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skirt that emphasized her figure plusses, all one of them, and minimized her figures minuses, all four of them, not counting the biceps she’d developed from lifting fifty-pound bags of flour and sugar. As usual, Claire Rodgers at Beau Monde Fashions had urged her to try on the dress, and, as usual, Claire had chosen well. One look in the mirror, and Hannah said she’d take it without even asking the price, something that would be risky in a shop where she didn’t get a hefty discount for owning the business next door.
    “I’m so glad you approve,” Hannah said, realizing full well the folly of asking her resident feline a fashion question . . . or any question at all other than, Are you hungry?” or “Would you like another kitty treat?”
    “Your food bowl’s full and you’ve had your vitamins. I’ll be leaving now, if that’s okay with you.” Hannah shrugged into the black coat that acted like a magnet for orange and white cat hairs, and picked up the ridiculously small purse Claire had insisted she buy to go with the dress. She grabbed her gloves and the bag containing Mike’s pâté, tossed several more salmon-flavored treats shaped like little fish toward the couch, and informed the cat, who still wasn’t interested in anything except the television screen, “I may be late. You don’t have to wait up.”
    As she stepped outside, testing the door to make certain it locked behind her, Hannah found herself wishing she’d worn a ski mask, or at least a knit cap. The air was frigid, and it would be even colder by the time she came home tonight. She hurried down the outside stairs, thankful for the roof that the builder had designed to keep them free of snow, navigated an icy patch of sidewalk, and then went down the six concrete steps that led to the underground garage, barely missing bowling over her downstairs neighbor, Phil Plotnik.
    “Sorry, Phil,” Hannah apologized as he steadied her on her feet. “You don’t have to say it. I really ought to watch where I’m going.”
    “I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to remind you to unplug your truck.”
    “Thank you! I always forget when I’m in a rush, and I’ve already totaled two cords this winter.”
    “I’d better make sure it doesn’t turn into three.” Phil reversed his direction and walked her to her truck. “What’s your record?”
    “You mean in one winter?”
    “Right.” Phil went to the line of electrical outlets specifically designed for plugging in the head bolt and dipstick heaters that were so unnecessary during a cold Minnesota winter, and unplugged Hannah’s extension cord.
    “Seven. It was the first year I bought my truck. I just couldn’t seem to get used to unplugging it. Are you coming to the Christmas party tonight?”
    “Wouldn’t miss it. Sue wants to get a picture of Kevin in front of the Christmas tree. We tried to do it last year, but he was too young to sit up. She’s going to order some of those photo cards to send to the relatives.”
    “They’re bound to like that. Thanks for helping me, Phil. I’ll see you all alter at the party.” Hannah was smiling as she climbed inside her candy-apple-red Suburban with the vanity license plate that read COOKIES. Her taxman claimed that the plate and the gold lettering on the sides that advertised The Cookie Jar constituted a write-off.
    As Hannah drove up the ramp and along the narrow road that wound through her condo complex, lights winked on in several of the units. It was only four in the afternoon, but the shadows of the pine trees on the snow had darkened from lavender to indigo blue, and the horizon would soon be indistinguishable. Hannah switched on her headlights. At dawn and dusk visibility was poor, and even at the slow speeds that were posted in the complex, it was possible to have an expensive fender-bender.
    In the few minutes it took Hannah to exit her complex, darkness fell completely. She turned left onto Old Lake Road, switched on her