Sugar Cookie Murder

It was a meatball, a really big meatball, and it was rolling out of her closet. It stopped a few feet from the end of the bed, and that was when she noticed its eyes and its face. The eyes stared at her in abject disappointment, and two tears of gravy rolled down its fat bumpy cheeks. It looked so miserable Hannah wanted to reach out and give it a hug.

“You forgot me,” the meatball said, “and I’m an entrée. And from what I hear, your entrées aren’t that good.”

“Yes, they are. We’ve got . . . “

“I’m doing my best not to take this as a personal insult,” the meatball interrupted her, “but you know I’m a lot more delicious than your mother’s Hawaiian Pot Roast. What really makes me mad is that you left me out, but you put in four of your sister Andrea’s Jell-O molds. Well, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to dump a can of fruit in some Jell-O. If you want her name in the cookbook, you ought to teach her to cook.”

What was the meatball talking about? No ordinary mortal could teach Andrea to cook! Her sister was firmly entrenched among the ranks of the culinary-impaired. Hannah sat bolt upright in bed, prepared to give the Swedish treat a piece of her mind. But there was no longer a round, brown entrée with the delectable scent of mushrooms and beef positioned in from of her closet or at the foot of her bed. With the exception of Moishe, who was curled up at her feet sleeping peacefully, she was alone.

Hannah blinked several times, and then the truth of the situation dawned. She’d been dreaming. The talking meatball had retreated into whatever corner of her mind had created it, but the message it had delivered remained. Hannah had goofed big time. She’d forgotten to include Edna Ferguson’s recipe for Not So Swedish Meatballs in the packet to be tested at tonight’s potluck dinner.

“Uh-oh,” Hannah groaned, feeling around under the bed for her slippers. When she’d wiggled her feet inside the fake fur lining, she patted the mattress to wake the orange and white tomcat who’d been her roommate for the past year and a half. “Come on, Moishe. Time to wake up and smell the kitty crunchies.”

Moishe opened one yellow eye and regarded her balefully. Then the phrase “kitty crunchies” must have registered in his feline brain, because he jumped off the bed and with an athletic grace that Hannah could only envy, and padded down the hallway at her side as she headed for the kitchen.

Once Moishe had been fed and watered and she’d poured herself a cup of strong coffee, Hannah sat down at the kitchen table that was on the cusp of becoming an antique and considered the problem of Edna Ferguson’s meatballs. Since the whole thing was her fault for forgetting to include them, she’d have to find time to test them herself. One thing for sure . . . Edna wouldn’t be the soul of understanding if she couldn’t’ find her favorite recipe in the cookbook.

Hannah glanced down at her coffee mug. Empty. And she didn’t even remember drinking it. If she showered and dressed right now, before she was fully awake, the lure of a second mug of coffee would make her hurry.

Before the second hand on her apple-shaped wall clock had made twelve complete revolutions, Hannah was back in the kitchen. Instead of her robe, she was wearing jeans and a dark green pullover sweater. Her feet were encased in fur-lined, moosehide boots to stave off the chill of the first cold week in December, and her towel-dried hair was already springing up into a riot of red curls.

“Coffee,” Hannah breath, pouring a mug, inhaling the fragrance and taking the first steaming sip, “is almost as good as . . . “ but before she could decide exactly what it was almost as good as, the phone rang.

“Mother!” Hannah muttered in the same tone she used when she stubbed her toe, but she reached for the phone. To let the answer machine get it would only delay the inevitable. Delores Swensen was relentless. If she wanted to talk to her eldest daughter, she’d keep on calling until she was successful.

“Good morning, Mother,” Hannah forced a cheery note into her voice and sank down in a chair. Conversations with Delores had been known to last as long as an hour.

“Good morning, dear. You sound like you got up on the right side of the bed,” Delores replied, matching Hannah’s cheery tone and raising her a cliché. “I know this Christmas potluck has been a lot of work for you and I called to see if there was anything I could do to help.”

Warning bells went off in Hannah’s head. When Delores tried to be this helpful, she had an ulterior motive. “That’s nice of you, Mother, but I think I’ve got everything covered.”

“I thought so. You’re so organized, dear. Did I tell you that Luanne found an antique silver cake knife with a provenance that dates back to the Regency period?”

“No, you didn’t,” Hannah said, getting up to pour more coffee and stretching out the hone cord to within an inch of its life. Luanne Hanks was Delores and Carrie’s assistant at Granny’s Attic, the antique store they’d opened right next to Hannah’s bakery, and she was a genius at finding valuable antiques at estate auctions.

“I thought you might want to use it tonight. It was a lovely old-fashioned Christmas tree on the handle.”

“Didn’t you say it was Regency?”

“That’s right, dear.”

“But I didn’t think they had Christmas trees in Regency England.”

“They didn’t. But don’t forget that the Regent’s family was German. And since this particular knife was used at court, it’s decorated with a German Christmas tree.”

“I’d love to use it,” Hannah said. “It’ll fit in perfectly.”

“That’s what I thought. When I showed it to Winthrop last night, he thought it would be appropriate to cut a cake from the period.”

Hannah frowned at the mention of her mother’s “significant other.” She had no basis in fact, but she had the inkling that “Winnie,” as her niece Tracey called him, wasn’t precisely on the level. She’d asked Norman Rhodes, Carrie’s son and the man she occasionally dated, to check Winthrop out on the Internet. Norman had done it, but he hadn’t found anything shady about the British lord who was visiting Lake Eden “for a lark.”

Hannah pulled herself back to the problem at hand. “I think using the cake knife is a great idea, but as far as I know, no one is bringing a cake made from a Regency recipe.”

“Yes, they are, dear. You’re forgetting about Lady Hermoine’s Chocolate Sunshine Cake.”

“Lady Hermoine?” Hannah’s voice reached a high note that would have shocked the Jordan High choir director who’d assigned her to the second alto section. “Who’s Lady Hermoine? You know that’s my original recipe!”

“Of course I do, but there’s a slight problem, dear. You see, the knife is very valuable. I didn’t want to let just anyone use it, so I fibbed a bit.”

“What a bit?”

“I said that Lady Hermoine’s Chocolate Sunshine Cake originated a lot earlier. If it’ll make him happy, is there any harm in letting Winthrop think the recipe’s been in our family for hundreds of years?”

Hannah sighed. She didn’t like lying even when it was for a good cause, and Winthrop’s happiness wasn’t high on her list of good causes. “Your fib won’t work Mother. My cake uses frozen orange juice concentrate and that certainly wasn’t around back then!”

“That’s all right. Winthrop won’t notice. And on the off chance he does, I’ll say the original recipe called for orange marmalade.” Delores gave a sigh and when she spoke again, her voice held a quaver. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”

Hannah thought about it for a second or two and then she caved. That little quaver in her mother’s voice always got to her. “All right, Mother. I won’t lie if Winthrop asks me straight out, but as long as he doesn’t, I’ll play along.”

“Thank you, dear! And now I’d better rush, Carrie’s picking me up in ten minutes and I still have to do my makeup.”

Hannah said her goodbyes and hung up, but the moment she placed the phone back in the cradle it rang again. “Mother,” she muttered, grabbing for the phone. Delores often called back immediately if she’d forgotten to say something she felt was important.

“What is it, Mother?” Hannah asked, not bother with a greeting. She had to leave her condo soon or she’d be late for work.

“I’m not your mother,” a male voice replied, chuckling slightly. “It’s Mike.”

Hannah sat down in her chair with a thunk. Hearing Mike Kingston’s voice always made her knees turn weak and her heart beat faster, but she took a deep breath and tried to ignore it.

“I called to find out who’s testing my pâté tonight.”

Hannah took a deep breath and fought her urge to cave in without a whimper. Tall, rugged, and more handsome than any man had a right to be, Mike wasn’t easy to deny. “I can’t tell you. You know the rules. The recipe tester has to remain anonymous. Otherwise there could be hard feelings.”

“But I really need to know. I might have forgotten to put something in the recipe.”

“What?” Hannah asked. She remembered Mike’s recipe and there were only two ingredients.

“I need to make sure I wrote down horseradish sauce and not just horseradish. If the tester uses straight horseradish, it’ll be too spicy for some people.”

“No problem, Mike.” Hannah’s response was immediate. “You specified horseradish sauce.”

“But how do you know, unless. . . you’re testing it!”

Hannah groaned softly under her breath. Mike was the head detective at the Winnetka County Sheriff’s Department, and he’d picked up on her blunder right away. “Uh . . . I can’t confirm or deny that.”

“Of course you can’t, but thanks for putting my mind at ease about that horseradish sauce. How about tonight? Do you want me to pick you up?”

“I think it’d be better if we met at the community center. I’m going to leave work around three, head home to get dressed and pick up the food I’m bringing, and get there early to make sure Edna has all the help she needs in the kitchen.”

“Okay. I’ll see you there.”

Was that a sigh of relief she’d just heard in Mike’s voice? “You sound happy that you don’t have to pick me up.”

“It’s not that. I’d pick you up if you needed me. It’s just that Shawna Lee asked me if I’d take her to the party.”

Hannah closed her eyes and counted to ten. Shawna Lee Quinn had been Mike’ secretary in Minneapolis and he’d convinced her to follow him to Lake Eden. She’d landed a job in the Winnetka Sheriff’s Department and Mike had found her an apartment in the complex where he lived. He insisted that they were just friends, and Hannah had done her best not to be jealous, but it was difficult to stave off the green-eyed monster when the Southern beauty who’d been crowned Miss Atlanta called Mike every time her car wouldn’t start.

“Hannah? Is something wrong?”

Hannah took a deep breath and forced herself to be calm. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought we had a date.”

“We do. I’m just giving Shawna Lee a lift there, that’s all. She’s meeting someone and she’s got her own way home.”

“Oh. Well . . .okay,” Hannah said, hoping that the person Shawna Lee was meeting would show up and she wouldn’t turn out to be a third wheel on their date.

“You’re really a nice person, Hannah.”

“What brought that on?” Hannah asked and immediately wished she hadn’t. She’d broken one of her mother’s cardinal rules: If a man compliments you, don’t argue with him. Just smile and say thank you.

“Shawna Lee told me you accepted her brownie recipe for the cookbook.”

“That’s right. The person who tested it thought her brownies were really good.”

“But you had the power to veto it and you didn’t.”

Hannah hoped Mike would never find out hw close she’d come to relegating Shawna Lee’s recipe to the circular file. As the “author” of the Lake Eden potluck cookbook and the head of the cookbook committee, Hannah had the power to accept or reject as she saw fit. The only thing that had stopped her in Shawna Lee’s case was the fear that someone might find out and accuse her of being petty. “Of course I didn’t use my veto. Why would I veto a perfectly good recipe?”

Mike chuckled, and Hannah felt her toes tingle. It was an intimate chuckle, one that should be heard up close and personal, not transmitted over telephone wires. “Have you tasted those brownies yet?”

“Not yet.” Hannah’s eyebrows began to knit, but she stopped in mid-frown. The magazine she’d paged through in the supermarket line had warned that frowns caused wrinkles in women over thirty, and she’d passed the three decade mark a couple of months ago.

“They’re the best brownies I’ve ever tasted, and I’ve tasted a lot. I told Shawna Lee she should call them hot brownies.”

“Hot brownies?”

“Yeah. Hot as in ‘terrific’ not hot from the stove. You know what I mean?”

“I get it.”

“Anyway, they’re definitely hot, and if I work it just right, I might be able to talk her into letting you add them to your menu, especially if you call them Shawna Lee’s Brownies. What do you think about that?”

“Impressive,” Hannah said, envisioning the anvil she’d like to impress into the top of Mike’s head. Bake Shawna Lee’s brownies for her shop? Not a chance!

Five minutes later, Hannah was still sitting at her kitchen table, staring down into her half-filled and rapidly cooling coffee mug. Hot brownies. The best Mike had ever tasted. The slow burn she’d started to do when Mike had first uttered those words had grown into a sizable conflagration. If Mike liked hot brownies so much, she’d give him hot brownies. They wouldn’t be “hot” as in “terrific.” And they wouldn’t be “hot” from the stove. Her brownies would be “hot” as in “five-alarm-chili-hot” and she could hardly wait to hear Mike yowl when he bit into one!