Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(13)

“Coffee. Coffee now!” It was as close to a cheer as she could come up with in the cold predawn of a December morning, but it served to whet her appetite for the hot, aromatic brew her great grandmother Elsa had called Swedish Plasma.

Before she had time to think, which would only have served to confuse her, Hannah was on her feet. And then her feet were moving, heading down the hallway toward the kitchen.

The coffeepot that had activated automatically five minutes before her alarm clock had sounded was now sitting on the counter with a full carafe of the world’s most popular lifesustaining potion, just waiting for her to imbibe.

“You, here. Me, there,” she said to the cat who followed her into the kitchen, batting at the ends of the belt she’d forgotten to tie on her robe. Moishe appeared to understand his mistress’s pidgin English because he backed off immediately and took up a position of hope by his empty food bowl.

Hannah had her priorities straight. It took every corner of her partially alert mind to do it, but she opened the combination padlock on the broom closet, pulled out the forty-pound sack of kitty kibble that Moishe loved, and dumped a full measure into his bowl. She replaced the kibble, replaced the padlock, and then she poured her first cup of coffee.

“Uff-dah!” she groaned, audibly revealing her Minnesota roots as she sank down on one of the chairs that had come with her Formica-topped breakfast table. She glanced over to see if Moishe was eating and was about to pick up her mug of coffee for that first bracing sip, when she saw something red out of the corner of her eye.

It was a red scarf tied around the handle of her refrigerator. For several moments Hannah was genuinely puzzled, but then she caught sight of the mixing bowl and utensils washed 42

Joanne Fluke

and stacked on the counter, and everything became clear.

When everyone had left last night, at shortly before two in the morning, Hannah had intended to go straight to bed. Unfortunately her mind was still racing and there was no way she could sleep. Instead of wasting valuable time tossing and turning, she’d flicked on the lights in the kitchen and mixed up a batch of cookies. They were experimental, something she’d been planning to try for several months, and the dough was chilling in the refrigerator. That was the reason she’d tied her scarf around the handle of the refrigerator. It was to remind her to take the dough with her when she left for work, so that she could bake it at The Cookie Jar. If the cookies were as good as she expected them to be, she’d serve them at her mother’s club luncheon.

First things first, Hannah told herself, raising the mug of coffee to her lips. She breathed in deeply, inhaling the antioxidants in the steam that some researcher claimed would save coffee kiosk employees from lung cancer. Hannah thought that would be lovely, but she didn’t believe it for a second.

On the other hand, what could it hurt? She’d been inhaling the steam from coffee for years simply because she loved the aroma.

Another deep coffee-flavored sniff and it was time to enjoy the brew. Hannah was just about to take that first scalding sip when the telephone rang.

“Mother!” she exclaimed, in the same voice she would have used if she’d skidded off the road and into a ditch. She swallowed fast, taking a sip while she could, and glanced over at her Mother-barometer. Sure enough, Moishe’s fur was bristling and he’d puffed up like a Halloween cat. He’d also begun to make the growling sound, deep in his throat, that meant, Maybe you’re bigger than I am, but I’m gonna shred those pantyhose you’re wearing. It wasn’t a guarantee that Delores Swensen was on the other end of the line, but Hannah’s feline roommate was right a whole lot more than he was wrong.

CANDY CANE MURDER

43

Hannah took another sip of her coffee and then she stood up to reach for the wall phone. She sat right back down again, knowing that no previous conversation with her mother had ever lasted less than fifteen minutes, and answered. “Hello, Mother.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that, Hannah!” Delores gave a deep sigh that was so forceful, it almost tickled Hannah’s ear.

“What if I wasn’t me?”

“Then you’d need to see a psychiatrist, because you’d have an identity crisis.”

“Hannah!”

“Sorry, Mother.”

Delores gave an exasperated sigh that was almost as loud as her previous sigh. “You always say that, and you still answer the phone that way. But I didn’t call to argue with you.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Hannah said, winking at her cat, who was still puffed up several times his size, preparing to take on any predator.

“I’m not going to argue, but I do have a bone to pick with you, Hannah.”

Hannah took another sip of coffee, wisely saying nothing.

Her mother was only mildly upset. If she’d been extremely upset, she would have called Hannah by her first and middle names.

“Bill called me this morning to ask me about Melinda.”

“Melinda who?” Hannah asked, wondering what in the world her mother was talking about.

“Melinda Bergstrom, Wayne’s wife. Surely you remember Wayne Bergstrom. You found his body last night. And you found it practically in front of your sisters!” Delores delivered another sigh that made the phone give an odd little sound that probably meant it had exceeded its decibel level.

“You have got to stop doing this, Hannah Louise!”