Cookie Dough or Die

by Virginia Lowell

  “Ned?”

  “Nedra, but she likes to be called Ned. She’s my assistant. Well, really my niece, my brother’s daughter, but also my new assistant. Fresh out of journalism school and full of energy. Well, it was actually a correspondence course online, but they said she was the best student they’d ever had.”

  “Uh—”

  “I’m glad we’ve cleared all that up. Now, I’m here to ask you a couple questions for next week’s issue. You’d be amazed how much interest you’ve stirred up in this quiet little town. Everyone wants to know everything about you, but of course I have space limitations, so I’ll stick to the most important issues. First and foremost, what do you plan to do with your five-million-dollar inheritance and Clarisse Chamberlain’s million-dollar antique cookie-cutter collection?” Binnie dug into one of the many pockets of her safari jacket and extracted a handheld tape recorder with a cracked plastic cover. “Speak into this, dear,” she said in that benign and terrifying voice.

  Olivia’s vocal chords froze, along with her blood. She would have welcomed a customer about then, but they must have worn themselves out the day before. Olivia struggled to form a comment.

  “Really, Livie, it can’t be that difficult,” Binnie said. “You must be fantasizing about how to spend all that money. Will you sell the store and travel around the world? Buy a villa in Italy?”

  To her right, Olivia heard a slight click, followed by a creaking sound. She turned to see the kitchen door edge open and a furry little head pop through. When he spotted Olivia, Spunky yapped with joy. He cleared the entrance a moment before Maddie’s arms reached out to capture him.

  Spunky escaped to the cookbook nook, from which came the thumping sound of books hitting the floor, followed by the clattering crash of metal pans and cooking utensils. Olivia ran toward the nook, arriving as Spunky bolted through the entryway and back into the main part of the store.

  Binnie remained near the antiques cabinet, a bland smile on her face. She was holding her tape recorder toward the sales area to record the sounds of destruction. Spunky paused when he saw her. Ever the curious puppy, he tilted his head up toward the tape recorder. Olivia recognized the stance. He thought Binnie was offering him a treat or a toy.

  “Binnie, put that down,” Olivia yelled. Binnie winked at her. A smug wink.

  Spunky raced toward Binnie, with Olivia and Maddie in pursuit. Olivia reached out, grabbed the end of his tail. It slipped through her fingers.

  To avoid capture, Spunky leaped onto a table, landing in the midst of an elaborate display of farm animal cookie cutters. The cutters sprayed out in various directions, some of them flying at Binnie. Her jaw dropped, along with her tape recorder, which hit the floor and cracked open.

  Spunky lost traction on the slick table, skidded toward the edge, and landed in Olivia’s waiting arms. She held him firmly and rubbed the fur on his neck to calm him. As he relaxed in her grip, she whispered soothing words in his ear. Something about a week of extra treats for a job well done.

  By midafternoon, The Gingerbread House had received only half a dozen customers. Olivia worried that fallout from The Weekly Chatter article had begun to accrue.

  “Stop fussing,” Maddie said when she emerged from the kitchen to chat with Olivia on the sales floor. “Yesterday was a lucrative fluke. It’s inevitable things would quiet down.”

  “I guess.”

  “Anyway, since there’s no one here right now, I’ll catch you up on what I’ve found out.” Maddie hiked herself onto a sturdy display ledge. “Okay, the first thing I did was call my friend Kate—she’s a nurse at Montgomery General in Clarksville, where Sam Parnell is. Kate sneaked a peek at his file and called back from her car during her break.”

  “I can’t believe she did that for you,” Olivia said.

  “What can I say, I’m adored by one and all.” Maddie lifted her chin, crossed her jeans-clad legs, and fluffed up her mass of red curls from behind. “Anyway,” she said, dropping her pose, “I promised to set her up with Lucas’s cousin, who is almost as lovable and yummy as Lucas. Now, stop interrupting. Here’s the scoop: Sam’s blood glucose level was way off, but there was no evidence of any poison in his system. Kate said they can’t measure insulin in the body. Kate didn’t see any notes in the file about tests on the cookie crumbs from the bag. We’d have to hack into—”

  “No hacking, I beg of you,” Olivia said. “If there was no poison in Sam, there probably wasn’t any in the cookies. However, I don’t think this was an accident. Someone left that bag of cookies to implicate us somehow.”

  “Why?”

  “To warn us off, maybe? Or to stop Sam from spreading rumors? I wish I hadn’t pushed him so hard about that letter Clarisse got. I’m afraid I convinced him he was on to something really important, and it would be like him to drop hints all over his route.”

  “Sounds like our Snoopy,” Maddie said.

  Olivia checked the store clock, designed to look like the witch’s edible house in Hansel and Gretel. It wasn’t the easiest clock to interpret, but Olivia’s mother had given it to her when the store opened. The time was somewhere between two and two fifteen, at least three hours from closing.

  “Did you find out anything about Hugh and Edward’s alibi for the night of Clarisse’s death?” Olivia asked.

  “Spunky’s little adventure interrupted me, but I did identify the conference they should have been attending. There was only one national business conference that week in Baltimore, so it wasn’t hard. It was held at the Rockwell Hotel, which is still newish and trying to corner the convention market.”

  Olivia remembered reading about that conference. She’d thought of going, but Maddie would have needed help to run the store.

  “I wrote the hotel phone number on a recipe card next to my computer,” Maddie said. She slid off her perch and stretched. “By the way, we need to order more recipe cards.”

  “My name is Ms. Clark, and I am an administrative assistant at Chamberlain Enterprises in Chatterley Heights.” Olivia had come up with a story that she hoped would elicit information about Hugh’s and Edward’s whereabouts the evening and night of Clarisse’s death. “I am calling on behalf of Mr. Hugh and Mr. Edward Chamberlain concerning the conference for small business owners they attended at your hotel last week.”

  Thank goodness she had remembered to block her phone number from caller ID.

  “Yes, Ms. Clark, how may I help you?”

  Olivia’s throat was going dry from nervous excitement. “The Chamberlains asked me to inquire about the session they attended the evening of Thursday, April 23. They are concerned about some materials a member of the panel loaned to them and which they wish to return. Unfortunately, they seem to have lost the presenter’s card, and neither can remember his name. Mr. Hugh Chamberlain thinks it was something like Robinson, and Edward insists it was Thomlinson. They are hoping someone at your hotel might be able to supply the correct name and business address.”

  Olivia had found the conference website online and purposely picked one name from a Wednesday session and a second, similar name from the Saturday morning session. The website had also stated that, because space was limited and conference attendance had exceeded expectations, preregistration would be required for this very popular panel. Olivia was counting on the hotel’s desire to go the extra helpful mile to maintain their competitive edge.

  “If you can wait a few minutes, Ms. Clark, I’ll ask the events director for you.”

  “Thank you so much,” Olivia said. When the Kenny G. music started, she ran for the kitchen sink, poured herself a large glass of water, and gulped it down. She filled the glass again and returned to the phone as the music halted in midphrase.

  The hotel concierge sounded tentative, as if he were concerned about irritating her. “Ms. Clark, I spoke with our events coordinator and she was a bit confused. You see, the two names you mentioned served on panels that took place on two other days, but they did not participate in the
Thursday evening panel the Chamberlains mentioned. In fact, she also checked and found that Hugh and Edward Chamberlain had both preregistered for that evening, but apparently they didn’t claim their seats. At least, their names aren’t checked off. Our events coordinator wondered if the Chamberlains might be remembering a different panel?”

  “Could you wait a few moments while I ask one of them?”

  “Of course.” Olivia could almost hear the concierge sigh.

  Thank goodness Maddie had talked her into including a hold function with her store phone service. Olivia watched the clock for one minute, hoping it would feel like ten to the concierge. After several more gulps of water, she was about to reconnect when Maddie opened the kitchen door and poked her head inside. “It’s quieted down out here, so could you—?”

  “Hang on, I’m almost finished.” Olivia pointed to the flashing red hold button on the phone.

  Maddie wedged herself between the door and the jamb, so she could watch the store and listen at the same time.

  Olivia picked up the receiver and punched the hold button. “Hello? Yes, this is Ms. Clark again. I’m so sorry to have taken so much of your time,” she said, relaxing into a more friendly, apologetic tone. “When I mentioned the other panels to Mr. Chamberlain, he suddenly remembered the right one, as well as the name of the presenter. Thank you for being so patient and helpful. Chamberlain Enterprises will certainly keep your hotel in mind for the future.”

  Whew. Olivia disconnected with a gratified concierge.

  “Wow,” said Maddie. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “Hey, I played a role in one of our high school plays, remember?”

  “Yes, but that was Chatterley Heights High School theater. Anyone who wanted a part, got a part. However, what I heard sounded impressive. What did you find out?”

  Olivia filled her in. “It isn’t proof, of course,” she added. “Hugh and Edward might have attended some other function, or the hotel might have made a mistake. But at least they don’t appear to have a solid alibi at the moment.”

  “This would be a lot easier if we were cops,” Maddie said. “But I’d miss the cookie cutters.” She peeked into the store. “Gotta go. I hear someone coming in from outside.”

  “One more call and then I’ll spell you.”

  Once Maddie had left, Olivia picked up the phone again. At least this call should be easier. She finally found time to dial her old friend’s number. After two rings, a familiar cheerful yet no-nonsense voice answered. “Stacey?”

  “Livie? You’re a mind reader. I’ve been thinking about you ever since . . . Well, I don’t need to remind you.” Her voice became softer and a bit distorted, as if she were whispering with her mouth too close to the phone. “I’m in the outer office, and it’s crammed with kids and teachers. Hang on.” After a moment, Stacey’s voice returned to normal. “There, that’s better. I’m in my office. How the heck are you?”

  Stacey Harald was another of Olivia’s since-kindergarten friends, though their lives had taken different turns after graduation. At the age of nineteen, Stacey married her high school sweetheart, with whom she’d had two children. When Olivia returned home, she’d discovered that Stacey and her husband had split. During the summer, she and Stacey had squeezed in several lunches and reconnected over their tales of divorce. Stacey did not look down her nose at a bit of discreet gossip. Best of all, after her divorce, Stacey had brushed off her secretarial skills and worked her way up to office manager at Chatterley Heights Elementary. She knew Tammy well and wasn’t especially fond of her.

  “I’m good,” Olivia said. “Considering the situation.”

  “Looks like one big, messy situation from where I sit.”

  With a rueful laugh, Olivia said, “About that . . .”

  “Spit it out, Livie.”

  Olivia smiled to herself. Stacey’s directness was legend throughout Chatterley Heights. Beating around the bush would only irritate her. “Okay, between you and me,” Olivia said, “I’m trying to save my own skin. Sheriff Del wants me to stay in the store and bake cookies, but I need to find out what’s been going on around here. If you know what I mean.” She didn’t want to be too explicit on the phone.

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Maddie is helping, but I need to talk to someone more . . .”

  “More in daily touch with, say, one of the main players?”

  “You are so quick, it’s scary.” Olivia glanced up at the kitchen clock. Three thirty. The Gingerbread House closed at five. “Any chance you’re free for dinner?”

  “As it happens, Tyler has basketball practice and Rachel will be studying at a friend’s house, or so she claims.”

  “How about six thirty? My place? It’s more private.” The tables at Pete’s Diner were so crowded together that Olivia had heard complete conversations from three tables away.

  “You aren’t going to cook, are you? Because I’ve heard things. . . .”

  “You wound me. No, baking is the only cooking I do willingly. I’ll order a couple of the Chatterley Café’s finest pizzas. You can take home the leftovers.”

  “It’s a deal. And Livie, don’t be too hard on Del. I dated him for a brief time before marrying what’s-his-name. He’s levelheaded and honest. I always thought I’d made the wrong choice.”

  As she hung up, Olivia felt a stabbing sensation in her chest. “Careful, kiddo,” she murmured. “That felt suspiciously like jealousy.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Olivia made it home, after picking up a few groceries and two pizzas, with five minutes to spare. Her front doorbell rang precisely at six thirty. She ran down the stairs in her stocking feet, carrying a yapping Spunky.

  “You sound out of breath,” Stacey said as she walked into the foyer. “I’m not early, am I? I hate it when guests are early. My ex used to be early for dates. I’d make him drive around the block and come back later.”

  “I’m out of shape, that’s all,” Olivia said.

  Stacey’s sandy hair fell forward as she knelt to massage Spunky’s ears. “What a sweet noisy little critter you are,” she said. Spunky wriggled his head in ecstasy. “I love dogs,” Stacey said. “Cats, too. So much easier to live with than men.” She gave the puppy a final pat on the head and said, “To be continued once my strength is restored by pizza.”

  “And red wine,” Olivia said as she led the way upstairs.

  “An excellent combination.”

  Once upstairs, Stacey gave the pizzas a quick warmup in the oven and set the table. Olivia poured wine and unpacked her groceries, which included a hunk of parmesan cheese, bagged salad, and some fresh Caesar dressing from the Chatterley Café. She chopped a few olives for the salad and scavenged for some cocktail tomatoes that hadn’t yet shriveled up.

  By the time they sat down to eat, their wineglasses required refilling. Stacey selected a slice from the veggie and cheese pizza, while Olivia went straight for the three-meat with extra mozzarella.

  “This might be why I’m out of shape,” Olivia said.

  “Naw, you’re just too busy, like me.”

  “Or too lazy.”

  After savoring her first bite, Stacey said, “Bribe accepted. What do you want to know?”

  Olivia sipped her wine and gathered her thoughts. “Keep this conversation to yourself, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  Olivia selected a second slice of pizza, one with less meat and more olives. “I think Clarisse Chamberlain was murdered,” she said.

  “I wondered about that myself. I knew Clarisse. She was way too sharp to accidentally poison herself.”

  “I just wish I could prove it,” Olivia said. “I think Del believes that Clarisse was murdered, too, only he doesn’t want me involved.”

  “But you can’t help yourself.” Stacey reached for a pizza slice with the meat and the fewest olives.

  “You saw Binnie’s article about my so-called inheritance from Clarisse? She made me look like a mu
rder suspect. The entire piece is a fabrication, but I still have to protect my reputation.” Olivia picked a sliver of kalamata off her pizza slice, popped it in her mouth, and washed it down with a sip of wine.

  “That article was hysterical.” Stacey rested her chin on her laced fingers, all attention. “So,” she said, “two questions. How can I help? And would you reach the wine bottle for me?”

  Olivia laughed, which felt good. As she filled Stacey’s glass, she said, “I’m trying to track down alibis for the most likely suspects—Edward and Hugh Chamberlain, Tammy Deacons, Bertha the housekeeper, and maybe Lucas Ashford.”

  “Lucas? Really? I guess you never know with the quiet ones. And he has been stressed these past few years, what with his dad dying and his mom so sick, doctor bills, you name it. Everyone has a breaking point.”

  “How well do you know Lucas?” Olivia asked.

  “He volunteers at school. Fixes the furnace on a regular basis, donates parts, even changes those fluorescent bulbs no one else can reach. Nice guy. Maybe too nice. He does too much free work for someone with financial pressures.”

  Stacey speared a tomato from her salad. “Although his financial situation certainly has improved,” she said right before the tomato disappeared into her mouth.

  “It has? How?”

  Stacey held up her fork for a time-out while she finished chewing. “Okay, this is secondhand,” she said, “but one of our fourth-grade teachers is married to a shop teacher at the high school, who is good friends with Lucas. I think they fix things together. Anyway, the story I got is that since Clarisse’s death, her sons have restructured the terms of the loan she made to Lucas. The way I heard it, they’ve cut his interest rate by half and forgiven the interest he owes on payments he missed while his dad was dying.”

  “Really.” If true, it would explain the sudden lightening of Lucas’s mood after Clarisse’s death. “I wonder why Hugh and Edward would do such a thing?”