Double Chocolate Cookie Murder

by Devon Delaney

  “Dated a week ago. Just needed to be submitted, and obviously it wasn’t.”

  “That was prior to our dinner and the gentlemen’s handshake between Crosby and Don on the boat sale,” Sherry said.

  “That’s right. Makes sense,” Ray said.

  “Don would say the boat was his, because they shook hands, but no money had been transferred at the time of Crosby’s death. Don had every intention of paying Crosby right after the bake-off. Even after Crosby’s death, the sale was moving forward. Crosby’s lawyer contacted Don to ask if he was still interested in the sale and Don said he was. That was, until Rachel stopped the deal,” Sherry said. “She told her lawyer to contact Don and relay the message that the boat was hers after the divorce. Crosby had no right to sell it out from under her.”

  “Sounds like you’re as up-to-date on the boat situation as I am. Here’s a tidbit you may not be aware of and the reason for my call. The search of Crosby’s car produced two other items of note.” Ray paused.

  “And they would be?”

  “A cookie recipe for Tropical Aloha Bars. Interesting detail: The recipe was typed by a typewriter, not printed from a computer. I’d like to send you a snapshot of the recipe and have you confirm whether it’s the one from the cookie bake-off.”

  “Of course, but what if it is? Why is that important?” Sherry realized it would be unusual for Ray to give a straight-up, detailed response to her probing questions, but it was worth a try.

  “The recipe was tucked under the prizes in the back seat of his car. Also, the other item of interest found in the car among the prizes was a handgun. What could have gone down at the bake-off might have been awfully messy.”

  Sherry shuddered and Marla gasped.

  Sherry’s phone buzzed. “I got your text and I’m looking at the recipe.” She examined the words in the photo Ray had snapped. Sections were difficult to decipher because the paper he’d photographed had fold seams in thirds from end to end.

  Coconut, white and dark chocolate chips, brown sugar, vanilla, macadamia nuts, oatmeal, lime, and guava jam were all among the ingredients. “Does look like Crosby’s entry for the contest. We docked him for what wasn’t an outstandingly different take on a somewhat generic recipe. He didn’t use guava jam, which the recipe I’m looking at calls for. That would have been a twist the judges would have given him points for.”

  “I don’t need to know the ins and outs of your judging techniques. Simple question is, is this the recipe he entered in the contest, because you can see his name isn’t on the recipe, his mother’s is.”

  “It is the recipe. Using a variation on the name. His mother won the only other cookie bake-off the newspaper held many years ago. With the same recipe, apparently. Her daughter-in-law has granted the rights to that recipe to her friend, Chef Buckman, for use in his bakery. It’s a best seller.”

  “You cooking contestants are a tight-knit group, aren’t you? How could the same recipe even be considered to win two separate times in the same contest? Isn’t there a rule against that?” A note of confusion entered Ray’s voice. “I don’t get it.”

  “In a smaller contest, like Story For Glory, the organizers may not have the resources or desire to check the authenticity of every recipe. If they get duped, it’s more of a shame than anything else. The truth does eventually come out, so if the baker is willing to risk the backlash when the older win resurfaces, I suppose he’ll take his chances. Next time, the contest organizers need to do their homework. Chef Buckman became aware of the recipe when he tasted Crosby’s cookie, and he later told me he could never have chosen him as the winner for that reason. The previous contest was so long ago, it seems no one bothered to check what the winning recipe was.”

  “Cook-offs have given my department trouble in the last few years. They need a deeper level of monitoring. They’re serious business.”

  “I always say, competition can bring out the best and the worst in people.” Sherry paused. “What was Crosby doing carrying around his mother’s original recipe if he wasn’t going to give her credit for the recipe in the bake-off? He claimed it as his own.”

  Sherry waited for Ray to add his opinion, but she should have known better. He used any pause in a conversation to plan his next question rather than his reply.

  She decided to turn the tables on her friend. “I have another question for you. You spoke to Lonnie. I’m sure you asked him about his relationships with Crosby and with his wife, Ivy. Did he give any reason why he and his wife split up, but never went the extra step to divorce?”

  “He said they stayed together for Crosby’s sake. He said Ivy wanted it that way.”

  Sherry glanced at her sister, who appeared deep in thought.

  “Why the gun?” Marla asked.

  “What did she say?” Ray asked.

  “That was Marla. She heard you mention the gun. So, I’ll repeat her question. Why the gun?”

  “Didn’t you just say competition can bring out the worst in people? Something for you two to mull over. Thanks for your time.” Ray’s end of the phone went silent.

  “As annoying as ever,” Sherry said. “We answer all his questions and he ignores ours.”

  Chapter 16

  “Ray doesn’t seem any closer to solving the murder than you are,” Marla said.

  “Don’t count him out. He holds his cards close to the vest. I need an hour to work on my newsletter article. Would you be interested in walking Chutney while I write? And when you do, think about what you’d like for dinner.”

  “Yes to all the above. Take your time.” Marla headed to the front hall.

  A moment later, Sherry heard the front door open and shut. Sherry set up her laptop on her corner work desk and signed in. Faced with a blank document, she opened her phone’s photo library for inspiration. She scrolled to the video she captured of the library’s fire safety demo. The ten seconds the fire took to go from spark to smoky inferno impressed and frightened her yet again.

  Writing about avoiding such a disaster would be one of her easier assignments. The piece would write itself. The overall message would be to keep the holiday tree hydrated, unplug the string of lights each night, and keep any open flame far from the tree. Her final point would be to make sure a fire extinguisher is in working order and within easy reach. All straightforward stuff that could be embellished nicely with a reference to the Augustin Marina fire. The destruction of that fire would drive home the point better than a mere list of safety precautions. A photo of the fire would punctuate the article as well as any exclamation point.

  Sherry scrolled farther on her phone to a photo from the Historical Society exhibit. As she studied the snapshot of the aftermath of the fire, Sherry became momentarily overwhelmed. Thus far, she’d had an easy time removing herself from what the emotions of that day might have been like, but this time a different perspective washed over her. Instead of fighting the feelings, Sherry tried her best to walk in the shoes of Lonnie, the boat owners, and the fire personnel, working their hardest to save what they could of one of Augustin’s most treasured landmarks.

  The photograph must have been taken from what was now the parking lot behind the dockmaster’s shed, which was a supply hut in those days. The dock configuration appeared to be the same as she knew it, despite the burned debris scattered across the planks of wood. Sherry widened sections of the photograph piece by piece. The small phone screen proved frustrating when Sherry attempted to zoom in on the most minute portions of the scene.

  Sherry emailed the marina photo to herself and brought it up on her laptop. With the intention of cropping the picture, she enlarged the area of the marina that had suffered the most damage. When she zoomed in, sections began to blur, so she reduced the size just enough to include the partially submerged boat, the blackened pier, and a man inspecting the boat. Another figure was looming in the background, resisting Sherry’s efforts to identify gender. The camera images of yesteryear weren’t nearly as sharp as her phone’s
camera and that was taking some getting used to.

  “We’re back,” Marla announced from the front hall.

  Footsteps and canine toenails tapped across the wooden floor until Sherry could see the enthusiasm on her dog’s face. “Of course you deserve a treat, Chutney.” Sherry left her laptop and rummaged through the cookie jar she had converted into a dog treat container that stored Chutney’s crunchy nuggets.

  “How far have you gotten on the newsletter?” Marla asked.

  “I’m getting a bit distracted by the material I brought home from the Historical Society.” Sherry sat back down in front of her laptop. “Pull up a chair and join me.”

  Marla dragged a chair from the other side of the kitchen table and parked it next to Sherry’s.

  “What do you notice about this photo? Take a long, hard look.”

  “First thing I notice is the quality of cameras has drastically improved over the years.” Marla was quiet for a time. “Right there is the part of the dock Don’s boat pulled up to. Right?” She pointed to a section of the screen.

  “I’m very sure it is, yes.”

  “The upper dock closest to land appears to have survived the inferno. Really no damage at all. The fire must have started farther out, toward a cluster of boats. There’s almost a line halfway down the dock where the fire appears to have been contained. The fire definitely started on a boat or in what was the elevated clubhouse.” She went silent again. “More likely a boat, because the clubhouse is a charred shell, but there appears to be more damage to the boats. With all that boat fuel around, it’s a miracle anything can be identified.”

  Sherry adjusted the zoom for a closer inspection of the boats.

  “Who’s that man?” Marla pointed to the image of a male in rain gear who appeared to be surveying the remains of a large sailboat.

  “Probably the owner of that sailing yacht.”

  “There’s someone else in the distance. Did you see that? Looks like a woman.”

  Sherry squinted and leaned in. The image was fuzzy, but the details of the figure were clearer. “You’re right. I’m sure it is a woman.”

  “You can certainly tell by the style of her coat what decade it was.”

  Marla gasped. Then Sherry did as well.

  “Ivy and her infamous baby-blue coat. This is a black-and-white photo with minimal pixels, but I’d still wager the house that’s the same baby-blue coat I tried on.”

  “Has to be,” Marla agreed.

  “She must have been helping out the day after the fire. Although I wouldn’t wear such a fancy coat to check on fire devastation.” Sherry leaned back. “I don’t believe that’s Lonnie in the rain gear.”

  “I can almost make out the name of the partially submerged boat. Seems as if a few letters are missing. Can you zoom in to the butt end of the boat?” Marla asked.

  “That end of the boat would be called the stern in sailor terminology.”

  “In Oklahoma terminology, it’s the butt end. As in, the butt end of a steer is where it’s branded,” Marla pointed out.

  “Classic landlubber.” Sherry zeroed in on the back of the boat. “Can’t make out the name. Maybe the paint melted away during the height of the fire. I don’t think I’ll be using this photo in the newsletter anyway. I have enough of what I need.”

  Sherry stood and retrieved a paper from the front hall table and returned to her seat. “I’m going to type up Patti’s submission, then we’re set. I’ll insert the Christmas tree fire photo, and if it makes sense, I’ll insert a small photo of the marina fire. I’m beginning to think the newsletter is getting too grim for the holiday season, so I may leave it out.”

  “While you do that, I’m going to raid the refrigerator.” Marla stood. “I need sustenance to tide me over until dinner.”

  Sherry propped up Patti’s essay against a book for better viewing. “Wonder how long the newspaper newsroom network is down for? Patti was a little distraught at the inconvenience.” She began to type. When she reached the end of the paragraph, she studied the paper itself.

  “I’m making us a turkey salad with ranch dressing and toasted tortilla strips. You can steal the recipe for your next contest if you like the end result,” Marla called out.

  “I appreciate that. I’ll be right in.” Sherry picked up the paper and her laptop and carried both into the kitchen. “Let me read you my article.”

  Marla nodded because her mouth was full of turkey bits.

  When Sherry reached the conclusion of her article, she spoke the closing words with extra enthusiasm. “ ‘In summary, be vigilant about the location of your holiday tree display, water the tree regularly, keep open candle or fireplace flames a safe distance away, and unplug the decorations when you leave home or retire for the evening. Have a safe and wonderful holiday season.’ ” She shifted her eyes from the computer screen to her sister’s face.

  “Informative and nicely written. The blurb about the Augustin Marina fire was chilling. Of course, the fire didn’t start with a Christmas tree, but the destruction a fire can cause is relatable. Wonder how it did start.”

  Sherry set her computer to the side.

  “You have a theory about the murder, don’t you? Does that theory lend itself to twenty years later, when the dockmaster’s son is found dead at the very same dock that burned?” Marla brought over two plates to the table. “Bon appétit.”

  “I had a theory, but that went out the window when I saw Ivy in the fire-aftermath photograph. Before that, I had another theory, and that went out the window when Effi and Sal received a threatening letter. By the way, I will be stealing this turkey salad recipe. It’s so yummy,” Sherry said after one bite. “The crispy tortilla strips have a sprinkle of olive oil and powdered ranch dressing mix? That really puts the salad over the top.” Sherry fed her hungry stomach until her plate held nothing but a smear of dressing.

  “Gee, thanks. If you’ve finished your newsletter, do you want to work on your contest recipe dilemma? I hate to return home to Oklahoma without knowing whether you’ve solved your problem.”

  “Can we? What I really need to fine-tune is the dressing for the panzanella. The contents of the salad works well, but the flavor of the dressing lacks pizzazz and drags down the whole recipe.”

  Chutney took up a ready stance under the table in case one of the diners dropped a turkey chunk.

  “Pizzazz. Is that a culinary term?” Marla snickered. She carried her empty plate to the sink. She rotated and found a measuring cup in the cupboard. She put it on the counter, along with a whisk and a spoon. “I have a suggestion for you to take to heart or completely ignore; you’re the expert.”

  Sherry brought her empty plate to the sink. She found the best olive oil she had in the cupboard, along with balsamic vinegar, and lined up the bottles next to each other. “What’s the suggestion?”

  “You say the flavor lacks pizzazz. Well, I think the recipe name lacks pizzazz as well. You always say the recipe title is very important because, let’s face it, people judge a book by its cover. If the name is exciting, the judges will look forward to reading the recipe with great anticipation.”

  “You’re saying Roasted Butternut Squash Panzanella with Balsamic Dressing isn’t exciting enough?” Sherry took a long look at Marla.

  Her sister’s eyes were shut, her head was cocked to the side, and she was snoring.

  “Okay, okay. I get your point. I rushed the name due to feeling the pressure of the looming deadline.” Sherry spun the oil and vinegar bottles until both labels faced her. She took a moment to study the words on the labels.

  “Want me to get the Dijon?” Marla asked.

  Sherry nodded, and Marla removed the condiment from the refrigerator.

  “And while you’re in the refrigerator, can you grab the mango chutney? It’s on the door shelf.”

  “You didn’t use chutney in the last version. Has something changed?”

  “I think that’s what the dressing has been missing. Adding one m
issing ingredient will make all the difference. The chutney was there right in front of my face the whole time, and I should have recognized that.” Sherry pulled a small bowl from a cabinet under the counter. “Now we’re making progress. Marla, you’re a genius.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re not talking about your recipe anymore? Here you go.” Marla handed Sherry the mustard and the chutney.

  Sherry whisked together the oil, vinegar, chutney, and mustard. She sprinkled in rosemary and sea salt. She dipped the end of her pinkie in the dressing and swiped the finger across her tongue. “The chutney adds a fruity, gingery kick to the dressing. The flavor was one-dimensional and dull before. I think this will be the perfect pairing for the roasted squash cubes.”

  “Are we going to make a new batch of squash?” Marla asked. “I don’t think we have any more leftovers.”

  “Nope. The dressing’s perfect. I’ve got that winning feeling. The one I get when I’ve hit the mark. All I have to do is type up the recipe and email it to the contest.” Sherry wiped her pinkie finger on a sheet of paper towel. “Actually, we’re not done. I need to change the recipe title, as you suggested. A proper name is very important. When you name something and take the time to really give the name meaning, a story has been told.”

  “Again, why do I get the impression you aren’t only talking about your recipe? Do you like the name Happy Holiday Butternut Squash Bread Salad?” Marla asked.

  “Not quite.” Sherry pondered the name. “How about we change ‘happy’ to ‘snappy’ to celebrate the zippy flavor chutney adds to the dish? Snappy Holiday Butternut Squash Panzanella?”

  “Cute, festive, fun. I like it.”

  Chapter 17

  “I’ve hit the Send button. The newsletter’s in Tia’s hands at Town Hall now. I think it’s my best work yet. Holiday safety, Augustin’s cookie bake-off recap, the mayor’s letter of plans for the new year, photos of historical events, all great reading for the locals.” Sherry closed the lid of her laptop.

  “I have to give you credit. You pack more into a day than most people pack into a week. Great job. You need a raise.” Marla let out a hearty laugh.