Cookie Dough or Die

by Virginia Lowell

  When she entered the store, Olivia was relieved to see Maddie working with a talkative customer. She went straight to the kitchen, grabbing a small pile of invoices on the way. Paperwork wasn’t her favorite part of her job, but it might help clear her mind. She settled at her little desk and fired up her laptop. Ten minutes of communing with numbers and her mind had numbed completely. She could barely keep her eyes open. She closed the laptop to put it to sleep, and then she joined it.

  A moment later, or so it felt, someone was shaking Olivia’s shoulder. She recognized Maddie’s voice saying, “Livie? Wake up. You need to take Tammy off my hands before I kill her.”

  “Kill?” Olivia couldn’t seem to lift her head. “Maddie? Did you say someone killed Tammy?”

  “No such luck.” Maddie pulled Olivia’s shoulders to make her sit up.

  Olivia lifted her head and winced. “What happened to my neck?”

  “Well,” Maddie said, “I’d say it has something to do with sleeping for half an hour on your right cheek. Here, I can fix it.” She wrapped one arm around Olivia’s head and pushed down on her right shoulder with the other.

  “Ow!” Olivia heard a crack. She expected her head to fall off as Maddie let go, but instead her neck was back to normal, more or less. “Hey, that worked!”

  “Yeah, those three hours in chiropractic school really paid off. Listen, Livie, you have got to go out there and talk to Tammy. She insists on showing you something, and she won’t leave me alone to help actual customers. I told her you ran off with a circus lion tamer last night, but she just rolled her eyes. You’ll have to handle her. I liked her a lot better when she was mad at you, but unfortunately all appears to be forgiven.”

  Olivia dragged herself to the sink and splashed cold water on her face. As she blotted the water with a paper towel, it occurred to her that Maddie was crabby. Maddie was never crabby. “You need a nap, don’t you?”

  “I’m fine. Wanting to strangle Tammy Deacons is an everyday urge for me.”

  “Yes, but you are normally cheerful about it. You need a nap.” Olivia dug her keys out of her pants pocket and handed them to Maddie. “Here, use the guest bed. Spunky will undoubtedly join you.”

  “Good,” Maddie said, taking the keys. “Spunky never irritates me, unlike certain childhood friends of yours.”

  While Maddie escaped upstairs, Olivia greeted Tammy with a wave. Her friendship with Tammy went back to nursery school, six years before Maddie and her aunt moved to town. There had always been a rivalry between her two old friends, but Olivia made a point of ignoring it. Life was much easier that way.

  “Oh, Livie, there you are. I have to show you what I bought. It’s so gorgeous, and it fits me perfectly if I don’t gain an ounce.” Tammy held up a large paper bag with black and gold stripes and a gold rope handle, the signature colors of Lady Chatterley’s Clothing Boutique for Elegant Ladies. Tammy opened the bag so Olivia could peek inside. Something small and flat lay at the bottom, wrapped in layers of tissue paper and sealed shut with a shiny paper medallion.

  Tammy’s heart-shaped face glowed with excitement, which Olivia would have tried to share if she could see through the tissue paper. She was also very confused. Maddie was right: for the last few weeks Tammy had shunned Olivia. She hadn’t visited the store or returned phone calls, she cancelled a shopping trip to Baltimore they’d had planned for a month, she even snubbed Olivia in public. Olivia still had no idea why. In all their years of friendship, this had never happened before.

  The strange turn their relationship had taken made Olivia want to reconnect with her other old friend Stacey who taught at Tammy’s school. Maybe she would know why Tammy was being so fickle. Olivia suddenly remembered that Stacey had never been a big fan of the woman who now stood before her, bursting with excitement. In the interest of keeping the peace, Olivia decided to put that call to Stacey on hold. The joyful nature of Tammy’s forgiveness was puzzling, given Olivia had no idea what she’d done wrong, but they’d been friends a long time and Olivia felt the least she could do was share in her friend’s present glory.

  “Did you buy a dress?” Olivia guessed.

  “Only the most beautiful, most perfect dress in the world. I have to try it on to give you the full effect. I’ll use the bathroom through the kitchen. Back in a sec.”

  Olivia glanced at the clock. Almost four, only an hour left before closing. She began to tidy up the store, which had reached what her mother referred to as “that lived-in look.” Numerous cookbooks lay open as if a committee had been planning a townwide bake-off. After rearranging them on their shelf in the cookbook nook, Olivia reconstructed a large display of cookie cutters representing every dog breed imaginable; apparently, a group of children had played with them, then abandoned them all over the store. She located her favorite, a Yorkshire terrier shape, standing triumphant guard over a stack of pot holders. At the base of the pot holder hill, a vanquished Great Dane lay on its side. Olivia rescued the two creatures, held them nose to nose, and said, “No more dog fights in the store, is that clear?” She smiled for the first time since Del had told her that Clarisse was dead.

  As Olivia finished rearranging the dog cutters on their display table, the store’s door opened, followed by a joyful yap and the clicking of nails on linoleum tile. Spunky’s front paws left the floor as he strained against his leash toward his mistress. Maddie dropped the leash, and Spunky raced toward Olivia, skidding on the tile. Olivia caught him as he leaped toward her arms.

  “We couldn’t sleep,” Maddie said. “Spunky has requested a walk. Be back in twenty. I’ll close up, and then I want to finish decorating the cookies for tomorrow’s event.”

  “I could help you,” Olivia said.

  “Nope, this one’s mine. Only my brain can envision the magnificent possibilities of this project. Bakers and horticulturists will sing of my flower cookies for years to come.”

  “I doubt it not,” Olivia said. “Thanks for taking over. I could use a break.” She put Spunky on the floor and gave him a gentle push. “Go to Maddie,” she said. He trotted to Maddie, who gathered him up right as Olivia heard the click of the kitchen door opening behind her. And she remembered—Tammy wanted to model her new dress. Judging from her earlier giddiness, it was a sexy new dress.

  Olivia spun around in time to see the kitchen door fling open. Tammy emerged twirling. Admittedly, the dress was amazing, a silky swirl of pale pink and white, with spaghetti straps and a low-cut bodice. Excellent for Tammy’s pale coloring. She had invested in a push-up bra, which did wonders for her slight figure. As she pirouetted toward Olivia, the skirt flared out in a circle, providing a quick view of pale pink panties.

  Olivia expressed silent thanks that Tammy had not opted for thong underwear.

  This was un-Tammy-like behavior. Maybe she’d cracked under the strain of teaching first-graders. Or perhaps she had drunk her lunch. However, she was as steady on her feet as a ballerina, so she must be sober. She was so deliriously happy that she didn’t remember she was in a place of business, where anyone might walk in at any moment.

  Tammy stopped in front of Olivia, her green eyes sparkling. Olivia tried to send a warning look, but Tammy was oblivious.

  “Isn’t it glorious?” Tammy gushed. “I can’t wait for Hugh to see me in it.”

  Olivia stared at her, speechless. Tammy must have known that Clarisse, Hugh’s mother, was just found dead. But if she was upset about it, no one would be able to tell. Even Maddie seemed to have run short of witty comments. Only Spunky had no trouble expressing his opinion in the form of nonstop yapping, which broke Tammy’s enchantment. Her cheeks, already flushed from exertion, reddened when she realized she had an audience.

  “Nice dress,” Maddie said, deadpan. “We’re off,” she said to Olivia. She was out the door so fast that Olivia knew she’d been on the verge of hysterical laughter.

  Thanks to Maddie, Olivia had the rest of Friday afternoon and all evening to herself. She poked her head into h
er bedroom, where Spunky curled in a nest of tangled blankets. “Spunks,” she said. “Ride in the country? You and me, what do you say?”

  Spunky’s ears poked up. He leaped off the bed and trotted past Olivia toward the kitchen, where his leash hung. Olivia poured a handful of kibbles into a plastic container, in case they stayed out past Spunky’s dinnertime.

  “Hey, take it easy,” Olivia said as Spunky yanked on his leash so hard his little paws scraped against the floor tile. When she released the leash, he shot out of the kitchen. She snatched her jacket from the back of a kitchen chair and followed him.

  Olivia retrieved her 1972 Valiant from the small detached garage behind The Gingerbread House. The car had been her father’s before he and her mother married, and he’d never been able to give it up. Her brother had honed his mechanic’s skills on the old green machine. When Olivia moved back to Chatterley Heights, Jason had offered it to her, so she wouldn’t have to pay for a car, in addition to a house and a new business. He kept it in running order. Olivia loved that it reminded her of her father and was also roomy enough to cart around the paraphernalia she and Maddie needed for cookie events. So what if it coughed and sputtered now and then?

  She cracked open the passenger-side window so Spunky could sniff the air, but not wide enough for him to squeeze through and hurl himself after a fox. Or worse yet, a skunk.

  Olivia felt her mood lighten as she left Chatterley Heights and headed northwest toward the rolling hills of Howard County. After a chilly beginning, the afternoon had turned springlike. Olivia lowered her window and let the wind lift her hair. Interstate 70 would be in the throes of rush hour. With no destination in mind, Olivia chose winding side roads leading in a general westward direction. Eventually, she reached the eastern edge of Patuxent River State Park.

  She stopped at a familiar parking area. Spunky leaped on her lap, attempting to use it as a springboard to dive through her open window. Olivia grabbed him with one arm and latched on his leash with the other. “Okay, we’ll have a walk,” she said. “A short one, it’ll be dusk soon.” At the last minute, she remembered to extract a plastic bag from the glove compartment, in case Spunky deposited a memento of his visit.

  They walked a trail until Spunky stopped straining forward and began to drag behind. Olivia scooped him up and carried him back to the car, where he curled into a ball and fell asleep. The hike left Olivia in a better mood—not content, but at least more settled, capable of clear thought. She pulled her car back onto the road and began the drive back.

  As they approached the outskirts of Chatterley Heights, Olivia realized she had unconsciously chosen a route that led to the Chamberlain house. She reached the entrance to the estate and, without a second thought, drove through the open gate. A long, narrow road, paved with fine gravel, led through woods to the house itself. Olivia had driven it often. For the length of the drive, she recalled that feeling of comfortable anticipation. Then she reached the house. She stopped in a small parking area facing the house and cut the engine. Spunky stirred without waking, and Olivia lifted him onto her lap. She had no idea why she’d come, but it felt right.

  Clarisse had loved that house. It was a Georgian farmhouse, built in the 1700s and well into decline when Clarisse and Martin bought it soon after their marriage. Over the years, they had restored the house, taking care to preserve its original form. Olivia had shared numerous meals and conversations with Clarisse, often in front of the fire in her office—the room where Clarisse died.

  The only feature the Chamberlains had added was a large front porch for hot summer evenings. A brick walk, leading to the porch steps, wound through a large, lush garden designed to attract birds and butterflies. As Olivia watched, the porch door opened, and a large woman looked out in her direction. Olivia felt a flush of embarrassed guilt, as if she’d been caught peeping—but no, it was Bertha, the Chamberlain housekeeper, and she had always been friendly. Olivia waved as Bertha lumbered down the front steps, letting the screen door slap shut behind her.

  “I thought that might be your cranky old car out here,” Bertha said, panting from the effort of walking.

  “I didn’t mean to intrude,” Olivia said. “We were out for a drive and, I don’t know. . . . We found ourselves here.”

  “Well, of course you did. It don’t take a mind reader to figure that one out. Come on in. I’ve got some beef stew bubbling; we can eat and talk. And don’t tell me you already ate—you’re both too skinny, you and the pup. Probably live on salads, the two of you. Bring his highness with you. I’ve got a marrow bone he can gnaw on.” Without waiting for a response, Bertha headed back to the house.

  Once inside, Bertha led the way to the large kitchen, where the warm, mellow aroma of beef stew simmering in red wine filled the air. When ordered to do so, Olivia settled at a table built to accommodate a crew of farmhands. The marrow bone consumed Spunky’s attention, while Bertha filled two huge bowls with steaming stew and delivered them to the table. “Eat,” she said, “I’ll be right there.” She returned with a pan of cornbread and a bowl of fresh green beans steamed with butter.

  Finally, she delivered a tall glass of cold milk and put it beside Olivia’s plate. “You need this for your bones.”

  Olivia took an obedient sip from the glass. It was best to do as Bertha ordered. As family housekeeper for thirty-five years, she had helped raise Hugh and Edward. She was also the only human being who’d been able to bully Clarisse.

  They ate in subdued silence for a time. Olivia had so many questions, but she wasn’t ready to change the mood. In the end, it was Bertha who scraped back her chair and said, “It don’t seem right, not making up a tray and bringing it to the study for Ms. Clarisse.”

  “I know,” Olivia said.

  Bertha frowned into her empty bowl. “There was something wrong yesterday. I knew it, I just knew it, but I left it be. I should have said something, made her tell me.”

  Olivia hesitated, then asked, “Had Clarisse been acting differently in any way—I mean, even before yesterday?” She held her breath, hoping Bertha wouldn’t shut down.

  Bertha’s plump face, flushed from the warmth of the kitchen, puckered up as she thought. “It got worse day by day,” she said. “Ever since she got that strange envelope on . . . when was it? Monday I think.”

  “Do you know what was in it?” Olivia asked.

  Bertha shook her head, and a tendril of gray hair escaped from the tight bun at the nape of her neck. “Sam handed me the mail at the door, and I delivered it straight to Ms. Clarisse. Before she opened it, she asked me to leave. Usually she opened all the mail with me there, so she could hand me the household bills and such like. Anyway, right after that she got quieter.”

  “What happened to that envelope? Do you know?”

  Bertha looked at her with red-rimmed eyes. “I never saw it again. And mind you, I looked for it. I should have asked Ms. Clarisse directly, but I figured she wouldn’t tell me anything. I knew it was bad news, had to be.”

  “Could Clarisse have been ill?” Olivia asked. “Maybe seriously ill?”

  Bertha snorted. “That girl had the constitution of a workhorse. Why, she had her physical only last month. I drove her, so she could get her eyes checked at the same time. I was right there when her doctor told her she passed everything with flying colors. He said her blood pressure belonged in a textbook, it was so perfect.”

  “Did you mention the envelope to the police?”

  Bertha shook her head firmly. “I didn’t like the questions they were asking: Was Ms. Clarisse getting confused? Was she depressed? All that nonsense. Even if she did make a mistake with her sleeping pills, that doesn’t mean she was senile.”

  “What about Hugh and Edward? Did you hear either of them say anything about Clarisse getting bad news or being worried about something?”

  “Oh those boys,” Bertha said in an indulgent tone. “They don’t notice things.”

  “By the way,” Olivia asked, “where are they?�
��

  “They came home today because of what happened, then back to Baltimore for the end of some business conference they were at all week. We can’t bury Ms. Clarisse until the police give her back to us, so the boys are keeping busy. They’ll be home tomorrow.” Bertha opened the refrigerator. “I made their favorite, blueberry pie. Had to use frozen blueberries, but it’ll taste the same.” She cut two slices, slid them onto plates, and brought them to the table.

  Olivia was stuffed, but Bertha would be insulted if she turned down dessert. She got through half of it before saying, “Bertha, this is so delicious, but I’m too full to finish. Could I take the rest home for a bedtime snack?”

  Bertha, who had finished her slice, put Olivia’s leftovers in a plastic container and left it on the table. While she covered the pie plate with plastic wrap, she said, “There’s something I didn’t tell the police. It probably isn’t anything, but . . . well, Ms. Clarisse did mention your name.”

  “My name? When?”

  “A couple weeks back, it was. When she got that other envelope in the mail.”

  “Wait. Clarisse received a previous envelope?”

  Bertha avoided Olivia’s eyes. “I didn’t think about it until now because the first envelope didn’t make her so upset. Right after we went through the bills, she opened that envelope in front of me and pulled out a letter. She looked sort of startled as she read it and then put it right back in the envelope. I never saw that one again, either. Then a few days later, I passed her office and she was having one of her little talks with Mr. Martin.” Bertha saw Olivia’s confusion and added, “I wouldn’t tell this to the police, but you are family, or near like it. When Ms. Clarisse was chewing on a problem, she’d discuss it with Mr. Martin’s portrait—you know, the one that hangs over the fireplace in her office.”

  Olivia knew it well. Clarisse’s husband had died years earlier of a massive heart attack at the age of fifty-seven. The portrait showed a handsome man with a confident smile, an older version of Hugh, his elder son. Clarisse once told her that chain smoking killed her husband, and Olivia remembered noticing the ghostly swirl forever spiraling from the cigarette in Martin’s painted right hand. Clarisse used to claim she could smell the memory of that smoke.