Raspberry Danish Murder (Hannah Swensen #22)(107)

Cool Whip Fudge Frosting 121

Upside Down Pear Coffee Cake 135

Maple Crunch Cookies 148

Sweet and Salty Strawberry Bar Cookies 158

Chocolate Cashew Bar Cookies 186

Milk Chocolate Fudge Frosting 190

Chocolate Butterscotch Crunch Cookies 201

John’s Hockey Playoff Pizza Dip 211

Crunchy Salty Cheesy Prosciutto and

Asparagus Rolls 224

Almond Custard Pie 235

Raspberry Jam Glaze 239

Raisin and Almond Crunch Cookies 261

Butterscotch Marshmallow Bar Cookies 281

Piccadilly Cheese Mini Muffins 284

Orange Marmalade Filled Oatmeal Muffins 297

Chocolate Caramel Bar Cookies 309





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





VOLUME


U.S. Metric

? teaspoon 2 milliliters

1 teaspoon 5 milliliters

1 Tablespoon 15 milliliters

? cup 50 milliliters

? cup 75 milliliters

? cup 125 milliliters

? cup 175 milliliters

1 cup ? liter



WEIGHT

U.S. Metric

1 ounce 28 grams

1 pound 454 grams



OVEN TEMPERATURE

Degrees Fahrenheit Degrees Centigrade British (Regulo) 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.





A SMALL TOWN . . .

The moment Marian Larsen sees the patrol car stop outside her house, she feels a shiver of foreboding. The news is even worse than she feared. Marian’s husband and young daughter have been in a snowmobile crash. Dan is paralyzed and Laura is dead, her body broken on the icy ground.





. . . WITH A CHILLING SECRET

Friends and colleagues in Marian’s Minnesota hometown rally around to try and ease her grief. But soon there are more horrible accidents. Then the rumors start—that these are not coincidences at all, that someone is picking off victims one by one. And as winter deepens, the search for answers will reveal a killer whose blood runs colder than the blinding snow . . .





Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Joanne Fluke’s WINTER CHILL now on sale wherever print and e-books are sold!





Chapter One


“Lord, we commit unto Thee this body . . . ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .” Marian shuddered, turning her face away from the small white coffin. Freshly falling snow left her face wet with the tears she could not shed. She leaned against Sally Powell’s supporting arm and shut her eyes tightly. This wasn’t real. It was only a dream, and she would wake soon to put on the coffee and call Laura and Dan for school.

Last night she had driven home from the hospital after hours of watching Dan in his merciful coma. As she turned past the small cemetery, she saw with horror that one section was in flames. The men at the fire department were kind. They explained haltingly, embarrassed at her ignorance. The ground was frozen; it had to be thawed before a new grave could be excavated.

In the darkness of her living room she had peered through the windowpane, watching the banked fire cast a flickering red glow on the fresh snow. She had hugged herself there in the empty house, pretending that Laura was upstairs sleeping in her yellow-curtained room, that it was all a terrible mistake. But when she looked again, the fire was still there, thawing the ground for her baby’s grave.

“Hang on, Marian. . . . It’s almost over.” Sally’s arm tightened around her shoulders. Tears were running down her friend’s face, and Marian felt a stab of resentment. She should be the one to cry, not Sally. She had lost her baby, and Jenny was still alive. But it wasn’t right to resent Sally. Her grief was real. Sally had loved Laura, too.

It popped into her mind with sudden clarity, her high school’s production of Our Town. She had played the part of Rebecca, Emily’s sister-in-law. The night of the performance was a revelation. These were the same friends she had shared sandwiches and class notes with. Then, in costumes and stage makeup, they were total strangers.

It was the same feeling she had now, the same sense of unreality as she faced her neighbors and coworkers. She was playing the part of a grief-stricken mother, delivering the correct lines, making the proper gestures to an audience of nameless strangers. She was incapable of honest emotion. This was merely a performance. It was not real. She was not real.

*

He had been aware of the voice for some time now, but he was too tired to care.

“Vital signs are normal, Doctor. Are there any further instructions?”

“Continue with the IV, and turn him once an hour. The funeral’s this afternoon. Marian’s coming in later. Run the blood work again, and call me immediately if there’s any change.”

He tried to open his eyes, but there was something heavy on his eyelids. All he could do was listen, barely breathing, as footsteps receded. There was a stabbing pain in his arm and the realization that the voices had been talking about him!

This time it worked. He opened his eyes and stared at the white-clad figure leaning over him.