Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(44)

! % { # 9

150

Index of

! Recipes #

Peppermint Martini

14

Pepper Mint Martini

14

Lemon Whippersnappers

38

Regency Seed Cakes

52

Quiche Lorraine

64

Holiday Quiche

68

Christmas Date Cookies

79

Chocolate Candy Cane Cookies 90

Devil’s Food Cookies

103

Linda’s Pecan Shortbread Cookies 113

Angel Pillows

128

Candy Cane Bar Cookies

149

Baking Conversion Chart

These conversions are approximate, but they’ll work just fine for Hannah Swensen’s recipes.

VOLUME:

U.S.

Metric

1?2 teaspoon

2 milliliters

1 teaspoon

5 milliliters

1 tablespoon

15 milliliters

1?4 cup

50 milliliters

1?3 cup

75 milliliters

1?2 cup

125 milliliters

3?4 cup

175 milliliters

1 cup

1?4 liter

WEIGHT:

U.S.

Metric

1 ounce

28 grams

1 pound

454 grams

OVEN TEMPERATURE:

Degrees

Degrees

British (Regulo)

Fahrenheit

Centigrade

Gas Mark

325 degrees F.

165 degrees C.

3

350 degrees F.

175 degrees C.

4

375 degrees F.

190 degrees C.

5

Note: Hannah’s rectangular sheet cake pan, 9 inches by 13

inches, is approximately 23 centimeters by 32.5 centimeters.

THE DANGERS OF

CANDY CANES

Laura Levine

For my loyal theater companion and technical advisor, Michele Serchuk





Chapter


! One #

Ah, Christmas in Los Angeles. There’s nothing quite like it. Chestnuts roasting on an open hibachi. Jack Frost nipping at your frappucino. Santa in cutoffs and flipflops.

It’s hard to get in the holiday spirit when the closest you get to snow is the ice in your margarita, but I was trying.

On the day my story begins, I was attempting to take a picture of my cat Prozac for my holiday photo card. I thought it would be cute to get her to pose in a Santa hat.

Prozac, however, was not so keen on the idea. And I still have the scars to prove it.

The only holiday Prozac gets excited about is Let’s Claw A Pair of Pantyhose to Shreds Day. Not a national holiday, I know, but one celebrated quite often in my apartment.

I kept putting the Santa hat on her head, only to find it on the floor by the time I picked up my camera.

“Oh, Prozac!” I wailed after about the thirtieth try.

“What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you wear a simple Santa hat?”

She glared at me as if to say, I refuse to look like a fool for the amusement of your friends and relatives. I’ve got my dignity, you know.

This from a cat who’s been known to swan dive into the garbage for a chicken McNugget.

I was beginning to think E. Scrooge may have had the 158

Laura Levine

right idea about Christmas when the phone rang. I recognized the voice of Seymour Fiedler of Fiedler on the Roof Roofers, one of the not-so-long list of clients who use my services as a freelance writer.

“Jaine, you’ve got to come over to the shop right away.”

I wondered if he wanted me to punch up the Yellow Pages ad I’d just written for him. Although for the life of me I couldn’t see how I could possibly top Size Doesn’t Matter.

We Do Big Jobs and Small.

But he wasn’t calling about the Yellow Pages ad.

“I’m in big trouble,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m being accused of murder!”

Mild-mannered Seymour Fiedler, a man I’d never once heard utter an angry word, accused of murder? Impossible!

“Hang on, Seymour. I’ll be right over.”

I grabbed my car keys and headed for the door, just in time to see Prozac celebrating a whole new holiday—Let’s Poop on A Santa Hat Day.





Chapter


! Two #

Seymour’s shop was in the industrial section of Santa Monica, a no-frills box of a building whose only concession to whimsy was a huge plaster fiddle on the roof.

His wife, Maxine, who doubled as his bookkeeper, sat at her desk out front, weeping into a Kleenex.

“Oh, Judy!” she cried, looking up at me with red-rimmed eyes. “It’s all too awful!”

Maxine was a fiftysomething woman with fried blond hair and a fondness for turquoise eye shadow, most of which had now rubbed off on her Kleenex. For as long as I’d been working for Seymour, she’d been calling me Judy. Every paycheck she’d ever written had been made out to Judy Austen, often in the wrong amount. Not exactly the sharpest blade in the Veg-O-Matic.

“Seymour’s waiting for you,” she said, gesturing to his office.

I found Seymour behind his desk, guzzling Maalox straight from the bottle. Normally a jovial butterball of a guy, Seymour showed no hint of joviality that day. His pudgy face was ashen, and sweat beaded on his balding scalp.