A Cookie Before Dying

by Lowell, Virginia

  Del fetched the coffeepot and filled their cups before responding to Olivia’s information. “Okay, yeah, we found a cookie cutter in King’s hand. No clear indication as to how it got there, whether he grabbed it from his killer or it was placed in his hand. No fingerprints but his. We didn’t know what it was meant to be, but it sounds like the Duesenberg shape you described.” Del took a sip of coffee. “So thanks for that.”

  “So what about the knife that killed Geoffrey King?” Olivia asked.

  Del stared into his coffee cup for several moments before he said, “We found the knife flung a few yards from the body. No usable fingerprints. The storm washed off most of the blood, but there was enough for analysis. It was King’s.”

  “What did the knife look like?” Mr. Willard asked. “It is essential that we know this detail.”

  Del nodded. “All right. It was about eight inches long, including the decoration at the top, which looked like a very orange pumpkin.”

  “Thank you, Del,” Olivia said. “Can we see Jason now? Even though he refuses to talk to us?”

  “I’ll lock both of you in with him, then it’s up to you.” Del took the jail key off a hook and led them down the hallway toward the cell. “When it comes right down to it,” Del said, “a guy under arrest for murder can’t demand a lot of privacy.”

  “I know you didn’t murder Geoffrey King, so you might as well drop the self-sacrificing hero act,” Olivia said. Jason’s bones looked ready to break through his skin. “You look awful. You haven’t gone on a hunger strike, have you? Are you trying to kill your mother?”

  “I’m not trying to do anything to anybody,” Jason said.

  “Here.” Olivia handed him a Gingerbread House bag. “Maddie sent these. Sugar in various shapes and colors, all delicious. Personally, I’m for letting you starve to death for what you are doing to your loved ones, but Maddie has a softer heart.”

  Jason tossed the bag next to him on his bunk, but his eyes strayed in the bag’s direction. He reached for it, pulled out a pink bunny cookie, and bit off the ear. “Thank Maddie for me,” he mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs.

  “Okay, Jason,” Olivia said, “tell me how you killed Geoffrey King.”

  Jason’s open face tightened with suspicion. “Why?”

  “Because if you can convince me you really killed him, I promise I’ll stop bugging you.”

  Jason munched his way through a gingerbread teddy bear, deep in thought. When teddy was no more, Jason said, “I stabbed him.”

  “I see. With what did you stab him?”

  “A knife.”

  “What kind of knife?”

  “A knife kind of knife. Geez, what do you want from me?”

  Olivia grabbed the cookie bag out of her brother’s hand. Jason’s bereft expression made him look young and vulnerable . . . and scared. Olivia pressed harder. “Describe the knife to me, in precise detail. And tell me where you got it.”

  Jason’s dark wavy hair hung in greasy strings, and his frantic hazel eyes searched the tiny cell. Olivia wanted to throw her arms around his thin shoulders. She steeled herself and asked again, “Where did you get the knife?”

  “From Charlene’s kitchen,” he said.

  Olivia felt the blood rush to her head. Jason was probably spouting an obvious answer, since he’d spent so much time with Charlene. But still....

  Mr. Willard must have sensed her confusion. He dragged his visitor’s stool close to Jason’s bed, looked him in the eyes, and said, “I am not convinced. The Vegetable Plate is replete with knives. Precisely what type of knife did you select? What did it look like?”

  “I . . .” Jason’s mouth hung open, as if he’d forgotten how to form words.

  Mr. Willard shifted his stool closer. “Jason, this should not be a difficult question. What type of knife did you take from Charlene Critch’s kitchen? We are waiting.” His voice had lost its normal diffident quality.

  “Big,” Jason said, barely above a whisper. “It was big.”

  “How big? You are a mechanic, are you not? You ought to be able to estimate the size of a tool. How long was the blade?”

  “A foot.”

  “Twelve inches? Are you sure?”

  “Maybe bigger. Or smaller, I don’t remember.”

  “Which is it, bigger or smaller?”

  “I told you, I don’t know. It was night, so it was dark.”

  With a stern frown, Mr. Willard asked, “Are you claiming it was dark in Ms. Critch’s kitchen? Where was she at the time? If it was dark, how did you know where to find this knife? Did Ms. Critch find it for you?”

  “No! Charlene . . . she wasn’t there. Don’t you try to blame her for anything.” Jason shifted from confused little boy to angry protector.

  “All right then, describe this foot-long knife. Make us see it.” Mr. Willard had transformed from a gentle elderly man to . . . Perry Mason.

  Jason hadn’t once looked toward Olivia for support. He was in Mr. Willard’s power. The fear and tension melted from Olivia’s body as she turned her brother’s cross-examination over to an expert.

  “I told you, I don’t remember what it looked like.” Jason was wilting from exhaustion. “It was just a knife, a big knife. There wasn’t anything about it worth remembering, I guess.”

  “You don’t remember the knife you so carefully selected and with which you stabbed a man to death?”

  “Um . . . No.”

  “Mr. King was a strong man,” Mr. Willard said. “How did you manage to stab him without being harmed yourself?”

  “I surprised him by . . . I stabbed him in the back.” Jason glanced uncertainly from Mr. Willard’s face to Olivia’s.

  Mr. Willard scraped back his stool and stood, towering over Jason. “Young man, you are lying. You did not steal a knife, and you did not, as you keep insisting, stab Geoffrey King. Let me give you some advice. Next time you want to take credit for someone else’s murder, make sure you get the details straight before you confess.”

  To Olivia’s surprise and relief, Jason crumpled. His sullen bravado gave way to a trail of tears down each cheek, which made him look even more like the little boy whose birth Olivia had once resented. She sat on his cot and put an arm around his shoulders. “You’ve really made a muddle of it this time, little brother.”

  Mr. Willard, once again mild-mannered and concerned, folded his long body onto his tiny stool. “You must tell us the truth, Jason. Begin with the night of the murder.”

  Jason sniffled with manly vigor. Olivia dug a tissue from a pocket in her khaki pants and handed it to him. She edged away, knowing that her brother’s nose blowing could rattle furniture. When the air was calm again, Olivia said, “Start with the time you left The Vegetable Plate on the night Geoffrey King died. Were you the first to leave?”

  Jason nodded. “I kept yawning and nodding off, so Charlene told me to go home and get some sleep. Charlie said he’d stay all night. He planned to keep guard downstairs so he’d hear if Geoffrey tried to break in. Charlene wanted to stay with him, but Charlie told her to go upstairs and try to sleep on this little air mattress she keeps up there. Charlie borrowed Charlene’s cell phone and said he’d call 911 at the first sign of trouble. I wanted to help guard Charlene, but she insisted, and I really was pretty tired.”

  “What time did you leave the store?” Mr. Willard asked.

  “Eleven. I know because I checked Charlene’s cell to make sure it was charged. The battery was down about half, so I told Charlie to plug it in. He went to find the charger as I left. Can I have another tissue, Livie?”

  Olivia dug out a tissue and said, “This is my last one. Don’t blow it all at once.”

  Jason was too miserable to crack a smile. “I cut through the town square, like always,” he said. “I hurried because it felt like it was going to rain. I didn’t see anybody or anything. Honest. Cross my heart and hope to . . .” Jason’s shoulders slumped.

  Olivia rubbed her brother’s back the way he
r mother used to when he was croupy as a little boy. “I’m confused about one thing,” she said. “If Charlie stayed all night, why did you make a point of saying he wouldn’t have seen anything because his route home didn’t go through the park?”

  “I got confused, too,” Jason said. “The next morning, when everyone knew about Geoffrey, Charlene told me she sent Charlie home right after me. Charlene said he didn’t want to go, but she insisted. Charlie usually does what Charlene tells him to do. She locked all the doors behind him and stuck chairs under the doorknobs and kept her cell with her while she slept upstairs. And that’s all I know.”

  Olivia pondered the implications of Jason’s story, which sounded reasonable to her . . . except for the part about Charlene Critch being so concerned about everyone else’s sleep. The fact that she chose to stay alone in the store sounded suspicious. What if she had already planned to kill Geoffrey if he did show up? She wouldn’t want Charlie involved. And what about Charlie? He didn’t have a home to go to, so perhaps he decided to sleep in the park. He might have reasoned that he could keep an eye on The Vegetable House from the band shell. Maybe Charlie took a knife from the store’s kitchen, in case he had a run-in with Geoffrey King.

  Mr. Willard checked his watch and stood up. “As your attorney,” he said to Jason, “I strongly advise you to stop confessing to a crime you did not commit. We will inform the sheriff that you are recanting your confession. Agreed?”

  Jason nodded his assent. To Olivia, her little brother looked liked a boy who needed a nap. It saddened her to think of him curled up on a hard cot, isolated and scared. “One last question, Jason. When you stupidly . . .” Deep breath, release slowly, like Mom does. “When you confessed to Geoffrey King’s murder, was it because you wanted to protect Charlene only or because you wanted to protect both Charlene and Charlie?”

  Jason’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You don’t think Charlie—”

  “I don’t think anything yet. Answer the question.”

  “I wanted to protect Charlene, of course. I mean, Geoffrey was a jerk, and I was the one who first introduced them. I felt responsible, you know? I didn’t know what he was like then, but still . . . He treated Charlene really badly. He slugged her in the face last weekend, you know. If she killed him, it was in self-defense, but I knew she’d get in trouble anyway because she didn’t call the police right away.”

  Mr. Willard cleared his throat twice. “Jason, I must ask you this, and I urge you to be open with me. Do you have reason to believe that Charlene did kill her ex-husband in self-defense? Because if so, I can help her. I’ll find her an excellent attorney, and she may avoid prison altogether.”

  “All I know is what I already told you.”

  Olivia kissed her brother’s forehead and ruffled his stringy hair. “We’ll get you out of this somehow,” she said. “So stop confessing, start proclaiming your innocence, and if you remember anything else, call your attorney. Or me.” She exchanged a glance with Mr. Willard, who nodded and closed the notebook in which he’d been recording the conversation. Before ringing the bell to summon Del or Cody to let them out, Olivia turned to her brother. “I’m sending Mom to see you. You will talk to her. Won’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yeah,” Jason said. “Send her soon, okay?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  As Olivia burst into The Gingerbread House kitchen, Maddie’s head snapped up and cornflower blue icing squirted onto the worktable. “Crap,” Maddie said.

  “Sorry,” Olivia said. “I’m behind schedule. How are the library cookies for Heather going?”

  “Slowly. If you intend to keep finding bodies and tracking down killers, we’ll need more help in the store.” Maddie refocused her pastry bag on a cookie shaped like a book and wrote READ A COOKIE on the cover. “How’s Jason doing?”

  “Better, if you don’t count the need for a shower and deep depression. He has agreed to see Mom. Also, he confessed to making a false confession and has promised to confess no more. Then again, he is hopelessly in love with Charlene Critch.”

  “So it’s a good news/bad news thing.” Maddie finished her book cover and stretched. “I hope you’re including me in some of this sleuthing around town. Much as I adore decorating cookies, my back is forgetting how to straighten up.”

  Olivia poked her head in the fridge and found a bowl covered with plastic wrap. “What’s this?”

  “My tuna salad,” Maddie said. “Something to cleanse the palate between cookies. Try it. If I do say so myself, I have perfected the art of tuna salad.”

  “I’m starving. I might have missed breakfast this morning. I don’t remember.” Olivia found some bread that wasn’t too dried out and piled tuna salad on a slice. “This is great. Is there any dish you can’t create?”

  “Liver and onions. Unless I leave out the liver part. What’s next on the agenda?”

  “Could you spare me a few of these cookies?” Olivia asked. “I need to bribe my next informant.”

  Maddie winced as she stretched her arms behind her back. “Ah, much better. Who is your next informant?”

  “Constance Overton.”

  “You’d better take half a dozen cookies. I suspect she’s still gunning for you, despite everything she’s been through.” Maddie selected a pastry bag filled with inky blue and tackled another book-shaped cookie.

  “Everything she’s been through?” Olivia asked. “Never mind, I don’t have time. You can fill me in later.” She selected six cookies with dry icing and placed them in a Gingerbread House bag. “Anything urgent, before I hit the trail?”

  “Only that Bertha thinks she knows who has been stealing cookie cutters.”

  “No kidding. Who?”

  “Charlene Critch.”

  “Now Maddie, are you sure you didn’t put that notion into her head?”

  “Absolutely positive. All I did was show Bertha the list of missing cutters and ask her to keep her eyes open because they might simply have gotten misplaced. Bertha read down the list and said to me, ‘I think it might be poor little Charlene.’ I asked why she thought that and she said, ‘Well, I could be wrong, but I know I saw her holding at least three of those cookie cutters during the harvest event.’ They were all on mobiles,” Maddie said, “so it was easy to see what Charlene was holding. Bertha said she had a wistful look on her face, like maybe they reminded her of something.”

  “Not enough to convict,” Olivia said as she headed for the door leading to the back alley.

  “Not yet.”

  The Chatterley Heights Management and Rental Company turned out to be half of a renovated duplex. It had once been a Queen Anne summer house much like Olivia’s, but smaller and split in half rather than into two levels. The exterior was in the process of being restored and repainted. The right half of the building housed a chiropractor, while the left front door sported a sign that read M & R COMPANY. The crisp block letters felt efficient and cold.

  Olivia hadn’t called ahead for an appointment. It had seemed like the best approach at the time. Now she wished she had at least some sense of how the adult Constance Overton might react to her. Olivia’s watch read nine fifteen a.m. No time to worry about high school trauma. Jason was in jail and likely to stay there if she couldn’t find the mysterious ballerina—a potential witness for the defense. Constance was her best shot.

  A bell tinkled overhead as Olivia entered the front door of the M & R Company. She found herself in a narrow foyer containing an old-fashioned standing coat rack and a small table. The latter held a silver-footed tray. Olivia knew something about antiques, and this tray had once been used to deliver visiting cards to the lady of the house. Now it held business cards for The Chatterley Heights Management and Rental Company, 19 Apple Blossom Road, Chatterley Heights, Maryland, followed by Constance Overton, M.B.A., Owner and Manager.

  As Olivia slipped one of the cards into her pants pocket, a commanding voice called from a room somewhere down the hallway. “Second door on the
right. Come on in.” The voice hadn’t changed much, though it had grown deeper and more powerful. Well, so have I. Olivia straightened her spine, the way her mother was always telling her to, and strode toward the disembodied voice.

  Constance Overton hadn’t changed much, either, at least in looks. Her thick golden hair had darkened, and she now wore it short, layered, and blow-dried to create a sculpted wind-blown effect. Her face had filled out, but she still possessed a crystalline beauty. Olivia paused a moment and watched Constance’s face shift from professional welcome to recognition. She did not stand up.

  “Olivia Greyson. Well, well. I heard you were back in town. You are looking . . . healthy. Sit down and tell me what I can do for you.” She waved toward three antique chairs arranged in a semicircle in front of her imposing desk.

  Olivia chose the center chair, which offered a soft needlework seat. “Hello, Constance. You seem to have done well for yourself.” Her comment sounded banal. Wincing inwardly, Olivia said, “I think you might be able to help me with some information.”

  Constance relaxed against the back of her chair, which seemed higher than the one Olivia had chosen. “Now you’ve made me curious,” Constance said. “I doubt you need rental property, since I heard you purchased the house with your little cookie store in it.”

  “Actually, Maddie and I—you remember Maddie Briggs, don’t you? We co-manage The Gingerbread House, specializing in both modern and vintage cookie cutters.” When Constance drew in a breath, presumably to interrupt, Olivia said quickly, “I came to you because I’ve been told you manage the property on Willow Road where the Chatterley Heights Dance Studio is located. I need information about the renter. This isn’t idle curiosity on my part. You’ve probably heard about my brother, Jason?”

  Constance cringed and said, “Sorry, my head is always thinking about business. I completely forgot that you were the one who found that man’s body . . . and that your brother was arrested for the murder. As I remember, Jason was a good kid. No genius, maybe, but well meaning. How does all that relate to the renter of the dance studio?”