by K. J. Emrick
“The dead man in your cellar,” Hamish said.
“That’s right,” Cookie agreed, gritting her teeth in a forced smile.
Hamish mixed together cinnamon and thyme in a small bowl. “But he died right here in your store. He didn’t really disappear.”
The boy was good, Cookie had to admit. He was standing there pretending like all of this was just another conversation and nothing to do with him slipping into the shop earlier today. “It’s true Jozebus died here,” she said, “but somehow the whole town was led to believe that he went out to sea and died there. I’m interested to know exactly how a farce like that works.”
“Good question,” Clarissa said, mixing wet ingredients into the muffin mix.
“I agree,” Hamish added, earning him a quick glare from Clarissa that he totally missed. “Only, wouldn’t it be better to ask George Merriam?”
“George?” Cookie asked. Of course. He certainly would have more first-hand knowledge than the rumors floating around town about George’s grandfather back in the day. George was the kind of man who never met a story he didn’t like to repeat, too.
Plus, if anyone would know what young Hamish over there might want from a seemingly empty cellar, then it would be the only known descendant of Hester Merriam. The cellar itself would have been blocked off before George was born, but maybe he’d heard family rumors.
“Why, thank you Hamish,” she said in all honesty. “I believe that is a wonderful idea.”
He might not know it yet, but he may have just given her the suggestion that would let her prove he came into the shop, and how he got that black eye, and what he was up to. Before he broke Clarissa’s heart, that is. Cookie was not going to let any man do that to Clarissa, no matter how perfect he seemed. In her career as a baker she had cut into any number of apples that seemed fine on the outside but then turned out to be rotten at the core.
For now, a chance to investigate meant a chance to bake. She was going to make some treats to bring with her when she went to talk to George. In turn, that would give her a reason to keep Clarissa right here with her so she wouldn’t have to worry about her being alone with Mister Hamish Carpenter.
“You two keep doing what you’re doing,” she told them with a bouncy step over to the cupboards. “I’m going to make Danishes. I have a feeling I’ll need a little sugary persuasion when I go to see George Merriam tomorrow.”
“Well, you know what they say, Gram.” Clarissa laughed as she poured even helpings of her mix into the cups of a muffin pan. “Just a spoonful of sugar helps the mystery get solved.”
Chapter Five
The Cedar View retirement home was a nice enough place, Cookie supposed. Private apartments, a nursing staff that was always friendly and smiling, and meals that were real food instead of just jello from a cup or microwavable rice. Maybe, when she got to be up there in age like George and Batina, she would consider moving in here.
The building was on a nice, quiet street near the post office and library, where trees lined the walkways around the building and shaded the several benches on the lawns. Cookie noticed that none of the trees were cedar trees, which she really thought they should be, considering it was in the name scrolled out across the top of the door.
In her arms she carried four folding pastry boxes full of raspberry and cheese Danishes. She might have gotten a little carried away with the baking but with Clarissa and Hamish helping her she had her supplies for today ready and stored in the refrigerator well ahead of schedule. So she found herself with hours of free time on her hands this morning and when Cookie had free time, she baked.
She also baked when she was upset.
Jerry had called late last night to say he was tired, and needed to go to sleep. Yes, they suspended him. No, he wasn’t in that much trouble… or so he said. Cookie found it hard to believe that a suspension didn’t amount to being in very much trouble. Plus, she could hear the pain in her fiancé’s voice. He was troubled. He just wouldn’t talk about it. She tried to coax him into coming over with the promise of a home cooked meal, but he’d begged off, saying he just wanted to sleep. When he said he would call her tomorrow morning, they’d said their goodnights and love-yous and ended the call.
She was still waiting to hear from him.
The other phone call she had gotten last night had been from Madison. Her daughter was worried, because she hadn’t heard from Cookie at all, even though Clarissa had called to fill her in on the many, many goings on at the Kiss the Cook bakery. Cookie knew that Madison had every right to be worried, especially since Clarissa was here in the middle of another murder mystery and the last one had cost a life that was dear to all of them. They had talked for nearly a half an hour, about the mystery of Jozebus Merriam, about Jerry’s suspension, and about Madison’s pregnancy. That was a good note to leave things on, talking about how she would soon be a grandmother again. It had helped her get to sleep on what had otherwise been a troubling and stressful day.
Thankfully, the bakery was scheduled to be closed again this morning and open in the afternoon just like yesterday for the centennial celebration crowds, which gave her plenty of time to come have a chat with George Merriam. The secretary at the front desk of the retirement home was more than happy to accept a box of Danishes in exchange for letting Cookie know that George was sitting out in the backyard like he did most mornings.
“You should hurry,” the secretary told her as she opened the box and inhaled the wonderful aroma of warm pasty. “Mayor Fieldberg is going to be here soon to pick him and Batina up for the second day of the centennial celebration.”
Cookie followed the blue line painted on the tile floors all the way to the back door, and then out into the sunshine. She was glad she’d decided to wear a pair of capri pants and a blousy pink top this morning. It was going to be a scorcher today.
Outside, at the back of the building, trees swayed in the breeze and people sat on benches or took strolls one slow step at a time with cane in hand, or rolled up and down the walking paths in wheelchairs. Everyone seemed very interested in the boxes Cookie was carrying. She set two of them on a table she passed by, and brought the last of them over to a small patio table where George sat.
Arms folded, head bent down to his chest, it appeared to Cookie that he was asleep. He surprised her then by lifting his head with a smile as soon as she sat down next to him. “Those for me?” he asked.
“Actually, yes.” Dodgy old man, Cookie thought to herself. She’d be willing to bet that he was more with it than people realized. “I was hoping I could trade you some pastries for a little information?”
He scrubbed his hands together and leaned over the table, looking into the plastic window top of the pastry box. “Oh, I think maybe we can make that trade. Best get to munching before Batina comes out to find me, though. She thinks I need to watch my cholesterol.”
Cookie opened the package for him. “But you don’t agree?”
With a shrug, George reached in and lifted out one of the glazed raspberry Danishes. “I figure if I don’t have many years left to spend on this mortal coil, I should be allowed to eat what I like before I go. Ahh, here we are.”
With his first bite, he closed his eyes, and sighed out a breath. “You always did make the best confections in town, Cookie. Maybe even better’n Fran’s.”
“Oh? You knew Fran?” Cookie decided to jump on the opening he’d just afforded her. “Well, of course you would, since your family owned the building before her. Back when your grandparents ran it as a butcher shop, right?”
He nodded, biting through the outer layer of pastry into the jam spread in the middle. “Mmm. So good. Yes, my Grandpap’s butcher shop was quite the place back in the day, from what I understand. Before my time, of course, but my dad used to tell me stories of being in there with his two brothers. I remember one story about a live pig. Seems the thing got loose from the crate it was being transported in, and ran around the shop for an hour, busting up things, m
aking a terrible racket.” He chuckled as he remembered the tale. “Dad said in the end Grandpap just threw his hands up in the air and said if the pig wanted to live that bad, then let him. So he opens the door and shoos the pig out, and there it goes just running up the street. Ha! Can you imagine?”
Cookie found herself chuckling at the image even as she cringed to think that meat used to be slaughtered and chopped up right there in the shop where she did her baking now. Of course Fran had bought the property after it had been vacant a few years, and she had the floors tiled over and the walls scrubbed and repainted, so there was no trace of the meat industry left. If only she’d torn the floors out to replace them. Maybe it would have been Fran who found the cellar.
There were a lot of what-ifs popping up in this mystery. Like, what if Grandma Hester Merriam had killed her own husband after learning about her son burning to death in the fire on Main Street? Imagine, leaving your other children fatherless…
“Hold on.” She was remembering something George had just said. “You said your father had two brothers? So Jozebus had three sons? You mentioned an uncle who died back in the early 1900s, in the fire that nearly destroyed the town. Then there’s your father. That’s two. Who was the third brother?”
The last bite of Danish went into George’s mouth. “That’d be Uncle Solan. He married young and moved out of town when I was still just a little pup. Never did know him very well.”
Solan Merriam. Cookie memorized the name, adding it to the list of things to talk to Jerry about when they met up later. A third brother. If the oldest of the three had been in his teens when the fire took his life, then George’s father and his uncle Solan must have been younger than that. Pretty much crossed them off the list of suspects in the murder of Jozebus Merriam.
Which left Grandma Hester Merriam on that list.
“What about the cellar?” Cookie pressed, sliding the box closer to George to encourage him to take another Danish. If there was one thing that Cookie knew for certain in this world it was that food always loosened a man’s tongue. “Did your dad ever tell stories about that cellar?”
Halfway to his lips, a cheese Danish stalled in George’s hand. Slowly his mouth closed again, and he lowered the treat to the table, rubbing his fingers free of crumbs on his shirt. “I keep thinking of Grandpap, locked away in that… pit, all these years. Nobody deserves that. I never got the chance to know the man but all this time I thought it was because of a shipwreck. Now I have to fit the idea that he was murdered into my life somehow.” He took a breath, and then let it out again. Picking the Danish back up he began tearing off small bits of it to chew on. “I’m sorry. I suppose it shouldn’t upset me this much, all things considered.”
“It’s a real tragedy, George.” Cookie tried to put herself in his shoes, wondering how it would affect her to have this sort of dramatic change in her life’s story. “No one would blame you for feeling sad about it. Did you even know the cellar was there?”
His gaze dropped to the table as he pursed his lips in thought. “I seem to remember a few times when Dad talked about playing downstairs with his brothers. He used to tell me how little the family had. There wasn’t much money to go around for them, so they had hand-me-down clothes, and used toys, and such. Usually they had to make up their own games. Hide and seek. That sort of thing. I guess, looking at it now, Dad must have been talking about playing in that cellar.”
Picturing the cellar now, Cookie had a hard time believing that anyone could play hide and seek in that open, empty space. Then again if it was used as a root cellar for cold storage in Jozebus and Hester’s time, then there was probably stacks of potatoes and canned vegetables everywhere, and maybe even hunks of meat hanging from the ceiling. FDA regulations were very different back then. So, sure, it might have been a great place for kids to hide and play. At least from their point of view.
That didn’t come close to explaining what Hamish would have been looking for down there. Or why he would have risked breaking into her shop to get it.
“George,” she said, “do you know if your grandparents maybe kept anything valuable down in the cellar?”
He snorted. It was a very rude sound, especially coming from such an elderly gentleman. “Like I said, my grandparents didn’t have much of anything. The butcher shop pretty much just gave them enough to live on. They didn’t have money or stocks or anything like that. Not that my dad ever knew, anyways.”
“But your grandmother gave money to rebuild the town, right? That’s why they renamed the town for her, right?”
He shrugged. “I suppose if she had money, that’s where it went.”
“Well, it doesn’t have to be money, I suppose.” Cookie tapped a finger against the table as she thought. “Maybe, like, the deed to the building? Birth certificates or family photos or anything like that?”
She was grasping at straws, but she still held out hope that maybe she was on to something. At least, until George shook his head.
“Sorry, Cookie. I wouldn’t know anything about that. Like I said, Dad never mentioned the root cellar. I had to rack my brain to come up with those stories about him playing downstairs.” He took a big bite of his Danish, the memories of his father bringing back his appetite. “Dad was a smart man. He made sure we had a better life than he did, and the stories he would tell us of the way he grew up made me really appreciate what I had.”
Chewing and swallowing, he sucked at his dentures as he regarded Cookie for a long moment. “Why are you asking me all this now? From what I heard your bakery’s cashing in on my Grandpap being found under your floor. At least some good came from it.”
“Sure, I suppose,” she agreed carefully. “But don’t you want to know what happened? Why it happened?”
George sat up straighter, and looked past Cookie, over her shoulder. “Honestly? No. I do not. Some tragedies are best left alone.” Then he raised a hand and waved. “Hi there, darling. See who came to visit me?”
Cookie’s stomach sank. She turned around in her chair to find Batina Merriam coming out to them, a look of disapproval on her face as she tugged at the pearl necklace that matched so well with her dark blue dress. Her eyes were focused on the Danishes that Cookie had brought. Next to her, Mayor Quinn Fieldberg was in a sharp black pantsuit, scowling nearly as much as Batina, although Cookie figured it was for a different reason. Her hair was pinned up today just so in a smart bun. She was ready for the ceremony and now she had to deal with another delay, caused by Cookie. The man with them was the only one of their little group wearing a smile. Selectman Archibald Winters was in a suit as well, and he and the mayor both looked much too overdressed for the warm weather. It was then that Cookie remembered that today was a meet and greet with the press for the town council and the Merriams.
Well, she thought to herself. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. She wasn’t holding anyone up. She was just having a nice chat with the town’s oldest living resident. Over Danishes.
“George Webster Merriam,” Batina scolded him when she was closer. “What did we say about eating donuts?”
“Well, this isn’t a donut…” George tried, holding up his half-eaten cheese Danish as proof. “Besides, Cookie here just brought these treats. I didn’t want to be rude and refuse to try one.”
Batina craned her neck to look inside the box. Then she returned her glare to her husband, arching an eyebrow.
“Okay,” he admitted. “One and a half. Nobody ever died from eating one and a half Danishes, you know!”
“Humph,” was the response from his wife. She took his hand and practically pulled him up out of his chair. “You come with me. The walk from here to the mayor’s car out front will be good for your blood circulation.”
“Oh, Batina, please. I’m as healthy as a man half my age.”
“Twice as stubborn, you mean. Cookie,” Batina said without looking back, “thank you for the treats. In the future, please don’t bring such things for my husband. Self-control is not
one of his finer qualities.”
They were already a few steps away. Cookie had no chance to defend herself or agree to not supply George with her baked goods ever again. She heard them still bickering when they reached the end of the walkway and Batina opened the door for both of them.
“I have several finer qualities,” George pointed out.
“Yes dear,” Batina said sweetly.
“You like my finer qualities.”
“Yes dear.”
“Danishes make a man sweeter, you know.”
“If you say so, dear.”
“I do say so. I should have more Danishes. To make me sweeter.”
“You’re sweet enough for me as you are, George.”
“I love you, Batina.”
“I love you too, dear.”
The door closed behind them as they went inside. Cookie couldn’t help but smile at the picture the two of them made. Love really was eternal.
“Cookie.”
Mayor Quinn Fieldberg’s voice demanded her attention. Reflexively, she grabbed up the pastry box and handed it to her. “Danish?”
“No, thank you.” Almond eyes flashing, Quinn set her hands on her hips and leaned in, making the bun in her hair bounce. “What are you doing here? Were you asking George questions about his grandfather being in your cellar?”
“Well, it does concern me,” Cookie said, which was true. “It’s my shop after all.”
“I’ll take one of those,” Archibald said, reaching in for the only raspberry Danish left in the box. “Thanks, Cookie. You bake these this morning?”
“Yes, I did.” She was glad to know at least someone on the town board wasn’t mad at her. That led her to a very uncomfortable question. “Quinn, why did you have Jerry suspended? You know he didn’t do anything wrong. You were there when George figured out for himself that it was his grandfather in that cellar.”