don't much blame them. The infirmary has the only window in the cellblock... the only source of natural light. But for God sake, emphysema? Jesus... he'd be better off claiming something like high blood pressure."
"Cholesterol poisoning," Bauer jumped in, trying to make a lighter moment while holding the door open for Hannah.
"The donut disease," she said, unable to even manage a smile.
Madsen said they'd be having lunch in the warden's private dining room. It would be only the two of them. The warden had a crown that needed replacing, and he'd driven down to the Landing to see the dentist-- though the prison had its own dentist, one who found a little too much joy in his work. Madsen led the pair into a cubbyhole of a room with a massive oak table.
"Not everyone gets this treatment. I've been in here only a dozen times in ten years," Madsen said.
A ceramic bowl of blown-glass fruit commanded the center of the table. Miriam Thomas had left her homey touch. Lunch was surprisingly elegant, consisting of salmon with dill (from the prison's pea patch), spears of late-season asparagus, and a pretty decent Waldorf salad.
"Wheaton's always more cheerful after eating," Madsen said, exiting the dining room. "Especially happy after a double serving of chili-mac."
"That's fine," Bauer said. "Feed the behemoth. We've got catching up to do."
"That's one way to put it. More like opening old wounds, I'd say," Hannah said. She tied to manage an ironic smile.
BOOK TWO
Ashes
If Hannah Logan had shared any happy times with her mother, they must have been the warm evenings of Oregon's all-too-brief summer. Just after 9 p.m., Claire Logan would summon her daughter, and they'd sit on a log that had been split lengthwise and shaped as a bench to watch their moon-flowers unfurl. Her father had created the bench with a chain-saw, during the off-season the year he thought he could sell "Lumber Jack Furniture." But each evening, against a stump of a tree that had burned into a stubby snag, mother and daughter would sit and watch the flowers come to life. The white moonflowers, grown from seeds purchased from Burpee's catalog, had always been Claire's favorite. Their almost magical opening was a cherished reminder of her youth in Oregon. Hannah was equally enthralled. In front of their eyes, milky white tubes would twist and open into trumpets. From closed tight to open and swirling in fifteen minutes.
And while the pirouetting imagery was lovely, later, when she revisited those moments, Hannah could see that her mother was a bitter woman. She was a schemer, more than a dreamer.
"Hannah," she said, "don't let a man get in the way of your dreams. Don't let anyone tell you that you can't be what your heart tells you."
"Yes, Mother."
"Remember my words. Carve them on my headstone with acid when I'm gone. I don't care. As long as you remember."
Hannah nodded, then nuzzled her mother and smiled at the laughter of her brothers as they played in their upstairs bedroom.
"I remember when Hannah told me about the moon-flowers," childhood friend Michelle Masour later told a magazine reporter. "Her mother was weird, but she did have some good qualities. Hannah loved her mother. She never saw any of this stuff coming. Not at all."
--From Twenty in a Row: The Claire Logan
Murders , by Marcella Hoffman
Chapter Twelve
Patty Masour knew the scanner codes better than anyone in Rock Point, Oregon. She was the part-time dispatcher at the Spruce County Sheriff's Department, a job she shared with her sister, Sandy. The code sputtering over the scanner next to her davenport meant trouble, big trouble. Multiple homicide in the woods of the county. She turned off her TV and told her husband she felt uneasy about what she had half heard crackle, and she dialed her sister.
"County Sheriff. Merry Christmas and hello," a woman's voice answered. Her voice was flat, her words sounded as though they were read from a card, not words from the
"Cholesterol poisoning," Bauer jumped in, trying to make a lighter moment while holding the door open for Hannah.
"The donut disease," she said, unable to even manage a smile.
Madsen said they'd be having lunch in the warden's private dining room. It would be only the two of them. The warden had a crown that needed replacing, and he'd driven down to the Landing to see the dentist-- though the prison had its own dentist, one who found a little too much joy in his work. Madsen led the pair into a cubbyhole of a room with a massive oak table.
"Not everyone gets this treatment. I've been in here only a dozen times in ten years," Madsen said.
A ceramic bowl of blown-glass fruit commanded the center of the table. Miriam Thomas had left her homey touch. Lunch was surprisingly elegant, consisting of salmon with dill (from the prison's pea patch), spears of late-season asparagus, and a pretty decent Waldorf salad.
"Wheaton's always more cheerful after eating," Madsen said, exiting the dining room. "Especially happy after a double serving of chili-mac."
"That's fine," Bauer said. "Feed the behemoth. We've got catching up to do."
"That's one way to put it. More like opening old wounds, I'd say," Hannah said. She tied to manage an ironic smile.
BOOK TWO
Ashes
If Hannah Logan had shared any happy times with her mother, they must have been the warm evenings of Oregon's all-too-brief summer. Just after 9 p.m., Claire Logan would summon her daughter, and they'd sit on a log that had been split lengthwise and shaped as a bench to watch their moon-flowers unfurl. Her father had created the bench with a chain-saw, during the off-season the year he thought he could sell "Lumber Jack Furniture." But each evening, against a stump of a tree that had burned into a stubby snag, mother and daughter would sit and watch the flowers come to life. The white moonflowers, grown from seeds purchased from Burpee's catalog, had always been Claire's favorite. Their almost magical opening was a cherished reminder of her youth in Oregon. Hannah was equally enthralled. In front of their eyes, milky white tubes would twist and open into trumpets. From closed tight to open and swirling in fifteen minutes.
And while the pirouetting imagery was lovely, later, when she revisited those moments, Hannah could see that her mother was a bitter woman. She was a schemer, more than a dreamer.
"Hannah," she said, "don't let a man get in the way of your dreams. Don't let anyone tell you that you can't be what your heart tells you."
"Yes, Mother."
"Remember my words. Carve them on my headstone with acid when I'm gone. I don't care. As long as you remember."
Hannah nodded, then nuzzled her mother and smiled at the laughter of her brothers as they played in their upstairs bedroom.
"I remember when Hannah told me about the moon-flowers," childhood friend Michelle Masour later told a magazine reporter. "Her mother was weird, but she did have some good qualities. Hannah loved her mother. She never saw any of this stuff coming. Not at all."
--From Twenty in a Row: The Claire Logan
Murders , by Marcella Hoffman
Chapter Twelve
Patty Masour knew the scanner codes better than anyone in Rock Point, Oregon. She was the part-time dispatcher at the Spruce County Sheriff's Department, a job she shared with her sister, Sandy. The code sputtering over the scanner next to her davenport meant trouble, big trouble. Multiple homicide in the woods of the county. She turned off her TV and told her husband she felt uneasy about what she had half heard crackle, and she dialed her sister.
"County Sheriff. Merry Christmas and hello," a woman's voice answered. Her voice was flat, her words sounded as though they were read from a card, not words from the
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