice on the windshield, and it took at least a couple of hours for that amount of ice to build up. Lisa had come in very early this morning.
Lisa was in the process of removing two trays of cookies from the ovens when Hannah walked in. She slid them onto the bakers’ rack and wiped her hands on the towel that was looped to her apron. On Hannah, the same apron would have come to a spot just above her knees, but Lisa was petite and she’d folded it several times at the waist so that it wouldn’t trip her when she walked. “Hi, Hannah. Did you remember to plug in your truck?”