Strawberry Shortcake Murder Page 3

  “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 battered 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. M
oishe 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.

  Chapter Three

  Bill was out in the garage, helping Doc Knight load Boyd Watson’s body onto a stretcher for the trip to the morgue. Doc Knight doubled as the town physician and the Winnetka County Coroner. It didn’t leave him much time for anything else, and he always bristled whenever anyone mentioned how doctors were supposed to have golf days.

  Hannah was in the living room with Mike and Danielle, listening as he interviewed her. She’d twisted Mike’s arm for that privilege, insisting that she should be present. She was Danielle’s friend, and Danielle needed a friend right now.

  “I watched the contest on television while I was taping it.” Danielle’s hands began to tremble, and she set her water glass down on the coffee table. “Then I switched to cable and started to watch a movie, but I fell asleep. The cold medicine I’m taking makes me sleepy, and I really wanted to go up to bed.”

  Mike nodded. He was being very solicitous of Danielle, and Hannah was glad. “But you stayed on the couch?”

  “Yes. Boyd expects me to wait up for him. I always do. If I don’t, he gets…upset. But I guess you know that.”

  Hannah glanced at Mike, and he caught her eye, giving her a slight nod. They both knew what happened when Boyd was in a bad mood. The black eye Danielle was sporting was ample proof of that.

  “When did he blacken your eye, Danielle?” Mike asked. His voice was tight, and Hannah could tell he was barely controlling himself. They’d discussed Danielle’s problem shortly after she had confided in Hannah, and Mike had admitted that he had no patience with men who battered their wives.

  “It happened yesterday. Boyd came home from school for lunch and he got…upset with me.”

  “Did you see a doctor?”


  “No. I knew what to do. And it’s not as bad as it looks. It hardly hurts at all anymore.”

  Mike gave Hannah a warning look, one that said Don’t interfere. Then he turned back to Danielle. “If someone gave me a black eye, I’d be pretty angry at them. Were you angry with Boyd?”

  “No. I know how frustrated he gets, and he was really sorry afterward. He got me an ice pack and took care of me.”

  Mike shot Hannah another warning glance, and she clamped her lips together. Boyd Watson had been a brute and a wife beater. And Danielle had refused to press charges against him, preferring to accept the abuse he dished out rather than making it public. Hannah knew that most battered wives were at a terrible disadvantage emotionally; they usually believed that they’d done something to deserve the abuse. Now that Boyd was dead, Danielle wouldn’t have to live in fear of her husband any longer. And while Hannah wouldn’t have wished such a violent and bloody death on anyone, she found she couldn’t summon up much grief for the man who’d beaten and terrorized her friend.

  “Let’s get back to what happened tonight.” Mike’s voice was soft, inviting Danielle’s trust. “You said you fell asleep on the couch?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What time did you wake up?”

  “I’m not sure. The movie was over, so it must have been after nine-thirty. I turned off the television and called out for Boyd, but he didn’t answer. I thought maybe he’d come home and gone up to bed. That’s why I went out to the garage to see if his car was there.”

  Mike frowned slightly. “You didn’t go upstairs to see if he was there?”

  “No, I was just too tired. I didn’t want to climb the stairs and then have to come down again. It was easier to check the garage.”

  “Tell me exactly what you saw when you opened the garage door.”

  “Well…it was dark, so I turned on the light over Boyd’s workbench. His car was there, so I figured he’d come home and gone up to bed. Then I noticed that the garage door was still open, so I closed it.”