Chapter Two
Hannah added sugar to a bowl of heavy cream and finished whipping it during the weather report. It was hot under the lights, and she hoped it wouldn’t turn to soup. When it was stiff enough to hold a peak, she folded in the sour cream. In addition to adding a new taste dimension, the sour cream helped the sweetened whipped cream keep its shape. Just as she was about to dip her finger into the bowl, she remembered that she was on camera and settled for tasting it with a spoon. Then she ladled a big scoop of Lisa’s homegrown strawberries onto the slice of cake, put on generous dollops of her whipped cream mixture, popped a perfect whole berry in the center, and sprinkled brown sugar over the top. Her original creation, Strawberry Shortcake Swensen, was ready to serve to the newscasters.
The stage manager, a short, heavyset man who possessed more energy than anyone Hannah had ever met before, gave her a signal to get ready. The weather report had concluded and Chuck Wilson, the handsome, chisel-faced anchorman, was just winding up with a reminder for the viewers to stay tuned for the Hartland Flour Dessert Bake-Off, right after the network “World News”.
Hannah’s heart started to pound as she picked up the serving tray. She’d practiced all this in rehearsal, but carrying an empty tray wasn’t the same as managing a serving platter loaded with cake, plates, and forks. Careful not to trip over the heavy cables that were taped to the stage floor with something Mason Kimball called “gaffer’s tape,” but looked like plain old duct tape to her, Hannah put on the brightest smile she could muster and made her way to the long curved news desk, where the four newscasters sat. Careful not to let her smile slip, Mason had warned her about that, she presented her dessert to each of them in turn.
Hannah stood by while they oohed and aahed and then tasted her dessert. Chuck Wilson, the anchorman, made a comment about how expensive out-of-season strawberries could be. Where did Hannah find them this time of year? Hannah smiled and replied that her assistant, Lisa Herman, had grown them in her greenhouse. Dee-Dee Hughes, Chuck’s anorexic co-anchor, asked how many calories were in each slice of shortcake. Hannah said she really didn’t know, but she didn’t think it mattered because people on diets usually passed when it came to dessert. Wingo Jones, the sportscaster, said he thought pro athletes should use Strawberry Shortcake Swensen to carb up before each game. Hannah’s smile was wearing a little thin by then, but she managed to say that she thought it might be a good idea. The only member of the news team who didn’t make some sort of insipid comment was the weatherman, Rayne Phillips, who continued forking shortcake into his mouth until he’d finished every bite.
The moment the news was over, Hannah went back to the kitchen set to pack up her supplies. She opened the oven and found it as bare as Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. Edna had already whisked the unbaked cakes away to the school kitchen. Rather than juggle all the half-filled bowls, Hannah decided to assemble the dessert and carry it home that way. She dumped the rest of Lisa’s strawberries over the top of the cake, frosted with the whipped cream mixture, added the whole berries she’d reserved for a garnish, and sprinkled on the extra brown sugar. Then she clamped the domed lid on her cake carrier, stacked the utensils and bowls she’d used in the cardboard carriers she’d brought, and lugged everything backstage.
“You were great out there, Hannah.” Andrea was waiting for her in the wings, and she helped Hannah carry her things to the metal shelves that had been set up against the back wall.
“Thanks,” Hannah acknowledged the compliment, and looked around for her niece. When Hannah had repeated Norman’s conversation and Mr. Hart had learned that one of his judges had to be excused, he’d asked Tracey to choose the fifth member of the panel from a glass bowl containing the names of the Lake Eden Town Council. “Where’s Tracey?”
“She’s still in makeup. Bill’s bringing her here just as soon as she’s through.”
“She’s not nervous, is she?”
Andrea shook her head. “She thinks it’s fun. You’re taping it, aren’t you, Hannah? Bill set our VCR before we left the house, but I need a backup copy.”
“You’ll have two. I’m taping it, and so is Mother.”
“Mother?” Andrea’s eyebrows shot up. “She still hasn’t figured out how to set her VCR. When our cable was out, I asked her to tape a movie for me and she got two hours of Richard Simmons.”
Hannah reached out to pat her sister on the shoulder. “Calm down, Andrea. Lisa’s taping it, and so are most of my customers. You’ll have dozens of backups. I can almost guarantee it.”
“I hope so. This is Tracey’s very first television appearance, and you never know when a big-name producer might be watching. That’s how they discover child stars.”
Hannah managed a smile, the same smile she’d used when she’d been forced to listen to the idiotic comments three of the four newscasters had made about her shortcake. She wasn’t about to tell Andrea how unlikely it was that any big-name producer would be watching KCOW local television.
“I’d better go see what’s keeping Tracey.” Andrea took a step toward the door, then turned back. “You should try to do something with your hair before the contest starts. It’s all frizzy from the lights.”
* * *
Hannah felt awkward and self-conscious as the cameraman panned the judges’ table. At least she didn’t have to worry about being discovered. No big-name producer would look twice at a too-tall, slightly overweight woman pushing thirty with a perpetual dusting of flour on her face. But Tracey looked beautiful, and Hannah was proud of her niece. Tracey’s blond hair resembled spun gold under the lights, and she was poised as she dipped her hand in the large crystal bowl and drew out the name of the replacement judge.
“Thank you, Tracey.” Mr. Hart beamed at her as she presented him with the slip of paper. “You didn’t draw your daddy’s name, did you?”
Tracey shook her head. “He’s not on the city council, Mr. Hart. My daddy’s a detective with the Winnetka County Sheriff’s Station.”
“Do you know what a detective does, Tracey?” Mr. Hart asked.
“Yes. A detective investigates crimes. If someone gets murdered, my daddy collects all the evidence, catches the killer, and keeps him locked up in jail until they have the trial.”
It was obvious that Mr. Hart was startled, but he managed a smile. “That was a very good answer, Tracey. I’d ask you to read the name of the new judge, but you’re not in school yet, are you?”
“I’m in preschool, Mr. Hart. That’s where you go if you’re not old enough for kindergarten. But I know how to read. If you give me the paper, I can tell you what it says.”
The camera zoomed in on Mr. Hart’s surprised face as he handed the slip of paper back to Tracey. Hannah watched as Tracey unfolded it and silently sounded out the words. Then she looked up at Mr. Hart and announced, “The substitute judge is… Mr. Boyd Watson.”
The lights came up in the audience and everyone applauded as Boyd Watson, Jordan High’s winningest coach, stood up. Hannah could see that Boyd’s sister, Maryann, was seated next to him, but his wife, Danielle, wasn’t present. She hoped there wasn’t a sinister reason for that. Several months previously, Hannah had discovered that Coach Watson bartered his wife. Danielle hadn’t been willing to press charges, but Hannah had confided in Bill, and he’d promised to keep an eye on Boyd to make sure it didn’t happen again.
Once Boyd had taken a seat in the empty chair next to Hannah, Mr. Hart introduced the night’s contestants and sent them off to the kitchen sets to add the finishing touches to their desserts. While the contestants were slicing, decorating, and arranging their creations on plates, he explained the mechanics of the contest.
There were twelve semifinalists in the Hartland Flour Dessert Bake-Off, all winners of local and regional contests. The first four contestants had baked this afternoon, and samples of their desserts would be presented to each judge. While the panel was tasting and critiquing the entries, there would be a montage of the contestants and their families for the viewers and the audience to watch. When that segment was over, the scores would be tallied and each judge would comment on the entries. A winner would be chosen, and that lucky contestant would advance to the finals on Saturday night.
Hannah waited until the contestants had presented their samples and the montage was on the screen. Then she turned to Boyd, and asked, “Where’s Danielle?”
“She’s home.” Boyd raised a forkful of cherry pie to his mouth and tasted it. He didn’t look happy as he swallowed. “Just like my mother used to make, so sweet it makes your teeth ache.”
Hannah tasted her own piece of pie and decided that Boyd was right. “She didn’t want to come tonight?”
“My mother?”
“No, Danielle.” Hannah wrote down a score and moved on to the second offering, a slice of nut-filled pastry.
“Danielle’s sick.”
“Is it serious?” Hannah watched for signs of guilt on Boyd’s face, but he was perfectly impassive.
“It’s just a winter cold. She’s taking a bunch of over-the-counter stuff for it.” Boyd tasted a piece of the nut-filled pastry and made a face as he chewed. “My mother used to make this, too. I hate things that are loaded with this much cinnamon.”
Hannah tasted her own slice and found she had to agree with Boyd again. The cinnamon and nutmeg overpowered the flavor of the nuts. She wrote down her score and turned to the third dessert, a slice of orange cake. “Has she seen a doctor?”
“She says she doesn’t need one. Danielle hates to go to the doctor.”
Rather than make any comment, Hannah tasted the orange cake. She could understand why Danielle was afraid to get medical attention. Doctors asked questions, and they were required to report anything that indicated possible abuse.
“This is too bitter.” Boyd pushed the orange cake away and moved on to the fourth dessert.
Hannah swallowed her bite of orange cake and sighed. Boyd was right again. The contestant had grated in too much white with the orange zest.
“Not bad,” Boyd commented as he tasted the last dessert, a lemon tart. “As a matter of fact, it’s the best one here. Of course, there wasn’t much competition.”
Hannah moved on to the lemon tart. The crust was tender and flaky with butter, and the filling was both tangy and sweet. It was definitely the winner. Boyd had been right about all four entries, and his objections mirrored hers exactly. She still didn’t like him—he was arrogant and brutal—but he did have an educated palate.
The red light on the camera covering the panel of judges came on again, and the interviewing began. As the lead judge, Hannah was the last to be interviewed, and she listened to her colleagues with interest. They were very tactful in critiquing the desserts, and the first three judges liked the lemon tart best.
Then it was Boyd’s turn and Hannah winced inwardly as he repeated the same comments he’d made to her. She’d heard one of his team members remark, “Coach calls ‘em like he sees ‘em,” but Hannah thought that Boyd’s criticism could have been sweetened with a few compliments.
Hannah wasn’t a tactful person herself, but she did her best when her turn came. She praised all the contestants for; their efforts and reminded the audience that all four of them had won local and regional contests. She found something nice to say about each dessert, but the damage had been done, and Hannah could tell that there were hurt feelings. After the winning contestant had received her blue finalist ribbon, the program ended and Hannah filed out into the wings with Boyd.
“You could have been a little kinder, Boyd,” Hannah chided him the instant they were backstage. “There wasn’t any reason to make the contestants feel bad.”
Boyd stared at her, obviously confused. It was clear he had no clue why Hannah was upset. “But feelings have no place in a competition like this. Either you win, or you don’t. There’s no sense in sugarcoating it. If you don’t come in first, you’re a loser.”
Hannah was speechless for a moment, an unusual circumstance for her. She knew she had to try to change Boyd’s attitude before the next night of the contest, but she wasn’t sure how to go about it. She’d have to think it all out when she got home and call him in for a talk in the morning. For the time being, it was best to keep the peace.
“I saw you making that strawberry shortcake.” Boyd changed the subject. “Too bad you couldn’t enter the contest. I bet it would have won, hands down.”
That gave Hannah an idea. Danielle was sick, and she might like something she didn’t have to cook. “Boyd?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve got some leftover shortcake. Would you like to take it home?”
Boyd looked surprised at the offer. “Sure. Strawberry shortcake’s our favorite.”
“Good. You have a discerning palate, and you can critique it for me.” Hannah walked over to retrieve the cake carrier and handed it over to him. “I’m expanding my menu at The Cookie Jar to include some desserts.”
Boyd grinned as he spied the fresh berries through the plastic top of the cake carrier. “I’ll make sure Danielle gets most of the strawberries. Fresh fruit is good for a cold. Thanks, Hannah.”
Hannah just shook her head as he walked away. There was no doubt in her mind that Boyd loved Danielle, but he still lashed out at her physically. And Danielle loved Boyd, in spite of the injuries she’d suffered. Hannah doubted she’d ever understand their abusive relationship, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to try. She just hoped that it wouldn’t end in the kind of tragedy that was splashed all over the papers.
* * *
“I’m home, Moishe,” Hannah announced, bending down to catch the orange streak that hurtled itself at her ankles the moment she opened her condo door. Moishe was always glad to see her when she came home, especially when she’d gone out at night. She preferred to think that he’d missed her, but perhaps it was only because he couldn’t fill his food bowl by himself. She gave him a scratch under the chin, then she said, “Just let me change into my sweats, and I’ll get your bedtime snack.”
Once she’d hung up the lovely mocha brown dress Claire Rodgers had provided from Beau Monde Fashions, Hannah changed into her oldest sweatpants and top and walked to the kitchen, the room she considered the heart of a home. She filled a cut-glass dessert dish with vanilla yogurt for Moishe, poured herself a glass of white wine from the gallon jug in the bottom of her refrigerator, and settled down on the couch to watch the tape she’d made of the news and the contest.
The local news, which she’d heard before, was of little interest. Seeing herself in the background, however, was a bit of a shock. She didn’t look half-bad. Her white bib-style apron, with “THE COOKIE JAR” printed in red block letters on the front, showed up well on camera. Stan Kramer would be pleased, since he’d deducted the cost of her aprons as an advertising expense.
Hannah assessed her performance and found nothing to criticize. She was efficient, she didn’t drop any of the ingredients, and she juggled the mixer and the spatula like a pro. Of course she was a pro, a fact that always gave her a pleasant jolt of surprise.
Moishe showed no interest in the program until he heard Hannah’s voice, answering the question that Chuck Wilson, the anchorman, had asked her. He looked up from his empty dessert dish and stared at the television with his ears laid back. Hannah reached out to give him a reassuring scratch, but he backed up just out of her reach. Moishe stared at her for a moment, the tip of his tail flicking, and then he began to make a sound like a growl, deep in his throat.
“It’s just a tape, Moishe.” Hannah picked up the control and put the tape on pause, freezing Dee-Dee Hughes’s perfect face and catching her with her mouth open.
The moment the audio stopped, Moishe made a flying leap to the top of the television where he assumed the Halloween Cat position, his back stiffly arched and his tail puffed up to three times its normal size. Something had obviously upset him. Hannah thought about it for a minute and hit on a possible reason.
“Come down, Moishe,” Hannah called him, patting the cushion next to her. “I’m not in the television. I’m right here on the couch.”
But Moishe refused to be coaxed, and Hannah started the tape again to see if her theory was correct. The moment her voice reemerged from the speakers, Moishe yowled loudly, swiveling his head to look at her and then back, to stare at the television. She wasn’t anthropomorphizing. Moishe was truly reacting to what he viewed as an immutable breach of physics.
“I give up,” Hannah muttered, muting the sound and giving in to her pet’s peculiar reaction. If Moishe yowled through the whole program, she wouldn’t be able to hear the dialogue anyway. She was about to fast-forward through the World News, to make sure she’d taped the bake-off, when the phone rang.
Hannah glanced at the clock as she answered. It was ten o’ clock, and it was probably Andrea, checking to see if she’d gotten a good tape of Tracey’s television debut.
“Hannah! I’m so glad you’re home! It’s… it’s Danielle Watson.”
“Hi, Danielle.” Hannah caught the furry orange-and-white bundle that landed in her lap. Moishe had obviously forgiven her for confusing him with the tape. “How’s your cold?”
“Hannah… please! Can you come over right away? I… I didn’t know who else to call.”
“What’s wrong, Danielle?” Hannah imagined the worst. The last time she’d gone to Danielle’s house, she’d found her nursing a black eye. “Is it Boyd?”
“Yes. I can’t say anymore. Please, Hannah?”
“Relax, I’m on my way.” Hannah hung up the phone, tipped Moishe off her lap, and grabbed her purse and her parka. Danielle had sounded very upset, and perhaps, this time, she’d be willing to press charges against the man who had broken his promise to love, cherish, and protect her from harm.
* * *
In less than fifteen minutes, Hannah was ringing Danielle’s doorbell. If Boyd was home, it would be an awkward situation, and it might even be dangerous. Bill had told her that domestic violence calls were a deputy’s nightmare, ranking second only to “officer down”. The door opened, and Danielle pulled her in, clutching at her like a drowning person.
“What’s the matter, Danielle?” Hannah shut the door. The neighbors didn’t need to see Danielle in this state. She was crying, she had a black eye, and her face was so pale, Hannah wondered if she was going to faint.
“It’s… it’s Boyd,” Danielle choked out the words. “He’s… he’s… in the garage.”
“Show me.” Hannah took Danielle’s arm, half-supporting her as they walked through the kitchen and into the attached garage.
At first glance, Hannah didn’t see anything wrong. Both cars were parked in their usual places, and the fluorescent light over Boyd’s workbench was on. The garage was as neat as a pin, if you didn’t count the oil spots on the floor. Hannah figured that one of their cars must have a leak. Each tool had its own place on the pegboard over the workbench, and the outlines of the tools were painted in blue. All the outlines were filled except one, and Hannah noticed a shiny ball peen hammer lying on the floor by Danielle’s car.
Hannah stared at the hammer, glistening in the light. It was out of place, but perhaps Boyd had been doing some repairs and he’d forgotten to put it away.
“He’s… he’s over here.”
As Danielle led her toward Boyd’s Grand Cherokee, Hannah spotted the plastic cover of her cake carrier. It had rolled under his car, and it was peeking out by the rear wheel. Then they rounded the side of the Grand Cherokee and Hannah gasped. Jordan High’s head basketball coach was sprawled on the cement floor, lying in a gooey splotch of cake, whipped cream, and crushed berries.
Hannah gave a fleeting thought to her dessert. What a waste. Danielle would have loved it. Then she stepped closer and swallowed past the lump that rose in her throat. The red splotches on the concrete weren’t from the crushed strawberries; they were from Boyd’s crushed skull. He was dead. There was no doubt in Hannah’s mind. No one could lose that much blood and live.