Apple Turnover Murder (Hannah Swensen, #13)(49)

Two more hours in bed was a luxury. Hannah fell back against the soft pillows and gave a contented sigh. She reached out to pet the cat who was purring on the pillow next to hers, and let her eyes flutter closed. Two more hours of sleep was the best present in the world. She felt just like she had on Christmas morning, years ago, when she’d run down the stairs to find a shiny new bicycle under the tree!

The pillow was soft, the sheets were still warm, and sublime comfort was all around her, from the darkened room with the low glimmer of the bulb in the Tiffany lamp her mother had given her to the fluffy quilt kept ready at the foot of the bed, a precaution in case the morning hours brought the damp or the cold. This morning the air was perfect, both in temperature and in humidity. The slight breeze from the screened window was like a caress on her skin, and she was totally relaxed. She was tired, yes. But she wasn’t sleepy. Not a bit. Not even a smidgen. And her mind was doing jumping jacks behind her closed eyelids, begging for its morning coffee.

Hannah mumbled a word she’d never use around her young nieces and sat up in bed. Since she couldn’t go back to sleep, she might as well get up and start the day. Perhaps she’d have time for a nap in the afternoon. Just because she hadn’t napped since she was three years old didn’t mean it couldn’t happen today.

Once she’d showered and dressed, Hannah hurried down the hallway, being careful to tread quietly as she passed the guest room. Michelle hadn’t gotten much sleep either, and before Delores had left, she’d told Michelle to take the morning off and come in at noon.

As she approached the kitchen, Hannah began to frown. The bright lights were on. She must have been so tired last night that she’d forgotten to switch them off.

“Hannah!” Michelle gasped, so startled she came very close to knocking over the mug of coffee she was drinking at the kitchen table. “What are you doing up so early?”

“Woke up. Couldn’t sleep,” Hannah explained in the fewest words possible. This was not the time for an involved explanation that would take precious time, not when her throat felt parched and every cell in her body was screaming for caffeine.

Hannah poured herself a cup of coffee, carried it over to the table, and sat down in a chair. She took the first life-saving sip, gave a sigh of utter contentment, and took another. The body was beginning to function again and the brain wasn’t far behind. Another few sips and there should be a full lexicon of words at her disposal.

“I couldn’t sleep, either,” Michelle admitted. “I kept thinking about that last fight I had with him. I told him I hoped he’d choke on a mango and die!”

“It must run in the family.”

“You told him you hoped he’d choke on a mango?” Michelle asked incredulously.

“I said a cantaloupe, but it’s close enough. I assume he was still in the habit of eating fruit for breakfast?”

“Right.” Michelle drew a deep breath. “And speaking of breakfast, I made some.”

“I thought I smelled something good, and I didn’t think it was leftover baking smells from last night.”

“I baked Breakfast in a Muffin, and I think they’re cool enough to eat. Do you want one?”

“Of course I want one. Is this another one of your creations?”

“Yes.” Michelle went over to the counter and brought back two muffins on a plate. “It’s for people on the go, like you and me. It’s got bacon and egg and cheese on top. I tried one and they’re good.”

“It sounds good,” Hannah said, breaking open a muffin, slathering it with butter, and taking a bite. She chewed, swallowed, and smiled. “It is good, and it’s a great idea for the coffee shop. A lot of people feel guilty eating cookies for breakfast, but they’d gobble these right up.”

Michelle was silent as Hannah ate her muffin. Her forehead was furrowed and Hannah could tell she was thinking about something that was bothering her deeply. “What’s the matter, Michelle?” she asked.

“I’ve been thinking about that book you found in Bradford’s office, the one with the poetry he said he wrote.”

“Yes?” Hannah took another sip of her coffee.

“Well, I think there’s a precedence for using someone else’s work … in academia, I mean.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Bradford used Tim Pearson’s work.”

Hannah got up to refill her coffee mug. “Who’s Tim Pearson?” she asked as she carried it back to the table.

“He’s Bradford’s research assistant, and he brought me home after the jazz concert on Sunday night. All the full professors have research assistants. Bradford brought Tim with him from Macalester because they were working on a project together.”

“What kind of a project?” Hannah asked, even though she wasn’t sure how important that was.

“Bradford said it was a study of seventeenth-century roots in eighteenth-century English poetry. He told me all about it. He said that it had turned into a really hot topic, and he had to publish fast before some other professor from another college beat him to it.”

“Did he make it?”

“Yes, and it’s a real coup for Macalester to have one of their professors lead the field on such an important topic. Bradford told me he was sure he’d be department head next year.”