Part 17 (2/2)
”Uh ... yes. Yes, I did.” Hannah thought fast. She should have had an excuse for her call all prepared. ”Tracey was talking about joining the Brownies the other day. She wanted to know how old she had to be.”
”I'm glad Tracey's so interested. She's still too young, but I'll mail a packet to Andrea tomorrow with the guidelines.”
”Thanks, Bonnie. That's all I needed. I'll let you go.” Hannah hung up the phone and let out a relieved sigh. She liked Bonnie and Gil and she was glad that Rhonda hadn't been a threat to their marriage.
The next name on Hannah's list was Kenneth Purvis. Hannah had trouble visualizing Jordan High's princ.i.p.al, a man whose most notable habit was polis.h.i.+ng his gla.s.ses, in a steamy embrace with Rhonda, but she couldn't discount the possibility. Ken had picked up two orders of os...o...b..co on Friday night.
Hannah had learned her lesson from Bonnie. She needed a good excuse for her call. When Ken or his wife, Kathy, answered, she'd ask about the community outreach night cla.s.ses Jordan High was planning to hold in the fall. There had been an article about it last week in the Lake Eden Journal. She 156.
could pretend to be interested in signing up for basket weaving, or fly casting, or something like that.
Hannah looked up the number and dialed. The phone rang several times and then their answering machine clicked on. Rather than leave a message, Hannah hung up and turned to the third name on the list, Reverend Knudson.
”Redeemer Lutheran,” Reverend Knudson's grandmother answered on the second ring.
”Hi, Mrs. Knudson. It's Hannah Swensen.”
”h.e.l.lo, Hannah.” Mrs. Knudson sounded pleased to hear from her. ”The reverend isn't home right now, but I can take a message and have him call you in the morning.”
”That's okay. Maybe you can help. I meant to call earlier, but I forgot. I'm out here at Alfredo's Ristorante. Have you ever had their os...o...b..co?”
”No, but it's one of my favorite dishes.”
”Maybe your grandson could pick it up as takeout for you,” Hannah said, hoping to solicit more information. It was obvious that Reverend Knudson hadn't taken os...o...b..co to his grandmother, but he'd left Alfredo's last Friday night with two takeout orders. ”They have it on their menu every Friday night.”
”You might know it would be Fridays!” Priscilla Knudson gave an exasperated sigh. ”The reverend is always gone on Friday nights. Church-related meetings, you know.”
”Of course,” Hannah said, drawing a circle around Reverend Knudson's name. If he'd gone to a church-related meeting on Friday night, she was willing to bet he hadn't arrived with two orders of takeout os...o...b..co from Alfredo's Ristorante.
”You said earlier that you thought I might be able to help you. With what, Hannah?”
Mrs. Knudson's question brought Hannah back from her speculations and she launched into the excuse she'd prepared. ”I heard about the bake sale Redeemer Lutheran is holding on Sat.u.r.days and I wanted to contribute something. How about a box of cookies?”
”Why, that would be lovely, Hannah. I'm sure the rev- LEMON MERINGUE PIE MURDER 157.
erend will be delighted. Can we count on you for this Sat.u.r.day?”
”Absolutely.”
Hannah smiled as she hung up the phone. A box of free cookies was a small price to pay for the information Priscilla Knudson had given her. She'd eliminated Gil Surma and she had yet to reach Princ.i.p.al Purvis, but Reverend Knudson had just jumped to the top of her suspect list.
Chapter Fourteen.
Hannah glanced at her watch in the light from Mike's dashboard as they came over the crest of a long steep hill and neared the Quick Stop. They still had almost fifteen minutes before Mich.e.l.le's bus was due to arrive. ”Let's park on the side and go in. I want to see how my cookies are doing for Sean and Ron.”
Mike pulled into a spot at the side of the building and shut off his engine. ”We can go in, but I already know your cookies are selling really well.”
”How do you know that? Did you ask Sean and Ron?”
”I didn't have to ask. The guys at the station used to stop for doughnuts and coffee on their way to work, but now they bring in coffee and your cookies. n.o.body buys doughnuts anymore.”
”Thanks for telling me.” Hannah was pleased. She'd started to supply the Quick Stop with cookies several months ago and the volume of their orders had been steadily increasing. That was a good sign, but she hadn't been sure if Sean and Ron were selling more cookies, or just eating more of them.
”You can go in if you want to.” Mike turned to smile at her. ”I'll stay here and meet Mich.e.l.le if her bus comes in early.”
LEMON MERINGUE PIE MURDER 159.
Hannah laughed. ”Thanks, but that won't work.”
”Why not?”
”You've never met Mich.e.l.le. You don't even know what she looks like.”
”Yes, I do. There's a picture of the three of you on the mantel over your fireplace. I recognized Andrea and you, so I figured Mich.e.l.le had to be the one in the middle with the brown hair.”
Hannah was impressed, even though she knew Mike had been trained to notice things. ”You're right, but that's an old picture. You might not recognize her now.”
”She can't be that different. Her hair could be another color and she could have gained or lost weight, but her basic bone structure is the same. I'll spot her. You don't have .to worry about that.”
Hannah began to grin. ”I guess any cop who can recognize a suspect from his DMV picture wouldn't have much trouble with an old family photo.”
”That's right.” Mike lowered his window, looked out for a moment, and then he turned to grin at her. ”It's a good thing you didn't go inside. Here comes the bus now.”
Hannah glanced out his window, but all she saw was an empty road. ”Where? I don't see anything.”
”You'll see it when it comes over the hill.”
”Who do you think you are?” Hannah asked, eyeing him with some amus.e.m.e.nt. ”Supercop with x-ray vision?”
”No, but I might try out for Supercop with subsonic hearing”
”You/zear^thebus?”
”That's right. A diesel engine's got a certain high-pitched whine to it. On a still night it'll carry for a long way.”
Hannah stared at him, but he didn't seem to be putting her on. ”Okay, I believe you even though I've met the bus lots of times and I never heard a whine.”
”You probably wouldn't notice.”
”Because it's a cop thing?”
”No, it's a trucker thing. My father was an owner-operator 160.
and I drove most of his short runs every summer. It gets boring, driving the same route day after day. I looked for ways to amuse myself and I started concentrating on the sounds trucks make. I got so good, I could tell a Peterbilt from a Kenworth a quarter-mile away.”
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