Fudge Cupcake Murder (Hannah Swensen, #5)(37)

"Hi, Moishe," Hannah called out, opening the door to her condo and bracing herself to receive the flying ball of orange and white fur that hurtled itself in her arms. She carried him in the kitchen, set him down by his food bowl, and filled it with the food he liked. Then she headed off to her bedroom to put on her usual Sunday attire.

Five minutes later, dressed in jeans and an old pullover sweater, Hannah settled down on the couch to vegetate. She was a bit hungry, but that could wait. She wanted the mindless oblivion of a documentary on something of absolutely no interest to her. Then she could curl up and doze and perhaps catch up on some of the sleep she'd lost since Sheriff Grant had been killed.

Hannah woke up to a ringing phone and an announcer's nasal voice describing the mating habits of the dung beetle. She reached out for the phone and said hello before she realized that she could have let the answering machine get it.

"Oh, Hannah! I'm so glad you're home!"

It was Andrea's voice and Hannah almost groaned out loud. She wasn't sure she had the patience to sympathize with another domestic crisis tonight. But sisterly concern took precedence over things like sleep, and food, and personal time at home. "What's the matter, Andrea?"

"Bill cleaned out the refrigerator while we were at Sheriff Grant's funeral and he threw out all my nail polish!"

Hannah wondered if she should have her hearing checked. Or perhaps she was still asleep and this was one of those strange dreams that didn't make any sense. She could have sworn that Andrea had said nail polish. "Bill threw out your what?"

"My nail polish."

Hannah was relieved to know that her hearing was fine, and she must be awake if she'd heard Andrea correctly. But asleep or awake, she was still confused by her sister's answer. "Why do you keep nail polish in the refrigerator?"

"It lasts longer that way. You know how after you use about half a bottle, the rest gets all gunky and thick?"

"No."

Andrea sighed so loudly that Hannah could hear it over the line. "You'd know it if you wore nail polish. And you should, Hannah. Your nails are a disgrace. Mother and I were just talking about…"

"Forget it, Andrea," Hannah interrupted. "In my line of work, nail polish would last about five seconds before I ruined it."

"You're right, I suppose. Anyway… if you keep nail polish in the refrigerator, it doesn't dry out. I read that in a beauty tip column and it really works. I keep mine in those little round cups on the door."

"The egg keepers?"

"So that's what they're for! Anyway, I used to keep the bottles in the meat drawer, but they rolled around in there. I moved them to the egg keepers and they fit really nice."

"And Bill threw out all the bottles?"

"Well… he didn't actually throw them out, but he might just as well have. He took them out and put them in a box for safekeeping. And now he can't remember where he put the box. I just know that by the time we find it, the polish will be all gunky. That's why I need to get out of here, Hannah. I'm really mad at him and I have to cool off. And there's another reason, too."

"What's that?" Hannah asked, settling back on the sofa. This could take a while.

"Bill said that since Tracey's gone, he's going to clean out the attic tonight."

"Where's Tracey?"

"At Mother's. She called and asked if Tracey could stay overnight. I think she felt guilty because she turned me down the other day."

Hannah snorted. "Guilty? Mother?"

"You're right. That can't be it. But Bill's going to want me to go up to the attic with him and I just know we're going to have a big fight over which things to toss and which things to keep."

"And if you're busy and you can't help him, he might forget the attic and do something innocuous like watch sports on television?"

"Exactly. So what time can you pick me up?"

Hannah shook her head to clear it and glanced at her watch. It was already eight-fifteen. "Forty-five minutes?"

"Perfect. I'll think of some excuse for Bill. Just honk the horn when you get here and I'll come right out."



"I brought the list of suspects Nettie gave us," Andrea said, as Hannah backed out the driveway. "I thought we could go over it together and try to remember if we spotted any of them at the funeral."

"That's good. Where are we going?"

"Let's go to Bertanelli's. I'm in the mood for one of their pizzas."

"You didn't have dinner?"

"Of course I did, but I didn't eat very much. Bill made chicken and it wasn't very good. You drive and I'll call a couple of names on the way there."

Hannah glanced at her watch. It was already nine-fifteen. "It's a little late to call now, isn't it?"

"For here it is, but I haven't checked out Ivan Hill yet. He lives in California and it's only seven-fifteen out there."

Hannah took the road out of town. If Andrea wanted a pizza, that's what they'd get. "Who's Ivan Hill?"

"The father of the other boy in the car when Jamie was killed."

"Right," Hannah said and turned onto the highway. If what Nettie told them was accurate, Ivan Hill could be their killer. Sheriff Grant had been harassing Mr. Hill, calling him on the phone and trying to dig up evidence that his son had been drinking and driving, even when the initial accident report clearly stated that Jamie was behind the wheel. Sheriff Grant couldn't bring himself to blame his son, not even when the lab reports confirmed that Jamie's blood-alcohol level had been three times the legal limit. Nettie had said it was possible that the long-suffering Mr. Hill finally snapped and decided to end her husband's harassment.