Peach Cobbler Murder by Joanne Fluke Page A

that Delores had sent him over, Winthrop had arrived at the cake table to ask Hannah to take what he’d called “a turn around the floor.”
    Hannah wasn’t enthusiastic about the man who’d caught her mother’s interest, but she had to admit that Winthrop was an excellent dancer. He’d held her confidently, led with assertion, and made the waltz they’d danced into a showing worthy of a dance competition. It pained Hannah to admit it since her father had been an excellent dancer, but Winthrop Harrington the Second was even better.
    Norman, dressed formally in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie, walked up to the cake table with his digital camera. “Stay, Don’t you dare take a picture of me!”
    “Don’t you dare take a picture of me!” Hannah said, laughing over the absurdity as he snapped the picture.
    “Works every time. The minute people say the words, they laugh. This is a good one of you . . . want to see?”
    Hannah took the camera Norman handed her and peered at the small preview screen. It was a good picture, perhaps the best anyone had ever taken of her. Her eyes were sparkling, her smile was genuine, and she looked highly amused. Norman had been right to replace Say Cheese on his photographer’s vocabulary list.
    “I think I got some great shots so far. Do you want to see them when the reception’s over? I could follow you home and hook my camera up to your television.”
    Hannah laughed. “That’s a pretty sneaky way to ask for an after-party date.”
    “You’re right. I would have asked you before, but I thought you’d be with Mike.”
    “You did?” Hannah frowned slightly. “Why did you think that?”
    “Because he told me he asked you when I ran into him this morning.”
    Hannah began to do a slow burn. “Did he tell you I said yes?”
    “Not exactly. I just assumed . . . “
    “Assumption is the mother of misunderstanding,” Hannah interrupted. “Never assume.”
    “Yes, ma’am. So did you say yes when he asked you?”
    “No. I haven’t talked to him since then and it doesn’t matter anyway, because he’s not here. So yes, I’d love it if you followed me home and showed me your photos after the party’s over.”
    The next few minutes were busy at the dessert buffet. Guests had finished their first helpings and were back for seconds or thirds. Lake Edenites, or whatever collective noun the language pundits assigned to the residents of Hannah’s hometown, loved their desserts. When Tracey was three, she’d looked up at her aunt and asked, “Why don’t we have dessert for breakfast?” Hannah had figured that was a legitimate question, especially in Lake Eden.
    When Andrea had sent out the wedding invitations with the announcement that there would be a dessert buffet at the reception, she’d received hundreds of calls from people who’d wanted to bring a dessert. Andrea had told them all to bring whatever they wished, and there were pies, cakes, puddings, custards, fruit bowls, pastries in all shapes and forms, and frozen desserts that matched the temperature outside. Hannah had no doubt that the calorie count from the collective treats on the table and in Sally’s kitchen waiting to be served would be enough to feed a small country for several weeks.
    “Hi, Miss Swenson,” Amber Coombs greeted her. She was wearing one of Sally’s waitress uniforms and Hannah assumed that she was working out at the Lake Eden Inn on the weekends during her senior year of high school.
    “Hi, Amber. How’s your mom?”
    “She’s great. She got a promotion out at CostMart and she manages the whole cosmetic section now. I’m supposed to relieve you so you can have fun. Sally said.”
    “Thanks!” Hannah was delighted to be relieved. She’d been standing behind the wedding cake station for almost an hour and the unaccustomed high heels she was wearing made her feet hurt. “Where’s Sally?”
    “In the kitchen. Dick’s showing her how to work the new cappuccino machine. She told