Strawberry Shortcake Murder (30 page)

As she parked her truck in the section of the teachers’ parking lot that was reserved for visitors, Hannah remembered that she’d intended to bring her box of ingredients for tonight’s baking. She got out of her truck with a frown on her face. Why did she always remember things after the fact? She had the test sheet of Molasses Crackles that Lisa had baked. At least she’d remembered to take them. She’d give them to Craig to soften him up for her questions.

A yellow school bus was parked at the entrance as Hannah walked up. It was filled with elementary-school students, a teacher, and three parents. It was obviously a field trip of some type and as Hannah passed, several bus windows lowered and kids leaned out to wave at the Cookie Lady. Hannah waved back and hid the test batch of Molasses Crackles under her coat, wishing she had more cookies to give them.

The lobby of the school was quiet, and Hannah realized that classes must have started. It smelled the same as it always had, a combination of sweeping compound, warm bodies, and chalk. Hannah had always loved that smell. It meant that brains were at work. She walked down the hall past the principal’s office and waved at Charlotte, who had her nose deep in a filing cabinet and didn’t see her.

The library was in the same place it had always been, at the rear of the school and adjacent to the covered walkway that connected the high school to the elementary school. Hannah remembered walking from the elementary school to the high school when she was in fourth grade, clutching a note from her teacher, Miss Parry. The high-school library had been her favorite place, and Miss Parry had given Hannah permission to visit it every time her assignments had been completed early.

The main part of the library was exactly as Hannah remembered it. The only change was the computer lab that had been added after her graduation. She glanced at the long oak tables that were placed around the room and spotted Craig at a table near the stacks. He was alone, and Hannah thanked her lucky stars for that. At least she wouldn’t have to pull him away from his friends.

“Hi, Craig.” Hannah spoke softly, a habit the librarian, Mrs. Dodds, had instilled in her on her first visit. Mrs. Dodds had retired several years ago and Hannah had noticed that a very young-looking woman, surely too young to be a librarian, had taken her place behind the old curved desk at the front of the room. “Do you have a minute?”

“Sure.” Craig looked surprised to see her, but he pulled out a chair for her.

Hannah sat, the smile still on her face. She’d start with a little flattery and go from there. “Congratulations on breaking the school single-game scoring record. I brought you a dozen Molasses Crackles.”

“Thanks, Miss Swensen.” Craig grinned as he reached out for the bag. “I didn’t know you came to our basketball games.”

“Every chance I get.” Hannah told a little white lie. She’d never been a big basketball fan, not even in high school, and the last basketball game she’d attended had been over a decade ago. “I need to talk to you about The Gulls, Craig.”

“Okay.” Craig placed a pencil in his book to hold the place and closed it.

Hannah managed to keep the smile on her face with difficulty. It was a good thing Mrs. Dodds had retired. She would have had heart palpitations if she’d seen Craig use a pencil for a bookmark. Her favorite phrase had been, A book is your friend, and you don’t break a friend’s back.

Craig looked at her expectantly. “I don’t mean to be rude, Miss Swensen, but I’ve only got a few minutes. I still have to study for a test.”

“English lit?”

“That’s right. How did you know?”

“I called Mrs. Roscoe to find out your class schedule, and she told me. What does your test cover?”

“Nineteenth-century English poets.” Craig made a face.

“Maybe I can help you cram for that test.” Hannah slid her chair closer “You hit my field, Craig. I was an English lit major in college.”

“You were?” Craig looked at her with new respect. “Do you know about… uh… Byron?”

“Lord Byron. His most famous poem was Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, and he limped all over the Lake District looking soulful while the girls chased after him.”

Craig’s eyebrows shot up. “Lord Byron limped?”

“Yes,” Hannah said. Perhaps she would have made a good teacher after all. “He was born with a deformed foot, but that didn’t turn anyone off. He couldn’t go anywhere without groupies following him.”

“So he was like a rock star?”

“As close as you could get in nineteenth-century England. He married very briefly, had a daughter, got divorced, and left the country. He caught a fever in Greece and died.”

“From a fever?”

“Yes. People died from things like the flu or a really bad cold back then. They didn’t have any of the medicines we have now.”

Craig was clearly surprised. His literature teacher had obviously failed to set the scene. “Not even aspirin?”

“Only in the form of willow bark. When people got sick, there wasn’t much a doctor could do. Either they got better on their own, or they died.”

“It sure doesn’t say all that in here.” Craig tapped his literature book. “It makes Lord Byron’s life a lot more interesting, just like in a movie.”

“I know.” Hannah could sympathize. A list of dates and titles didn’t do it for her either. “You can remember a lot better if you know some personal facts.”

Craig leaned forward. “Say… do you know stories like that about Shelley and Keats?”

“You bet I do” Hannah took Craig’s book and flipped it open, glancing at the list of poets who were covered. “And I can tell you all the dirt on Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Southey.”

Craig looked dubious, “I read about them. They’re pretty boring guys.”

“That’s because you don’t know anything about their personal lives. Coleridge got disowned by his family for fighting in the French Revolution, Worsworth said that he wrote his best poetry when he was stoned, and Southy went crazy and died insane. That’s not boring, is it?”

“I guess not!” Craig shook his head.

Hannah rummaged through her purse and pulled out a pen. It was the one that P.K. had given her last night, a gold-plated Cross that had some engraving on the side. She’d forgotten to return it, but that was easily fixed. Right after she finished with Craig, she’d run out to the production truck and give it back.

“Okay, Craig here’s the deal.” Hannah prepared to outline her plan. “Take out a pen, open your notebook, and I’ll tell you all about the poets in your book.”

“Okay, but I got to warn you. I’m not very good at taking notes.”

“You don’t have to be,” Hannah assured him. “Just write down things to jog your memory.”

“Like what?”

“Write down Lord Byron and underline it. And then write down things like, Bum Foot, Groupies, and Died in Greece. I’ll jot down all the other stuff for you. Just give me a blank page from your notebook.”

“Here you go.” Craig tore off a blank page and handed it to her. “But what about The Gulls? You said you wanted to ask me something.”

“We’ll talk about it after I help you cram for your test.” Hannah knew she was doing the right thing. Once she’d helped Craig, he’d be more inclined to help her. “Let’s start with John Keats. Did you know that he was almost a surgeon instead of a poet?”

Craig leaned forward, his pen at the ready and the Molasses Crackles forgotten. Hannah smiled. Perhaps she should think about starting an English lit study group down at The Cookie Jar.

MOLASSES CRACKLES

Do not preheat oven yet. Dough must chill before baking.

1 1/2 cups melted butter (3 sticks, 3/4 pound)

2 cups white sugar

1/2 cup molasses (I use Brer Rabbit green label or a very dark molasses)

2 beaten eggs (first whip them up with a fork)

4 teaspoons baking soda

1 teaspoon salt

3 teaspoons cinnamon
*

1 teaspoon nutmeg (freshly ground is best)

4 cups flour (there’s no need to sift it)

Melt butter in a large microwave-safe bowl. Add sugar and molasses and stir. Let it cool slightly. Then add the beaten eggs, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, and nutmeg, stirring after each addition. Add flour in one-cup increments, stirring after each one. The dough will be quite stiff.

Cover and refrigerate for at least 2 hours. (Over night is fine too.)

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

Roll the chilled dough into walnut-sized balls. Put some sugar in a small bowl and roll the balls in it. Place them on a greased cookie sheet (12 to a standard sheet). Press them down just a little so they won’t roll off when you carry them to the oven.

Bake for 10 - 12 minutes. They’ll flatten out, all by themselves. Let them cool for 2 minutes on the cookie sheet and then move them to a wire rack to finish cooling.

Molasses cookies freeze well. Roll them up in foil, put them in a freezer bag, and they’ll be fine for 3 months or so. (You’d better lock your freezer if you want them to last that long.)

These were Dad’s favorite cookies. He used to ask me to bake them on Sunday morning, so he could eat them while he read the paper. Mother is also crazy about them, even thought they don’t have chocolate.

Hannah walked around the side of the building shaking her head. Craig would do well on his midterm. She was almost sure of that. But he had given her zilch in return. The minute she’d mentioned steroids and The Gulls, the friendly team captain had turned anxious and edgy. He’d denied knowing anything about a suspension in the works or about any kind of drug use, performance-enhancing or otherwise, but Hannah had seen the barely concealed panic in the depths of his eyes. She was positive that Craig knew which player was using steroids she was equally positive that no power on earth could make him tell her. Craig had wanted to confide in Hannah, but his peer loyalty had won out.

There was a note taped to the production truck door, and Hannah climbed the steps for a closer look. Staff meeting—back soon, it read. Hannah knocked on the door, just in case someone had come back and forgotten to take down the note, but no one answered the door. She’d struck out twice once with Craig and once with returning the pen.

Hannah was about to leave when she had thought. Perhaps she could leave the pen with Herb. He could give it to a member of the production staff, and they could return it to P.K. She reached inside her purse, pulled out the pen, and immediately discarded that idea when she read the inscription that was written on the side. The gold Cross pen belonged to Mason Kimball, and it had been presented to him when he’d won an award for the best short documentary in a student film contest. It was a keepsake, and Hannah didn’t want to take the chance that someone would misplace it.

She thought of Craig Kimball and sighed. If she’d taken the time to read the inscription when she’d been with Craig in the library, she could have given the pen to him to return to his father. But perhaps that wouldn’t have been wise. If Mason knew that his night engineer had appropriated his pen, P.K. could wind up in trouble. The best thing to do was give it directly to P.K. so that he could return it to Mason’s office.

Hannah glanced at the note again. Back soon could mean a few minutes, or an hour and she didn’t have time to wait. She’d catch P.K. when she came back for the contest tonight, and that would have to be soon enough.

Turning on her heel, Hannah walked down the metal steps and across the snowy parking lot, heading for her truck. She’d wasted most of the morning, and her mind was spinning what she needed right now was to get back to The Cookie Jar for a second dose of chocolate.

“So what did Craig say?” Andrea asked, leaning across the surface of the workstation. She’d dropped in at lunch to find out what had happened since she’d left Hannah at the production truck, and she’d already gotten the full story of the bear, the fact that Hannah had located some shots of Tracey, and her morning cram session with Craig Kimball.

“Nothing.”

“You mean he refused to answer your questions?”

“No. He answered them, but he didn’t tell me anything. He said he didn’t know anyone on The Gulls who was using steroids or any other kind of drugs.”

Andreas shrugged. “That’s about what I’d expect him to say. He wouldn’t be very popular if he ratted on his teammates. Do you think he knew and just didn’t want to tell you?”

“Exactly. At least he seemed to realize how serious it was. He said he’d learned about steroids at basketball camp, and I have the feeling he’ll talk to his teammate and try to get some help for him. That’s good, but it doesn’t help us.”

“How about Mike? Do you think he’s learned anything from the roster?”

Now it was Hannah’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him since we split up after breakfast at the Corner Tavern.”

“Breakfast?” Andrea gave Hannah a sharp look. “You spent all night with Mike?”

Hannah knew exactly what her sister was asking, and she laughed. “Most of it, but it’s not what you’re thinking. We finished the tapes, we had steak and eggs, and then we went home… separately.”

“Oh.” Andrea looked a little disappointed. “What are you going to do next?”

“I’m going to run home, feed Moishe, and grab my clothes for tonight. If I’m lucky, I might even get in an hour’s nap.”

“But how about the killer?”

“He’ll wait. I’m fresh out of ideas, and I can’t think when I’m this tired. I’ve got to go recharge my batteries.”

“Okay. I’ll run over to Lucy’s neighborhood and pass out some fliers. I got some good information the last time I did it.”

“If anyone can do it, you can.” Hannah stood up and walked over to retrieve her parka. She was so tired, it took her a couple of attempts to get her left arm into the sleeve hole. “Call me at home if you learn anything important.”