Hannah refilled the food tube on Moishe’s Kitty Valet and secured the lid. Then she put the sack of cat food back in the broom closet and locked the door. Everything was set. All she had to do was remember to turn on the kitty-cam when she left, and her stockpiling cat would be caught red-pawed.

“All set?” Michelle asked, coming into the kitchen in her winter parka and boots.

“I am. But you really don’t have to go down to The Cookie Jar this early. If you get there by six, that should be plenty of time to help Lisa with the baking.”

“I’m leaving with you. I want to give Moishe plenty of time to hide his food. I bet it’s behind the stove.”

“You’re wrong about that. Moishe can’t fit in back of the stove. Besides, the camera wouldn’t catch that. It’s trained on the living room door. Mike wants to see Moishe leaving the kitchen with the food in his mouth so we can find out which way he goes.”

“Do you really think it’ll work?” Michelle looked dubious as Hannah reached up to flick the red switch.

“Why not? Unless Moishe’s savvy enough to jump up there with a can of spray paint and coat the lens of the camera, we’re going to see him heading into the living room with a load of kitty crunchies in his mouth.”

“Here they are,” Andrea said, pulling three envelopes out of her briefcase and placing them on the table as if she were dealing giant cards in a game of solitaire. She tapped the envelope on her left with a perfectly manicured fingernail. “The crime lab report,” she announced, and then she moved to the middle envelope. “Autopsy. And this…” she tapped the envelope on the right, “…this envelope contains copies of the crime scene photos.”

“Norman and I haven’t had our cookies yet,” Michelle complained. “Let’s start with the crime lab report. Anything else might make us lose our appetites.”

“I think that’s doubtful,” Hannah said. And she watched her youngest sister in amusement as Michelle handed Norman a napkin with two cookies and then took three for herself. If Michelle didn’t start watching what she ate, she’d be joining them in their Classic Body Sculpting class before you could say, Pass the cookies, please.

It was the eleven o’clock lull at The Cookie Jar, the time of day when most people felt it was too late for a midmorning snack cookie and too early for a lunch cookie. Lisa’s husband, Herb, was talking to their sole customer, Earl Flensburg, so that Lisa could join in their crime-solving discussion at the table in the back of the shop.