Peach Cobbler Murder by Joanne Fluke Read Free Book Online

won’t help. Hi, Dad.”
    â€œHi, sweetheart.” Bill pulled his chair in next to Tracey and gave her a kiss. Then he accepted his bowl from Lisa and dug right in.
    â€œYours is better,” Mike said, after taking only one bite. “Their peaches are too mushy.”
    â€œThat’s exactly what I was going to say,” Bill added. “Theirs taste like canned, but yours taste like fresh. Where did you get fresh peaches in February?”
    â€œI didn’t. They’re frozen. The trick is not letting them thaw all the way before you bake them.”
    â€œI must remember to tell my cook that technique when I return to England.” Winthrop gave Hannah a cordial smile. “It’s brilliant, my dear. And your peach cobbler is simply exquisite.”
    â€œThank you,” Hannah said in her best effort to be gracious. Winthrop had been the soul of geniality at their infrequent meetings, but she just couldn’t seem to warm up to him. She still missed her father and seeing Delores with anyone else was a jolt.
    â€œI think your spices are just right, dear,” Delores offered up her opinion.
    â€œPerfect,” Carrie agreed. “Their cobbler has so much cinnamon, you can’t even tell you’re eating peaches. It could be…practically anything at all.”
    â€œSoda crackers,” Jack Herman said, winking at Lisa.
    â€œWhat?” several in the group chorused.
    â€œSoda crackers,” Jack Herman repeated. “Lisa’s mother used to make something called ‘Mock Apple Pie.’ It used soda crackers and there wasn’t an apple in it.”
    Hannah noticed that Lisa, Marge, and Herb all turned to smile at Jack warmly and that made her feel good. The experimental drug-testing program was working. It wasn’t a cure. He still had Alzheimer’s and nothing could change that. But his memory had improved and it was no longer such a struggle for him to communicate.
    â€œYou know that recipe, don’t you, Hannah?” Lisa asked.
    â€œI don’t think so. But apples are available all year in Minnesota. Why would anyone want to make a mock apple pie when they could use real apples?”
    â€œJust to see if they could,” Norman answered promptly. “It’s like training a dog to walk on his hind legs. It’s not that he can do it well…it’s that he can do it at all.”
    â€œSamuel Johnson. But it wasn’t a dog,” Hannah countered, remembering the story of the woman preacher and bristling slightly.
    â€œTracey has that book, but there’s nothing in it about dog training,” Andrea said, looking confused.
    â€œWhat book?”
    â€œ Sam Johnson and the Blue Ribbon Quilt. It’s a picture book Mother gave her. It’s about a man who loves to quilt.”
    Hannah and Norman locked eyes. The message that flashed between them was clear. Neither one of them wanted to embarrass Andrea by explaining that they’d been referring to Dr. Samuel Johnson, not a character in a children’s book. Hannah was fairly certain that the closest their eighteenth-century literary figure had come to quilting was to sleep under one.
    â€œSounds like a good book,” Hannah said, because the silence that greeted Andrea’s remark was deafening.
    â€œI liked it a lot when I was little,” Tracey spoke up. Then she picked up her bowl and turned to Lisa. “Can I have seconds, Aunt Lisa? It’s really good!”
    Lisa scooped more cobbler into Tracey’s bowl and went around the table with second helpings. When she reached Bill, he watched while she broke the crust with the tip of her serving spoon and lifted it out to top the peaches in his bowl. “What’s the topping? It tastes a little like something I’ve had before.”
    â€œIt is,” Hannah said with a laugh. “It’s a variation of the topping on your mother’s coffee cake. I tried to think of what