“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
