Double Chocolate Cookie Murder

by Devon Delaney

  As the last of the napkins were tucked under the forks, Marla descended the stairs. “Guess what? I found our old Augustin High yearbook from the year you were in home ec. No wonder we were fuzzy on Crosby. He was Mr. Currier back then, not Mr. Banks. Wonder why the name change.”

  Marla tilted the open yearbook in Sherry’s direction.

  Sherry leaned in and ran her finger across the page. “Mr. Currier, of course.” As she studied the photograph of the young teacher standing behind teenagers dressed in cooking aprons, the dogs began to bark.

  Knocking sounded through the canine commotion.

  “I’ll get it. Put the yearbook aside and we’ll look at it later. I don’t need to be reminded all night how long ago my youth was.” Sherry opened the front door and greeted Erno and Ruth.

  “We brought pie.” Ruth handed Sherry a twine-secured box. “In case you didn’t have any dessert leftovers from yesterday. From the Black Friday pie sale at Pinch and Dash, my favorite bakery. Bourbon Pecan Pie.” She hugged Sherry, then Marla. “Should be plenty for the four of us.”

  “Chef Buckman’s bakery,” Sherry said. “Love that place. He’s a judge with me tomorrow at the cookie bake-off. One of the prizes is to have the winning cookie featured at the bakery for a month. That’s always so exciting for the home cook, to see their treat for sale.”

  Knocking resumed on the other side of the door.

  “By the way, the head count has increased to six.” Sherry saw two silhouettes through the sidelight windows. She reached for the door handle.

  When the door opened, Sherry saw the look on Don’s face was somewhere between shock and embarrassment. Next to him stood Crosby.

  “Good evening, Sherry.” Crosby placed a bottle of wine in her hand.

  At the same time, Don’s hand jutted out, clutching a bottle of wine. He retracted the gift when Sherry, bottle in one hand and a pie in the other, shrugged her shoulders.

  “Thank you, everyone, for your gifts,” Sherry said. “Marla, can you hold Crosby’s gift?” She handed Marla the bottle of wine.

  “Good evening. I hope my last-minute phone call isn’t spoiling your plans. I’m so embarrassed.” Don gave a slight head tilt Crosby’s way.

  “Don’t be. Come in. It’s chilly out there. Coats this way.” Sherry collected the bottle of wine from Don.

  “It’s not too late to disinvite me.” Don side-eyed Crosby.

  “Nothing was planned except eating with Marla, and the number of guests grew from there.”

  “Okay, you’ve lost your chance. I’m staying.” Don smiled broadly.

  “Good. Don, this is my sister, Marla.”

  The two exchanged greetings. Don turned his attention to Crosby.

  “Did you two gentlemen introduce yourselves outside?” Sherry asked.

  “I was afraid to, in case I wasn’t welcome,” Don told Crosby as he extended his hand. “I’m Don Johnstone. Friend of Sherry’s from the cook-off world, and beyond.”

  “Don, this is my new friend and old teacher—that sounds odd, Crosby, um . . .” Sherry paused and looked to Marla for assistance. None came. “I’m sorry, do you go by Crosby Banks or Crosby Currier?”

  Crosby lowered his head and seemed to examine his shoes for a moment before meeting Sherry’s gaze. “That’s the problem with meeting up with people from my distant past. Too much to explain. Rather than bore you all with a tedious story, I’ll simply say my name is Crosby Banks.”

  Despite her curiosity, Sherry let Crosby’s story stay untold. She moved forward with further introductions to her father and Ruth.

  “So nice to see you again, Don,” Ruth said. “Glad to see you’re becoming a fixture at more of Sherry’s get-togethers. You know you’ve finally made her A-list when she includes you in her recipe contest taste testing parties. Right, dear?” Ruth sent a smile in Sherry’s direction.

  “I can’t wait to achieve that status,” Don replied.

  Ruth shook Crosby’s hand and didn’t let it drop. “A lovely family named Currier used to live next-door to my dear friend Frances. Are you the same little boy she used to find in her garden loading up his pockets with her award-winning pickling cucumbers? I was at her house at least three times when we escorted you home.”

  A rosy hue developed on Crosby’s cheeks. “I’d wager if two pretty ladies didn’t hold my hands and talk so sweetly to me as a reward for ravaging the garden, I wouldn’t have done it so many times.”

  “A man learns early the rewards of bad behavior,” Erno commented.

  Sherry’s guests followed her into the living room, where she took drink orders. When she returned with a tray of full glasses, the topic of conversation was recipe contests. Marla was finishing the story of Sherry’s first foray into cooking competitions.

  “So impressive you won the first recipe contest you entered.” Crosby shook his head.

  “I second that,” Don added.

  “Dumb luck,” Sherry said. “I found an advertisement for the contest, whose theme was what can you make with a piece of bread. I’ve always loved French toast, so I made Orange-Dusted French Toast Fingers with Maple Dipping Sauce. Typed up the recipe and mailed it to the listed address. A few months later, they sent me two thousand dollars and I was hooked on recipe contests.”

  “Amazing. When I moved to Long Island for a few years, I lost track of your successes. But since I’ve moved back, I’ve on the Sherry cook-off bandwagon.” Crosby took a sip of his beer.

  “Where in Long Island did you live? I live in Pine Needle Point,” Don said.

  “I lived for a brief time in Canopy Cove. Couldn’t be any closer.”

  “If you still lived there, I could have given you a ride home. I’ve got my boat in the marina. If the fog’s lifted, that’s how I’m getting home. Otherwise, I’ll hop on the train and have to return for a boat pickup,” Don explained. “I should probably keep one boat on Long Island and another in Augustin for just these circumstances. I’m just kidding, but it is food for thought.”

  “If you’re serious about the idea of two boats, I may have an offer for you. Let’s talk later,” Crosby said.

  “How exactly did you meet up with Sherry after all the years since high school?” Erno asked.

  “At your store, actually.” Crosby beamed a smile in Sherry’s direction.

  “More important, did you purchase a rug? I’m told Black Friday is the day to get a bargain.” Erno cleared his throat and glared at Sherry.

  “I took a look at your beautiful rugs. Now’s not the time, because I’m between addresses. But I will certainly have an Oliveri masterpiece in my home once I’m settled.”

  “I like the sound of a potential sale.” Erno laughed.

  “I sought your daughter out for some advice on the backstory of my bake-off cookie recipe. She couldn’t divulge any information, but it got me a dinner invite.”

  “Speaking of dinner, it’s ready,” Sherry said over the ringing of the oven’s timer. “Take a seat in the dining room, and Marla and I will serve.”

  Chapter 4

  “Hey, Marla, I’m leaving you this message because I didn’t want to wake you when I left this morning. I peeked in on you, and you looked so content. Help yourself to anything you find in the kitchen. So happy you’re staying on a few days. My house is your house. If you want to meet me at the Nutmeg News Media building in about two hours, the cook-off should be winding down by then. Or I’ll be at the Ruggery in the early afternoon. I’m rambling. Text me. See you soon.” Sherry clicked off her phone and placed it in her purse. She fished her driver’s license out of her purse.

  “Morning, Hans.” Sherry held up her license to Hans’s square-jawed face.

  Hans studied the license, glanced at the clipboard he was holding, and penned a checkmark. “Yes. Sherry Oliveri. Second to arrive. Take the elevator to the third floor. The entire floor is an enormous meeting room, where the contest will be held.”

  “Thank you.” Sherry stuffed her license back in
her purse.

  “Save some leftovers for me, please. I’d say, ‘good luck,’ but I’m sure you don’t need it.”

  Sherry took a moment to reply. “Oh, I think I’ll need it.” Sherry softened her tone and leaned in toward Hans. “Between you and me, I’m pretty nervous. I’m not really sure what to expect, being on the other side of the decision-making process. I have the sudden urge to declare all the contestants winners.”

  “The bakers know there can only be one winner,” Hans said in a soothing voice.

  “Technically, a winner and a runner-up. Doesn’t make my job any easier.” Sherry headed inside the building.

  “Okay, then. Good luck,” Hans called after her.

  Alone in the lobby, Sherry pressed the button for the third floor. As the elevator doors opened, Sherry was reminded of the baking contest she’d entered on a whim, years ago. Back then, her hope was that her baking skills had improved as her other culinary skills blossomed. Wrong. The theme of the baking contest was creating innovative recipes out of a boxed baking mix. Simple, she thought. Most of the dry ingredients’ measurements were premeasured and contained in the box. Easy. All she had to do was put the Sherry spin on the ingredients after pouring them into a mixing bowl. Some ground almonds, condensed milk, lime, toffee bits. Sounded delicious on paper. Sherry felt confident enough to not even practice her creation one time. Big mistake. She served the contest judges a gooey, sloppy mess drizzled with broken, seized chocolate. Years later, baking still wasn’t Sherry’s forte, and here she was, judging others’ baking skills.

  “Sherry Oliveri?” A voice echoed through the cavernous room.

  Sherry blinked away the memory of her baking disaster. She scanned the room to locate the voice. At the far end of the room, three tables were set up to form a horseshoe. A down vest was slung over the back of one of the chairs. Another table sat alone off to the side. A man in a white Oxford shirt, crisp, cuffed dark pants, and a bow tie waved in Sherry’s direction.

  “Judges’ table is down here.” The man waved until she lifted her hand in acknowledgment.

  Sherry’s flats tapped across the shiny wooden floor as she made her way over to the beckoning man. Sherry was met halfway across the room.

  “Warren Yardsmith, editor in chief.” Warren extended his hand and shook Sherry’s. “Hans alerted me that Sherry Oliveri was on her way upstairs. I’m honored to have you join our judging panel today.”

  “Thank you for the invitation.”

  “My colleague, Patti Mellitt, food journalist extraordinaire, sings your praises constantly. If it were up to her, we’d have a section of the paper dedicated to following your every move.” Warren pointed out one of three chairs. “Here is where the magic happens. If you’d like the middle seat, it’s all yours. The cooks, their creations, and their wonderful stories should be ready to go in about thirty minutes. Take some time to check out the prize table in the alcove around the corner. The contestants are welcome to take a photo in front of it before the competition begins, for a bit of last-minute motivation. Excuse me.” Before Sherry could respond, Warren was on his way across the room.

  Sherry settled in her chair and took in the scene. It wasn’t long before he returned, accompanied by a robust, bearded man in a chef’s coat. Sherry rose out of her chair.

  “Chef Buckman, this is . . .” Warren began.

  “Sherry Oliveri, of course.” The chef kissed both of Sherry’s cheeks. “You put Augustin on the map in the cooking competition world. So nice to meet you. Please, call me Barry.”

  Sherry had no idea the award-winning pastry chef would know her from anyone. Unable to formulate an appropriate response, she greeted the chef with a broad smile. After a moment she responded, “Thank you. So nice to meet you. Your bakery put Augustin on the bakery map.” She grimaced at the lame statement, in all its lack of originality. Her subsequent thought was, did the chef know how inadequate she was at baking?

  She had no time to ponder the question as Warren asked the judges to take their seats. People were filtering in and filling the open space in front of the judge’s table.

  “My secretary, Gina, will hand out the score sheets and a printout of the contestant recipes. And pens, too.” Warren waved a woman forward.

  Her long skirt swooshed from side to side as she moved her slight frame toward the judges. She lowered her eyes to see through the reading glasses poised on the end of her nose. “Take a look at each row on the score sheets. For each cookie and story, assign a score of one to five in the corresponding box. One sheet per entrant. Keep the score sheets upside down in a pile until the final contestant. You will then have a moment to organize the sheets from highest to lowest scores. You will find a copy of the recipes in the papers in front of you.”

  Sherry received her pile of score sheets from Gina. “Thank you.”

  She scanned the rows of judging criteria: whimsical recipe title, overall taste, mouth feel, crumb texture, eye appeal, use of interesting ingredients, and the story behind the cookie. Her stomach fluttered. “I’m going to have to put aside all my empathy for what the contestant went through to get to this stage of the contest,” she commented to no one in particular.

  One glance from Barry’s kind eyes gave Sherry the calm she needed. “Just be your honest self.”

  By the time Sherry finished reviewing the score sheet, a crowd of bakers and their cookie trays had filled the spacious room. The bakers took seats in a designated section of chairs. The room quieted down when Hans brought a microphone to the judges’ table.

  Warren received the mic from Hans. “Good morning, bakers, and those who love baked goods. Welcome to the Story For Glory Cookie Bake-off. I am Warren Yardsmith, editor-in-chief of the Nutmeg State of Mind newspaper, and one of the contest judges. To my left is esteemed judge Sherry Oliveri, reigning National Mushroom Cook-off champion, reigning America’s Good Taste Cook-off champion, and Augustin’s reigning Fall Fest Cook-off champion, to name a few of her titles. That’s a lot of reigning, Sherry.”

  The audience agreed with a round of applause.

  “To my right is our third judge, Chef Barry Buckman. He’s been recognized for his series of dessert cookbooks and has appeared on multiple televised cooking shows. His local bakery, Pinch and Dash, is currently rated number one in all of New England.

  “At last count, we have fifty-three entrants who have brought their best cookie creations to be judged. Along with their cookies, the bakers will share the story behind the recipe.”

  The crowd murmured in hushed tones.

  “Sounds like you’re all as excited as I am to hear those stories.”

  The crowd clapped.

  “The prizes today will include a total of three thousand dollars, trophies, plaques, having the winning cookie featured at Chef Buckman’s fabulous bakery, and a ride on a float in the holiday parade down Augustin’s historic parade route.”

  The crowd erupted into more applause.

  Warren received the loudest applause when he concluded with, “May the best cookie recipe and story win.”

  With the introductions out of the way, the fifty-three contestants stood in silence as the first baker was called up to the judging table.

  “Justine Deloise. Please bring up your Salted Caramel Tassies and tell us your cookie recipe’s story of origin,” Warren announced over the mic.

  Sherry welcomed Justine and her platter of cookies with a warm smile. Justine offered each judge a cookie from her platter before taking her position in front of the trio. Sherry examined the cookie. Her discerning eye immediately noticed the cookie edges were a tad overbaked. She made a mark on her score sheet in the row labeled “visual appeal.” Or, she suddenly considered, did a burned edge fall into “recipe execution?” The problem with pens, she thought, was the lack of an eraser. She crossed out the number two assigned to the improper box and made a decision not to score further until Justine’s full presentation was complete. Maybe the burned edge was part of the backstory.
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  Barry tipped his head toward Sherry. “Please hold off on scoring until after the contestant leaves,” he whispered.

  Sherry moved her hand over her score sheet, obscuring the crossed-out section.

  Warren stood and positioned the mic under the baker’s mouth. “And how did your recipe originate, Ms. Deloise?”

  Sherry listened closely to Justine’s complicated story. Each judge simultaneously took a bite of the cookie they held. The baker described how elements of the recipe came from her grandparents, her travels during college, which must have been many years ago, and the loss of a parent. After Justine’s voice broke when describing the therapeutic effect of pecans and caramel, Sherry saw the cloyingly sweet, overbaked treat in a different light. Considering the roller coaster of emotions Sherry had been put through after only the first contestant, she resigned herself to the fact this morning was going to be intense.

  “Thank you. If you’ll step over to the waiting area next to Hans,” Warren pointed to the edge of the room, “we will score your entry.” He sat back down.

  Sherry set pen to paper. When the judges put their pens down, it was time for the next contestant.

  Warren passed Sherry the list of contestants. He pointed to the second baker.

  “Effi. Effi Forino. Your turn to bring up your cookie and your story.” The room hushed, but no one came forward. After a moment, Sherry called the name again.

  “She’s a little nervous. May I walk her up there?”

  Sherry recognized Sal’s voice. For a petite man, he could project his voice like a trained actor.

  “Of course,” Sherry answered without consulting Warren. She leaned Warren’s way as the couple stepped forward. “The Forinos are a lovely couple who own the oldest cleaners in town.”