“It sure doesn’t say all that in here.” Craig tapped his literature book. “It makes Lord Byron’s life a lot more interesting, just like in a movie.”
“I know.” Hannah could sympathize. A list of dates and titles didn’t do it for her either. “You can remember a lot better if you know some personal facts.”
Craig leaned forward. “Say… do you know stories like that about Shelley and Keats?”
“You bet I do” Hannah took Craig’s book and flipped it open, glancing at the list of poets who were covered. “And I can tell you all the dirt on Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Southey.”
Craig looked dubious, “I read about them. They’re pretty boring guys.”
“That’s because you don’t know anything about their personal lives. Coleridge got disowned by his family for fighting in the French Revolution, Worsworth said that he wrote his best poetry when he was stoned, and Southy went crazy and died insane. That’s not boring, is it?”
“I guess not!” Craig shook his head.
Hannah rummaged through her purse and pulled out a pen. It was the one that P.K. had given her last night, a gold-plated Cross that had some engraving on the side. She’d forgotten to return it, but that was easily fixed. Right after she finished with Craig, she’d run out to the production truck and give it back.
“Okay, Craig here’s the deal.” Hannah prepared to outline her plan. “Take out a pen, open your notebook, and I’ll tell you all about the poets in your book.”
“Okay, but I got to warn you. I’m not very good at taking notes.”
“You don’t have to be,” Hannah assured him. “Just write down things to jog your memory.”
“Like what?”
“Write down Lord Byron and underline it. And then write down things like, Bum Foot, Groupies, and Died in Greece. I’ll jot down all the other stuff for you. Just give me a blank page from your notebook.”
“Here you go.” Craig tore off a blank page and handed it to her. “But what about The Gulls? You said you wanted to ask me something.”
“We’ll talk about it after I help you cram for your test.” Hannah knew she was doing the right thing. Once she’d helped Craig, he’d be more inclined to help her. “Let’s start with John Keats. Did you know that he was almost a surgeon instead of a poet?”
Craig leaned forward, his pen at the ready and the Molasses Crackles forgotten. Hannah smiled. Perhaps she should think about starting an English lit study group down at The Cookie Jar.
Do not preheat oven yet. Dough must chill before baking.
1 1/2 cups melted butter (
2 cups white sugar
1/2 cup molasses (
2 beaten eggs (
4 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
3 teaspoons cinnamon *
1 teaspoon nutmeg (
4 cups flour (
Melt butter in a large microwave-safe bowl. Add sugar and molasses and stir. Let it cool slightly. Then add the beaten eggs, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, and nutmeg, stirring after each addition. Add flour in one-cup increments, stirring after each one. The dough will be quite stiff.
Cover and refrigerate for at least 2 hours. (
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position.
Roll the chilled dough into walnut-sized balls. Put some sugar in a small bowl and roll the balls in it. Place them on a greased cookie sheet (
Bake for 10 - 12 minutes. They’ll flatten out, all by themselves. Let them cool for 2 minutes on the cookie sheet and then move them to a wire rack to finish cooling.
Molasses cookies freeze well. Roll them up in foil, put them in a freezer bag, and they’ll be fine for 3 months or so. (
Chapter Twenty-three
Hannah walked around the side of the building shaking her head. Craig would do well on his midterm. She was almost sure of that. But he had given her zilch in return. The minute she’d mentioned steroids and The Gulls, the friendly team captain had turned anxious and edgy. He’d denied knowing anything about a suspension in the works or about any kind of drug use, performance-enhancing or otherwise, but Hannah had seen the barely concealed panic in the depths of his eyes. She was positive that Craig knew which player was using steroids she was equally positive that no power on earth could make him tell her. Craig had wanted to confide in Hannah, but his peer loyalty had won out.
There was a note taped to the production truck door, and Hannah climbed the steps for a closer look. Staff meeting—back soon, it read. Hannah knocked on the door, just in case someone had come back and forgotten to take down the note, but no one answered the door. She’d struck out twice once with Craig and once with returning the pen.
Hannah was about to leave when she had thought. Perhaps she could leave the pen with Herb. He could give it to a member of the production staff, and they could return it to P.K. She reached inside her purse, pulled out the pen, and immediately discarded that idea when she read the inscription that was written on the side. The gold Cross pen belonged to Mason Kimball, and it had been presented to him when he’d won an award for the best short documentary in a student film contest. It was a keepsake, and Hannah didn’t want to take the chance that someone would misplace it.
She thought of Craig Kimball and sighed. If she’d taken the time to read the inscription when she’d been with Craig in the library, she could have given the pen to him to return to his father. But perhaps that wouldn’t have been wise. If Mason knew that his night engineer had appropriated his pen, P.K. could wind up in trouble. The best thing to do was give it directly to P.K. so that he could return it to Mason’s office.
Hannah glanced at the note again. Back soon could mean a few minutes, or an hour and she didn’t have time to wait. She’d catch P.K. when she came back for the contest tonight, and that would have to be soon enough.
Turning on her heel, Hannah walked down the metal steps and across the snowy parking lot, heading for her truck. She’d wasted most of the morning, and her mind was spinning what she needed right now was to get back to The Cookie Jar for a second dose of chocolate.
* * *
“So what did Craig say?” Andrea asked, leaning across the surface of the workstation. She’d dropped in at lunch to find out what had happened since she’d left Hannah at the production truck, and she’d already gotten the full story of the bear, the fact that Hannah had located some shots of Tracey, and her morning cram session with Craig Kimball.
“Nothing.”
“You mean he refused to answer your questions?”
“No. He answered them, but he didn’t tell me anything. He said he didn’t know anyone on The Gulls who was
