Blueberry Muffin Murder. Joanne Fluke

look. He wasn’t fond of Delores Swensen, and Hannah’s mother had six pairs of shredded pantyhose to prove it. Hannah stood up to grab the wall phone and sat back down again. Her mother wasn’t known for brevity. “Good morning, Mother.”

      “You really shouldn’t answer that way, Hannah. What if I’d been someone else?”

      Hannah gave a fleeting thought to the logic class she’d taken in college. It was impossible for someone to be someone else. She decided not to argue the point—it would only prolong their conversation—and she settled for her standard reply. “I knew it was you, Mother. It’s never anyone else at five-thirty in the morning. How are the shuttle sleighs coming along?”

      “They’re all ready to go, and that includes the one that Al Percy’s uncle donated.” Delores gave a rueful laugh. “You should have seen it, Hannah. It was such a wreck that all they could keep were the runners and the hardware. The shop class had to build a whole new body and it looks fabulous.”

      “Great,” Hannah commented, and took another sip of her coffee. Delores had been instrumental in helping Mayor Bascomb round up sleighs for the Jordan High shop class to rejuvenate. She had a real knack for ferreting out antiques, and old sleighs in decent condition weren’t easy to locate.

      “I found a picture on a Christmas card and they modeled it after that. The boys are lining it with white fur throws today, and we’re going to use it for the Prince and Princess of Winter.”

      Hannah pictured it in her mind. It sounded perfect for the Winter Carnival royalty. “How many sleighs do you have?”

      “Twelve.” There was a note of pride in Delores’s voice. “And before I got involved last month, they only had two.”

      “You did a great job. I’ll bet you could get a fleet rate on the insurance with a dozen.”

      There was a silence, and Hannah heard her mother draw in her breath sharply. “Insurance? I hope the Winter Carnival Committee thought of that! Why, someone could fall off and sue the town, and—”

      “Relax, Mother,” Hannah interrupted her. “Howie Levine’s on the committee and he’s a lawyer. I’m sure he thought of it.”

      “I hope so! I’ll call the mayor this morning, just to make sure. I promised to call anyway, to tell him when the Ezekiel Jordan House was finished.”

      “It’s all finished?”

      “It will be this morning. All I have to do is hang the drapes and put up some pictures in the parlor.”

      “Good work, Mother,” Hannah complimented her. She knew that Delores hadn’t been given much time to whip the project into shape. At their January meeting, the Lake Eden Historical Society had decided to create a full-scale replica of the first mayor’s house for the Winter Carnival crowd to tour, and they’d rented the two-story building next to Hannah’s cookie shop for the purpose. Since Delores was Lake Eden’s foremost antique expert and a founding member of the historical society, she had taken on the project. Carrie Rhodes had volunteered to help her, and when the two mothers weren’t actively working on the re-creation, they were busy making plans to marry Hannah off to Carrie’s son, Norman.

      Replicating the Ezekiel Jordan House was a difficult task. Since there were no existing pictures, Delores and Carrie had contacted the first mayor’s descendants to request any information they might have about the five-room dwelling. One of Mrs. Jordan’s great-great-grandnieces had responded by sending a box of her ancestor’s effects and a stack of letters that the first mayor’s wife had written to her family back east. In several of the letters, Abigail Jordan had described her home and furniture in detail, and Delores had used her knowledge of antiques to fill in the blanks.

      “Will you have time to stop by this morning, Hannah?” Delores sounded a bit tentative, and that was unusual for her. “I’d like your input before anyone else sees it.”

      “Sure. Just bang on my back door when you’re ready and I’ll dash over. But you’re the antique expert. Why do you need my input?”

      “For the kitchen,” Delores explained. “It’s the only room Abigail Jordan didn’t describe. She talks about baking in every one of her letters, and I’m not sure I have all the utensils in the proper places.”

      “I’ll check it out,” Hannah promised, knowing full well that her mother had never used a flour sifter or rolling pin in her life. Delores didn’t bake and she made no bones about it. The desserts of Hannah’s childhood had always come straight from the Red Owl grocery store shelves.

      “Thank you, dear. I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have to get off the line. Carrie’s picking me up and she said she’d call when she left her house.”

      “Okay. Bye, Mother.” Hannah hung up the phone and made a mental note to tell her sister, Andrea, never to mention the option of call-waiting to their mother. This morning’s call had been the shortest in history. After a glance at her apple-shaped kitchen clock, Hannah rinsed out her coffee cup, refilled Moishe’s food bowl for the final time, and scratched him near the base of his tail, an action that always made him arch his back and purr. “I’ve got to run, Moishe. See you tonight.”

      Hannah had a routine to perform before she left her condo in the winter. She shrugged into her parka, zipped it up, and pulled her navy blue stocking cap down over her unmanageable red curls. Then she went into the living room to turn the thermostat down to an energy-saving sixty-five degrees, flicked on the television to keep Moishe company, picked up her purse, and slipped on her fur-lined gloves. She gave Moishe one more pat, checked to make sure she had her keys, and stepped out into the dark, frigid morning that still looked like the middle of the night.

      The security lights on the side of the building went on as Hannah descended the outside staircase. Because of the Northern latitude, they got a real workout during the winter, when the days were short and the sun shone for less than eight hours. Most Lake Eden residents drove to work in the dark and came home in the dark, and if they worked in a place without windows, there were days at a stretch when they never caught a glimpse of the sun.

      Hannah blinked in the glare of the high-wattage bulbs, designed to ensure a crime-free environment, and held onto the railing as she went down the steps. Once she arrived at ground level, another set of stairs led to the underground garage. Hannah was about to descend them when a tough-sounding male voice rang out behind her.

      “Put up your hands and face the wall, lady. Do exactly what I say, or I’ll blow you away!”

      Chapter Two

      Hannah wasn’t sure whether to be frightened or angry as she raised her hands in the air. There’d never been any sort of crime in her condo complex before, and it was the last thing she’d expected. Mike Kingston, head of the Winnetka County Sheriff’s Detective Division, had promised to teach her some self-defense moves, but he hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Hannah dated him occasionally, and after two separate occasions when she’d found herself in imminent danger of occupying one of Doc Knight’s steel tables at the morgue, Mike had suggested she learn what to do if someone threatened bodily harm.

      Even though she didn’t appreciate being waylaid only a few feet from her door in a condo complex that had been gated to keep out intruders, Hannah knew she shouldn’t take foolish risks. She took a deep breath and dutifully recited the phrase that her father had drummed into her head when she’d gone off to college. “Take anything you want, but please don’t hurt me.”

      “Hug the wall and don’t move a muscle. Keep your hands up where I can see them.”

      Hannah frowned as she followed his orders. His voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. She was still trying to identify it when a snowball splattered harmlessly over her head, raining snow down on the top of her stocking cap.

      “Gotcha!”

      The moment the man laughed, his voice was paired with a freckled face in Hannah’s mind and she whirled around angrily. “Greg