Sherry sprinkled the squash with maple syrup, olive oil, garlic powder, chopped rosemary, sea salt, and pepper. She preheated the oven.
Marla’s distinct heavy footsteps announced her arrival back in the kitchen. “Look what I picked up in the living room. The yearbook from your senior year. I want to take a look at Crosby’s picture.” Marla flipped through the pages, while Sherry wiped her hands clean. “Here we go. Mr. Crosby Currier, home economics. He looks like he’s twenty here.”
Sherry sat beside Marla for a closer look. “He couldn’t have been much older than that. Wonder why the name change to Banks? And when? Maybe his move to Long Island had something to do with the name change? His wife uses the name Currier. She introduced herself to me at the bake-off. Rachel Currier. Doesn’t make sense.”
“You met his wife? The one he wooed into marriage with his cookie recipe? By the way, did the other judges like his story?”
“That’s another mysterious thing. He didn’t use the cookie recipe story he told us at dinner the night before the bake-off. He had a different story about baking the cookies for a homeless shelter, a story his wife hinted may not be accurate. She sought me out after the bake-off and told me both the cookie recipe and the story weren’t his.”
“It crossed my mind people might be tempted to embellish their cookie stories. But to have your own wife rat you out? That takes some guts.”
“Who knows? Rachel, his wife, may have told him not to use the original story. They didn’t seem to be on the best of terms. Crosby said she was out of town when she wasn’t, and she didn’t have anything nice to say about him. Doesn’t speak well for the status of their marriage.”
“So, they’re having some difficulties. I know what that’s like.” Marla cocked her head to the side and gave her full attention to the yearbook.
Sherry walked the seasoned squash over to the oven. She set the timer for twenty minutes.
“Do you think his wife killed him?” Marla asked.
“Knowing nothing more about the man than what I’ve learned in the past forty-eight hours, she would be at the top of my list. Can I see the yearbook?” Sherry wiped her hands on the kitchen towel.
Marla handed over the weighty book. Sherry examined the home economics class picture. Two rows of teenagers mugged for the camera with bowls, spatulas, whisks, and plates in their hands. Sherry, front and center, an apron across her lap. Her face was content and relaxed, while the boy next to her appeared to be elbowing her in the ribs. The memory of the shenanigans that boy engaged in during class produced an involuntary groan. Crosby put up with a lot during his one year at Augustin High. If more of the students took his class as seriously as Sherry had, she silently bet he’d have stayed longer. “Wonder why he only taught one year at Augustin High?”
“Hard to say. Let’s get down to business and create your special dressing for the panzanella.”
Sherry closed the yearbook. The oven timer beeped as she put the heavy book on the edge of the counter. As she glanced at the timer, the yearbook tumbled to the floor. Sherry reached down and righted the book. The pages that lay open in her hands captured her full attention.
“Right here. Crosby signed my yearbook. ‘Sherry, you were the top student in my class and I nearly had to fail you. Years from now, you’ll know I was only doing what was required of me. When you become rich and famous for your cooking exploits, think of me, your biggest fan.—Mr. Currier.’ ”
“That wasn’t the nicest thing he did,” Marla stated, with a matter-of-factness that stung Sherry.
“I know. He passed me so I could graduate, even though I failed the baking portion of the final exam. Everyone knew I was the best cook in the class. As for my baking skills, yikes. But he kept my baking disaster a secret until I was able to get the test passed on the third try. And that was with his assistance at every step. Probably why I still can’t bake a decent cookie to this day. No one helps me.”
“Your cookies are decent, they’re just not great.” Marla laughed. “You can’t be great at everything.”
“Baking is all about exactness. I prefer to fly by the seat of my pants when I cook. That’s my culinary style. It’s served me well in cooking competitions, and I’m not about to change so I can become a great baker. Let someone else have that title. Now, can we get back to the task at hand, please?” Sherry set the yearbook in a more secure location.
“Are you going to take the squash out of the oven or listen to that darn timer beep all day?”
Sherry donned her oven mitts and removed the butternut squash. The cubes were browned on the edges. The maple syrup and olive oil bubbled on the orange vegetable, while the rosemary released an earthy aroma. She then poured balsamic vinegar and a touch of maple syrup into a small saucepan and heated the tangy liquid to warm. After the vinegar simmered for a while, the liquid thickened. She whisked in a touch of Dijon mustard and olive oil. “Dressing’s done, except the sea salt and pepper to taste.”
“That’s the easiest dressing ever.” Marla sucked a drip of the dressing from a spoon she dipped in the saucepan. “Love that it’s warm.”
“Maybe too easy. I’ll warm it again when I serve the complete recipe. The squash will cool while we take the dogs for a walk,” Sherry suggested.
“Good plan. I’ll hook them up to the leashes.” Marla went to the front hall, followed by two excited Jack Russells. A moment later, the front door opened. Marla called out, “Sherry, there’s some guy parked out front, staring at the house.”
Sherry wasted no time wiping the last of the dressing from her hands and running to the front door.
“Anyone you know under that hat?” Marla asked. “Seems very interested in your house.”
“I figured he’d be showing up eventually.” Sherry left the house and walked to the gray sedan parked on the road.
Ray rolled down his window. “Sherry, how are you?”
Sherry opened her mouth to reply, but wasn’t given the chance.
“I need to discuss something with you. Is this a good time?”
“Hi, Ray.”
“Is that your sister?”
Sherry extended her arm in Marla’s direction as she approached with Chutney and Bean. “Marla, you know Ray.”
Marla waved her leashed hand. “Nice to see you, again. I think.” Marla laughed. “Be back in a few.” She continued down the sidewalk, led by two sniffing noses.
“What would you like to discuss, as if I didn’t know?”
Ray exited his car and faced Sherry. She was reminded their relationship had inauspicious beginnings. Their first meeting was when he’d pegged her as the prime suspect in a murder investigation. There was something different about him since their last encounter, though she couldn’t put her finger on it. That was until he moved to within arm’s length. His signature well-worn tan hat was no more. He was wearing a fresh hat, devoid of frayed edges. His appearance could be described in one word—spiffy. He was as clean-shaven as Sherry had ever seen him. She also noted the laugh lines etched around his mouth had softened.
“How’s your mother? Last time we spoke she wasn’t feeling well but was accepting her move into the senior-care facility.” Sherry took care to deliver the question with sensitivity.
“She passed away a few months ago.” Ray removed his hat, squinted as the sun washed over his face, and immediately put the hat back on. “She had a good life.”
Sherry studied the detective’s expression. Despite the loss, he exuded contentment. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Appreciated.” Ray shuffled his feet and firmed up his stance. “Back to business.”
“Of course.”
The man was never one to demonstrate vulnerable emotions. “I’ve been assigned a murder investigation. A man, aged forty-four, was murdered yesterday at the Augustin Marina. Uncovering the whereabouts of his last few days led me to the bake-off in which he was a contestant and you were a judge. I would like to ask you what you may have observed conce
rning Crosby Currier there.”
Sherry took her eyes from Ray and located Marla in the distance. The two dogs were waiting at the bottom of a tree, and Sherry was willing to bet it was for a squirrel to reappear.
“He was like every other baker there. Excited, nervous, and I believe he came to win. Nothing out of the ordinary when it comes to cooking contests. Believe me, I’ve seen some weird stuff over the years. This bake-off ran very smoothly, except for the disappearance of the prizes.”
“Okay, and that was your first time meeting Mr. Currier?”
“No. He was my teacher for a year when I was in high school.”
“Your teacher?” Ray asked.
“Yes.”
“Interesting. You knew he was in the bake-off prior to the day of the contest?”
“No, not until he stopped into the Ruggery the day before. He sought me out because he wanted my opinion on the story behind his cookie recipe. Big component of the bake-off. One thing led to another, and we had a nice dinner with Crosby, my family, and my boyfriend the night before the bake-off. Got rid of all my Thanksgiving leftovers.”
“Dinner? And did you say ‘boyfriend?’ ”
“Yes and yes.”
“When Crosby was at your house or at the store, did he seem agitated, moody, depressed?” Ray asked.
“Neither of those times did I observe any unusual behavior.” Sherry closed her eyes to visualize Crosby telling his recipe story, once at her house and the second time, an entirely different story, at the News Media building. When she was done, she opened her eyes. “At dinner, he seemed fine. Happy, though maybe a bit reserved. He knew some of us from long ago, but we’re all different people now. The next day he seemed excited to be in the cookie bake-off.”
“Okay.”
“One thing I did find odd was his name change. When he taught in high school he was Mr. Currier. Somewhere along the line Crosby changed his last name to Banks.”
“He may go by Banks, but his legal name remains Crosby Currier. Seems more trouble than it’s worth, correcting people constantly when one wants to suddenly introduce oneself by a new name.”
Behind Ray, Marla approached.
“Can you think of any unusual moods or mannerisms the man had? Anything he might have said that raised a red flag?” Ray asked.
Before Sherry could respond, Marla said, “Crosby was nice and polite as can be. He and Don got on especially well. He even sold Don his unloved boat.”
“Don?” Ray asked with a nonchalance to match his body language.
“Sherry’s boyfriend,” Marla added.
“That’s right,” Sherry said. “Crosby and Don got on so well at dinner, they shook hands on the sale of Crosby’s boat. Don is now the proud owner. Well, soon-to-be owner. After money has changed hands.”
“Buying a used boat is buying someone else’s troubles and making them your own. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I think Crosby was the smart one in that deal,” Ray suggested. “Any mention of his wife? Crosby, that is, not your boyfriend.”
“For your information, Don has never been married. Not unlike yourself, Detective. You’d like him, I bet.”
Ray sighed. “You haven’t changed a bit, Sherry. Still can’t stay on one subject for any length of time.”
Marla snickered.
“As for Crosby’s wife, he said she was out of town. Beyond that, he didn’t offer any information on his personal life, and I didn’t go searching for any. I’m not good at getting too personal, too quickly. We kept the conversation mostly about cooking and high school,” Sherry replied. “And boats.”
Marla nodded in agreement.
“I met his wife, Rachel Currier, at the bake-off. I suppose she was there to cheer him on,” Sherry said. “Have you spoken to her?”
“In a preliminary interview. Much like this one,” Ray replied. “She wasn’t forthcoming and wouldn’t speak unless she had a lawyer present. I’m working around that for the time being. Let me ask you a question. Is it unusual for an ex-wife to attend her ex-husband’s bake-off?”
“Ex? Now you’re telling me they’re divorced?” Sherry asked. “Crosby definitely wasn’t forthcoming with us.”
“Ten months, legally divorced. Legally separated a lot longer than that,” Ray said.
Sherry decided against sharing the details of Rachel’s negative comments concerning her ex-husband. If there was anything Sherry had learned from Detective Ray Bease, Hillsboro County investigator, after four murder investigations involving cook-offs, was never to assume. Assuming Crosby’s marriage was a bad one and might have led to Rachel killing him was something to consider, but that was yet to be determined. Ray had a hard-and-fast dislike for speculation.
“What was your opinion of Rachel Currier?” Sherry asked.
“My opinion has zero to do with the case. But, off the record, she’s the kind of lady who makes me glad I never married. Enough said.”
“Wonder what kind of lady you’ve been looking for all this time?” Sherry knew the question would be ignored.
“The contest prizes were found in his car, which was parked in the visitors lot at the Augustin Marina,” Ray stated. “Two trophies. Two checks. A plaque and a certificate to ride a float in a parade. The question is, why he would want the prizes without the actual win? The checks were the only things of monetary value, and they weren’t filled out or signed, so they couldn’t be cashed anyway.”
“The editor of the sponsoring newspaper was planning on signing the checks when he presented them to the winners.”
“Good move, if you ask me, not to presign the check. Otherwise, because the winner’s name can’t be filled in until the judges make their decision, the checks would be open to anyone filling in their name if they were to be stolen.”
“I heard the prizes were found. My neighbor, Eileen, won the bake-off, and I have to tell her they’ll be contacting her about the missing-then-found prize situation.”
“She may not be so happy when you tell her the prizes are part of the evidence package and can’t be given to her until the police are finished with them,” Ray said.
“Just don’t take her ride on the holiday parade float away from her or you’ll really feel her wrath.”
“If the prize was evidence, the department would need it, and your friend would have to understand.”
“The question is, why was Crosby murdered? Why was an anchor tied to him?” Sherry shuddered.
“So, you do know that detail.”
“Yes. Awful.”
“His body was found by the Augustin Marina dockmaster. A man named Vitis Costa. He’d been dead for over an hour, although the time-of-death window may be widened for various reasons. The outdoor temperature was chilly. His body was in and out of the direct sun as a shadow moved across his torso. An exposed corpse warms and cools quickly with fluctuating air temps, making the time of death harder to pinpoint. Best early estimate is death occurred somewhere between one and four in the afternoon. The bake-off had been over for a few hours by then, correct?”
Sherry nodded. “That’s right. It ended before noon.” Sherry twisted her face into a grimace.
“Something you’re remembering?” Ray asked.
“Crosby did have a rolling carryall at the contest. Good place to store prizes if one was to steal them. But most of the contestants had carryalls, too. I take one to every cook-off. It’s how the contestants transport their cookies and platters unscathed.”
“Did anyone serve the judges cookie crumbs because they had an accident on the way to the bake-off?” Marla asked with amusement in her voice.
“Only one casualty getting to the judges’ table. Poor Tia, the secretary over at the mayor’s office, tripped and went down hard. Her cookies and plate broke into a million bits. The contest was halted for about fifteen minutes while the cleanup crew worked their magic.” Sherry visualized the downtrodden contestant as Hans helped the embarrassed woman clean up the mess.”
Ray bu
ttoned his oversized overcoat. “Getting cold out here.”
Sherry and Marla exchanged glances. “I know, and we have a boat ride to take. Going to need lots of layers.”
“Let me guess. With the boyfriend, the new boat owner?”
“Not sure why he needs a second boat, but yes. Soon-to-be new, second-boat owner if the deal is still on. He hasn’t completed that transaction yet. Held up by Crosby’s sudden passing. A bit of a stretch in terms of my interests, but the new, adaptable me is giving life on the water a try.” Sherry laughed. “Actually, this is my first boat ride with him. He’s taking us to the Clam Shack. You order ahead, pull your boat up, and eat out on the veranda. Hope it’s heated.”
“Have a good time. Stay warm and dry.” Ray checked his phone. “You know how to reach me if any of your fellow cooks or judges has any information to share about Crosby Currier.” He turned toward his car.
“Wait a second, Ray. I have a question.”
He swung his head around toward Sherry.
“When I talked to Rachel Currier at the bake-off, she was anything but Crosby’s biggest fan. I can’t even imagine why she was there. She spoke so negatively of him.”
“And your question is?”
Sherry glanced at her sister before returning her sights to Ray. “Never mind. No question. Bye, Ray.”
Chapter 8
“I can’t get involved,” Sherry said with an air of certainty. “I’ve got too much on my plate, as usual. I made myself a promise to slow down the pace of my life and relax more. Don gave me some advice I’m trying to take to heart. He said, ‘If, at the end of the day, your brain is more exhausted than your body, you aren’t enjoying life to the max.’ I didn’t get it at first. Now I do, and he’s right. How can I take on a murder investigation when I have a part-time job at the Ruggery, edit the town’s newsletter, compete in cooking contests, and have a budding relationship with a man I probably don’t deserve? Let alone a dog to care for, a community garden board to sit on, and a father, a sister, and a brother to keep an eye on. I hardly know Crosby Currier, or Banks, or whatever name he goes by.”
Double Chocolate Cookie Murder Page 6