Plum Pudding Murder (30 page)

Miss Whiting took a step closer.

Hannah jumped back.

“What’s wrong?” Miss Whiting smiled a chilling smile. “Are you frightened of me?”

There was nothing to be gained by avoiding an answer. “Yes,” Hannah said.

“Why?”

“Because I think your name is Bianco. And you shot Larry Jaeger because of your connection with Salvatore Bianco.”

“Well, well. You’re smarter than I thought you were.” Miss Whiting smiled that chilling smile again. “Salvatore Bianco was my father and Larry killed him. Oh, he wasn’t there physically, but his finger was on the trigger. And it was all because I convinced my father to invest every cent of his retirement money in Larry’s business.”

“That’s…awful!” Hannah’s mind was buzzing at warp speed, trying to figure out how she could get away from Miss Whiting. She’d killed once. She had nothing to lose if she killed again.

“Yes, it’s awful. I loved him, you know.”

“Your father,” Hannah commiserated.

“And Larry. I loved Larry, too…or at least I thought I did.” Miss Whiting reached into her purse and pulled out a gun. “That’s enough talking. Walk.”

Hannah walked. What else could she do? But she kept talking as they stepped closer and closer to the edge of the hill. “Why did you shoot Larry’s television screen?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

“That was a mistake, but I got so angry when I saw it.”

“Because of Hollywood Home Theater?”

“Yes. I let my anger get in the way of my good sense, and I left an arrow pointing in my direction. If I’d just killed Larry and walked away, you never would have connected me with his murder. No one but you put that last piece together. You’re a good student, Hannah. I could make you into an excellent C.P.A. You have a logical mind and it’s a pity I have to kill you.”

Her goose was cooked if she didn’t do something. They were at the edge of the parking lot and Hannah’s eyes darted left and then right, searching for some avenue of escape. That was when she saw it, the stack of Sliders the shop class had made. If she could just throw Miss Whiting off balance, she could grab one and…

“That’s far enough,” Miss Whiting ordered, and the steely tone in her voice told Hannah that this was the time to act. She whirled around, threw her purse directly in Miss Whiting’s face, raced to the rack, and grabbed the top Slider. Even though she wanted to turn and see if Miss Whiting had recovered from the blow she’d received, Hannah just held the Slider to her chest, took three steps to the precipice, and hurtled over the edge into space.

S he landed so hard it knocked the breath out of her body, but somehow Hannah managed to hold onto the Slider. She slid several feet before she got the hang of it, just in time to keep from hitting a huge pine tree. She had to pull up on one of the handholds cut into the side, and push down on the other to change her course so that she could avoid obstac…

There was a loud pop and almost immediately something whizzed past her ear. Miss Whiting was shooting at her! She must have recovered from the blow to the head quickly because…

There was another loud pop, but this time Hannah didn’t hear the whiz. She didn’t feel anything either and that meant she hadn’t been hit.

Hannah pulled up on the right handle just in time to avoid a hillock that certainly would have overturned her like a turtle and left her soft underbelly exposed to Miss Whiting’s bullets. And speaking of bullets, how many did she have left?

Hannah tried to remember the gun she’d seen in Miss Whiting’s hand, but it was no use. All she could visualize was the round, dark hole in the end of the barrel, the hole that would release the bullet that would end her life. As she zoomed down the hill, she thought of the ballistic tally that Mike had given her. One shot in Larry, three in the flat screen TV. That meant four shots were gone, and most revolvers had six shots…didn’t they? Miss Whiting had just shot once past Hannah’s ear, and once more only the winter birds in the trees knew where. That was a total of six shots. Miss Whiting could be out of ammunition, unless she’d reloaded after she’d killed Larry.

Another shot hit the snow about three feet in front of Hannah’s Slider, kicking up a puff of snow that almost blinded her for a moment. Another shot thunked into a pine tree ahead of her and to the left. Forget the revolver and counting shots. It seemed Miss Whiting had plenty of ammunition. All Hannah could do was hope that the business teacher knew more about balance sheets than bull’s-eyes.

Hannah gasped when she saw a thicket of prickly thorn bushes dead ahead. She twisted and turned the handholds on the Slider, desperately seeking to change her course and avoid what promised to be a painful encounter. Delores was right. She’d never been able to steer a sled by herself, but at least, this time, it wasn’t a tree!

There were several moments that occurred in slow motion, reminding Hannah of several movies she’d seen. There was her hand on the Slider twisting, twisting to no avail. There was a single gust of snow, peppering the smooth skin of her cheek. There was her mouth, open in a silent scream as the Slider moved inexorably forward. And finally there was one barbed thorn as big as the sun, quivering in anticipation of her arrival.

And then real time took over and she hit the prickly thorn bushes. Hard. Still tumbling forward, she smashed into the spiked branches that attempted to make ribbons of her skin.

Perhaps the freezing air acted as an anesthetic. Or perhaps she was simply too frightened to feel much of anything. Hannah wasn’t sure which theory was accurate, but something kept her from feeling the sting of barbs and the sharp pricks of thorns. She jumped to her feet, grabbed her Slider, and ducked behind the biggest tree she could find.

Her rational mind, the one her would-be killer had praised just moments ago, was thankful that her Slider was forest green. It would blend in with the winter foliage and perhaps escape Miss Whiting’s notice.

Hannah huddled against the pine tree and wondered how long it would take Miss Whiting to find her. There was probably a path left by her Slider from the top to midway down the hill. Miss Whiting would see it and know that Hannah was here. She had to move.

Risking a glance at the top of the hill proved almost fatal. A bullet thudded into the pine tree where Hannah was attempting to hide. She’d been spotted. The Slider had left a telltale trail.

Hannah’s mind flew through the possibilities. Would Miss Whiting climb down here to kill her? And where was Mike? Mike always rescued her when she was in trouble. Didn’t he have some sort of sixth sense that told him when someone was about to kill her? Mike always came to the rescue.

Another shot brought Hannah back to the present with a snap. She had to move again. Right now! The only question was whether she should crawl, or hold up the Slider as a shield and run to another big pine tree.

It was dark and overcast, with snow still falling in flurries. The wind whipped up, providing a perfect opportunity, and Hannah crawled through the snow straight back from her pine to the pine behind it.

When she got there she waited expectantly, but there were no more shots. She’d made it! She wanted to stop and rest, but it couldn’t hurt to put one more tree between her trail and Miss Whiting.

Hannah dropped to her stomach and prepared to crawl once more. She felt like a crab as she inched her way back, pushing with her feet and pulling with her hands against the snow-packed earth. She was halfway there when she heard a sound that couldn’t have been made by the wind, or the snow, or any forest creature. It was click of metal against metal, and she looked up to see Miss Whiting standing over her.

“Good try,” Miss Whiting said, leveling the gun directly at Hannah’s head. “One shot through the brain should do it. It’s a pity to waste a good mind, but it can’t be helped.”

It was over. She’d run out of options. Hannah shut her eyes and wondered whether her life would flash before her eyes. It didn’t. All she could think about was Moishe and how she hoped Norman would take him and give him a good home with Cuddles. She’s miss him dreadfully, and even though he was a bad boy at times, he was her bad boy.

And then she heard the shot. It was loud and it hurt her ears. Miss Whiting had shot her through the head. Her life was over. She was dead.

Dimly, she heard a crashing as someone ran down the hill. How could that be? Dead people weren’t supposed to hear anything except celestial music. Perhaps she wasn’t dead yet. Perhaps she was still dying.

And then she was gathered up into two strong arms, and someone was smoothing back her hair. Not dead, then. And the arms and the hand felt good.

“Are you okay?” Mike asked, lifting her up into his arms.

“I…think…so.” The words were an effort and it seemed to take forever to speak them.

“Don’t worry. She’s dead,” Mike said, carrying her up the hill. “Just relax, Hannah. Lonnie’s coming to cover the crime scene and I’m taking you straight to the hospital.”

“Miss Whiting shot me?” Hannah asked, fearing the worst.

“No, but you need to take care of those scratches on your face. And you might have a concussion from running into those thorn bushes so hard. I need to make sure you’re okay.”

Hannah smiled, even though it hurt to do so. Mike cared. But she couldn’t resist asking, “Why?”

“Because I’m worried about you.”

It was a good answer. Hannah’s relief at being rescued and happiness at being alive grew even stronger as Mike bent down to place a light kiss on her lips.

“You have to get well in a hurry so you can cook that bang-up Christmas Eve dinner you promised to make for me.”

T he mood was festive and the guests around Hannah’s dinner table were enjoying the excesses of the season. It was Christmas Eve and candles glowed softly down the length of the folding library table Hannah had borrowed from Marge Beeseman. Andrea’s shiny gold tablecloth graced its surface and Michelle had helped Hannah make the edible place cards. They’d wrapped tiny truffle boxes that contained one chocolate raspberry and one white chocolate apricot truffle in Christmas paper with the guests’ names written on the top. Delores had arrived early to set the table and she had rearranged the place cards so that Hannah was seated between Mike and Norman. Again.

Christmas carols were playing softly in the background. Hannah’s sound system and Moishe’s Kitty Kondo were still in place, but every other stick of living room furniture had been moved to other rooms to make space for the long table.

“Your tree looks so good,” Michelle said, taking another cracker with Shrimp Louie Spread.

“It certainly does…except for the mice,” Delores said with a delicate little shudder. “They’re just too realistic for me!”

“They’re not too realistic for Moishe,” Mike said, watching Hannah’s pet go after one of the mice on the tree.

They’d solved the problem of the Christmas tree without caging either the tree or the cat. Mike and Norman had been frequent visitors the weekend Hannah had spent recovering from her near brush with death and her thorn bush injuries, and they’d caught Moishe in action. Both men agreed that something had to be done, but they didn’t want to admit defeat and take down her Christmas tree. There had been measurements, discussions of pulleys and levers with Rick and Lonnie Murphy, and a trip to buy the necessary hardware. Hannah had gone back to work on Monday, and by the time she’d come home that night, her tree had been reliably cat-proofed.

“It turned out okay,” Norman said, gazing at the tree. “It’s not exactly your normal tree, but it’s better than no tree at all.”

Hannah agreed wholeheartedly. She’d grown to like her upside-down tree, hung by its trunk from a pulley attached to the highest point of the exposed beam on her cathedral ceiling. It was fully decorated with lights, glass balls, and Great-Grandma Elsa’s remaining two birds, the way any regular Christmas tree would be. And just in case Moishe felt frustrated because he could no longer climb it, Mike and Norman had hung six new toy mice on almost invisible fishing line from the tip of the tree. Since the tip was almost four feet from the rug below it, Moishe could bat at the mice to his heart’s content without any danger of coming into contact with the tree itself.

The Christmas Cheese Round was almost gone and the Shrimp Louie Spread was going fast. It was time to start serving the first course. Hannah rose to her feet, and headed for the kitchen, followed by Michelle, Andrea, and Tracey.

“What can I carry, Aunt Hannah?” Tracey asked. “I promise I won’t drop anything.”

Hannah reached out to give her niece a little hug. “I know you won’t, honey,” she said. This was the first Christmas Eve that Tracey had been allowed to help instead of staying at the table with Grandma McCann and Bethany, and she was taking her duties seriously.

The first course was Holiday Squash Soup. It was accompanied by condiments of sour cream and parsley. The soup was hot and would be dished up in the kitchen and carried to the table in individual bowls.

“How would you like to carry the sour cream?” Hannah asked her, knowing that her sisters could easily handle the trays with the bowls of soup. “I can follow you with the parsley. You’ll have to hold the bowl while people take some.”

“I can do that,” Tracey said. “Do you think a lot of people will want sour cream?”

“Grandma Delores will. She loves sour cream. And I think Mike and Norman will, too. And then there’s your dad, and maybe Grandma McCann, and…”

“So it’s almost everybody!” Tracey looked delighted with her assignment.

Once the soup was served and everyone had embellished their bowls with sour cream and parsley, Hannah went back into the kitchen to stage the rest of the meal. She took the Jeweled Pork Roast out of the oven and set it on a rack to cool slightly before carving, and then she found the perfect platter for Andrea’s Jell-O. Unmolding it was almost always an easy task because the Jell-O had ridden in the back of Andrea’s Volvo on the trip to Hannah’s condo, and the vibration from the road had already done the lion’s share of the work.