“And that is?”
“Drive by his old truck. The vintage truck Vitis drives to work at the marina. He really misses that thing.”
“So, you think Barry drove him down to the marina?”
“That’s where he has me take him at least once a week.”
“Do you have anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts the afternoon of the bake-off, because you weren’t with Lonnie?” Sherry asked.
“After the bake-off, I grocery shopped, went to the pharmacy, and answered some emails at home.” Rachel exhaled. A sign of resignation or distress, Sherry couldn’t say. “I have to go. Barry and I are delivering cookies to the homeless shelter and we need to get them there before dinner. Goodbye.” The phone went silent.
Sherry sat in her car and watched another train pull into the station, deliver and pick up passengers, then chug away. She checked her car’s dashboard clock. She had time before dinner to send an email to Ruth. Whether Ruth would like her idea was another matter. When she arrived home, Sherry crafted the email.
Hi Ruth. I have become very excited since you took me down to the Historical Society. If you would accept my help, I’ve come up with an idea. I spoke with some people about the upcoming Augustin Marina fire exhibit and, to my surprise, they were interested in possibly contributing to the museum. The only catch was, each requested a private viewing of the exhibit artifacts to know where their contributions would be most useful. I have attached the list of the interested parties and a couple of others I felt should be included, if you agree to the arrangement. An after-hours viewing party makes the most sense. Later this week would work for most, if not all. Let me know what you think. Best, Sherry
She hit the Send button. She found her purse on the front hall table, next to Ivy’s plastic-wrapped coat. Distracted from her original task of finding her phone inside her purse, she lifted the plastic off the coat.
“I don’t like the smell of dry-cleaning chemicals,” she said to Chutney. He also turned up his nose at the acrid odor. She drew the garment closer. “Or is that the slightest smell of smoke?” Sherry pictured the photograph of the woman wearing the exact style coat she was holding. The woman was watching a man next to a charred boat. The boat with the name having a reference to Hawaii.
“Not my problem anymore. Rachel can figure out a way to get rid of the smell. The plastic bag must have trapped the odor, and now it’s going to be the devil to remove. No wonder Sal and Effi were so gung ho to get it out of the shop. They did their best, trying to clean the garment. Chutney, are you listening to me?”
Her dog pranced over to his bowl.
“Okay, dinnertime. You know what’s most important.”
Sherry lay the coat across the antique Shaker stool that sat in the corner of the front hall. She returned, and Chutney went to the kitchen, still poised to chow down, and she gave him a scoop of his crunchy kibble. The sight of her happy pet, snout plunged in his bowl of dinner, reminded Sherry she had one more task to attend to before she could set her sights on her own dinner. She returned to the front hall in search of her purse. Inside it, she found the absconded piece of paper from the Shore Cleaners.
The paper was a little worse for wear after receiving a harsh shove into Sherry’s purse when the couple entered the cleaners and Sherry was forced to scrap her plan to photograph, then return, the note. She took the paper to the kitchen table, where she smoothed it out as best she could. Her ringing phone broke her concentration.
“Sherry, it’s Ruth. I got your email. I have to say, I was a bit surprised at the urgency to get this all done in the next few days. That being said, I love a challenge, especially if it comes with financial gains for the Historical Society. I’ve texted and received the green light from the board president. That’s the beauty of having only three board members—decisions are made at a faster pace. We’ve chosen the evening after tomorrow. I emailed an invitation to your list of potential donors, offering them a coveted chance at an early viewing of the marina fire artifacts.”
“Ruth, you’re amazing. You get things done in a hurry. What’s the plan for the evening?”
“At closing time, we’ll clear out our day patrons and provide the incoming group with a small reception. Drinks, finger foods, casual yet elegant.”
“Sounds nice,” Sherry said.
“I’ll give a short welcome speech, an introduction to the history of the original Augustin settlement, and how the development of the Augustin Harbor played a pivotal role in the growth and well-being of the town. I’ll leave some questions up in the air about the fire. That way the group will be anxious to reconstruct the event through their own eyes, while taking in the exhibition photos, articles, and artifacts.”
“How did you brainstorm this over the last fifteen minutes?” Sherry asked.
“We’ve been thinking of doing something like this for a while. We put it on the back burner because of the holidays, but you’ve given us an excuse to go ahead and hold the get-together. So, I thank you.”
“Glad to be of help. What else can I do?”
“I was thinking about the variety of drinks and snacks. I’ll prepare my smoked salmon rolls. Everyone asks me for the recipe when I serve them. I’ve only shared it once, with a woman who I knew never used her kitchen except to plug in her coffee maker. Sneaky, right? That way I kept a friend, and my recipe remained a closely guarded secret.”
Sherry laughed. “I’ve had your delicious salmon rolls and I can understand why you’d guard the recipe.”
“Would you be able to contribute to the snacks? Maybe a delicious and sinful cookie?”
“Baking isn’t my strong suit. Don’t you need another savory snack? I have some great recipes for appetizers.”
“We really don’t. Dolly will be bringing a contribution of sorts. You have dibs on a sweet snack. Cookies are the perfect finger food for sugar lovers.”
“If you can rise to the challenge by pulling this all together in forty-eight hours, I suppose I can, too. I just hope I don’t poison any potential donors with my bad baking.”
“Dear, you’re being silly. When was the last time your cooking poisoned anyone?” Ruth asked. “I’ll have the full head count by tomorrow. I asked for the RSVP to be in by then.”
“Very good, Ruth. Great job.”
“All thanks to your good idea. Talk to you soon.”
“Bye.” Sherry brought up her phone’s calendar. “Two days.” Tomorrow was like any other day—busy. Sherry was now going to have to fit in a trip to the grocery store for baking supplies, which she only stocked for extraordinarily special occasions. She examined her hourly schedule. The best time to shop and bake was the morning; she was working the afternoon shift at the Ruggery. With the new addition to tomorrow’s schedule, she needed to squeeze in typing up her completed recipe for Snappy Holiday Butternut Squash Panzanella after she ate dinner. That way she wouldn’t be rushed to meet the deadline on the last day submissions were accepted, which coincided with the party.
Dinner would be a chef’s salad with any leftovers she found in the refrigerator. Her dressing would be her new and improved chutney balsamic vinaigrette. Her side dish would be a glass of chardonnay, in honor of accomplishing a recipe she had confidence in. If only she could find the same confidence in her list of suspects in the Crosby investigation. She rummaged through the refrigerator. The longer it took to narrow down the field, the higher the chances were someone else might be hurt and threatened, or worse.
Chapter 22
“I’ve made my grocery list for the Tropical Aloha Bars.”
Sherry closed the cupboard door after checking for any cookie ingredients she might have. She only came up with flour, sugar, and vanilla extract. Chutney whined. Sherry glanced at her empty hand.
“I’ve neglected buying your treats for two days. Sorry, boy. At the top of my grocery list is a big bag of doggy cookies.” She leaned across the marble counter and jotted down items on the paper. “I’m not going to bother putting in the guava pas
te Ivy’s recipe calls for. Crosby didn’t include the ingredient in his version, so the recipe should still come together without it. The party guests will have to be satisfied with the East Coast version.”
Sherry grabbed her purse and gave Chutney the heads-up they were leaving.
“Almost forgot to put out Ivy’s coat. Rachel texted she may drive by sometime today or tomorrow.”
Sherry scooped up the coat, left the house, and locked the door behind her. She set the coat over the porch stair railing. Chutney scampered over to his favorite bush, made his mark, and followed Sherry to the car. After a short ride to the grocery store, Sherry embarked on a trip down aisle two, baking. List in one hand, handbasket in the other, she checked off each item as she pulled it from the shelf. Shredded coconut, dark chocolate and white chocolate chips, turbinado sugar, macadamia nuts, and old-fashioned oats. She’d find a fresh lime in the produce section. Parchment paper to line the baking pan was in the cooking accessory aisle.
Sherry retraced her steps back to the dairy aisle, where she’d forgotten to pick up butter sticks.
“I know where to find you if I’m ever looking for you,” a deep voice sounded over her shoulder.
Sherry lifted her eyes from the expensive, imported Irish butter she was contemplating splurging on.
“Hi, Warren. You saved me from making a rash and costly purchase.” She pointed to the colorful box of butter sticks.
“Go for it. Better butter means better flavor. Not a rash choice at all, in my opinion.”
Sherry picked up the box, winced at the price, which was double that of her normal brand, and tossed it in her basket. “Glad I didn’t see you in the caviar aisle.” She laughed.
“I received an invitation to a fundraiser to be held tomorrow night at the Historical Society. I saw your name on the organizing committee.”
Sherry nodded. “We hand-selected a group we feel are interested in Augustin’s history and future. Educating the public about how Augustin came to be will make the community more cohesive and knowledgeable about what our future holds.”
“Well said. You’ve convinced me to attend. I’m guessing you’d like the paper to run an article, after the fact, to drum up interest in the exhibit. That’s usually the reason I’m on someone’s guest list.”
“Wouldn’t be a bad idea.” There was a hint of coyness in Sherry’s voice.
“Done.”
“If your wife is feeling better, she’s, of course, invited.”
“Her cough drops are the next item on my list. Unless that cough miraculously is cured in the next two days, I’d say she may have to decline.” Warren peered at the butter package Sherry was studying. “The butter reminds me, it’s my father’s birthday. I’m going to send him a cake. He loves buttercream frosting. They’ll make him one at his nursing home, but if I can get a bakery to deliver, that would be my first choice. He’s ninety-four today. I wish I could get down to Florida to see him, but with all the upgrades the paper is doing this month, I’m chained to my desk.”
“You don’t look chained to your desk right now. Ignore me if I’m being rude, but did your father have you when he was older? I’m guessing you’re only in your forties.”
“How astute of you. Yes, he was fifty-one. He married my mother when he was fifty. She was quite a lot younger. Unusual to have such a gap in age in those days, but not unheard of.”
“Anything goes. As long as true love prevails.” Sherry scanned the remaining butter choices in the dairy case. She exchanged one butter package for another and placed the expensive choice in her basket.
“I agree. Did I lose you? You seem to be thinking of something else besides my father and butter. True love, perhaps?”
“Oh no. Sorry. I have so many things on my mind.”
“I’ll let you go. As for me, I don’t want to get caught playing hooky. See you tomorrow?” Warren tipped his head and walked away.
“Yes, looking forward to it,” Sherry called after him.
Sherry found a lime in the produce section and had to ask for assistance finding the parchment paper. When her basket was full, she lined up to pay. The young man behind the register was in training, the tag on his shirt indicated, so the process was time-consuming. Each bar code was double-checked by a supervisor, leaving Sherry several minutes to review her phone. While she was scrolling through unread emails, a text came in from Ruth, saying the response to the invitation was wonderful and only Erno had declined. Sherry texted back, asking why in the world her father and Ruth’s boyfriend had declined to come to an event both were organizing. A moment later, she received a reply from Ruth. Erno said he’d lived through the fire and didn’t want to relive the sadness that had consumed him during that time. He would make a donation and that was that.
“Ma’am? You can swipe your credit card now.”
Sherry refocused her attention on the young man. “Thank you. You did a great job.”
His cheeks flushed a vibrant red. “Thank you.”
* * *
Sherry returned home and got to work preparing the Tropical Aloha Bars. As soon as she laid the ingredients across her counter, her usual spark of kitchen creativity was smothered. There were three items facing her that she seldom included in her recipe creation process. A measuring cup, a sheet of paper with a recipe typed on it, and a timer.
Years of experimentation had given Sherry the confidence that cooking mistakes could be altered and adjusted to yield good results. She knew a loose sauce could easily be tightened any number of ways. Likewise, a thick sauce could be easily thinned without losing the integrity of the recipe. The same method could be applied to mashed potatoes, soups, and stews, but none of those translated to baked goods. Baking required precise measuring, accurate techniques, and unforgiving ingredient balance, all incredibly useful skills in the kitchen. For better or worse, Sherry labeled herself a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants cook, whose ingenuity won her the big prizes at competitions. That was foremost on her mind as she reread Ivy’s recipe. She had to trust Ivy had written down exactly the way she’d prepared the bars that won her the grand prize years ago or Sherry was going to run into trouble.
Adhering to the typed instructions, she put the dry ingredients in the bowl first. Wet ingredients were added to the dry and, in no time, the prep was done. Ivy’s cookie bar batter seemed looser than any cookie batter Sherry had ever worked with. Doubt crept into her head.
One hour later, the Tropical Aloha Bars were baked and on their way to being cool enough to cut into manageable-sized squares. Sherry puffed out her chest as she sampled the first morsel she lifted out of the baking pan.
“Not bad. Not bad at all,” she told Chutney.
The dog waited at Sherry’s feet for any crumb that might fall his way.
“I may become a baker after all.”
Sherry checked the oven clock. “I need to get over to the store. Come on, boy. I’ll let these cool until we get back.”
* * *
“Dad, why did we get so many boxes of yellow wool dye?” Sherry used a box cutter to open the second shipment of dye packets. “Twice as many as any other color we stock.”
“You weren’t here when Victoria Templeton ordered a second rug. A giant field of daffodils. Beautiful, but I sure hope she doesn’t get tired of yellow after living with the rug for the next twenty years.”
“As long as it was made by your loving hands, she’ll cherish it forever.”
“Good morning, fine people.” Eileen’s lilting voice rang out as the Ruggery’s front door opened.
“Good morning, Eileen,” Sherry said.
Erno repeated the greeting. “How nice to see you, Eileen. Are you still savoring your big win?”
“More than ever. The newspaper contacted me and gave me the details on my holiday parade float ride. I have to shop for a whole new outfit. All I have is garden wear.” Eileen lifted her leg and showed off her utilitarian jeans and ankle-heigh rubber boots.
“You’re goin
g to need cookie wear.” Erno chuckled. “If you want to wear a kitchen apron on the float, Sherry’s the one to ask. We must have a hundred.”
Sherry nodded. “It’s true. At almost every cook-off, the contestants receive a sponsors’ apron, and I’ve saved every single one.”
“Is there something you’d like us to show you?” Erno asked.
Eileen softened her voice. “You might make fun of me, but I’d like an oval throw rug for my pantry featuring my cookie.”
“I love that idea,” said Sherry. “That’s so special.”
“I’ve never won anything based on talent in my life, and I want to remember the win every time I’m searching for baking ingredients. I brought a photo of my winning cookie platter from the newspaper article. I’d love an exact replica of the photo made into a rug, if possible.” Eileen lowered her purse from her shoulder and unclipped the latch. She removed a business-size envelope and handed it to Erno.
He opened it with the greatest of care and removed the folded clipping. “I have to admit, I’ve had a wide variety of rug-subject requests. Never a cookie. You take the cake, pun intended.” Erno giggled at his own joke.
“So, you can do it?” Eileen asked.
“Of course. I’ll need six to eight weeks. Probably the slowest cookie ever baked.” Again, Erno had amused himself and erupted into a contagious laughing episode.
Eileen and Sherry joined in the laughter.
Erno handed the article and envelope back to Eileen, who waved it off. “You keep the photo as long as you need it. Same colors, everything as is in the photo is what I’d love.”
“You’ve got it.” Pride dripped from Erno’s words.
“Eileen, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Were you in the one-and-only Story For Glory Cookie Bake-off many years ago? The one Ivy Currier won?”
“Huh, yes,” Eileen replied without hesitation. “That was quite a spectacle.”
“What do you mean?”
“There weren’t as many bakers entered—maybe thirty, which I felt gave me a pretty good chance—and the average age of the contestants, I’m guessing, was barely twenty-five. Bakers don’t blossom until their forties. Everyone knows that. You’re a prime example, dear. No offense, but you haven’t hit forty yet, so you have something to look forward to.”
Double Chocolate Cookie Murder Page 20