Lemon Tart (2 page)

Sadie immediately relaxed, all the horrible possibilities
taking a backseat to simple common sense. Nothing had happened to Anne at all;
the tip that brought the police to her house had been some kind of mistake.
Sadie smiled to herself and took a deep breath, almost feeling foolish for
letting her mind run on ahead as it had.

“Um, officer,” she said, tapping Officer Malloy’s arm, eager to
share her discovery with him. He scowled at her and took a step away,
continuing his conversation on the speaker. He seemed to be having some kind of
argument with a dispatcher—something about the whole thing
being a waste of time and wanting permission to write up the tip as
unsubstantiated.

Sadie couldn’t make heads or tails out of what the fuzzy voice
coming from the walkie-talkie was saying. She looked at the front
door of Anne’s house again. Everyone knew that once you could smell whatever
had been set to bake, it was nearly finished. Was she really expected to stand
out here while the tart burned?

Her guard went to get something out of his car, and Sadie
assumed the chubby officer was still inside the house. She shifted her weight
from one foot to the other, her anxiety growing again. Taking a step toward the
house, she thought better of it and retreated, tapping Malloy on the arm again.
He didn’t even look at her, but took two steps farther away from her.

Fine, she
thought as she headed up the steps.

“Hey!” she heard Officer Malloy call out as she reached the
door. But she was too far into this to go back now.

“Lemon tart!” she shouted back, then quickened her pace and
hurried into the kitchen, not wanting him to catch up and stop her. “Can’t you
smell it?” she yelled over her shoulder, flying past the chubby officer,
Harris, who was standing in the living room writing down notes.

Sadie had shown Anne how to cook all kinds of things over the
last several months, but Anne had been particularly studious about learning to
bake the perfect lemon tart—she’d wanted it to become her
signature dessert.

“She’s baking,” Sadie explained when she reached the
stove.

Harris was right behind her and reached around her to grab the
handle of the oven. He seemed to be repeating what she’d just said in his
mind—as if he knew the difference between a lemon tart and a
quiche.

On second thought,
he might, Sadie thought after taking a second look at the belly hanging
over his pants. He had a certain appreciation for food, it seemed. Sadie
quickly put her hand on the door to keep it closed. “Every time you open an
oven you lose five minutes of baking time,” she said to Harris, her eyes
narrowed.

“Let go of that, Harris,” Malloy said from the kitchen doorway.
Harris dropped the handle, looking flushed and uncertain. Officer Malloy turned
to Sadie—his face was red too, but she doubted it was for the
same reason as Harris. She lifted her chin in defiance and tried to stand as
tall as she could, bringing herself almost to eye level with him.

“I told you to wait outside,” he said, his eyebrows pinched
together and his eyes angry. She couldn’t be sure but he seemed to be pulling
himself up taller too—perhaps to look down on her a little
better. She was not impressed.

“And let the tart burn?” she asked with exaggerated
incredulity. What she wanted more than the salvation of the tart was to look
around the house herself, but for the moment she kept her eyes locked on
Malloy’s, not wanting to appear the least bit intimidated. She had at least
twenty years on this kid and she wasn’t the type of woman who let herself be
pushed around.

He let out a breath as if she were a child and that got her
back up even more. He might know how to investigate some tip and enjoy bullying
the neighbors, but Sadie knew Anne and she knew this house. If something wasn’t
right, she’d be the one who would notice—not him. He narrowed
his eyes and took a deep breath. Sadie mimicked his expression, narrowing her
eyes even more.

“Please return outside,” he said slowly, calculating. “Harris,
turn off the oven.”

“Turn it off?” Sadie said in disbelief, stepping back to block
the oven door. “No way.”

Malloy’s expression faltered and she saw his uncertainty, which
only strengthened her resolve.

“Excuse me?” he asked as if he hadn’t heard her correctly.

“Most people vastly underestimate the satisfaction of good
homemaking skills and I won’t have anyone sabotage Anne’s attempts. There are”—she
turned her head to look at the timer—“three minutes left. This oven will
not be opened a minute sooner.”

“You’re interfering with a police investigation,” Officer
Malloy said as he took a step toward her, his jaw clenched.

“And you’re interfering with a woman’s kitchen.” Sadie lifted
her chin even higher—partly because he was now only ten inches
or so from her face. Malloy seemed to be trying to find a reply, but she
continued before he had the chance. “You said yourself it was all clear and
that whatever tip brought you here was unfounded,” she said. “And Anne wouldn’t
have been baking if she weren’t going to be right back. In case she isn’t, I’ll
remove it.” Yet even as she said it, the unease in her stomach grew. There were
too many questions in her mind now.

Why would Anne put a tart in the oven and then leave? Sadie had
been at her kitchen window all morning, how could she have missed Anne leaving?
Why was the house locked up if she were only going to be gone a few minutes?
What about Trevor?

The officer clenched his jaw even tighter; she thought she
heard his teeth grind as he seemed to consider her words. “Harris, make sure
she doesn’t touch anything but the oven. McKesson and I will widen the exterior
sweep.”

Apparently Malloy was in charge because Harris folded his beefy
arms and glared at her while Malloy went back out the front door.

While the tart finished baking, Sadie looked around the kitchen
and the part of the living room in her range of vision. Everything looked
normal—right down to the lemon-themed placemats on
the table. The sink held an assortment of dishes, the counters were mostly
cleared, and Trevor’s shoes were by the back door. She’d hoped to get some idea
of what had brought the police here, but she was starting to admit maybe
Officer Malloy had been right—everything looked clear.

When the timer dinged at exactly 9:40, Harris wouldn’t let her
open the drawer next to the oven to get a set of hot pads. Sadie had to pull
her hands into the sleeves of her jacket to keep from burning her fingers as
she removed the tart. He also wouldn’t let her find a cooling rack, so she was
forced to set the pan on the stovetop, which was not the optimal way to cool
baked goods. She kept that information to herself, however.

It’s perfect,
she thought as she set the tart down. The crust underneath the bronzed filling
was golden brown, and pride welled in Sadie’s heart to realize how far Anne had
come. About the only thing Anne knew how to make when she had moved in was
Belgian waffles—an odd item to perfect, but at least it meant
she had some basic culinary knowledge. Now she was well on her way to
becoming a superior cook. But the worry for her young friend returned as Sadie
looked at the steaming confection. No one worked this hard on a lemon tart and
treated it like it was any old frozen pie. Something was very wrong.

She turned to Harris to share her suspicions—but
he was looking out the patio door, watching something. Sadie followed his line
of vision and froze when she saw the other two officers gathered around
something in the field of weeds behind Anne’s house. Harris hurried out the
back door and Sadie followed. She was stepping over the threshold when she
heard Officer Malloy say, “Tape off the area. I’ll call homicide.”

Mom’s Lemon Tart

*Jack’s favorite!

Crust

1 cup all-purpose flour

1⁄3 cup powdered sugar

Pinch of salt

1⁄2 cup (1 stick) cold unsalted butter (cut into
smaller pieces)

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. In a food
processor or mixer, combine ingredients for crust. Pulse together until a dough
starts to form in clumps. Press into tart pan, making sure to cover bottom and
sides evenly. Pierce the bottom of the crust with a fork and place in freezer
for 10 to 15 minutes.

Place tart pan on a cookie sheet and bake until
crust is a golden-brown color, approximately 12 minutes. Remove from
oven and let cool.

Filling

5 oz. cream cheese

1⁄2 cup granulated sugar (Breanna likes an extra 1⁄4
cup sugar in the filling)

3⁄4 cup fresh lemon juice (about 2 large
lemons—
DO NOT
use concentrated
lemon juice)

2 large eggs

Zest from one lemon (get zest from lemon before
juicing)

Reduce oven temperature to 350 degrees. Mix
cream cheese with electric beaters until smooth. Add sugar. Mix until well
blended. Add the eggs one at a time, mixing thoroughly after each egg. Stop and
scrape bowl halfway through. Add the lemon juice and zest and mix until
smooth.

Pour filling into tart crust and bake on cookie
sheet for 20 to 30 minutes or until filling is set. Let tart cool on wire cooling
rack. Cover and refrigerate until well chilled.

Use whipped cream as an optional topping. It can be
piped on in stars or served on top with each piece. For extra flavor in the
whipped cream, add a teaspoon of lemon zest.

Chapter 2

Sadie made it to the top of Anne’s back patio stairs
before the word “homicide” finally sank in and her feet would go no further.
She had forgotten to breathe and when her brain realized it, she took a deep
breath that sounded like a vacuum sucking up a tablecloth.

Officer Malloy was walking toward the house, talking into his
speaker-thing, and the sound of her desperate breath caught his
attention. He hurried up the steps of the patio, catching her as she fell
backward. They landed in a jumbled heap, but he’d kept her from hurting
herself.

“Wha-at, what’s out there?” she mumbled as he straightened
himself and helped her up, leading her to a patio chair. She tried to look over
her shoulder at the field but he quickly turned the chair so it faced the
sliding glass door of the house instead of the backyard. She could barely
register what was happening. Homicide?
she said in her mind once more. That meant they’d found a body. The chill in
the autumn air became decidedly colder and her hands began to shake.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. . . .” Officer Malloy trailed
off.

“Hoffmiller,” she said, choosing to focus on a
fall-themed wreath Anne had hung on her kitchen wall—she
could see it through the glass of the door.

“Mrs. Hoffmiller. Is there someone I can call to come and help
you back home? A friend? Your husband?”

“I’m a widow,” she said automatically, her foggy thoughts
beginning to clear. There was Ron, her boyfriend, though the term sounded
juvenile and besides, they were engaged. But Ron was at a real estate
convention in Denver all week—he couldn’t come. She turned and
looked at Officer Malloy. “Who’s out there? Is it Anne?” She swallowed the
threatening tears. “Trevor?” she squeaked.

Officer Malloy quickly shook his head. “Not the child,” he
said.

“But Anne? She’s out there? She’s dead?”

Malloy took a deep breath. “The body will need to be identified
for us to be sure.”

Sadie tried to stand, but Malloy’s hand on her shoulder pushed
her back into the chair. “Not you,” he said, sounding more irritated than
sympathetic. “Next of kin.”

The tears started to fall then, but she didn’t even try to
brush them away. This was Anne he was talking about—a girl
trying to find her way. A friend. A neighbor. A mother. “I don’t know of any
kin, certainly no one local. I can identify her as well as anyone else,” she
said, her voice shaking as she rubbed the two stones of her mother’s ring on
her right hand. The feel of the smoothly cut stones—one diamond
and one amethyst, her children’s birthstones—helped her find
her center once again and she pushed down the shock. “The sooner you know if
it’s her, the sooner you can move forward, right?”

Malloy hesitated, but finally nodded.

“Besides,” she added. “It might not be her.” Though she knew
that was a ridiculous idea. The police had received a tip of some kind and
found a body. What were the chances that a completely unrelated murder had
taken place behind Anne’s house?

Murder.

The very idea made her knees wobble—she was
glad she was still sitting. Then
again, maybe it wasn’t murder, she thought as she took a breath and
followed Malloy down the back steps. Maybe it was some kind of accident.
Accidents happened all the time. Why, her friend Gale had a neighbor who’d gone
out Christmas morning to set up a new satellite dish. His metal tape measure
had crossed the electrical wires leading to his house. Killed him instantly.
Though an accidental death would still be tragic, at least it would be less
disturbing. Accidents were normal, practically expected. That had to be it.
Some kind of accident.