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
