was standing by the work station at The Cookie Jar with a mixing bowl and her great-grandmother’s wooden spoon in her hand.
“What should I get from the pantry, Mommy?”
Hannah glanced over at the little girl standing on the step-stool next to her. Everyone said she looked like a miniature version of Hannah with her curly red hair and happy smile. “You can get the chocolate chips and the corn flakes, honey.”
“We’re baking Chocolate Chip Crunch Cookies again?”
“Yes. They’re still your favorites, aren’t they?””
“I think so. I’ll know after I taste one.”
Hannah watched as her daughter jumped down, barely missing Moishe, who had been sitting at the base of the step-stool.
“Come on, Moishe,” her daughter said, beckoning to the cat as she headed toward the pantry door. “If you help me find everything, I’ll give you a little bite of my cookie when it’s baked.”
Once they had assembled all the ingredients, Hannah stirred up the cookie dough. She pushed the mixing bowl over to her daughter and handed her the wooden spoon.
“Great-great-grandma Elsa’s spoon?” the little girl asked.
“That’s right, honey.”
“And she used it all her life to mix up yummy things?”
“Yes, she did.” There was a yowl from the base of the step-stool and Hannah looked over at Moishe. “I think he’s hungry, honey. Can you get his kitty treats and give him one?”
“Yes, I can.”
The moment her daughter had gone off to get the fish-shaped, salmon-flavored treats that Moishe loved, Hannah reached over to give the bowl a final stir. The cookie dough was stiff and the wooden spoon was too large for her daughter’s hand but she loved using it so much, Hannah didn’t have the heart to buy her a child-size mixing spoon.
Less than thirty minutes later, mother and daughter were sitting at the work station. Hannah was drinking a cup of coffee and her daughter was sipping from a glass of milk. The kitchen was filled with the delicious aromas of chocolate and vanilla from the cookies that were cooling on the bakers rack. Both Hannah and her daughter laughed as Moishe gave a yowl.
“I think he wants to know if the cookies are cool enough to eat,” Hannah said. “Would you like to go and see, honey?”
“Yes. Come on, Moishe. Let’s go!”
Hannah smiled as she watched her daughter and Moishe race across the kitchen floor to the bakers rack. And then the kitchen faded, slowly dissolving into . . . Norman’s master bedroom.
Hannah sat up and rubbed her eyes. A dream. It had all been nothing but a dream and now it was over. A soft paw reached out to touch her cheek and Hannah realized that tears were rolling down her face. She hadn’t wanted the dream to end, but it had.
“It’s all right, Moishe,” she said, reaching out to stroke his soft fur. “Maybe someday it’ll be real. Maybe someday.”
Baking Conversion Chart
These conversions are approximate, but they’ll work just fine for Hannah Swensen’s recipes.
VOLUME
U.S. Metric
½ teaspoon 2 milliliters
1 teaspoon 5 milliliters
1 Tablespoon 15 milliliters
¼ cup 50 milliliters
⅓ cup 75 milliliters
½ cup 125 milliliters
¾ cup 175 milliliters
1 cup ¼ liter
WEIGHT
U.S. Metric
1 ounce 28 grams
1 pound 454 grams
OVEN TEMPERATURE
Degrees Fahrenheit Degrees Centigrade British (Regulo) Gas Mark
325 degrees F. 165 degrees C. 3
350 degrees F. 175 degrees C. 4
375 degrees F. 190 degrees C. 5
Note: Hannah’s rectangular sheet cake pan, 9 inches by 13 inches, is approximately 23 centimeters by 32.5 centimeters.
THE PERFECT CURE
On the surface they are beautiful and talented. But few know of the harrowing darkness inside each of them, how close they are to losing their tenuous grip on sanity. Dr. Elias is their only hope. But he’s dying. And he’s made his cold, final judgment: Those he can’t cure, he must kill.
FOR THE PERFECT CRIME
In order for Dr. Elias’s deadly prescription to succeed, none of the eight patients must know someone is stalking them, murdering them one by one. Even if they were to suspect that their lives are in danger, no one would believe them. But if there’s any chance they can stay alive, they must face the madness within . . .
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Joanne Fluke’s
COLD JUDGMENT now on sale wherever print and e-books are sold!
Prologue
He did not look like a dying man. Dr. Theodore Elias made a dispassionate examination. Excellent muscle tone for a male, age fifty-three. Normal pulse, blood pressure in the low-normal range. Hands steady, no sign of tremor. Eyes clear, intelligent, penetrating. A near-perfect specimen of the middle-aged adult male. There was no evidence of physical imperfection, no outward sign of terminal disease. Yet there was no cause to doubt the diagnosis. He had seen the results of the ultrasound and the CT scan. And the exploratory surgery had been conclusive. Within six to eight weeks, this body would die of carcinoma of the pancreas. First the jaundice would appear, then increasing pain and physical weakness. There were drugs to control the pain, but death was inevitable. And when the body was wasted and useless, the mind would continue to function, the fine analytical mind that was the source of his pride. Dr. Theodore Elias would be fully capable of monitoring and cataloging his own demise until the very end.
His steps did not falter as he crossed the tasteful gray carpet and took his customary place behind his large polished desk. He could not afford the luxury of self-pity, not when there were decisions to be made. He had to think of his profession, of his duties to his patients. Something would have to be done with his group immediately.
Dr. Elias’s eyebrows met in an impatient frown. This cancer could not have come at a worse time. Progress in his only current group was exasperatingly slow and it was the holiday season, a time when depression deepened and suicidal tendencies became severe. It was a time ripe for crisis. His eight patients, the last of his toughest cases, brought together over the years, were presently under control, but they would need help to get through the holidays.
The files were right where he had placed them after yesterday’s session. Dr. Elias lifted the bulky stack and weighed it in his hands. So much paperwork, so much effort, and his patients were still far from the cure he had promised to spend his remaining career trying to achieve. His colleagues called him a miracle worker. A cure rate of 83 percent was more than impressive. But it was no comfort when he knew he’d run out of time with his last eight dangerous patients.
It was possible these patients could maintain their equilibrium for a while, even in this perilous season. Dr. Elias forced himself to look on the bright side. His patients might take months to break down, even longer if he could refer them to the best therapists. But eventually they would crumple. It was only a matter of time. And without the proper help, each of them was capable of violence that could destroy innocent people.
Dr. Elias remembered the late-night discussions of his college days. They were held in cluttered, smoke-filled student apartments, fueled with jugs of cheap red wine and accompanied by loud, idealistic arguments. One in particular came back to him in vivid detail. An animal trainer had spent his whole life training a brilliant but vicious dog that only he could control. When the trainer was told he was dying, he was faced with a decision. He could destroy the animal and annihilate his life’s work or he could let the beast live and hope that another trainer could carry on with his project. No profound resolution had been reached that night. Undoubtedly a new group of students was debating the same question with no better results. Theoretical discussions were diverting in college, but real-life decisions were painful to reach. The guidelines set down by his profession were clear. He was obligated to refer his patients to other therapists and hope for the best.