Christmas Caramel Murder (6 page)

“Do you still have the receipt?”

“Yes. It's in my purse. I'll get it for you. But I don't understand why you need . . .” Hannah stopped in mid-sentence as the full implication of Mike's questioning hit her. “Do you think that Lisa killed Phyllis?”

“Anything's possible when jealousy is a motive. But no, I don't think that Lisa killed her. I just know that I have to clear her, especially because her car was parked in the back row of the parking lot and that's about where Phyllis would have tumbled down the ditch.”

“The sandwiches are ready!” Michelle called out from the kitchen. “Are you ready to eat, Mike?”

“I'm ready,” Mike said, giving Hannah a little hug before he stood up to go to the table. “Don't worry, Hannah. I'll get to the bottom of this.”

Hannah went to the table, tasted a corner of Michelle's sandwich, and pronounced it excellent. Then she sat there while the others ate and the conversation flowed around her. She made a comment once in a while, just so that no one would notice that she was preoccupied, and she gave a sigh of relief when the evening was over and Michelle went to bed.

Once the condo was silent, Hannah sat on the couch in the darkness with Moishe purring on her lap. She thought about everything that had happened during the day. Yes, even though it was unlikely, it was possible that Herb had killed Phyllis. And even though she felt like a traitor for admitting it, it was also possible that Lisa's temper had flared when she'd seen Phyllis in the parking lot, and she'd struck out with whatever hard object had been at hand.

Hannah shivered and bent over to hug Moishe. His purr was comforting, and she was glad he was keeping her company tonight. Phyllis had craved being the center of attention. She had gloried in causing trouble because it made her feel sexy and powerful. This time, Phyllis had caused trouble for two of Hannah's best friends, her partner, Lisa, and her former high school classmate, Herb. What Phyllis had done was far-reaching. It might have wrecked Lisa and Herb's marriage, and that made Hannah angry and sad at the same time. Perhaps it was a lucky thing that Phyllis wasn't here, sitting next to Hannah on the couch right now.

What Mike had said tonight was true. Anyone was capable of murder under the right circumstances. Even Hannah Swensen.

“D
ad!”

Hannah sat bolt upright in bed and stared at the familiar shape that had materialized at the foot of her bed. “What are you doing here? You're . . . you're . . . I thought that you were . . .” Unable to say that awful, final word, she fell silent, merely staring at her father.

“Dead? I am, but they let me come here to be your Ghost of Christmas Past tonight.”

“Then you're a . . . a ghost?”

“That's right. They're only going to let me maintain my human shape for a few more minutes. They wanted you to recognize me so that you wouldn't be frightened.”

A million questions flew through Hannah's mind, and she turned to look at Moishe. He was staring at her with his one good eye and totally ignoring her father. Hannah turned back to look at her father again and found that he had been transformed into a white, amorphous shape that was hovering near the foot of her bed. “But, Dad . . . Moishe's not even looking at you. I thought cats could see ghosts.”

“Some can, some can't,” her father replied. “It's pretty obvious that you have a cat who can't.”

Hannah smiled. Her dad had said,
a cat who can't
, rather than
a cat that can't
. It meant that her dad thought of Moishe as a person, just the way she did.

“I must be dreaming,” Hannah said, considering the possibility.

“No, you're not dreaming. Throw something at me and see what happens.”

“No, Dad! I don't want to hurt you!”

“You can't hurt me. I'm already dead. Pick up that pen you have on your night table and peg it straight at me. I taught you how to pitch, remember?”

“I remember,” Hannah answered with a smile.

“Go ahead. Throw a strike. You used to be pretty good at that.”

“No, I wasn't. You're just being nice.”

“You caught me on that one, Honey-bear.”

Hannah felt a rush of wonderful memories. Her dad had called her Honey-bear, the childhood nickname he'd used for her until Delores had informed him that Hannah was too old to have a nickname like that.

“Maybe you weren't the greatest pitcher in the world,” her dad went on, “but you could hit a home run if you were mad enough at the opposing pitcher. Come on, Hannah. Do it. I don't have that much time here.”

She'd always obeyed her father when he'd given her a direct order, and Hannah wasn't about to falter now. She picked up the pen, threw it directly at what she thought was the middle of the amorphous shape, and watched in astonishment as the pen passed directly through it and clattered to the floor near her closet.

“Do you believe me now?” he asked her.

Hannah nodded. And then she spoke aloud because she wasn't sure he'd noticed. “Yes, Dad. I believe you now.”

“I love you, Hannah. I have to go soon, but they sent me here to give you a glimpse into your past. I hope it does the trick for you.”

Hannah was about to ask which trick her father was talking about when his shape spread out flat, like a movie screen that was hanging on the wall. And as she watched, an image appeared.

There Hannah was in the bar of the Corner Tavern, sitting on a stool with her club soda in front of her. The man beside her got up to follow the waitress to his table, and that was when Bonnie came over to sit next to her.

The camera, or perhaps it was her eyes, traveled over to the stool that Bonnie had vacated. She was checking to make sure that Bonnie hadn't left anything behind. There was nothing on the bar in front of Bonnie's stool, and nothing on the floor except the sawdust the staff at the Corner Tavern spread out every morning after the floor was washed and swept. There were two footprints from Bonnie's shoes, but nothing else.

“Show's over,” her father said as the screen coalesced into his amorphous shape again. “I love you, Honey-bear. If I'm lucky, they might let me come back again. You're scheduled for three ghosts just like the ones in the play. The difference is that we don't need makeup or costumes. We're really ghosts, and we don't rely on special effects and fake turkeys. Now go back to sleep like my good girl, and try to remember what I showed you when I visited you.”

Hannah's eyelids felt suddenly heavy, almost as if they were weighted. She wanted to stay awake to see her dad leave, but it was impossible. She rolled over, reached out to pet Moishe's soft fur, and smiled as she slipped into a deep, restful sleep.

* * *

Hannah awakened to the scent of hot, strong coffee and something enticing that she couldn't identify. She sat up in bed, dislodging the cat who'd been sleeping on the pillow next to her head, and felt around under the bed for her slippers.

“Rowww!” Moishe complained as she thrust her feet into her slippers and got out of bed.

“I know. I don't really want to get up either, but something smells really good! Michelle must be making breakfast.”

That comment elicited a purr from her feline friend. Moishe loved Michelle, especially after all the treats she'd brought with her. He'd even gotten some ham from last night's sandwiches, one of his favorite meats, and several fish-shaped, salmon-flavored treats that Michelle had given him before she'd gone to bed.

“Gingerbread!” Hannah exclaimed aloud as she thrust her arms into the sleeves of the gently worn chenille robe that she'd found at Helping Hands, the local thrift store. “At least I
think
it's gingerbread. It smells like gingerbread, and I can't think of what else it could be.”

Moishe did not offer his opinion as he followed Hannah down the carpeted hallway, taking an occasional swipe at the hem of her robe.

When they reached the kitchen, Hannah took one step inside the doorway and into her brightly lit kitchen, sniffed the air again, and stared at her sister, who was standing at the stove. “Not gingerbread?” she asked.

“What?” Michelle looked puzzled.

“Not gingerbread. I thought you were baking gingerbread, but the oven's not on. What are you frying?”

Michelle looked pleased. “You're close, Hannah. I'm frying Gingerbread Pancakes. One of my housemates got the recipe from her grandmother. She said her grandmother used to make Gingerbread Pancakes every Christmas morning and that it was a family tradition. Since it's the Christmas season, I thought it was the perfect time for us to try them.”

“They smell really good,” Hannah complimented her sister. “What kind of syrup do you use on Gingerbread Pancakes?”

“I don't know, and my friend didn't know, either. She thought maybe her grandmother had served them with honey, but she couldn't really remember.”

“We can experiment with syrups,” Hannah suggested, heading for the coffeepot to pour herself a cup. “It looks like you're making a lot of pancakes. Are you expecting anyone else for breakfast?”

“No, but my friend told me that her grandmother used to freeze her pancakes and then reheat them in the oven between sheets of foil. That sounded interesting and I thought I'd try it to see if it works.”

“If it does, you could probably reheat them in the microwave, too. The only problem is that you can't use foil.”

“You wouldn't have to use foil. You could reheat one pancake on a paper plate if you covered it with a paper towel. I've done that with frozen waffles before.”

Hannah smiled at her sister. “You're right, and that would be an easy way to make breakfast on the run. You could thaw a pancake, butter it and sprinkle it with sugar, roll it up in a paper towel the way Great-grandmother Elsa used to do with
lefse
, and heat it in the microwave. Then you could eat it on your way to school, or the bus stop, or work.”

“We'll try that to see if it works. But in the meantime, would you like a couple of Gingerbread Pancakes? This batch on the griddle is almost ready.”

“Of course I would! You're the princess of breakfasts, Michelle.”

“Thanks. I'll bring the pancakes to you when they're done, along with the honey, dark Karo syrup, butter and sugar, and molasses. We can try them out and see which topping is best.”

In less than five minutes, Hannah had finished her second pancake. She was about to tell Michelle that she liked the molasses best when she thought of something she had to do. She got up to take a new spiral stenographer's pad from her kitchen drawer, grabbed the pen she'd found on the floor of her bedroom, and flipped to the first page.

“Is that your murder book?” Michelle asked.

“Yes.” Hannah wrote the name
Phyllis Bates
on the first page. “Do you remember Phyllis Bates from school, Michelle?”

“Vaguely. She was the head cheerleader for the basketball team, wasn't she?”

“Yes.”

“And for football, too?”

“That's right. And don't forget baseball.”

“She was the blonde with a ponytail?”

“That's right. I know you were still in grade school, but do you remember your impression of her?”

“I
do
remember. Phyllis Bates was a bimbo.”

“A
bimbo
?” Hannah repeated Michelle's words in the form of a question.

“Yes. And that was before I even knew what the word
bimbo
meant. Andrea called her that, so I did too. Andrea hated Phyllis Bates.”

“How do you know that?”

“She told me so.”

“But why?”

“Because Andrea knew I was too scared to tell anyone else.”

“Not that. I mean . . . do you know why Andrea hated Phyllis?”

“Yes. It's because Andrea had a crush on Ryan Edwards, the football player that Phyllis was dating at the time.”

“Good heavens! How old was Andrea then?”

Michelle shrugged. “Maybe seventh grade? I know Andrea was still in junior high because I had Mrs. Carlson in third grade, and she was Ryan's aunt. Andrea threatened to kill me if I ever mentioned anything about it in school. She would have, too. Andrea was scary when she was mad, and that would have made her really mad.”

Hannah looked down at her steno pad. She supposed she should write down Andrea's name as a suspect, but all that was a long time ago and she was sure that Andrea hadn't harbored a grudge against Phyllis for over ten years.

“I
do
know somebody that hated Phyllis, though.”

“Who?” Hannah was surprised. Michelle had been back in Lake Eden less than twenty-four hours, and she'd already heard more gossip than Hannah had.

“Mayor Bascomb, that's who. Mother told me all about it. And the mayor's got a really good motive.”

Hannah picked up her pen again. “Tell me.”

“Okay. Mother took me to Beau Monde to buy me a new jacket before she dropped me off here. She said my old jacket was disreputable.”

“That sounds like Mother.”

“I know. The new one she bought me is a nice jacket, though. And she got me a new pair of jeans, too.”

“That's nice. Now tell me how you know that Mayor Bascomb had a motive.”

“I heard Mother and Claire talking about it while I was trying on jeans. The mayor dumped Phyllis when she asked him to set her up in her own furnished condo. And Phyllis got even with him by telling Stephanie Bascomb that she'd been having an affair with the mayor.”

Hannah didn't hesitate. She wrote Mayor Bascomb's name on her list of suspects. “Did you hear any other gossip while you were there in the dressing room?”

“No, but I'm willing to bet that Claire knows more. And if she doesn't she can find out. She told Mother that Stephanie bought a whole new wardrobe from her. And Claire said that she had to alter everything before this afternoon because Stephanie was coming in to make sure everything fit.”

The wheels in Hannah's mind were churning so fast, she could almost feel a breeze near the top of her head. It didn't take long for her to formulate a plan, and she began to smile.

“What?” Michelle asked, noticing the smile.

“I think we'll have to pay a visit to Beau Monde this afternoon. I'd like to try on a couple of outfits.”

“You'd
like
to try on clothing? Come on, Hannah. Everybody knows that you hate to . . .” Michelle stopped and rolled her eyes. “Never mind. I get it. We're going to drop by a few minutes before Stephanie is due to come in?”

“That's the general idea. Let's drop by Claire's shop before The Cookie Jar opens. Claire probably knows what time Stephanie plans to come in.”

“And if Claire doesn't know, maybe she can call to arrange a time,” Michelle suggested.

“Exactly right.” Hannah got up from the table, rinsed off her plate, and put it in the dishwasher. “Go get your jacket, Michelle.”

“Okay. Are we going where I think we're going?”

“You'd better believe it! Claire's probably at the shop early, working on Stephanie's alterations.”

“Do you want me to take Claire some pancakes for breakfast? I know she's got a microwave in her back room and I can reheat them for her.”

“That's a great idea. And don't forget to bring some toppings, too. Claire's got a real sweet tooth.”