Cookies and Scream (A Cookie Cutter Shop Mystery)

by Virginia Lowell

  Chapter Two

  Olivia awakened to sunshine, heat, and a phone ringing next to her ear. She groaned and slid her head under the pillow. When the ringing stopped, Olivia lifted the pillow. After a few seconds of reorientation, she remembered she was home from vacation and sleeping in her own bedroom, which was hot and way too bright. She had been so exhausted she’d neglected to adjust the air-conditioning or pull down the blinds.

  Spunky lay curled at the foot of Olivia’s bed. He lifted his head, ears perked, and waited to see if his mistress was serious about getting up. When she turned on her side and closed her eyes, Spunky snuggled deeper into the covers.

  The cell phone rang again. Olivia considered throwing it across the room, but that would require effort. She managed to fumble for her phone, flip it open, and mumble an irritable greeting, all without lifting her head.

  “Livie? Sounds like you had a bit too much merlot last night.”

  Olivia struggled to focus her mind. “Constance? That you?”

  “That me,” said Constance Overton, sole proprietor of the Chatterley Heights Management and Rental Company. “You cut your vacation short, I hear.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that,” Olivia said. “How did you know?”

  “You sound crabby, so I’m guessing you got in fairly late. To answer your question, several citizens reported spotting your unmistakable PT Cruiser this morning between two and five a.m.”

  “I got back just after two.” Olivia attempted to sit up. She failed. “Did you wake me up to report that the entire town of Chatterley Heights knows I’m back? Am I supposed to be amazed? Or is this yet another attempt to punish me for stealing your boyfriend in high school, which, as you well know, I did not do.”

  “Really crabby,” Constance said with her throaty laugh. “No, Livie, I did not call to torture you, though it’s always such fun. I have some information you will need quickly. We decided it wasn’t necessary to bother you on vacation, and Bertha didn’t want to leave you a note, in case . . . well, Bertha felt responsible for the store’s safety, since she was the last staff member to leave town. So she thought it more prudent, given the circumstances, to wait until she returned to town, rather than leave a note for you on the counter. However, you came home early, so the responsibility falls on my competent, yet shapely, shoulders.”

  “Bertha? Information? Hold on a sec.” Suddenly, Olivia felt wide awake. She swung her legs out of bed so fast that Spunky yapped at her. “Constance, does your information have anything to do with cookie cutters? Specifically, a wall safe filled to the brim with amazing antique cutters I’ve never seen or even heard about before?”

  For once, Constance sounded surprised. “You checked your safe in the middle of the night? Why? I mean, were you simply being cautious?”

  “Hard to explain, and it doesn’t matter. Tell me what’s going on.” Olivia held the cell to her ear while she gathered clean clothes with her free hand.

  “Long, yet fascinating story,” Constance said. “Have you had breakfast? No, of course not. I’m at Pete’s Diner. My meal hasn’t arrived yet. Get here in ten minutes; we can eat and talk.”

  “Spunky really needs a run. He’s been cooped up in a car.”

  “Well, run him through the park and over to Pete’s. I’m confined to a wheelchair, after all. Spunky can be my companion dog and sit on my lap.”

  “Are you sure Pete will be okay with—?”

  “Nine minutes and forty-five seconds. Step on it.”

  * * *

  Olivia arrived at Pete’s Diner in just under twelve minutes, after the world’s fastest shower and a run with Spunky through the town square. They had stopped only once, at the statue of the town’s founder, Frederick P. Chatterley, memorialized forever in an attempt to mount his patient horse. Frederick P., as the portly gentleman was called by affectionate and amused townsfolk, was a popular destination for the Chatterley Heights canine community.

  Olivia held Spunky tightly against her chest as she entered Pete’s Diner. Pete had cranked up the air-conditioning to its highest setting. The welcome coolness swirled around Olivia, carrying the delicious scents of strong coffee, bacon, and freshly baked cinnamon rolls.

  Constance Overton, lovely as ever, sipped coffee in her usual spot, which gave her the best view in the diner. Pete had installed a special table, higher and wider than usual, to accommodate her wheelchair. As Constance greeted Olivia with a regal nod of her head, a lock of wavy blond hair brushed her cheek. Constance looked cool in a pale blue silk blouse with short sleeves that revealed her slender, muscular arms. Her crystal-blue eyes held a hint of amusement as she watched Olivia struggle to hold on to five pounds of excited, wiggly Yorkshire terrier.

  “There’s no need to crush the poor guy,” Constance said. “Pete has given permission for Spunky to sit with us, as long as he’s with me. So hand him over.”

  “If you say so, but keep hold of his leash.” Spunky went eagerly into Constance’s arms and nestled on the soft shawl covering what remained of her lap after a serious automobile accident had taken her legs. As a real estate and business agent, Constance had become quite wealthy. Olivia wondered if she had investigated the possibility of prosthetic surgery to help her become more mobile, but she wasn’t comfortable bringing up the topic. Though the two of them had smoothed over their high school animosity and become friends, Olivia felt there would always be a distance between them. She wasn’t sure why.

  Ida, a waitress at Pete’s Diner since well before Olivia was born, shuffled over to their table. “Heard you were up driving till all hours,” Ida said. “If your mother were in town, she’d have something to say about that.”

  “My mom always has something to say,” Olivia said, “although I don’t always understand what she’s talking about.”

  Ida rattled a cup and saucer on Olivia’s place mat and filled it halfway with coffee. “I’m not surprised. Kids never listen. They go off and do whatever they want. Next thing you know, they want to put you in a home, never mind you’ve been working for more than sixty years. You want your usual?”

  “Um, sure,” Olivia said. “I’ll have the scrambled—”

  “Scrambled eggs with cheese, two strips of bacon, and toast. My memory’s sharp as it always was. Kids. . . .” Ida shook her head vigorously, loosening a thin strand of iron- gray hair from her tightly wound bun. She ignored it.

  As Ida trudged toward the kitchen, Constance grinned at Olivia. “I knew you’d never make it here in under ten minutes, so I told Ida to hold my breakfast until you arrived.” Constance reached into a leather pouch attached to her wheelchair and extracted a file, which she handed to Olivia. “Take a look at this,” she said. “It’s a partial list the owner sent me before her arrival in Chatterley Heights. The full list is in my safe. I will give you the original when we meet with her. I’ll keep a copy.”

  Olivia wanted to ask who this mysterious “owner” was, but her interest in the cutters themselves got the better of her. She opened the file and began to skim through the first of several typed pages. They were mostly antiques, as far as she could tell from the descriptions. Someone must have done a great deal of digging to uncover the history of each cutter. Olivia spotted a listing for a German tin cutter in the shape of a thin-tailed heart. “I think I saw this cutter,” Olivia said, pointing to the listing. “She tried to get away when I opened the Gingerbread House safe, but I captured her. She’s hidden in a drawer. I managed to slam the safe door shut before the whole pack of cutters could escape.”

  “My, my,” Constance said. “Cookie cutters are like little people to you, aren’t they? Rebellious little people, it seems.”

  Olivia laughed. “They are usually quite well behaved, although I can’t vouch for their behavior when I’m not around.” Flipping to the second page of the list, she said, “Okay, so this is a long list of rare antique cookie cutters. They all origi
nate in Europe, as far as I can tell. But there are many more cutters listed here than could possibly fit inside my little safe.”

  “The rest of them are secured in the more substantial safe in my office,” Constance said. “I’m sure you realize how valuable these cookie cutters are.”

  “Oh, I realize that all right.” Olivia felt light-headed with excitement. “Most are quite old, some more than two hundred years. I’ve read about similar cutters, but I haven’t heard that anyone has spotted them in decades. I assumed they had all been snatched up by private collectors. Apparently, I was right.”

  Constance leaned across the table to see the list. She smiled when she saw where Olivia was pointing. “Bertha and I went through that whole list and put the most valuable items in my safe. That cutter was one of them.”

  “Because your safe is so superior to mine?”

  Constance grinned. “Now, now, this is not a contest.”

  Ida arrived at their table and plunked down their breakfast plates. Olivia felt torn between avid curiosity and a growling stomach. Curiosity won. “Okay, Constance, put down the fork. What’s going on here?”

  Constance’s laugh sounded rich and husky, with a hint of triumph. “This has been fun,” she said, “but I suppose I should take pity on you and spill the story.” She took a quick bite of her scrambled eggs before reaching back into her leather pouch for a manila envelope. “Chatterley Heights has a new permanent resident,” Constance said as she opened the envelope. “She arrived last Saturday, the very day you left on your vacation. Her name is Greta Oskarson.” Constance extracted a photo and handed it to Olivia.

  While she nibbled a slice of bacon, Olivia studied the excellent photograph of an attractive middle-aged woman wearing an off-the-shoulder ball gown. The pale blue satin of the gown appeared to match perfectly with the woman’s icy blue eyes. “This is our new resident?” Olivia asked with astonishment. “Are you sure she came to the right place?”

  Constance almost choked on her coffee. “It’s true, Chatterley Heights hasn’t hosted many fancy dress balls since the days of Frederick P., but I guarantee Greta came here on purpose. I asked her for a photo for my files. Greta insisted that’s the only one she could come up with on short notice. It’s about a decade old. At the time, she was married to Count Something-or-other. Her fifth marriage, she said. She’d started off with a count when she was eighteen, and I think there was yet another count somewhere in her marital history. Maybe two. I don’t know, I lost count of Greta’s counts. I really wasn’t terribly interested until she began to discuss her waxing and waning fortune. She appears to be fairly well off at the moment, since she was able to purchase a home outright. However, she worries about her financial future, probably because she experienced some rough patches in the past. Now Greta has come home to retire, which is where you—”

  Ida materialized at the table, wielding a pot of fresh coffee. “Well, I’ll be,” Ida said as she snatched the photo out of Olivia’s hand. “That’s Greta Oskarson, all dolled up. She doesn’t look like that now, does she? If she’s smart, she won’t show up in here again. I might accidentally spill hot coffee on her.” Ida left before her startled listeners could ask what she meant.

  “This just gets more and more interesting,” Constance murmured as she spread raspberry jam on her toast.

  Olivia added cream and sugar to her coffee and settled back in her chair. “Okay, Constance, I think you’d better start at the beginning. Who is Greta Oskarson, and why would she want to retire in little Chatterley Heights instead of, say, the Côte d’Azur? Her name sounds vaguely familiar, but I’ve never seen her before, at least as far as I can remember.”

  Constance polished off her toast and washed it down with coffee. “Greta left Chatterley Heights long before you were born. Greta’s name might seem familiar to you because Clarisse probably mentioned her. Greta would have been a few years older than Clarisse, but they bonded over their shared passion for cookie cutters. Both of them had become avid collectors.”

  Olivia no longer winced at a casual reference to her murdered friend, Clarisse Chamberlain, but she still felt the loss. “So Greta grew up in Chatterley Heights? And she left at eighteen to marry a count?”

  “Correct, more or less,” Constance said. “I think she ran off to Europe at eighteen and found her count after she got there. She was a bit vague about the order of events.”

  “But . . . Clarisse would have been younger than eighteen, and I know for a fact she didn’t start collecting cookie cutters until her early twenties, after she married Martin.” Olivia picked up the photo and studied it. Greta Oskarson did not look the least bit familiar to her.

  Constance opened a small quilted bag, decorated with embroidery, and withdrew a handful of bills. “Breakfast is on me. Business has been good lately. And I need to get back to it. I have a lot of work to do before the weekend; Saturday and Sunday are busy days for realtors.”

  “Thanks for breakfast, Constance, but you can’t have told me the whole story about Greta and her cookie cutters. I want every last detail.”

  As if on cue, Ida appeared again with her ever-present pot of coffee. She filled their cups and left without a single acerbic comment.

  “Drink up and listen,” Constance said. “Greta contacted me before she left Europe because she wanted to buy a small house in Chatterley Heights. At that time, she said nothing to me about her background or about cookie cutters. She really is serious about settling down here. She has had her fill of fancy dress balls and rich counts, or so she says. She longs for a quiet life. When Greta heard about Clarisse’s murder, she said she was saddened and disappointed. Greta and Clarisse had corresponded for some years, and once again when Greta was thinking about coming home. It was during their more recent correspondence that Greta heard good things about you from Clarisse.”

  “I’m surprised Clarisse never mentioned Greta to me,” Olivia said. “Why would Greta want to move back here?”

  “I’m getting to that,” Constance said. “I found her a charming little house on the north edge of town, just a block from the Chatterley Mansion. It’s actually not far from the Chamberlain house, but now . . . Well, it would have been perfect, if Clarisse were still alive. However, Greta liked what she heard about the house I found for her, and she bought it sight unseen. Yes, I’m that good. She sent most of her belongings ahead, but she carried the cookie cutters with her from Europe. She took a ship over from Europe so she wouldn’t have to part with her collection during the journey.”

  Olivia drained her coffee cup. “Most people have no idea that cookie cutters can be valuable to collectors. Still, it was wise of Greta to keep an eye on her collection.”

  “Indeed,” Constance said. “Greta has some money, as I mentioned. However, she’s counting on the value of her collection to provide her with that extra bit of security in the retirement she envisions for herself. So she wants to sell those cookie cutters for as much as possible, as quickly as possible. When Greta first arrived in Chatterley Heights last Saturday, she made straight for The Gingerbread House. She wanted to talk to you at once. She says she trusts you, and only you, to handle the sale of her collection for her, even though she has never met you in person. Don’t ask me to explain it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Constance smiled. “Mind you, I didn’t say she was wrong. But to continue, Greta found The Gingerbread House closed up tight on a non-holiday workday. She didn’t realize that Bertha was on her way to the store to make sure all was well before she and Mr. Willard left for their getaway. Greta was quite upset to find no one there, so she went straight to my office. She was dragging along her entire cookie cutter collection.”

  “Ah,” Olivia said. “At least I understand how part of the collection ended up in your safe.”

  “Exactly. However, even my safe could not hold all of them. I knew Bertha hadn’t left town
yet, so I called her cell. When I found out she’d gone to The Gingerbread House to make sure it was all locked up, I sent Greta right over. Somehow Bertha managed to cram the remainder of the collection into your little safe.” Constance glanced at the bill for breakfast, counted out exact change plus tip, and left it on the table.

  “And Bertha didn’t leave me a note because . . . ?”

  “Because she was feeling paranoid.” Constance reached into a quilted pocket attached to her wheelchair and produced a small mirror. A glance at her hair and face seemed to satisfy her. “Bertha was afraid someone might realize the store was empty, break in, and find the note,” Constance said. “If this intruder was looking for something valuable to steal, cracking the safe might sound like a good idea. Bertha figured she’d be arriving back home about the same time you did, so she could tell you about the collection then. She didn’t realize that you, too, might be paranoid. It never occurred to her you’d come home early and open the safe the instant you arrived, never mind it was the middle of the night.” Constance wheeled herself back from the table’s edge. “I have to say, Livie, I’m surprised. I can’t imagine what on earth possessed you to check that safe.”

  Constance directed her state-of-the-art wheelchair toward the diner door before Olivia could respond. She wasn’t sure she really could explain. Maybe it wasn’t important. Surely Greta Oskarson must have accidentally knocked over the little containers of sparkling sugars while she was waiting for Bertha to secure her cutters in the wall safe. Greta might have picked up the sugars out of curiosity and put them back on the shelf without thinking about it. She wouldn’t have known how to arrange them properly.