Chocolate Chip Cookie Murder (Hannah Swensen #1)(68)

“That’s certainly understandable.” Hannah made a note on her pad and passed it to Andrea. “Thank you, Mr. Harris. We appreciate your cooperation.”

Andrea waited until Hannah had hung up the phone and then she pointed to the note. “Mr. Harris was buying the Peterson place for his girlfriend?”

“That’s what he said. She broke off their engagement on Tuesday night. You would have sold it if she’d hung on for just one more day.”

“Oh, well. You win some and you lose some.” Andrea shrugged and drained the last of her wine. “After all I’ve been through tonight, I think I deserve another glass of wine. It’s really excellent, Hannah. I wasn’t sure at first, but it definitely has legs. There’s more, isn’t there?”

Hannah went off to fetch her sister another glass of Chateau Screw Top. If Andrea wanted to get a little smashed, that was fine with Hannah. She just hoped that when Bill arrived, Andrea wouldn’t need to be slung over his shoulder like a gunnysack and carried down the stairs.



The night wasn’t peaceful, not by a long shot, and when Hannah’s alarm went off at six the next morning, she felt as if she’d just closed her eyes. Her dreams had been peppered with bullet holes, blood, and stiff, cold legs sticking out like boards behind couches, chairs, and bookcases. There had even been a cow in her dreams—a huge, homicidal Guernsey that had chased her over fences and past bubbling vats of cream.

Hannah groaned and sat up in bed. Duty called. She had to bake the Black and Whites for the sheriff department’s open house.

As she padded into the kitchen, stepping carefully to avoid Moishe’s morning rubs against her ankles, she wondered about the new hotshot detective from the Minneapolis Police Department. Would he approve of the way that Bill was handling the double-homicide case? Sheriff Grant had obviously been impressed with the new man. According to Bill, he’d set up an interview the day that his application had come in the mail.

“Here’s your breakfast, Moishe.” Hannah dumped dry crunchies into Moishe’s bowl and gave him fresh water. Then she stumbled toward the coffeemaker and poured her first cup. She must be a caffeine addict. She really couldn’t function without a wake-up cup, or three, in the morning. She just hoped the FDA and the president’s drug czar didn’t ever turn her into a criminal by classifying coffee as a drug.

Some days it was easier to operate on automatic pilot. Hannah didn’t want to wake up to the point where she recognized how tired she really was. She slugged down only one cup of the steaming brew, enough so that she wouldn’t fall asleep and drown in the shower, and then she went back to her bedroom to get ready for work. When she had showered and dressed, she came out to empty the rest of the coffee into the large-sized car caddy that Bill had given her for Christmas. She refilled Moishe’s food bowl, grabbed her jacket and keys, and stepped out into the predawn freeze.

The blast of cold air that greeted Hannah caused her eyes to snap open all the way. Her breath came out in white puffs and she shivered her way down the outside stairway to the garage. It was time to break out her full winter gear.

The garage was deserted, the cars lined up in even rows against the painted cinderblock walls. Hannah hurried to her Suburban and jumped inside, cranking the motor over twice before it started. Time to plug in her truck, too.

The heater kicked in about the time she turned onto Old Lake Road. Hannah reached over and turned the levers on both vents to direct the warm air to her side of the vehicle. As she zipped down the dark road, she flipped on the radio, and the impossibly cheery voices of Jake and Kelly, the crazy duo that hosted KCOW’s “News At O’Dark-Thirty Show,” assaulted her ears. She switched to WEZY’s mellow strains and thought about the peculiar call letters of Minnesota radio stations. If the transmitter was east of the Mississippi River, the call letters started with a W. If it was west of the Mississippi, the call letters started with a K. The same was true for television stations. It was all controlled by the FCC. Hannah wondered what the bureaucrats would do if a station built a bridge over the Mississippi and mounted their transmitter in the middle.

Deliberately averting her eyes from the dairy as she passed it, Hannah made her way into town. There was no way she wanted to be reminded of Max’s lifeless body this early in the morning. She spotted Herb Beeseman a block from her shop and flagged him down. Plying him with the rest of the Chocolate-Covered Cherry Delights in exchange for information, she verified that he’d talked to Mr. Harris at the Peterson farm at eight on Wednesday morning.

Hannah pulled into her parking place at six forty-five. After she’d locked up her truck, she plugged in the head-bolt heater and opened the back door to the bakery. The sweet dark scent of chocolate greeted her, and Hannah began to smile. Next to coffee, chocolate was her favorite aroma.

After she’d flicked on the lights, fired up the ovens, stuck on her cap, and scrubbed her hands at the sink, Hannah got out a mixing bowl. She had to make a sample batch of Old-Fashioned Sugar Cookies for the woman who’d catered the Woodleys’ party.

Hannah poured herself a cup of coffee from the car caddy and read over the recipe while she ingested more caffeine. Mixing cookie dough was something she never did on automatic pilot. She’d tried it once and left out an ingredient that was essential to every cookie: sugar.

When the dough was ready, Hannah covered it with plastic wrap and stashed it in her walk-in cooler. The dough for the Black and Whites was thoroughly chilled and she grabbed a bowl and carried it over to the work island. She’d just finished rolling enough dough balls for two sheets of cookies when Lisa came in the back door.