Key Lime Pie Murder. Joanne Fluke

      At precisely eight forty-five on the second Monday morning in June, Hannah Swensen took a number from the deli-style dispenser mounted on a pole next to the secretary’s desk and plunked herself down in one of the nondescript chairs in the nondescript waiting room to wait her turn.

      It was hot and muggy, standard fare for this time of year. While other states boasted of fish that jumped, living that was easy, and cotton that was high, summertime in Minnesota was just the opposite. The muggy heat caused fish to lurk at the bottom of the lake, totally unmoved by even the tastiest bait, and the living was far from easy, especially if you owned a family farm. The corn might be knee high by the Fourth of July, if it was a good year, but the only thing that was high in the second week of June was the humidity.

      A low rumble made Hannah frown. She hoped the sound came from one of the big trucks she’d seen delivering carnival rides to the midway and not from gathering storm clouds. This was the first day of the Tri-County Fair and the gates opened at noon. The coming week would be like a holiday, with hundreds passing through the turnstiles to look at the exhibits, enjoy the rides on the midway, and attend the rodeo that was held every afternoon.

      Hannah brushed several orange cat hairs from her tan slacks. They landed on the seat of the orange plastic chair next to her. Although she vacuumed every weekend, it was a losing battle. Her orange and white tomcat, Moishe, contributed twice as much hair as she collected in the bag of her vacuum. There were times when Hannah seriously considered installing an orange and white carpet, buying orange and white furniture, and eating only orange and white food during the shedding season. It wouldn’t cut down on the cat hair, but it would be camouflaged. At least she wouldn’t be aware of how many strands she was walking on, sitting on, and ingesting.

      This type of chair would work. Hannah couldn’t even see where the cat hairs had landed. But spending more time in a chair like this was something to be avoided. It was a clone to every other molded plastic chair in every other waiting room in the state. Perhaps it was true that form followed function, but in this case it was horribly uncomfortable and as ugly as sin.

      Rather than glance at her watch for the third time in as many minutes, Hannah thought about why so many businesses bought these chairs for their waiting rooms. The plastic was impervious to spills and scratches, and they did add a splash of color to an otherwise drab room. The chairs were bolted to rails that conjoined them as sextuplets. Hannah supposed that this was meant to discourage theft, but she seriously doubted that anyone would want to steal them anyway.

      Sitting up straight didn’t help to relieve the strain on her back, so Hannah tried slouching. That was even worse. A little notice stamped on the back of the chair in front of her said that it had been designed to fit the average body. And that brought up another question. Was anybody truly average? Average was a statistical tool that took tall people over six feet, added them to short people under five feet, and came up with an average of five and a half feet. Hannah knew from bitter experience not to buy slacks marked average. They were too short for tall people and too long for short people. Perhaps somewhere there might be a handful of people the slacks would fit, but Hannah had never met them. And if these chairs were designed for an average body, it was clear that the model the manufacturer had used bore little resemblance to Hannah. Looking around her, Hannah suspected that she wasn’t alone. Everyone who was waiting to see the secretary at the Tri-County Fairgrounds looked just as uncomfortable as she did.

      “Swensen?” the secretary called out, and Hannah walked over to take the seat in front of the secretary’s desk that had been recently vacated by a man in work clothes and a hard hat. “I need some information from you before I can issue your pass.”

      Hannah waited while the woman opened a drawer and pulled out a book of bound and printed forms. She flipped it open, retrieved her pen, and looked up at Hannah. “Your full name please?”

      “Hannah Louise Swensen.”

      “Marital status?”

      “Single.”

      “Age?”

      “Thirty.” Hannah gave a little sigh. This was June and her thirty-first birthday was in July. When did a woman become a spinster? Had it happened last year when she hit thirty? Or would the women’s movement grant her a reprieve so she wouldn’t enter the old maid’s category until she reached forty? This was a question she could ponder by herself, but she certainly wouldn’t discuss it with her mother! Delores Swensen wasn’t reticent about reminding her eldest daughter that her biological clock was ticking.

      “Street address?”

      “Forty-six thirty-seven Maytime Lane,” Hannah replied, smiling a bit as she gave the address of her condo complex. Maybe she was a spinster but she owned her own home and business.

      “City and state?”

      “Lake Eden, Minnesota.”

      “And your reason for applying for a pass?”

      As usual, she’d probably bit off more than she could chew. But what else could she have done when Pam Baxter, the Jordan High Home Economics teacher, had called her in a panic at six o’clock this morning to say that Edna Ferguson had been taken to Lake Eden Memorial Hospital for an emergency appendectomy? Pam had practically begged Hannah to fill in on the judging panel, and of course she’d agreed. “I’m a last-minute replacement on the panel to judge the baked goods at the Creative Arts Building,” she said.

      “Lucky you!” The secretary looked up with a smile that instantly humanized her.

      “Really?”

      “You’d better believe it! That’s a job I wouldn’t mind having. I love desserts and I need to lose a few pounds.”

      Hannah blinked. “You want to judge the baked goods contest because you need to lose a few pounds?”

      “That’s right. My aunt lost thirty pounds when she took a job at a chocolate factory. They let her eat all the candy she wanted, and after the first couple of days, she stopped eating it. She’s been retired for ten years, and she still can’t stand the sight of chocolate.”

      “That wouldn’t work for me,” Hannah told her.

      “How do you know?”

      “I own a bakery and I still love desserts.”

      The secretary sighed as she handed Hannah her pass. “It probably wouldn’t work for me, either. Say…is your bakery called The Cookie Jar?”

      “That’s right.”

      “Then I’m almost positive you’re going to win blue!”

      “Blue?”

      “A blue ribbon. I don’t mean you personally, but the man who took your picture for the photography exhibit. I saw it last night and it’s the best in the show.”

      Less than five minutes later, Hannah was staring at the entry that the secretary thought would take first place in the photography exhibit. It was a candid picture, she hadn’t even realized it was being taken, and it was undoubtedly the most flattering photo anyone had ever taken of her.

      Hannah felt the smile begin in her mind, spread out to her face, and flow right on down to the soles of her feet. She felt as if she were smiling all over as she gazed at the photo. It was a wonderful picture, and she could hardly believe that she was the subject! First of all, her hair wasn’t sticking up in wiry curls the way it usually did, and it looked more auburn than red. And if that weren’t enough to please her, she appeared at least ten pounds thinner than she actually was. Both of her eyes were open, her pose wasn’t awkward or contrived, and the half-smile on her lips was intriguing. This photo was a miracle, and Hannah knew it. Any photographer who could make her look good deserved a blue ribbon and then some!

      Norman Rhodes had taken it, of course. Hannah’s sometimes boyfriend divided his time between his vocation of dentistry, his avocation of photography, and his habit of being a prince of a guy Hannah knew she should probably marry. Unfortunately,