Cookie Dough or Die accsm-1

by Virginia Lowell

  “Really? Who?” Maddie’s eager curiosity made Olivia’s stomach clench.

  “Well, my mom and Allan were talking. . . . There’s no easy way to say this, so . . . Maddie, did you know that Lucas borrowed money from Clarisse, using the hardware store as collateral?”

  Maddie’s sunny expression clouded over. “Of course I knew. Lucas told me early on. He’s very honest. Anyway, he’s been paying it off gradually, and the store is doing okay in spite of the economy.”

  Olivia closed the lid of her laptop to put it to sleep—and to ease the tension. “I wondered, did Clarisse pressure Lucas at all? Did she offer to forgive the loan in exchange for Heights Hardware?”

  Maddie threw the kitchen towel on the counter and folded her arms. Olivia could almost feel sparks shooting from her friend’s eyes.

  Olivia took several deep breaths, then a couple more. Part of her wanted to leave Lucas out of it, for Maddie’s sake. On the other hand, she couldn’t stop imagining Clarisse’s last moments. “I can’t let this go, Maddie. I have to know what happened.”

  “Okay. I get it.” Maddie kept her arms crossed and leaned against the kitchen counter.

  “Couldn’t we talk about it, friend to friend?”

  The silence lightened maybe an iota.

  “Sleuth to sleuth?” Olivia asked.

  Maddie didn’t uncross her arms, but her shoulders lowered a bit.

  “Over cookies and milk?” Olivia opened the refrigerator door and removed a half gallon of milk. “I wonder if Del seriously suspects us.”

  Maddie lifted two glasses and two plates from the cupboard. “Our alibis aren’t so great. We alibi each other for part of the night Clarisse died, and those cookies Sam ate were undeniably ours. By the way, I did stash away a few for emergencies.” She pulled down a tin from on top of the refrigerator. “If either of us refuses to eat these, it won’t look good.”

  They settled at the table. Olivia waited through one red and yellow striped beach ball cookie and half a glass of milk before saying, as gently as she could, “I do need to know about Lucas, you know.”

  “I know.” Maddie selected a second cookie, decorated with looping strings of white pearls. She set it on her plate and ran her index finger across the hardened dots of icing. “The truth is, Clarisse was pressuring Lucas to sell the hardware store to her. She said something about wanting to see what Hugh could do with it on his own. She only wanted the business to test Hugh. It was tearing Lucas apart. The way things are going, he’ll be paying off that loan for the rest of his life, assuming he lives to be one hundred. And yes, once Clarisse was gone, the pressure was off. Hugh doesn’t want the hardware; he said so. So Lucas has been a lot happier, and we avoid talking about money. We haven’t finished our first flush of romance yet.”

  Maddie bit a half circle out of her cookie. She put the remainder back on her plate and pushed it away. “To be honest, I think that’s why Lucas and I finally got together. I’ve been crazy about him for years, as you well know. He is so easy to be with, and he accepts me with all my weirdness. He says I make him laugh.” She smiled at the tabletop. “But with his mom and dad and all that debt, plus the fear he’d have to give up the family business . . . So yes, he’s relieved the pressure to sell is gone, but he still has the loan to pay off, so it’s not like killing Clarisse would have gotten him very far. Unless you think he has plans to knock off Hugh and Edward, too.”

  “I’ll admit that hadn’t occurred to me,” Olivia said. She didn’t add that Lucas would stay on the suspects list, for now.

  Olivia glanced at her watch. “I have to be at the Chamberlain home in two hours. Can you stay a bit longer? There’s something I have to do, and I need company.” She explained to Maddie about the photos Deputy Cody took the night Clarisse died.

  “No kidding,” Maddie said. “You bet I’ll stay. I showered this morning. Fire up that computer.”

  Olivia awakened her sleeping laptop and called up her email. Maddie scooted her chair closer. “Here goes.” Olivia had seven unread emails, six of them from other businesses. She opened the seventh, Deputy Cody’s, which said only, “Here they are. Please don’t mention this to Sheriff Del.”

  “Rest easy, Cody,” Olivia mumbled. She clicked on the first email attachment, and a photo appeared. No matter how much she’d tried to prepare herself, Olivia wasn’t ready to see Clarisse Chamberlain’s body lying facedown on her office carpet. She forced herself to study the details.

  “Somehow it looks different than it does on those television cop shows,” Maddie said. “Sadder. What was it Cody said about her arms?”

  “See how her arms are straight back along her body? Cody thinks that if she’d been conscious, she’d have tried to break her fall, so her arms might be under her. Maybe even above her head.”

  Olivia opened the second photo, which Cody had taken from farther away. Now they could see a wine bottle on the carpet next to Clarisse’s shoulder. The bottle lay on its side, its pouring end pointing toward the office door, a corner of which showed in the photo. A small area of darkness appeared near the top of the bottle, as if a bit of wine had dribbled out. Olivia zoomed in, which made the area fuzzy, but it did look like a wine stain.

  “Del said that Clarisse had drunk a whole bottle. At some point, she must have crushed her sleeping pills into it.” Olivia had a sudden, strong need to move. She bolted out of her chair and began to pace around the kitchen. “I thought at the time that Clarisse couldn’t have stayed conscious through an entire bottle of wine laced with sleeping pills. She wasn’t used to drinking more than a glass or so. Seeing these photos, I’m more sure than ever that her death wasn’t an accident, and it wasn’t suicide.”

  “Explain it to me,” Maddie said.

  “Okay, even if Clarisse did something as uncharacteristic as crush a handful of sleeping pills into a bottle of wine, she would never have made it through the bottle, not even a third of the way, without passing out.”

  “What if she chugged the wine on purpose?” Maddie said. “You know, like those kids when they turn twenty-one.”

  Olivia waved her hand impatiently. “She didn’t have enough alcohol in her system. Clarisse once told me that one of her pills dissolved in water was enough to knock her out in ten minutes. Clarisse was a planner. If she’d really wanted to kill herself, she would have dissolved the pills in maybe one glass of wine, so she could get it down quickly. She wouldn’t have stuffed any of them in the bottle and then tried to drink it all before passing out. Clarisse would never have been that inefficient.”

  “Unless, maybe, she didn’t mean to actually kill herself? You know, like a cry for help?”

  “Clarisse Chamberlain did not cry for help,” Olivia said. “Not ever. No, the real question is, why did she ask Bertha to open a full bottle of wine for her. I have to wonder if she was expecting a visitor.”

  “Of course,” Maddie said, “and that person killed her, then set it up to look like an accident.”

  “Click on the next photo,” Olivia said. Too agitated to sit, she stood behind her chair and leaned on the back.

  The photo was taken from farther back and showed half of Clarisse’s cluttered desk. Her substantial leather chair faced away from the desk, as if she had realized she was in trouble, picked up the wine bottle, turned her chair on its wheels.... From the position of Clarisse’s body, it looked as though she had made it about halfway to the door.

  “Maddie, think a moment—under what circumstances would Clarisse have picked up the wine bottle and taken it with her?”

  It was Maddie’s turn to roam around the kitchen, mumbling and running her fingers through her already tousled hair. Finally, she hoisted herself up on the edge of the worktable facing the computer. Olivia swung a leg over the seat of her chair and sat backwards, arms folded over the back.

  “If Clarisse was determined to commit suicide,” Maddie said, “the only reason I can think of would be to make her death look like an accident—you know, so her
heirs could still get the life insurance. Maybe she hoped it would look like she wanted Bertha to know right away that she’d accidentally overdosed herself.”

  Olivia shook her head. “Too convoluted. And not really necessary. She could have stayed at the desk or stretched out on the love seat by the fire, as if she’d gotten sleepy. Her death would look accidental, especially without a suicide note. Also, remember she was in perfect health and had no financial problems.”

  “Okay, let’s eliminate the suicide idea altogether,” Maddie said. “If she did accidentally poison herself, she might take the bottle for the same reason—to get help as quickly as possible.”

  “She was sitting at her desk,” Olivia said. “Why not pick up the phone? She could dial Bertha’s room upstairs with one number. Help would come much quicker.”

  “I’m tired of being the straight man,” Maddie said. “It’s a waste of my histrionic talents. Answer your own question, and I’ll shoot you down.”

  Olivia turned back to the photo. “I can’t say if Clarisse was sitting or standing when she lost consciousness, but I don’t think she got to that spot on her own. I think she was dragged. I also think that bottle was placed beside her by the person or persons who positioned her body, maybe, as you suggested, to make it look like Clarisse suddenly realized she was in trouble and went for help.”

  Maddie slid off her perch on the table and joined Olivia at the computer. After a long stare at the screen, she said, “I think you might be right. Why didn’t Sheriff Del notice what you did? He’s a smart guy. You don’t think he’s hiding something, do you?”

  “I’m irked at him,” Olivia said with a light laugh, “but not enough to see him as part of a townwide conspiracy. I suspect Del is hoping all this will go away. The Chamberlain family is a big employer in Chatterley Heights and beyond. A murder investigation would mean Hugh, Edward, even Bertha would be questioned, hounded by the press, maybe arrested. Their pasts would become common knowledge. Even if they are all cleared, there’d likely be some lingering doubt about their innocence.”

  “If that happened to me,” Maddie said, “I know what I’d do. I’d sell my business, take the money, and move far, far away.”

  “Me, too,” Olivia said. “I decided to start a business here partly because I knew the town had a solid financial base. Let’s be honest, would a store specializing in cookie cutters survive for long in a declining town with nothing else going for it?”

  “Far be it from me to wimp out to save our livelihood,” Maddie said, “but maybe we should tell Del about what we’ve come up with and consider letting him handle the investigation?”

  Olivia fixed her with a glare that would have leveled a nursing grizzly bear.

  “Only a suggestion,” Maddie said with unaccustomed meekness.

  Olivia leaned toward the screen. “What’s all that clutter on Clarisse’s desk?” She tried to zoom in on the desk, but the image was too fuzzy. While she tried some adjustments, Olivia said, “Clarisse was neat to the point of obsession. She told me once that it drove her crazy to misplace something, so she had a place for everything, and everything went back in its place, no exceptions.” She gave the zoom key one last frustrated poke. “Darn, this isn’t going to work. There’s one more photo; let’s try that.”

  When the image sprang to life, both women stared at it in puzzlement. Finally, Maddie said, “Cookie cutters. Not what I expected.”

  “Me, neither. I was hoping for clues, like family records or maybe notes for a new will. Although I suppose her killer would have taken those with him.”

  “Or her ,” Maddie said. “Tammy is in the running, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Clarisse showed me her cookie-cutter collection many times. It is quite extensive, not to mention valuable. She’d acquired dozens of wonderful antiques even before our store opened. Do you know, Clarisse had an almost complete collection of vintage Hallmark cookie cutters.” Olivia swallowed hard and said, “I asked her who she had to kill to get them. She laughed.”

  Maddie squinted at the photo. “I can’t tell what I’m looking at. Did Hugh and Edward know much about her collection?”

  “Not really,” Olivia said. “Clarisse said the boys were never interested enough to listen. This photo does convince me of one thing, though I can’t prove it. Clarisse loved to relax with her cutters. I think they gave her a warm, cozy feeling. It’s one of the reasons we became friends—our emotional connection with cookie cutters and the good memories they produced. If Clarisse was looking at her collection when she died, she might have been troubled, but she wasn’t contemplating suicide. She was comforting herself.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  By the time Olivia and Maddie tore themselves away from Deputy Cody’s crime scene photos, it was almost six o’clock. The reading of Clarisse’s will was scheduled for six thirty. Olivia rushed through her shower and grabbed the first clean clothes she came to in her closet—black wool pants and a pale gray angora sweater. Applying a loose interpretation to the posted speed limit, she managed to arrive at the Chamberlain home by six thirty-five, only five minutes late.

  Bertha answered the doorbell. “There you are, Ms. Olivia,” she said, taking Olivia’s coat. She opened the hall closet door and began to search for a free hanger.

  Olivia felt a twinge of guilt when Bertha, who was neither young nor slim, began to wheeze. “That’s an old coat,” Olivia said. “You can throw it anywhere.”

  Without wavering from her goal, Bertha reached one arm behind her and flipped her hand dismissively. A second later, she said, “Aha,” and pulled out a free hanger. “It’s been a long time since we had any guests but you in the house. Not since Mr. Martin passed on. God rest his soul, Mr. Martin did love his dinner parties.”

  Olivia lightly touched Bertha’s forearm. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Now, don’t you fret about me,” Bertha said. “My asthma is flaring up a bit, that’s all, although the only thing that ever caused me a problem is cats, which I never go near. Come along now, everyone is here but the lawyer. All gathered in the parlor, like in a play. There’s you and me, Hugh, Edward, and Ms. Tammy, looking very pretty. I never understood what made Ms. Clarisse take against her so sudden.”

  The Chamberlain house was old enough to have a front parlor, where the family would once have received visitors. To Olivia, the room felt stern, with its dark-stained mahogany furniture. The only light piece in the room was a gray marble side table, which held a round silver tray filled with canapés. It was the perfect setting for the reading of a last will and testament.

  Olivia and Clarisse had chosen cozier settings for their visits, such as the front porch in warm weather and Clarisse’s office, in front of the fireplace, during the damp cold of winter. Olivia wished for a welcoming fire now, but sherry would have to do. However, she was going through hers faster than a person with an empty stomach ought to, and she wanted to keep her mind clear. She sidled over to the canapés. The smoked salmon ones looked tempting, as did the mushrooms with cream sauce. Olivia took one of each, then added a second mushroom canapé to her plate. After all, the cream sauce might help soak up the sherry.

  As she nibbled, Olivia looked over the little group. Edward Chamberlain sat alone in a wingback chair, leafing through a magazine, his untouched glass of sherry on a small table next to him. Smoke floated up from the cigarette in his right hand. Olivia was struck by how much he resembled his mother, yet how different he seemed from her. Like Clarisse, he was blond, with a red sheen to his hair that showed up in sunlight or, as here, under bright incandescent light. Normally, she wouldn’t gaze so directly at someone, but Edward seemed oblivious. Even the sudden tinkle of Tammy’s laughter didn’t cause so much as an unconscious flicker of his eyelids.

  Tammy chattered happily to Hugh and Bertha. She wore yet another new dress that Olivia remembered seeing recently on a window mannequin at Lady Chatterley’s. It was a figure-hugging sheath that showed off Tammy’s slim fig
ure, in a pale green that matched her eyes, which gazed adoringly at Hugh. She’d curled her straight hair and piled it on her head. She looked as if she already owned the Chamberlain house.

  As for Hugh, he was his father’s son. In looks, anyway. He had to be thirty-five at least, because he had graduated from high school by the time Olivia was a freshman. He had an abundance of dark, wavy hair and Martin Chamberlain’s handsome face, softened by an easygoing nature. When Tammy left the group to fetch a tray of hors d’oeuvres, Hugh’s eyes followed her for a moment.

  Olivia was refilling her sherry glass when the doorbell rang. She took one more smoked salmon canapé before selecting a chair that would give her the best view of everyone present.

  Bertha reappeared, accompanied by Aloysius Smythe, a wispy thin man with thinning gray hair and hunched shoulders. Olivia recognized him from the Chatterley Café, where she sometimes went for a late lunch while Maddie minded the store. He always arrived around two, the slowest time for the café, carrying a bulging briefcase. He would settle at a table for four and spread papers all over, giving the impression he intended to stay all afternoon.

  Olivia’s first impression of the attorney as elderly and foggy changed in an instant as he surveyed the room. He had quick, dark eyes that, when they reached Olivia’s face, seemed to bore into her mind. No wonder Clarisse had thought the world of him. When he began to push a small desk toward his audience, Hugh leaped up to help. Tammy smiled as Hugh lifted the desk as if it were a stage prop.

  Olivia stole a quick glance at Edward, who was scowling in Hugh’s direction. Edward sat at the edge of his seat, as if he had intended to spring forward to help but wasn’t quick enough.

  The attorney placed a small stack of papers on the desk in front of him and cleared his throat. “Good evening, all of you. As you know, you are here to hear the last will and testament of Clarisse Chamberlain. I was her attorney, as well as her husband’s, for over forty years, and it is with great personal distress that I fulfill my final professional service for her.”