With a sideways leap, Maddie disposed of the final paper ball. “Enough about Charlene. There is cookie dough in the fridge, and it’s calling out to me.”
Between them, they hauled the trash can back to its space in the alley behind The Gingerbread House. “Let’s go in the front,” Olivia said. “I left poor Spunky locked in the foyer.”
They rounded the corner and found Sheriff Del standing at the door, frowning as he listened to Spunky’s frantic barking. He relaxed when he saw them. “I was getting worried,” Del said. “I wondered if you’d gotten knocked on your heads when you returned from The Vegetable Plate.”
Olivia grinned. “Do you suspect crime behind every door?”
“Occupational hazard. Especially when you’re around.”
“Ouch.”
“I see you got the lawn back to normal,” Del said. “By the way, Charlene steadfastly denies any responsibility for those flyers. She insists you two set the whole thing up, including the break-in, so you could scare her off.”
Maddie snorted. “Frankly, she isn’t worth the trouble.”
Olivia unlocked the front door, triggering an explosion of vicious barking from inside.
“Hush, Spunky, it’s me. Want some coffee, Del? We were about to reward our clean-up work with a flurry of cookie construction. Besides, I have a few questions to ask you.”
“I knew there’d be a catch,” Del said. “Thanks, but I need to get back to the station. I only stopped by to let you know we have a suspect for the break-in. We need to check his alibi, then we’ll be in touch about your identification.”
“But I only saw his—”
“You saw his back as he ran off, I know, but it’s worth a try. I’m tracking down some information, so I should be able to fill you in tomorrow. You’re still closed on Mondays, right? Great. Meanwhile, keep your doors locked.” Del left before Olivia could ask who the suspect was.
Chapter Two
The small kitchen at the back of The Gingerbread House had acquired two new items since Olivia received her inheritance: a window air conditioner and a new freezer, which hummed with state-of-the-art efficiency next to the bruised old refrigerator. Without good air conditioning, August in eastern Maryland was not conducive to long, happy hours of cookie baking and decorating. Olivia preferred feeling connected with the outdoors, but not when the heat and humidity made her feel like a boiled potato. Besides, she’d told herself, controlled humidity was better for consistent cookie quality.
Olivia loved Mondays, when the store remained closed. She and Maddie could catch up on business chores and get a jump on preparing the various cookies they would need for the coming week. Now that they could afford to hire some help in the store, they’d begun to supply special-order cookies for private parties, in addition to their themed store events.
“Ready to roll,” Maddie said. “If I can find my trusty rolling pin.”
Olivia looked up from her paperwork. “Cupboard next to the sink, second shelf from the top.”
“How’d it get there? I swear, Livie, you hide things on purpose so you can torture me.”
Olivia reached into a drawer and tossed Maddie a clean towel to wipe the dough off her hands. “Nonsense,” she said. “You are the resident genius, and I am merely your short-term memory.”
“Did you remember to get more flour? This dough is a tad sticky.”
“Top shelf, next to the sugar. Are you starting on the cookies for the Tucker baby shower this week?
“Um, sure, that’s on the agenda.”
Something in Maddie’s tone made Olivia suspicious. “That event is special to me. If it weren’t for Gwen and Herbie’s contacts with animal rescue groups, I wouldn’t have found Spunky.” At the sound of his name, the little Yorkie lifted his head a few inches from his blanket, then dropped back to sleep. “The lazy bum.”
Maddie studied a package of meringue powder as if she’d never seen one before. “I’m making an extra batch of dough to try out some ideas. Anyway, I mixed two batches yesterday, and they’re rolled and chilling in the fridge, so there’ll be plenty to work with. Don’t fuss, Livie, all will be well. Don’t you have errands to run or something?”
“I thought I’d—” A knock on the alley door interrupted her. “Are you expecting Lucas?”
“Not really,” Maddie said as she opened the door. “Hi, Del, what’s up?”
The sheriff dropped his uniform hat on the counter and mopped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “You two have the best air conditioning in town.”
“Well, don’t let it escape into the alley,” Maddie said.
“Do you only want us for our air conditioning?” Olivia asked.
“It’s a start,” Del said, with a lopsided grin.
Maddie rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you two, get a room. I have cookies to cut.”
“Look who’s criticizing.” Olivia felt a little ping of pleasure whenever she and Del flirted, but it had been all too rare since late June. Her ex-husband, Ryan, had shown up uninvited with his grand scheme to open a clinic to provide affordable surgery for poor patients. It was a nice idea, but Olivia knew Ryan too well. Surgery was all he really enjoyed doing. He’d get bored and frustrated with the administrative demands of a clinic. She found it hard to believe that he had really turned over a new leaf.
Olivia poured a glass of iced tea from a pitcher in the refrigerator, added a few ice cubes and a wedge of lemon, and handed it to Del. “Any news about the break-in next door?”
“Thanks.” Del swallowed a large gulp of tea. “We do have a suspect, but no real proof. When Charlene called the family attorney, we had to release him.”
“Charlene called the family attorney? You mean the suspect is—?”
“Charlie Critch, Charlene’s younger brother,” Del said. “It would be great if you could get a look at him, Livie. He works as a mechanic at the garage,” Del said. “Does your brother still work there?”
“Wow, the plot thickens.” Maddie eased an unbaked cut-out cookie onto a length of parchment paper. “Livie, did you know Charlene had a brother?”
“I did not,” Olivia said. “Why didn’t we know that? My brother must work with him.”
“He moved here a couple months ago and keeps pretty much to himself,” Del said. “He rents a room from Gwen Tucker’s aunt Agnes, over on the east side of town. So far we haven’t been able to get a lot of background on him. Doesn’t seem to have much of a history, but Cody is scouring the Internet.” If there was anything to find, Del’s eager deputy, Cody Furlow, would hunt it down.
Olivia raised an eyebrow. “I’ll drop by the garage with some cookies and see if I can get a look at—what was his name? Charlie? Charlene and Charlie. . . . Are they twins?”
“Charlie is at least five years younger,” Del said. “No record, adult anyway. Charlene might not want to press charges but vandalism is still a crime. I’m real interested in that kid. He and his sister had a public falling out two days ago at the Chatterley Heights Café. About money, according to witnesses. Charlene has lots and Charlie doesn’t. We’re looking into their family circumstances.” Del drained his iced tea and retrieved his uniform hat. “Let me know your impressions after you get a look at the kid. Maybe chat with him, take his measure.” A cloud of hot, wet air osmosed into the cool kitchen as he opened the alley door.
“You’re welcome,” Olivia said to his back.
Del paused and twisted around. “Thanks.” A corner of his mouth curved upward. “For doing your duty as a citizen.”
Olivia threw a pen at him, but it bounced off the closed door.
Olivia was well armed when she arrived at Struts & Bolts, Chatterley Heights’ one and only garage. She carried a Gingerbread House box filled with two dozen decorated cookies representing various modes of transportation, from animal to mechanical. In addition to the cookies, Olivia had stopped by the Chatterley Heights Café to pick up lattés for the mechanics and for herself. For Struts Marinksy, the owner, Olivia
had splurged on a café mocha with a shot of mint and chocolate-mint sprinkles on top.
“You are a goddess in human form,” Struts said as Olivia handed her the hot cup, “but I’m afraid not even chocolate-mint sprinkles will give me the power to bring your old Valiant back to its former glory. I’m an automotive genius, true, but even I am not that good. Jason won’t give up, though. He keeps working on the poor old thing.”
“I have grieved and let go,” Olivia said as she plopped onto the old kitchen chair Struts offered to customers. “I come bearing cookies.” She nestled the gift box among the notes, order forms, and oil-splotched tools that cluttered Struts’s desk.
Struts eyed the box, decorated with a fanciful gingerbread house on top and colorfully sketched gingerbread men and women tumbling down the sides. “What’s the catch? I don’t have a first-born, not likely to produce one, so it can’t be that. Are you trying to find out my real name?”
“Already know it,” Olivia said with a smug grin. “It’s Angelika. Mom told me.”
“That snitch.”
“It’s a lovely name.”
“I hate it. Do I look like an Angelika?”
Olivia studied Struts’s grease-streaked T-shirt and frayed jeans, along with the combat boots planted on top of her desk, and was inclined to agree with her. However, the hair that escaped from Struts’s ponytail and fell around her face was a rich, dark blond, with streaks of auburn and no emerging gray roots. Struts was somewhere in her mid-forties, taller than average, with the lean-legged figure of a long-distance runner.
“Actually,” Olivia said, “you look like an Angelika dressed like a Struts, but I get your point. Still, the nickname fits. Mind telling me how you got it?”
“Ellie didn’t spill that, too? What the heck.” Struts shrugged a slender yet well-muscled shoulder. “I grew up on a farm. We had this ornery old tractor with which I had a special relationship. I was the only one who could fix it. This embarrassed my six brothers, who gave me the name Struts and tried to pass me off as a foundling.”
Olivia imagined growing up with six Jasons and cringed. “Must have been rough.”
“Nah, I loved knowing my brothers were jealous of what I could do. I’ve got this intuitive gift with machinery. Your brother calls me the Engine Whisperer.” Struts slid her feet to the floor and lifted the lid off Olivia’s offering of cookies. “Whoa, these look stunning.” She selected an old-fashioned steam engine candy-striped in fuchsia and soft pink. “Do I have to share?”
“Up to you.”
Struts sank back in her chair, closed her eyes, and moaned softly as she chewed off the smoke stack. Having polished off the entire choo-choo, she reached for a purple Model T Ford. “Always wanted a Tin Lizzie.” As the hood headed for her mouth, she said, “So Livie, what do I owe you in return?”
“You heard about the break-in last night in Charlene Critch’s store? And that I saw the intruder run away?”
Struts nodded as she nibbled on the Model T’s wheels.
“Between you and me, I need an unobtrusive look at Charlie Critch from the back.” When Struts’s dark hazel eyes opened wide, Olivia added, “I think Charlie is younger than the guy I saw, but Sheriff Del wants me to be sure.”
Struts gulped her mocha and licked a few sprinkles off her upper lip. “Then we’ll use some of these cookies as bait. I sure hope Charlie isn’t the guy you saw. I like him. Nice kid, good feel for engines. Jason is working this shift, too, so we’ll have to include him. Man, that boy can eat.”
“No kidding,” Olivia said. “You might want to rescue a couple cookies for later.”
“Had that thought myself.” Struts grabbed a violet-and-yellow baby carriage and an electric orange bicycle with red sprinkles. She wrapped them in what looked like a clean rag and stowed them in her desk drawer. “Better eat them soon,” she said. “We’ve got mice. I’ll call the boys in here.”
“Before you do that, what do you know about Charlie and his sister?”
Sweeping errant strands of hair behind one ear, Struts said, “Not a lot of personal chatter goes on here, at least not when I’m around. But I’ve picked up a thing or two. I know Charlie worships that sister of his, god knows why. If he’s the one who messed up Charlene’s store, I’ll eat a seatbelt. Still, there’s something going on with him. He and his sister come from money, you know. Lots of it. Charlie told me once that both their parents are dead. Not a word about what they were like or how they died, just ‘They’re dead.’ Period. Jason might know more. He and Charlie are tight.”
“My mom mentioned Charlie’s father was a plastic surgeon.”
“Yeah, I knew that,” Struts said. “When they lived here in town, Charles Critch Sr. used to drive every day to his clinic in some DC suburb. Made quite a bundle, or so I heard. That’s why I said Charlie has some sort of problem; his father set up a trust fund for both kids. I know because I dated one of the managers at the Chatterley Heights bank, and he told me in the strictest confidence.”
Struts slid her hand under The Gingerbread House box lid and snagged another cookie. It turned out to be a modern car shape with electric green icing and a squished front end. The word “Valiant” was painted across the front in leaf green lettering. “Pure artistry,” Struts said. “It deserves to be saved.” She slipped it into her desk drawer.
Olivia asked, “You mentioned a trust fund and some problem with Charlie?”
“Oh yeah, sorry. Not like me to get distracted, but your cookies . . . Anyway, my guy who worked at the bank, he dumped me, so he deserves to have his confidence betrayed. He told me Charles Critch Sr. set up this trust fund for both Charlene and Charlie. They each get a monthly stipend, a generous one, and then each inherits a big chunk of the fund at the age of twenty-five. That’s why Charlene opened that silly store; she just turned twenty-five. Charlie is twenty, so he’s got a while to wait, but I pay well. Also, he gets that monthly stipend, which I could retire on. So you’d think he’d be living well, have a nice apartment, all that. But he lives in one room, and the last two pay periods he asked me for an advance.”
“If Charlie was used to having lots of money,” Olivia said, “maybe he has trouble staying within his allowance.”
“Maybe.” Struts shrugged. “Lord knows credit card debt is a pit a lot of folks have slid down into, yours truly included.” She pushed aside an untidy collection of papers to reveal a hairbrush. While she repaired her ponytail, Struts said, “When Charlie started working here, about four months ago, he’d show up in nice clothes, then change into his work clothes in the gents. Now he wears the same clothes over and over. They keep getting dingier. I think he only washes them on his days off. Hey, I don’t care, I consider grease a badge of honor. But you gotta wonder.” Struts splayed her strong hands on the desk. They were immaculate. “This work does a number on my nails, though. I have them done once a week,” she said, frowning down at her left hand. She whipped a diamond nail file out of her desk drawer and smoothed a tiny jagged spot on her thumbnail.
“Do you know anything about Charlene?” Olivia asked.
Struts shrugged. “She’s got her admirers.”
“I gather you’re not one of them?”
Struts snorted. “Your mom insists Charlene was shy in high school, but she reminds me of those in-crowd girls. Not fond of that type myself.”
“Me neither,” Olivia said, “though Mom keeps reminding me that as an adult I should suspend judgment.”
“Too tiring,” Struts said.
“Any idea how Charles Sr. died?”
“Sure do.” Struts’s lips curved in a half smile of malicious glee. “Charles had his wife Patty served with divorce papers while he went on an early honeymoon with his twenty-five-year-old nurse and second-wife-to-be.” Strut’s smile broadened. “As I heard the story, poor Charles didn’t last the night. Too much excitement. He had a heart attack and died in some fancy hotel in Vegas.”
“Interesting,” Olivia said. “So then how did C
harlene’s mom die?”
Struts sighed. “That’s a sad story. I knew Patty from way back when she dated my oldest brother, before Charles swept her off her little size-five, triple-A feet. She should have married my brother, maybe she wouldn’t have morphed into a skinny witch. Anyway, after Charlie Sr. left her and then up and died, Patty inherited everything except the trust for Charlene and Charlie. So Charles Sr. got his comeuppance and Patty got it all. But was she happy?”
“I’m guessing not?”
“And you’d be right,” Struts said. “Patty went into a tailspin and let go of the steering wheel. She started drinking, decided she was too fat—at maybe ninety pounds—so she got herself hooked on diet pills and then sleeping pills. Plus she still drank her meals. She died less than a year after Charles Sr. Nobody talks about exactly how she died, but I think we can guess.”
“Those poor kids,” Olivia said.
“Yeah.” Struts picked up her half-eaten purple Tin Lizzie cookie. “Pills, booze, and starvation. That’s a sad way to go. Me, I’d rather sail a Maserati over a cliff.” Struts made a dent in the Model T’s back end and surveyed the damage while she chewed. “Did you know Model Ts mostly came in black?” she asked.
“I did not.”
“I like it in purple,” Struts said. “Very tasty.” She reached across her desk and pressed the intercom button. “Break time, lads. Caffeine and sugar in my office.” Whoops of joy penetrated the hum of the air conditioner.
Before the young men arrived, Struts took an old Baltimore & Ohio dining car plate off a hook on the wall. She spread a paper towel across it and placed a few cookies on top. “Gotta slow those boys down or they’ll plow right through those cookies.
Olivia said, “Somehow I’ll have to get a good look at Charlie from the back.”
“Don’t fret, I’ll make it happen.” Struts swept her nail file and hairbrush into her desk drawer, perhaps to preserve her tough-woman-mechanic reputation.
A Cookie Before Dying Page 3