Cinnamon Roll Murder

Chapter Twenty-Five

The church was crowded with men in suits, ladies dressed in their very best, and children who had been warned not to wiggle, chew gum, or otherwise call attention to themselves. The scent of the perfumes that the ladies were wearing had merged into one cloud of sweetness that made her want to sneeze.

But she couldn’t sneeze. No one could know she was here in the choir loft, watching the spectacle that enfolded before her. No one could know that she just had to see him one last time before he was transformed into a married man with a family. Most of all, no one could know how desperately she wanted something to happen to stop the ceremony before he committed himself forever by saying I do.

There he was at the front of the church, looking unbelievably handsome in his groom’s tuxedo. And his best friend, the cop, was standing next to him, acting as his best man. The organ music swelled and then broke into the triumphant strains of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. The bride was entering the church, and soon she’d be walking down the white-covered aisle to meet him. She was carrying a huge bouquet of lilacs. She could smell their scent all the way up here in the choir loft. They were her favorite flower, and that was just plain wrong. The dark-haired woman she saw below her couldn’t be the bride. She was wearing a low-cut red sweater, a short black skirt, and boots with stiletto heels. This was wrong. She was the bride, not the woman who was walking up the aisle toward Norman. She had to do something to stop the wedding!

She screamed several times to get Norman’s attention, but he didn’t seem to hear her. In desperation, she began pounding her fists against the stained glass window that had suddenly appeared to separate the choir loft from the body of the church.

Row by row, the congregation turned to see her spreadeagled and pounding on the stained glass window. They looked horrified, but she couldn’t help that. She had to stop the wedding. The false bride was going to take him away from her.

And then the cop was running up the stairs to tackle her and snap on cuffs. And now he was leading her away, pulling her forward. But she held back to look down at the false bride and listen as she opened her mouth to speak the words that would seal his fate forever.

“Noooooo!” she shouted again. “Nooooo!”

“Hannah? Wake up, Hannah! You must be dreaming. Are you all right?”

It was Michelle, and Hannah sat bolt upright in bed. “Dreaming,” she repeated.

“Yes. I heard you thrashing around in here. And then you started moaning and crying. When I got to the doorway, you shouted, Noooo! like you were in terrible pain. That must have been a really awful nightmare!”

“Oh, it was,” Hannah said, remembering Norman’s wedding to Doctor Bev in full color, sound, and even smell.

Michelle walked over to sit on the side of the bed. “If you tell me about it, you probably won’t dream it again when you go back to sleep. How about it?”

Hannah didn’t say anything. She just shook her head. Perhaps Michelle was right, but she’d just have to take her chances. There was no way she was going to tell her baby sister that she’d been dreaming the final scene of The Graduate, and she’d botched the ending by going off to jail instead of running away with the man she loved and jumping on a bus in her bridal dress.

It was difficult to get out of bed the next morning and that wasn’t entirely the fault of the two cats who were sleeping on her chest. Hannah shooed them away, sat up in bed, and punched the alarm clock to shut it off. It was eight-thirty in the morning, but it was Sunday and she didn’t have to go to work.

It was odd to see lights on in the house when she emerged from her bedroom. It was also nice to see lights on in the house when she emerged from her bedroom. Michelle was up and Hannah could smell the welcome scent of Swedish Plasma in the air. There was another scent too, and it smelled like cinnamon and sugar.

“Coffee?” she asked, hoping it was ready as she shuffled through the kitchen doorway.

“Coming right up. Sit down and I’ll pour some for you.”

Hannah sat. Gratefully. And then she glanced over at Michelle. Her youngest sister’s cheeks were pink, her eyes were sparkling, and her hair was curling gently around her pretty face. Oh, to be young again! But Hannah knew she’d never looked as beautiful as Michelle did, even when she was young.

“You’re scowling.” Michelle set a mug of coffee directly in front of Hannah. “What’s the matter?”

“I was trying to figure out how you can look so good in the morning when I feel so dragged out.”

“Clean living. If you’d lay off the booze and drugs for a while, you’d probably start to look better.” Michelle burst into peals of laughter. “You should see your face. You look absolutely dumbfounded. I’m kidding, okay? It’s just a joke, Hannah.”

“Don’t joke with your elder in the morning or she may turn on you like a ravening beast.”

“Nicely put,” Michelle sat down and took a sip of her coffee, “but what’s a ravening beast anyway?”

“It’s too early for me to define a word. You’ll have to wait until I can remember my name.”

“Okay. Drink coffee. Get those brain cells dancing. I really want to know what it is.”

Hannah took a big swallow of coffee. It was hot, and it was good. There was nothing like coffee on a cold spring morning that still felt like winter.

“More,” Michelle said.

Hannah took another swallow. And then another. Caffeine was starting to work its magic on her tired brain.

“Name?” Michelle prodded her.

“Hannah.”

“Middle name?”

“Louise.”

“Last name?”

“Swensen.”

“Occupation?”

“Cookies.”

“Age?”

“I don’t want to think about that.”

“Weight?”

“Michelle! Cut that out!”

“Okay. Your brain seems to be working again now. What’s a ravening beast?”

“Ravening comes from the Middle French word raviner, which means to rush or take by force. It was first used in the sixteenth century. Ravening means to possess the ability to devour greedily, or to prowl for prey. In other words, I’ll crush you like a bug if you mess with me first thing in the morning.”

“Forewarned is forearmed. What are you doing today? Or is it too early to ask?”

“I’m finishing my coffee so that I can stay awake and not drown in the shower. And then I’m going to get dressed and see if I can find something for breakfast.”

“I’ve got that covered. I’ll make another pot of coffee while you shower. And then we can taste the bran cookies I baked this morning.”

“You baked this morning?” Hannah asked, and then she remembered smelling the sweet scent of cinnamon and sugar when she came into the kitchen.

“I was up early thinking about the cookies we promised to bake for Doc. And I had a brainstorm, so I got up and tried out a recipe.”

“What kind of a brainstorm?”

“I’ll tell you after you taste them. Now hurry up and take your shower.”

Less than ten minutes later Hannah came back into the kitchen. She was dressed in clean jeans and a long-sleeved sweater. She was wearing her moccasin boots, the ones with the fringe on the sides, and Moishe and Cuddles were on her heels, one on the left and the other on the right, trying to capture the fringe as she walked.

“How about one of those cookies?” she asked, refilling her coffee mug and then sitting down at the kitchen table.

“Do you like bran?”

“Not particularly. I don’t hate it, but I wouldn’t choose it.”

“Good.”

“Why good?”

“Because if you really loved bran you might love the cookies even though they weren’t that tasty. Let’s see if you like these.” Michelle walked over with a napkin containing two cookies.

Hannah took a bite and chewed. “Nice aftertaste,” she said. “These are really good cookies, and I love the cinnamon and the raisins. They remind me of something, but I don’t know what.”

“Think back to your childhood,” Michelle advised, “and try another bite.”

“With pleasure.” Hannah took another bite. Then she took another, bigger bite and the cookie was gone.

“Did you remember?”

“No.” Hannah picked up a second cookie. “These are definitely winners, Michelle. I like these as much as I used to love ...” She stopped and looked up at her sister in shock as the light dawned. “Grandma Ingrid’s bran muffins?”

“That’s right. I just made a couple of changes and baked her bran muffins as bran cookies.”

“That’s brilliant,” Hannah said, and then she looked puzzled. “Where did you get her recipe?”

“It was in one of those shoe boxes on your bookshelf.”

“Really? I didn’t even know I had it!”

“It was in the third box I tried.”

“Well, good for you! These are definitely great cookies, and Doc’s going to absolutely love them!”

“Shall I pack them up so we can take them out to the hospital today?”

“Sure. We should do a little more snooping around out there anyway. If we talk to the right person, maybe we can learn something new.”

The phone rang, and Hannah reached up, grabbed the wall phone over her head, and answered, “Hello?”

“Hello, dear,” her mother’s cheerful voice greeted her. “I’m here at the hospital and we wanted to know if you and Michelle would like to join us for Sunday brunch at the Inn.”

Hannah thought about it for a nanosecond. Two bran cookies, no matter how tasty, did not a breakfast make. “We’d love to. Thanks for asking, Mother. But who’s we?”

“Doc, Marlene, Vonnie, and me. I’m going to call Andrea, too. She said that Bill’s going out to the station today, and she loves Sally’s brunch.”

“We all love Sally’s brunch,” Hannah said, and as she did so, visions of popovers swimming in butter and freshly made preserves danced through Hannah’s head. They were followed by crisp strips of bacon that twirled like prima ballerinas, succulent sausages strutting their stuff, pancakes as light as a feather wheeling up like doves toward the sky, and homemade crullers rolling like wheels on a path to her plate.

“Bring your murder book,” Delores reminded her. “Vonnie checked Buddy in, and she remembers something that might help you. And Marlene was with him part of the time in the hospital. She could have new information for us.”

“There’s Doc, too. He may know something new.”

“He doesn’t,” Delores said.

Her mother answered so fast, Hannah frowned. “How do you know that?”

“If Doc knew something new, he would have told me. He doesn’t have any secrets from me.”

“Really?”

“No. Well ... not unless it involves a patient. Then it’s confidential. Meet us at ten-thirty in the lobby, dear. And do dress up a little. It is Sunday, you know.”

DOC’S BRAN-OATMEAL-RAISIN COOKIES

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position.

¾ cup raisins (either regular or golden, your choice)

¾ cup boiling water

1 cup white (granulated) sugar

½ cup brown sugar (pack it down when you mea- sure it)

¾ cup (1 and ½ sticks, 6 ounces) salted butter, softened to room temperature

2 large eggs

½ teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

¼ teaspoon grated nutmeg (freshly grated is best)

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 cups all-purpose flour (pack it down in the cup when you measure it)

1 and ½ cups dry quick oatmeal (I used Quaker Quick 1-Minute)

2 cups bran flake cereal

Place ¾ cup of raisins in a 2-cup Pyrex measuring cup or a small bowl that can tolerate boiling water without cracking.

Pour the ¾ cup boiling water over the raisins in the cup. Stir a bit with a fork so they don’t stick together, and then leave them, uncovered, on the counter to plump up.

Prepare your cookie sheets by spraying them with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray, or lining them with parchment paper that you also spray with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray.

Hannah’s 1st Note: This cookie dough is a lot easier to make if you use an electric mixer.

Place the cup of white sugar in the bottom of a mixing bowl. Add the half-cup of brown sugar. Mix them together until they’re a uniform color.

Place the softened butter in the mixer bowl and beat it together with the sugars until the mixture is nice and fluffy.

Mix in the eggs, one at a time, beating after each addition.

Add the salt, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla extract. Beat until the mixture is smooth and well incorporated.

On LOW speed, add the flour, one-half cup at a time, beating after each addition. Continue to beat until everything is well blended.

Drain the raisins by dumping them in a strainer. Throw away any liquid that remains, then gently pat the raisins dry with a paper towel.

With the mixer running on LOW speed, add the raisins to the cookie dough.

With the mixer remaining on LOW speed, add the dry oatmeal in half-cup increments, mixing after each increment.

Turn the mixer OFF, and let the dough rest while you prepare the bran flakes.

Measure 2 cups of bran flake cereal and place them in a 1-quart freezer bag. Roll the bag up from the bottom, getting out as much air as possible, and then seal it with the bran flakes inside.

Squeeze the bran flakes with your fingers, crushing them inside the bag. Place the bag on the counter and squash the bran flakes with your hands. Once they’re in fairly small pieces, take the bag over to the mixer.

Turn the mixer on LOW speed. Open the bag and add the crushed bran flakes to your cookie dough, mixing until they’re well incorporated.

Turn off the mixer, scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula, and give the bowl a final stir by hand.

Drop the dough by rounded Tablespoonfuls (use a Tablespoon from your silverware drawer, not one you’d use for measuring ingredients) onto your prepared cookie sheet. There should be 12 cookie dough mounds on every standard-size cookie sheet.

Hannah’s 2nd Note: Lisa and I use a level 2-Tablespoon scooper to form these cookies down at The Cookie Jar.

Bake Doc’s Bran-Oatmeal-Raisin Cookies at 350 degrees F. for 13 to 15 minutes, or until golden brown on top.

Remove the cookies from the oven, and let them cool on the cookie sheets for 2 minutes. Then remove them to a wire rack to cool completely.

Yield: 2 to 3 dozen delicious cookies, depending on cookie size.

Hannah’s 3rd Note: Doc had to warn the Lake Eden Memorial Hospital cooks not to let the patients have more than two cookies. Since they contain bran and bran is an aid to the digestive system, patients who eat a lot of these cookies could be spending a lot of time in the little room with the porcelain fixtures.