Chocolate Chip Cookie Murder (29 page)

Preheat oven to 350° F, rack in the middle position.

Chocolate Chip Crunch Cookies

Regency Ginger Crisps

Pecan Chews

Black and Whites

Chocolate-Covered Cherry Delights

Old-Fashioned Sugar Cookies

Lovely Lemon Bar Cookies

Please turn the page for an exciting bonus novella and additional recipes from Joanne Fluke!

The Cookie Jar
Lake Eden, MN

Joanne Fluke

Hannah Swensen Mystery Series

Kensington Publishing Corporation

New York, NY

Dear Joanne,

It seems like forever since I’ve seen you, now that you’ve packed up and moved to Southern California. When are you coming back to Lake Eden for a visit? You have friends here, you know. And I really miss our morning coffee at The Cookie Jar.

I’m so glad you’re finally telling Candy’s story! I was surprised you didn’t write about it when it actually happened, only two weeks after I helped Bill solve his first double homicide case, but I guess you were busy writing the other books in my biography.

Now that I think about it, I believe I know why you waited so long to write Candy’s story. It’s because there’s no murder. Just think about it, Jo…you’ve written about murder in every single book. It’s even in every title! There’s this one,
Chocolate Chip Cookie Murder
, and
Strawberry Shortcake Murder
,
Blueberry Muffin Murder
,
Lemon Meringue Pie Murder
,
Fudge Cupcake Murder
,
Sugar Cookie Murder
,
Peach Cobbler Murder
,
Cherry Cheesecake Murder
, and
Key Lime Pie Murder
. It doesn’t take an advanced degree in clinical psychology to realize that you’re obsessing about homicide. Even Mayor Bascomb noticed. Now, both of us know that Lake Eden is a very nice place to live. And while it’s true that we have a lot of homicides for such a small town, we don’t want people to get the idea that it’s the murder capital of the world, do we? One other thing…could you make it perfectly clear that I don’t enjoy finding dead bodies, despite what Mother thinks?

Thank you for doing such a good job of chronicling my life, and thanks again for writing about Candy. I’m just glad that we could solve the puzzle of her identity. Now I’ve got to run. Moishe is yowling for me to fill his food bowl, the phone is ringing off the hook (it’s probably Mother,) and I’m late for work at The Cookie Jar. You lived here long enough to know that time never slows down in Lake Eden, unless you happen to be on Old Lake Road stuck behind a snowplow.

Hannah Swensen

P.S. How about making me ten pounds thinner in the next book? I’d really appreciate it!

CANDY FOR CHRISTMAS

Joanne Fluke

“’B
ye, Moishe.” Hannah Swensen tossed a few salmon-flavored treats that were shaped like little fish to her twenty-five-pound feline roommate. It was the same leave-taking ritual they’d gone through every morning for the past year, but on this particular morning, as she locked the condo door behind her and started down the covered stairs that led to the basement garage, Hannah had a startling thought. If the salmon-flavored treats were shaped like little fish, what shape were the liver-flavored treats? The only thing she could think of that was shaped like a liver was…somebody’s liver. And what shape was that, anyway?

Ten minutes later, Hannah was on the road, driving the familiar route to her shop in Lake Eden, Minnesota. The winter landscape at four-thirty in the morning was gorgeous. Her headlights sparkled on the freshly fallen snow and sent what looked like diamonds skittering across the road. The lazy flakes that fell from the sky served as a curtain, muffling sound until all she could hear was the soft rumbling of her motor and the rhythmic swish of her tires. There was no other traffic. Nothing else was moving in the bitter-cold Minnesota predawn. Hannah felt like the only woman left on earth, traveling smoothly into the night in a magical candy apple red coach with four-wheel drive that was filled with the aroma of vanilla, cinnamon, and chocolate.

It would have been a perfect fantasy, except for one jarring note. The heater in Hannah’s truck was failing, and her teeth were chattering in a lengthy drum roll that would have been the envy of the rhythm section of the Jordan High marching band. As she had on every other morning this week, she promised herself that as soon as she got a little ahead, she’d have it fixed. In the meantime, her warmest parka and gloves would have to do.

Almost there
, Hannah told herself as she stopped for the red light at the intersection of Old Lake Road and Carter Avenue. Old Lake Road was fairly busy at peak traffic hours, but Carter Avenue led to only one sprawling showplace home in the center of a private pine forest. That home belonged to Mayor Bascomb’s in-laws and everyone knew that he’d installed the stoplight to please his wife, Stephanie.

Since the light had a reputation for taking a while, Hannah wiggled her toes inside her boots in an effort to restore warmth and mobility. Then she counted to a hundred. And then two hundred. She had reached five hundred and was mentally composing a letter to the editor of the
Lake Eden Journal
, expressing the need for a sensor on the stoplight, when it finally clicked to green and she could drive forward again.

Another five minutes and she was turning in at the city limits, driving down the quiet streets with their darkened houses. Everyone was asleep, and she would be too, if she didn’t have to bake the day’s cookies before she opened her coffee shop and bakery, The Cookie Jar.

The Lake Eden business district was deserted at this time of morning. All the stores had dim lights inside, the result of an article Sheriff Grant had written for the
Lake Eden Journal
on burglary prevention, but nothing was moving inside. It would be another hour before Hal unlocked the front door at the café for the workers on the morning shift at DelRay Manufacturing.

Hannah drove down Main Street and was about to turn on Fourth, when she noticed that the twinkle lights around the inside of the window of her coffee shop were still on. She thought she remembered turning them off, but perhaps she’d forgotten. She had been in a rush to get home last night. Hannah just hoped her power bill wouldn’t be sky high for this one infraction. After all, how much current could a hundred-bulb string of minilights draw? Perhaps she wouldn’t even see an increase. She was usually very careful when it came to turning off the lights and locking up.

As she pulled into the alley, Hannah slowed her truck to a crawl to navigate the icy ruts that a truck had made, delivering donations to the Helping Hands Thrift Shop. A hundred yards and a dozen or so jarring thumps later, she was turning into her own lot and parking in her spot by the back door.

To plug in, or not to plug in. That was the question. Rayne Phillips, the weatherman on KCOW radio, had promised the day would warm to the high twenties. As Hannah climbed out of her truck and eyed the strip of outlets installed at bumper level at the back of her building, she added that bit of information to the mix. If Rayne had it right, she wouldn’t need to use her heater. But if Rayne was wrong, her oil would chill to the consistency of chewing gum and her truck wouldn’t start when it was time to drive home.

Hannah stood still, debating with herself for a moment, and then she laughed. Rayne Phillips had been wrong about the weather more times than he’d been right, and it would be wise to play the percentages. Plugging in her car might be unnecessary, but
not
plugging in her car could mean she’d have to call Cyril Murphy at the garage.

Once plugged in, Hannah headed for the back door of the white stucco building. She was about to insert her key in the lock when she stopped short and frowned. The knob was a bit icy, as if a warm hand had recently gripped it. That was odd. Her assistant, Lisa Herman, wasn’t scheduled to come in this early. If, for some reason, Lisa had arrived first, her old car would be here. Unless, of course, her car had failed to start and she’d caught a ride to work with one of her neighbors.

Hannah stood dithering for a moment. If Lisa was here, it would account for the lights she’d seen. She always turned them on and propped open the swinging door to the coffee shop, so that she could enjoy them while she helped with the early morning baking.

Standing here wondering was not only silly, it was cold! All she had to do was go inside and see. Chiding herself for her chilly mental debate, Hannah unlocked the door and flicked on the lights. And then she blinked. And blinked again. Several times.

Lisa had been here and the proof was right in front of her eyes. The dirty dishes they’d left in the sink were gone, and the floor had been freshly mopped. Normally, Hannah and Lisa did these things before they left for the night, but Hannah had been in a hurry to get home, and Lisa had invited two of her dad’s friends for dinner. Unless the elves had left the shoemaker’s shop and taken up residence at The Cookie Jar, Lisa must have come in sometime during the night to wash the dishes and mop the floor!

Perhaps she’d put on the coffee, too? Hannah glanced at the kitchen pot, but the little red light wasn’t glowing. No coffee there. She went through the swinging door to check the big thirty-cup percolator, but it was still tipped upside down on a towel, the way they always left it after they washed and dried it. Lisa loved coffee as much as Hannah did. It would be ready if she’d come in early.

Hannah felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter weather as she noticed that the multicolored lights were off. They’d been on when she’d driven past only minutes ago. Her early morning cleaner must have vamoosed only moments before she pulled up in her parking space. If she’d hurried just a little, she could have caught her, or him, or perhaps several elfin thems!

Remembering the thin sheen of ice on the doorknob made Hannah discard her theory of helpful storybook creatures who could sneak in and accomplish great quantities of work in the blink of an eye. Her benefactor had been a real live person, one who could reach the doorknob and who didn’t drink coffee. But who had cleaned up the kitchen on one of the coldest mornings of the year? And why?

Lisa came in the back door at a quarter to seven, fifteen minutes before she was expected. She found Hannah sitting at the work island in the center of the room, sipping a cup of coffee.

“Hi, Hannah,” she said, hanging her coat on the rack by the back door and slipping out of her boots and into her work shoes. “You cleaned up the kitchen and did all the baking without me?”

Hannah shook her head. “I did the baking, but I didn’t clean the kitchen. That was all done when I came in at a little before five this morning. I thought maybe you couldn’t sleep and you’d done it.”

“No way. And I don’t sleepwalk, either. I wonder who…” Lisa stopped in midthought and began to frown. “Is anything missing?”

“Nothing I can see. Besides, our mystery cleaner left us a gift, and people who come in to steal things don’t usually do that.”

“What gift?”

Hannah pointed. “Candy. The note said they’re called Brown Sugar Drops and they’re on a plate right next to the coffee pot.”

“Did you try one?”

“Of course. They’re wonderful.”

“Okay. I’ll try one, too.”

“You’ll try one now that I’ve acted as official poison taster and I haven’t keeled over yet?”

“That’s right.” Lisa laughed as she walked over to get a piece of candy. She popped it into her mouth, chewed, and headed for the pot to pour herself a cup of coffee. “This is good candy. It reminds me of the maple sugar candy my dad used to buy, except that was a little different. I just wish we had the recipe.”

“We do,” Hannah told her, pulling out a stool so that Lisa could sit at the workstation, and handing her the handwritten recipe their early morning visitor had left.

Lisa glanced down at the recipe. “This is great. I’m really glad she left it for us.”

“She?”

“I think so. The writing looks feminine.”

Hannah began to grin. “Because it’s neat?”

“That could be part of it. But it’s also small. The letters are delicate and all the men I know write a lot larger.”

“I don’t think that proves anything. My dad had small handwriting. He could fit things on drawer labels that I had to abbreviate. I think it depends on how you were taught. People used to take great pride in their handwriting. If you look at documents from the eighteen hundreds, you’ll find some notable men with perfect penmanship. And how about the illuminated manuscripts all those monks wrote in the Middle Ages?”

“You’re right,” Lisa admitted. “I guees I made a sexist remark.”

“You certainly did. And I totally agree with you.”

“You do?”

“Absolutely. I’m convinced that a woman wrote that recipe.”

“Why?”

“Because men don’t usually use turquoise ink.”

Lisa took a huge swig of her coffee. “I’m not awake enough for this yet.” She took another swig and then she looked at Hannah again. “If you agreed with me in the first place, why did you argue?”

“Because I like to argue. It gets my brain cells firing and we need all the brainpower we can get today.”

“You mean because we have to figure out who broke in and cleaned our kitchen for us?”

“That’s right. And we have to figure out something else, too.”

“What’s that?”

“The next time it happens, we have to figure out how to get her to put on the coffee before she leaves.”