by Ann Yost
“It was just a suspicion but it seemed likely. How else was he to get it out of town without any questions asked? And this way, it would be waiting for him when he got home.”
“How could he have expected to get away with two murders, a kidnapping, arson and the theft of the Monet?” Arvo asked.
I answered him.
“Like Sheriff Clump said, there was no proof that Harry had killed the women. He probably intended to go back to the opera house and burn it down after he mailed off the painting. He’d probably planned to claim that he’d tried to rescue Serena by wrapping her in the rug. I could tell he was reluctant to go to the theater with me. He knew then he’d have to include me in his plans and that may have shaken him enough to throw off his usual impeccable timing in the arson.”
“In all that planning,” Max said, “he miscalculated on one key thing. The fire department is just across Main Street, twenty feet away from the opera house. That’s one big reason the old place has survived this long.”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Miss Irene said.
The Reverend Sorensen looked at her.
“You know that is not in the Holy Bible,” he said, gently. She smiled at him.
“But you have to admit, it fits.”
“What will happen to Serena,” Sofi asked.
“She’ll have to tell her story. I imagine she was an accessory after the fact but she may have been coerced. And then there’s the delicacy of the matter. If the U.S. can return this painting to the heirs of the original owners, almost certainly Holocaust survivors, it is a gesture of good faith between countries and strengthens international relations. The crimes can’t be hidden but the whole process will be tainted if Serena is prosecuted for murder. I imagine the government will let her go.”
More coffee was brought out and more bars, brownies and snickerdoodles. Everyone was talking, asking questions and going over and over the events of the day. It was the way our community always dealt with big events, by coming together and it should have been immensely comforting but I kept seeing Harry with his clothes on fire and I kept hearing Serena’s moans and all I wanted to do was go off by myself.
So I did. Larry abandoned his nest in the kitchen and stayed with me in the attic. I didn’t expect to sleep but I didn’t wake up once. Not even to use the chamber pot.
When I opened my eyes, the daylight was streaming in through the small window and Larry had been replaced by Jace who was sitting on the bed next to me.
“You just slept for twelve hours,” he said. “Post traumatic stress event. Very normal. Anyway, I’m glad you’re awake. I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”
He was leaving. I swallowed hard. My instincts had been right, then. He had only come back to help with the investigation. He’d done that twice now and it seemed like this would be the end. Murders were rare on the Keweenaw. It would be years until we’d have another.
“I’m flying to D.C. to talk to the FBI’s art theft squad and to turn over the painting. And I’m taking Serena Waterfall with me.”
“That’s nice.”
“Once the paperwork is finished, someone will be appointed to return the painting to the heirs who live in France. The officer in charge asked who should get the honor of being the courier. I suggested a name and he approved it. It was your name, Umlaut.”
“My name?”
“If you want to go to Paris.”
I stared at him. “You think I want to go to the most romantic city in the world by myself?”
“Not by yourself.” He sounded like his usual confident self but his expression was uncertain. “They approved a plus-one. You can take anyone you want. I was hoping you’d view this as your official honeymoon, though, and take your husband.”
It was a grand gesture and emotions rose in my throat. But I needed to know whether this plus one was just a one off.
“I want to show you the Eiffel Tower, and Montmartre and the Champs Elysee before the lease starts on my new office. I’ve rented the space above Hakala’s Pharmacy. That way, when times are slow, I can entertain myself by watching you and your knitting circle at Bait and Stitch.”
“You want to settle down on the Keweenaw?”
“I want you, Hatti. And if the Keweenaw comes with, I won’t complain.”
Our goodbye kiss was long and intense and when we finally came up for air, his voice was husky.
He nodded.
“Hell’s bells. Pack up a few clothes for the city of lights. I’m going nowhere without you.”
That sounded good to me.
The End
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Don’t miss the recipe for JOULUTORTTU (Christmas Tarts) right after the excerpt for A Fair Isle Murder. It’s all waiting, just ahead!
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A Fair Isle Murder
The Bait & Stitch Cozy Mystery Series, Book Three
A Corpse in a Copse
The bridegroom was late for the shotgun wedding and the bride about to have kittens.
The raw anger on Kensington Hoop’s pretty face did not bode well for Chad “the Cad” Cadwallader and I, for one, was okay with that. After breaking my cousin Elli’s heart and tricking her out of her family’s Bed and Breakfast, the charming snake oil salesman deserved a petulant wife.
Of course, not everybody felt the same way about that.
My Great Aunt Ianthe, for instance, with her soft as melted butter heart.
“My, she’s a pretty girl,” Ianthe said. “And the dress is so becoming,” she added, referring to the Spandex creation that covered Kensington’s pregnancy bump.
If Ianthe was reliably kind, her lifelong friend and companion, Miss Irene Suutula, was always Biblical.
“And they twain shall be one flesh,” said Miss Irene.
My sister Sofi rolled her eyes and murmured, “One flesh? I think that ship has sailed.”
We, my sister, cousin and the older ladies had journeyed from our home on Michigan’s Keweenaw Peninsula to spend the weekend on Mackinac Island to help a friend launch a new yarn shop. We had not expected to be uninvited guests at the shotgun wedding between the daughter of the island’s fudge king and Elli’s erstwhile lover. It was a complete coincidence. Just as (I told myself) that both the bridegroom and Elli were currently Missing in Action.
A feral cry erupted near the rose-bedecked gazebo. It was loud enough to halt the string quartet and halt the buzz of conversations.
“Uh-oh,” I said, secretly pleased with the Kensington Hoop’s shout. “I think we’re going to be treated to a full-out temper tantrum.”
Sofi squinted at the gesticulating bride.
“Looks more like labor to me,” my sister said. “Call an ambulance.”
I scraped my phone out of my pocket and punched in 911. The call went to voicemail.
When I reported that Aunt Ianthe said, philosophically, “well, dearie, it probably doesn’t matter. They don’t allow motor vehicles on the island, you know. The ambulance is probably a golf cart. She’ll have to go to the hospital in the horse-drawn carriage that brought her.”
I looked at Sofi. “Do they even have a hospital here?”
My phone buzzed and caller I.D. said it was Elli.
“Hey,” I said. “Where the H-E-double-hockey sticks are you?”
“Behind the gazebo in a little copse. There’s something wrong with Chad. He isn’t moving and I can’t feel a pulse. Oh, Hatti! I think I killed him!”
Why was she behind the gazebo? Why was she with
Chad? I knew it wasn’t the time for a catechism. I could hear the shear panic in her voice.
“You’ve got to call an ambulance!”
My overactive imagination kicked in and I visualized Kensington Hoop giving birth in the front seat of a golf cart with her comatose and possibly dead fiance laid out next to her. I also (because I am a card-carrying, indoctrinated member of the Lutheran Evangelical Synod) felt a wave of guilt about my earlier wishes for revenge on Chad.) I shook it off. I needed to comfort my cousin.
“It’s probably just a panic attack,” I said. “Cold feet about the wedding and all. I’ll be there in a minute. By the way, El, don’t say that to anyone else. Remember, you had no reason to kill him.”
“But that’s just it,” she said, starting to sob. “He asked me to meet him here. He wanted to tell me he’d signed a new Will that benefited me.”
“You mean he willed you the Leaping Deer?”
“Not just that. Everything. I’m, I’m his sole heir.”
Not good, I thought. Not good at all. My hands were shaking and my heart was in my mouth as I tried a broken field run through the wedding guests. I couldn’t believe that murder had tracked me down again, this time in the Disneyworld of the North. And this time the stakes were sky high. This time, it involved my cousin and very best friend.
A FAIR ISLE MURDER
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A FAIR ISLE MURDER
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Joulutorttu
Christmas Tarts
Ingredients:
Pastry:
2 sticks (16 Tbsp.) salted butter, softened
8 oz. ricotta cheese
2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
(note: ricotta gives pastry a unique melt-in-your-mouth taste but store-bought puff pastry will work, too.)
Filling:
½ cup prune jam (recipe below)
1 egg, lightly beaten
Powdered sugar for dusting.
Preparation:
In a large bowl beat with electric hand mixer butter and ricotta cheese. Add flour and mix until dough comes together. It will be soft. Divide dough in half, shape each into a ball, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate at least 2-3 hours, until firm.
Shape and bake:
Preheat oven to 425 degrees F.
Flour countertop and roll out one section of dough to about 1/8 inch thick, about 12x9 inches.
Cut dough into 3-inch squares. Make cuts in each square from corners about 2/3 of the way toward center. Spoon one tsp. jam in center of each square. Fold every other corner over the jam (to make a pinwheel). Use beaten egg wash to moisten corners to press them over top of the jam. Brush cookies with egg wash.
Do the same with other half of the dough then transfer cookies to parchment-lined baking sheet and bake for 10-12 minutes. When cool, dust with powdered sugar.
Prune Jam
Place 1 ½ cups roughly chopped prunes, ½ cup sugar and water to cover in small saucepan. Simmer until prunes are jammy. 20-30 minutes. Add more water if necessary.
Remove pan from heat and cool before using in Joulutorttu.
Also by Ann Yost
The Bait and Stitch Cozy Mystery Series
A Pattern for Murder
A Double Pointed Murder
A Fair Isle Murder
About the Author
Ann Yost comes from Ann Arbor, Michigan and a writing family whose single greatest accomplishment is excellent spelling.
After six years at the University of Michigan she completed her degree in English literature and spent ten years working as a reporter, copy editor and humor columnist for three daily newspapers. Her most notable story at the Ypsilanti Press involved the tarring and feathering of a high school principal.
When she moved with her Associated Press reporter husband to the Washington D.C. area, she did freelance work for the Washington Post, including first-person humor stories on substitute teaching and little league umpiring.
She did feature writing for the Charles Stewart Mott Foundation on building community in low-income neighborhoods and after-school programs throughout the country.
While her three children were in high school, Ann began to write romantic suspense novels. Later, she turned to the Finnish-American community in Michigan’s remote Upper Peninsula for her Hatti Lehtinen mystery series.
She lives in Northern Virginia with her husband and her enterprising mini-goldendoodle, Toby.