Chocolate Chip Cookie Murder (Hannah Swensen #1)(35)

“Let’s try industrial-strength stain remover,” Hannah suggested as she slid off her stool. “I used it to clean the rust stains off my bathroom sink and I’ve got some left in the bottle. It’s supposed to take anything off anything.”

Andrea followed Hannah to the sink and watched as she poured several inches of stain remover into the bottom of her stainless-steel sink. They dropped in one of the photos and Hannah moved it around with the handle of one of her long mixing spoons. It took a minute or so, but eventually the photo bleached out to white.

“It works!” Andrea sounded surprised. “How did you know to do that?”

“I saw something like it in a movie. Go ahead, Andrea. You put in the photos and I’ll stir them around.”

In less than five minutes the nude photos had disappeared, leaving perfectly white paper behind. Hannah pulled the plug, ran some clear water over the paper, and dumped the whole mess into the garbage.

“I guess I’d better get back to the office.” Andrea glanced up at the clock. “I have to pick up the keys and some flyers before my showing.”

Hannah gave her a little hug. “Thanks for all your help, Andrea. You’re really a good snooper and I’m glad you found those pictures before Norman or his mother stumbled across them.”

“So am I.” Andrea gave her a sunny smile and headed for the swinging door. She stopped, her hand extended to push it open, and turned back. “Hannah?”

“Yes?”

“I think you should go to the Woodleys’ party with Norman. I was wrong. He’s boring, but he really is a nice guy.”



Hannah managed to keep the polite smile on her face as the guest speaker extolled the virtues of Regency England, where men were “gentlemen” and ladies were “ladies in the true sense of the word.” The plump, gray-haired lady in her frilly yellow dress, a retired English teacher from Grey Eagle who had written three Regency romances, stated that she was appalled and saddened by the “regrettable lapse of moral fiber” in the youth of today. She ended her speech by suggesting that parents be guided by the strict rules of polite society that had existed “on Albion’s shores” at the beginning of the nineteenth century and make an effort to instill “Regency values” in their offspring.

There was a halfhearted smattering of applause when the guest speaker vacated the podium and then the meeting began. As she readied the refreshment table, Hannah wondered what Lake Eden’s teenagers would do if their mothers tried to whisk them back to an era with no cars or video games, not to mention the absence of birth control. Matricide would soar, and Bill would certainly have his hands full.

Hannah started the coffee and arranged platters heaped high with Regency Ginger Crisps. She’d researched the period, but there were very few published recipes and none of them had sounded like cookies. She’d even paged through her mother’s collection of Regency romances for any mention of desserts, but all she’d found were vague references to “duffs,” “fruit compotes,” and “seed cakes.” Deciding that compromise was in order, Hannah had compiled a list of ingredients that had existed in Regency times and she’d discovered that an enterprising person could have baked ginger cookies. Whether they had actually done it was another question, but it would have been possible.

It didn’t take long for the meeting to conclude and Hannah was relieved to see that the guest speaker had slipped out the door. That was good. The woman seemed to know a lot about the Regency period, and Hannah hadn’t relished being exposed as a fraud. Most of the club members weren’t that serious about authenticity. They liked to read Regency romances and talk about them, but club meetings were primarily an excuse to get out of the house and share gossip and refreshments with their friends.

The moment the gavel descended, there was a scraping back of chairs and a headlong rush toward the refreshment table. Hannah was ready. She had tea and coffee, both “leaded” and “unleaded,” and her best silver platters heaped high with cookies. As she poured steaming beverages into bone-china cups—blue flowers for the decaf and pink flowers for regular—Hannah thought about the phone call she’d received from Bill before she’d left the shop. The homeless man, whose name was “Blaze,” was no longer a suspect. Reverend Warren Strandberg had picked him up just after Claire had seen him and taken him to the Bible Church soup kitchen for breakfast. At the time of Ron’s death, Blaze had been scarfing down pancakes with scrambled eggs in front of the reverend, several church volunteers, and some of his homeless peers.

“These are simply marvelous, Hannah.” Mrs. Diana Greer-son, wife of the local bank president and social climber par excellence, held a cup of herbal tea in one hand and nibbled on a cookie in the other, her pinkie extended.

“I’m so glad you like them, Diana.” Hannah motioned toward the platter. “Do have another.”

“Oh, I couldn’t. I eat like a bird, you know.”

The thought of a vulture tearing greedily at a carcass flashed before Hannah’s eyes. The last time she’d catered an event that Diana had attended, she’d caught her dropping at least a half-dozen Date Delights in her purse.

While Hannah poured and offered coffee or tea to the women in Lake Eden, she kept a sharp eye out for her mother. Before she’d even reached kindergarten age, she’d discovered that Delores had a barometer face. If her eyes snapped, a storm of criticism was imminent. If her lips turned up, their encounter would be sunny with compliments. If there was a crease between her perfectly plucked eyebrows, a rain of judgmental questions was about to fall. Even a bland expression meant something. It warned of sudden change, and Hannah knew that she had to be prepared to either shiver under her mother’s icy censure or bask in the warmth of her approval.