Blueberry Muffin Murder (2 page)

"Will you have time to stop by this morning, Hannah?" Delores sounded a bit tentative, and that was unusual for her. "I'd like your input before anyone else sees it."

"Sure. Just bang on my back door when you're ready and I'll dash over. But you're the antique expert. Why do you need my input?"

"For the kitchen," Delores explained. "It's the only room Abigail Jordan didn't describe. She talks about baking in every one of her letters, and I'm not sure I have all the utensils in the proper places."

"I'll check it out," Hannah promised, knowing full well that her mother had never used a flour sifter or rolling pin in her life. Delores didn't bake and she made no bones about it The desserts of Hannah's childhood had always come straight from the Red Owl grocery store shelves.

"Thank you, dear. I'm sorry to cut this short, but I have to get off the line. Carrie's picking me up and she said she'd call when she left her house."

"Okay. Bye, Mother." Hannah hung up the phone and made a mental note to tell her sister, Andrea, never to mention the option of call-waiting to their mother. This morning's call had been the shortest in history. After a glance at her apple-shaped kitchen clock, Hannah rinsed out her coffee cup, refilled Moishe's food bowl for the final time, and scratched him near the base of his tail, an action that always made him arch his back and purr. "I've got to run, Moishe. See you tonight."

Hannah had a routine to perform before she left her condo in the winter. She shrugged into her parka, zipped it up, and pulled her navy blue stocking cap down over her un- manageable red curls. Then she went into the living room to turn the thermostat down to an energy-saving sixty-five degrees, flicked on the television to keep Moishe company, picked up her purse, and slipped on her fur-lined gloves. She gave Moishe one more pat, checked to make sure she had her keys, and stepped out into the dark, frigid morning that still looked like the middle of the night.

The security lights on the side of the building went on as Hannah descended the outside staircase. Because of the Northern latitude, they got a real workout during the winter, when the days were short and the sun shone for less than eight hours. Most Lake Eden residents drove to work in the dark and came home in the dark, and if they worked in a place without windows, there were days at a stretch when they never caught a glimpse of the sun.

Hannah blinked in the glare of the high-wattage bulbs, designed to ensure a crime-free environment, and held onto the railing as she went down the steps. Once she arrived at ground level, another set of stairs led to the underground garage. Hannah was about to descend them when a tough-sounding male voice rang out behind her.

"Put up your hands and face the wall, lady. Do exactly what I say, or I'll blow you away!"

Hannah wasn't sure whether to be frightened or angry as she raised her hands in the air. There'd never been any sort of crime in her condo complex before, and it was the last thing she'd expected. Mike Kingston, head of the Winnetka County Sheriff's Detective Division, had promised to teach her some self-defense moves, but he hadn't gotten around to it yet. Hannah dated him occasionally, and after two separate occasions when she'd found herself in imminent danger of occupying one of Doc Knight's steel tables at the morgue, Mike had suggested she learn what to do if someone threatened bodily harm.

Even though she didn't appreciate being waylaid only a few feet from her door in a condo complex that had been gated to keep out intruders, Hannah knew she shouldn't take foolish risks. She took a deep breath and dutifully recited the phrase that her father had drummed into her head when she'd gone off to college. "Take anything you want, but please don't hurt me."

"Hug the wall and don't move a muscle. Keep your hands up where I can see them."

Hannah frowned as she followed his orders. His voice sounded familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. She was still trying to identify it when a snowball splattered harmlessly over her head, raining snow down on the top of her stocking cap.

"Gotcha!"

The moment the man laughed, his voice was paired with a freckled face in Hannah's mind and she whirled around angrily. "Greg Canfield! Of all the idiotic, senseless. . ."

"Sorry, Hannah," Greg interrupted her tirade. "I saw you walking to your truck and I couldn't resist. Are you mad at me?"

"I should be. You scared me half to death!" Hannah gave him a reluctant smile. When they'd been in third grade, Greg Canfield had made a practice of lying in wait and pelting her with snowballs on her way home from school. Not one to take things lying down, Hannah had fought back. She'd landed her share of cold missiles that had dripped icy snow down Greg's neck, and their snowball battles had lasted all winter, despite dire warnings from both mothers. When fourth grade had begun, Greg and Hannah had called a truce and they'd become friends. Hannah had been very disappointed when Greg's parents had moved to Colorado, pulling Greg out of school before they entered the ninth grade.

All through high school, Hannah had thought about Greg and how much easier her social life would have been if she'd had a friend of the opposite sex. She'd even imagined that they might have been a lot more than just friends until she'd heard that Greg had married his high school girlfriend right after graduation.

"It's good to see you again, Hannah."

"Same here. . . I think," Hannah responded, wondering why Greg was here. His grandmother, Mrs. Canfield, was one of her downstairs neighbors, but it was too early for a visit. "You're not going to wake up your grandmother, are you?"

"Of course not." Greg stepped forward to brush the snow from her cap. "Grandma always sleeps until nine."

Hannah was even more confused. "Then what are you doing out here so early?"

"I woke up when the furnace went out and I went down to the basement to fix it. It was simple, just a loose connection. I didn't want Grandma to wake up to a cold house."

"You're living with your grandmother now?"

"It's just temporary. I had to stick around to tie up some loose ends and the house sold a lot faster than I expected. You never got out to my store at the mall, did you?"

Hannah felt a twinge of guilt. Her former classmate had moved back to the area a little over a year ago. He'd bought a house in a neighboring town and opened an import store at the Tri-County Mall. "I'm sorry, Greg. I really meant to drive out to see it, but the time was never right."

"You should have come for my closeout sale. I had some incredible bargains."

"I heard. Andrea was there and she said she practically bought you out. I'm sorry your store closed, Greg."

"Water under the bridge," Greg said with a shrug. "Retail really wasn't my thing anyway. The hours were too long, and dealing with my suppliers was a nightmare."

Hannah felt a bit uncomfortable. She really didn't know what to say to someone who'd lost his business. "How about your wife? Is she living with your grandmother, too?"

"No. Annette flew to Denver right after the house sold. That's where her parents live."

Hannah nodded, wondering if Greg's wife had bailed out on him. She'd met Annette only once, and she'd been left with the impression that Greg's wife spent money as fast or faster than he could make it. It hadn't taken Annette more than three minutes to inform Hannah that she'd been a classmate of Greg's at one of Colorado's most prestigious private schools, and that her parents lived on an estate in an exclusive suburb of Denver.

With a start, Hannah realized that Greg was gazing at her expectantly, and she responded with the first thing that popped into her mind. "Will you be staying in town for the Winter Carnival?"

"I wouldn't miss it." Greg started to grin, the same friendly grin Hannah recalled from her childhood, and the one she'd hoped would be smiling down at her in her senior prom picture. "It's a great chance to see some of the kids I used to know. Maybe we can all get together for dinner at the Lake Eden Inn."

"That would be great," Hannah agreed. The inn's owners, Dick and Sally Laughlin, had agreed to stay open for the Winter Carnival crowd. Between the Hartland Flour Bake- off last November and the party crowds at Christmas, the inn had generated good winter business. Sally had told Hannah that if the Winter Carnival turned into an annual event, they might be able to stay open year-round.

Greg glanced at his watch and frowned slightly. "Let's try to get together later, Hannah. I'd love to stand here and chew the fat, but it's almost time for me to go to work."

"You're working in Lake Eden?" Hannah was surprised that Greg had taken a temporary job. Perhaps his closeout sale hadn't gone very well.

"I'm working out of Grandma's condo and it's going just great. I've made more money in the past three weeks than I ever made in retail."

"Really?" Hannah was pleased for him. "What are you doing?"

"On-line stock trading. All I need is a computer and a modem and I can work anywhere."

Though Hannah was certainly no expert, she knew something about on-line stock trading. Dick Laughlin, a former stockbroker in Minneapolis, had written a series of articles about it for the Lake Eden Journal. "But isn't day-trading risky?"

"Only if you don't know what you're doing. You ought to try it. I could give you some tips."

"Not me. I don't have any money to spare. Everything I have is tied up in The Cookie Jar."

"But you don't need a lot of venture capital to get started. And you can always borrow the money and pay it back when your stock hits."

"Is that what you did?"

"No. I took the proceeds from my closeout sale and put every cent in Redlines. They're the hottest new Internet provider. When it peaked yesterday morning, I sold."

"And you made money?"

"I tripled my original investment, and it was more than enough to payoff my creditors. I put the rest of my profits in some other hot stocks, and they were way up at closing yesterday. I've got a system, Hannah. I figure that by the time I leave for Denver, I'll be worth close to a million."

The doubts in Hannah's mind grew by leaps and bounds. Dick Laughlin had called day-trading the newest form of gambling, and he'd warned of the consequences of investing borrowed money. Greg thought he had a system, and he'd been lucky once, but what if that system failed? Hannah was reminded of the spots on late-night television that advertised a sure-fire system for winning at blackjack. She figured that if a gambler really had a winning system, he wouldn't need to peddle books he'd written about it.

"I've got to run, Hannah. I want to be on-line when the market opens in New York. Sorry about that snowball."

Greg waved as he headed around the side of the building, and Hannah waved back. Then she walked down the stairs to the underground parking structure, feeling very uneasy. It was just as Dick had written in his articles. Some day-traders did make money playing the market, but there were others who guessed wrong and lost. At least Greg had paid off his creditors and he was only gambling with his profits.

Hannah went to the strip of outlets that ran along the garage wall and unplugged the cord that fed electricity to her head-bolt heater. She wound the cord around her front bumper, unlocked the door to her candy-apple red Suburban with "THE COOKIE JAR" lettered in gold on both sides, and climbed in behind the wheel.

The interior of her truck was frigid. Hannah was careful to breathe through her nose so she wouldn't fog up the inside of the windshield as she started the engine and backed out of her parking space. She drove up the ramp to ground level, flicked on her headlights, and took the winding street that led out of the complex. Her tires swished through the snow that had fallen during the night, as she broke trail for the other residents who would follow her tracks in an hour or two. Her truck was the only vehicle moving, and everything was dark and quiet. It was always like this on winter mornings, and Hannah often felt as if she were the sole survivor in a frozen wasteland.

As she approached Old Lake Road, she spotted headlights and flashing blue lights in the distance. Her sense of isolation vanished with a roar as a county snowplow lumbered by.

Hannah drove forward over the bank of packed snow and chunks of ice that the huge blade had left in its wake, and eased out onto Old Lake Road to follow the snowplow to town.

It was slow going, but Hannah didn't mind. As she drove, she thought about the great job of snow removal the state of Minnesota accomplished. Snowplow drivers were on call during the winter months, and at the first sign of a heavy snowfall, they were dispatched. Most other states didn't begin plowing until the snowstorm was over. By then, the snow had accumulated in deep drifts and it was more difficult to clear.

When she reached the town limits, Hannah turned off and let the snowplow carry on alone. She stepped on the gas, traveled another few blocks at well over the twenty-five-mile-per-hour limit, and detoured past the Lake Eden Community Center to see if the Winter Carnival committee had hung their advertising banner last night.

"Nice," Hannah commented as her headlights illuminated the blue banner. It had been ordered from the same company that manufactured the sweatshirts, and Mayor Bascomb had kicked in the extra money to exceed the ten-word maximum. The bright blue banner, strung up between two lampposts on opposite sides of the street, sported brilliant white snowflake letters proclaiming, "LAKE EDEN WELCOMES YOU TO THE WINTER CARNIVAL."

Wondering just how much extra money the mayor had paid from his own pocket, Hannah turned down Fourth Street, the block that housed her cookie shop and bakery. Though none neighboring businesses until nine, it seemed that everyone was out early. Yellow light spilled from the plate glass window of the Cut 'n Curl, Lake Eden's beauty shop, and Hannah spotted Bertie Straub bending over the shampoo chair, her hands suds-deep in a customer's hair. Bertie always charged double to come in early, and someone had paid dearly for a shampoo and set.

The New York Barbershop, next to the Cut 'n Curl, was also busy. A man Hannah couldn't recognize behind a face full of lather was getting an early morning shave. Hannah waved at the barber, Gus York, who had taken over his father's barbershop and added "New" to the name. The summer tourists who came in for haircuts assumed that Gus had been a barber in New York City, and they flocked to fill the row of chairs that lined the wall.