Olivia had vowed to remain on her best behavior, but this was too much. “The Gingerbread House is quite a successful business,” she said. “I don’t need any help to keep it afloat, thank you.” Olivia saw her mother’s hazel eyes widen, just for a moment, before her right eye winked.
With a shrug, Calliope said, “Well, let me know if you hear about a place. Someday I’ll get a little house of my own, but it doesn’t pay to rush into those things. Meantime, I can’t live on the streets, can I?” She stared at Olivia, who noticed her eyes had a tendency to bulge.
“Of course not, Cal,” Ellie said. “Allan and I have said you are welcome to stay with us for a week or so while you’re looking for a place of your own to rent. Meanwhile, we’ll introduce you to Constance Overton. She is an excellent realtor. I’m certain she can find exactly what you’re looking for, and in record time.”
Olivia decided she wanted to be there when Constance and Calliope met. It promised to be entertaining. Olivia put her money on Constance, but not by very much.
Chapter Seven
After a quiet Friday evening stretched out on her living room sofa, studying Greta’s cookie cutter list, Olivia found herself snoozing. To wake herself up, she turned on the television and surfed the Internet on her laptop, searching for information about the most interesting cutters on Greta’s list. Olivia was trying to confirm the cutters’ origins, which might give her clues to their value. She hoped to assess their market value without consulting an expert. Anita Rambert would have been a helpful source of information, but she wanted those cutters too badly. Who wouldn’t? So far, Olivia hadn’t found much beyond some bits and pieces, which she’d printed out. Spunky curled up beside her and began to snore softly. A nap sounded tempting. She closed the lid of her laptop and joined Spunky.
When Olivia awakened, early morning sun filtered through the thin living room curtains. Her nap had lasted through the night. She was still on the sofa in her apartment living room, but now Spunky was curled on her stomach. His furry head popped up in response to a faint animal cry from the television, where Olivia had left Animal Planet on low volume. Through slitted eyes, Olivia watched as a female orangutan fed pudding from a spiky bowl to her hungry infant. No, that can’t be right. Spunky hopped off the sofa as Olivia hiked up on her elbow to see the television better. “That’s got to be some type of fruit,” Olivia said. “Mom would know.”
Spunky stiffened and growled at the television screen. “Don’t even think about it,” Olivia said. “You can’t catch a squirrel, and you wouldn’t know what to do with it if you did. Those creatures are way bigger and stronger.” Spunky’s ears twitched, but his eyes never left the screen. “But then, who am I to dash your dreams?” Olivia groaned as she sat up.
The list of Greta Oskarson’s antique cookie cutters lay on the living room rug, next to the sofa. On the coffee table, the laptop’s “on” light winked at Olivia. When Frank Sinatra began to croon “Summer Wind,” Olivia patted the pile of papers to find the small lump that was her cell phone. She glanced at the caller ID before answering. “Maddie? Did you get some sleep? Where are you?”
“Where else but downstairs in the kitchen, finishing a monumental baking project? The lebkuchen turned out well, if I do say so . . . at least after the first batch, which I had to dump. I also made a batch of springerle cookies.”
“Mom used to make those,” Olivia said. “I think she stored them for several days before she declared them edible.”
“I appreciate your delicately stated concern,” Maddie said, “but these are soft springerle cookies. They don’t need to age. Aunt Sadie used to make them for me when I was a kid.”
“Of course she did. Sorry for doubting you.” Olivia yawned. “I need coffee, and then I’d better grab a shower.”
“I should hope so. Meanwhile, I’m about to start deep-frying the rosettes. I should be done with those before we leave for our meeting with Constance and Greta. Then I’ll have completed the baking, unless I get another brilliant idea. I sure hope the air conditioner cools down the store before the event starts. How is your research going?”
“Slowly.” Olivia began pushing her papers into a pile. “I wish I could find a disinterested expert to talk to about this collection. I’m concerned about giving away too much information.”
“Yeah, every serious collector will want to bid on those cutters,” Maddie said. “Better to start the bidding outrageously high and see what happens. Or here’s an idea, why don’t you talk to Aunt Sadie? She knows lots about antique cutters, and her intentions will be honorable.”
“Excellent idea. I’ll call—Hang on a sec, Maddie. I think my kitchen phone is ringing.” Olivia moved too quickly and stubbed her toe on the coffee table leg. Stifling a cry, she limped into the hallway as the answering machine kicked on. “It’s Del,” Olivia said into her cell phone. “I can hear his voice leaving a message.” She reached her kitchen doorway as Del was signing off. “Missed it,” Olivia said. “He just hung up.”
“Why wouldn’t Del call your cell?”
“Because you were hogging it. Del was probably sent to voice mail.” Olivia sank onto a kitchen chair and rubbed her throbbing toe. “Or maybe he figured I’d be in bed, and he just wanted to leave a message. I’ll check in a minute.”
“You will check now,” Maddie said. “And don’t you dare hang up on me. I want to know what’s going on with that man. Hold your phone near the answering machine so I can get the gist.”
“What if the message is personal?”
“Then hold it closer,” Maddie said. “I have a vested interest in your future happiness.”
“Uh-huh. Okay, here goes.” Olivia pointed her cell toward the answering machine and hit “play.”
“Livie, it’s me.” Del’s voice sounded rushed. “Can’t talk long, but I wanted to check in and let you know I’m okay. Listen, things have gotten hairy around here. I don’t have time to fill you in completely, and maybe that’s for the best. Just don’t worry about me. Try not to get too irritated with me, either.” Del’s light chuckle made Olivia realize how much she missed him. “I wish I could call and talk to you every day, but . . .” Del’s voice faded, as if he’d turned aside to talk to someone nearby. “I need to go, Livie, but I wanted to warn you that Lisa’s husband hired an investigator to follow me, so it’s hard to keep my calls private. I miss you, Livie. Remember that.”
* * *
“I don’t care if it is only a few short blocks to Constance’s office,” Olivia said, sweeping her bangs off her forehead. “They will be blisteringly hot blocks. We are driving. This heat is making me crabby.”
“No kidding,” Maddie said. “Mind you, I’ve been baking in a hot kitchen, so I’m not objecting to an air-conditioned car.”
“Nor am I.” Ellie had tied her long tresses into a wavy ponytail. With her slender, petite figure, she looked like a gray-haired teenager.
Olivia unlocked the doors of her PT Cruiser and stood aside as the trapped air escaped. She felt sorry for the painted gingerbread figures that gamboled over the blistering heat of the car’s metal exterior. “Give me a second to get the AC going.” Olivia grimaced as she slid onto the hot front seat. She cranked the air conditioner to its highest setting, hopped out of the car, and slammed the door. After about thirty seconds, Olivia said, “Okay, let’s go. We have two minutes to get to the meeting on time.”
Constance Overton owned the Chatterley Heights Management and Rental Company, located a block west of the town square. The thriving business had recently taken over an entire building, displacing a dentist who had wanted to retire anyway. Constance had hired a male office manager named Craig, a well-built young man with brown eyes and dark, shoulder-length hair held neatly with a band at the nap of his neck. Craig greeted Olivia and her party with an offer of iced coffee. “Constance will be just a moment,” Craig said. “She is settling a few details with her
client, Ms. Oskarson.” He gave them a quick smile and returned to his desk. Olivia wasn’t surprised that Constance had hired someone both efficient and attractive.
Craig had barely awakened his desktop computer when the intercom buzzed. He sprang to his feet and said, “Constance will see you now.” He held open the door for the women and followed them into the office.
“Ah, Craig,” Constance said. “Please copy this list and give the original to Olivia on her way out.”
Craig took the pages and closed the door noiselessly as he left.
Four large, solid armchairs with tall backs formed a semicircle facing Constance’s desk. Greta Oskarson was reputed to be a tall woman, yet Olivia could see only her long, pale hands resting on the broad arms of one of the chairs.
Constance sat behind a walnut desk that Olivia recognized as an antique, though she wasn’t sure what era it represented. Maddie would know; lately, she’d been delving into the study of antique furniture. Constance’s previous desk, also an antique, had been large, but this one was twice its size. The bottom half of Constance’s custom-made motorized wheelchair was hidden behind the desk. Only the top part of the wheelchair showed: an antique mahogany rocking chair with carved roses across the top. Behind Constance, Olivia knew, was a cushioned back decorated with embroidered roses.
“Wow, Constance,” Maddie said. “You must be raking in the bucks. When did all this happen?” She turned in a circle to admire the stunning room, entirely renovated.
Olivia shot her friend a warning glance, but Maddie ignored it.
Ellie put an arm around Maddie’s shoulders and herded her toward the chairs. “Thank you for including us, Constance,” Ellie said. “I’ve been longing to see what you’ve done with this old building, and I must say it’s impressive. So lovely, and yet comfortable.”
“I like it,” Constance said, unruffled. “Maddie, is that a bag of cookies I see in your hand?”
“Hm?” Maddie smoothed her free hand along the corner edge of a mahogany bureau bookcase as she passed by it. “Gorgeous,” she said with a sigh. “It’s Georgian, isn’t it?”
“Correct,” Constance said, casting an amused glance toward Greta’s chair. “I believe we were discussing cookies, Maddie?”
“I adore cookies.” Greta’s rich contralto voice flowed through the room like molten chocolate. She stood and turned around to face Maddie, gripping the top of her chair as if she felt unsteady. “Especially cutout cookies,” Greta added, “although I consider all cookies to be gifts of the gods.”
No one spoke for several seconds. Olivia found herself mesmerized by Greta’s presence, which her photo had not captured. She was taller than Olivia, who at five foot seven towered over her four-foot-eleven-inch mother. Greta might be as tall as six feet, though her long, slender neck and the pure white hair piled on her head might make her seem taller than her actual height. While some women might slump a bit to look smaller, Greta stood ramrod straight. Her crystalline blue gaze shifted from Maddie to Ellie, landing finally on Olivia.
Ellie recovered first. She held out her hand toward Greta, who took it with a slight grimace, as if the gesture caused her pain. “I am delighted to meet you,” Ellie said, quickly releasing Greta’s hand. “Welcome home. And yes, Maddie has indeed brought cookies to celebrate your return. Maddie is a wonderful baker. She and my daughter, Livie, run The Gingerbread House together.”
“Livie. . . .” Greta turned toward Olivia. “I’ve heard all about your store. It sounds delightful. Dear Clarisse mentioned you in her last few letters to me. I look forward to working with you on the sale of my cookie cutter collection. I hate to let go of it, but. . . .” Greta’s Gallic, one-shouldered shrug reminded Olivia of her own time in France, during her junior year in college.
Maddie handed her bag of cookies to Constance, who immediately buzzed Craig and told him to bring a plate. He appeared at once, as if he kept kitchenware in his desk drawer.
“Everyone, sit down,” Constance said as soon as Craig had left the room. “You’re giving me a crick in my neck.”
Greta sank back into her armchair, and Olivia chose the chair next to her. Ellie sat next to her daughter. As soon as Constance had selected two cookies for herself, Maddie appropriated the plate and held it for Greta.
“They look so lovely,” Greta said. “How can I choose?”
Maddie laughed. “No need to choose. Try them all.”
Greta took one rosette. “These have always been one of my very favorites,” she said in her mellifluous voice. “My mother used to make them. Thank you, my dear.” She took a tiny bite, holding her hand under the rosette to catch the powdered sugar.
After taking a lebkuchen for herself, Maddie left the cookie plate on the edge of Constance’s desk. She flopped onto the last empty armchair, kicked off her shoes, and sat cross-legged. “Yum, if I do say so myself,” Maddie said as she bit into her cookie.
“By all means, make yourself comfortable,” Constance said, grinning at Maddie. “Now, let’s get to work.”
“Ooh, before we forget,” Maddie said, “we only have”—she checked her cell phone—“about an hour before we all need to get back to The Gingerbread House. Livie and I have prepared a scrumptious cookie feast, and we plan to open the store for a couple hours so folks can stop by to officially welcome you to Chatterley Heights, Greta. I baked some rare treats, just for you. Or is that bragging?”
“I have heard about your baking prowess, so I think not,” Greta said. “However, I do tire easily, and I’ve already had a demanding day. I’m afraid two hours might be too much for me. Perhaps your guests could send their greetings through you?”
Maddie looked stricken and was, for once, silent. Olivia understood. Neither of them had considered the possibility that Greta might turn down an opportunity to meet new neighbors and reconnect with old friends over cookies and coffee. Olivia turned to her mother with a silent plea for help, but Ellie did not respond. She was watching Greta, a little worry frown between her eyebrows.
It was Constance who rescued the cookie event. “You know, Greta,” Constance said, “a cookie event strikes me as the perfect way to spread the word about your remarkable cookie cutter collection. As you explained to me, many of the cutters are quite rare and valuable, but hardly anyone knows about them. You’ve already been in town for nearly a week, so you really don’t need to introduce yourself. But if you could talk up those cookie cutters and how special they are, I’ll bet people would start to covet them. Olivia could really jack the prices up, at least at first. As a businesswoman—and a hardheaded one, as I think everyone will agree—I see this as a rare opportunity to add substantially to your retirement fund.”
Greta hesitated, as if giving careful consideration to Constance’s reasoning. Olivia tried to sweeten the pot. “I understand your need for rest, Greta,” she said, “but I doubt our event would be nearly as exhausting as you think. We’ll have a comfortable chair for you, and the three of us will run interference to keep people from talking your ear off.”
“You can count on us,” Maddie said. “We know who the babblers are, and we aren’t afraid to stuff cookies in their mouths.”
When Greta smiled, Olivia watched Maddie’s face light with pleasure. Greta had the ability to convey her appreciation in a way that seemed personal. She was able to make even a virtual stranger feel special. Olivia began to understand how Greta had charmed so many sophisticated, wealthy, and much older men into bequeathing their fortunes to her. And yet, she had a guarded air, as if she were keeping her true feelings to herself.
Greta’s gaze shifted to Olivia, and her smile faded. “Very well,” Greta said, “I’ll be delighted to attend your cookie event. I do need to warn you, though. In the past, a few people in Chatterley Heights were rather unkind to me. I do not wish to make their reacquaintance. I remember too well how difficult it is to avoid others in a small town, but
I am determined to try. I am too old now to tolerate cruelty or betrayal.”
“Nor should you tolerate such treatment,” Ellie said quietly. “Nor should anyone.” The emphasis was subtle, and Greta didn’t appear to have noticed it.
Olivia glanced at her companions. Constance, her eyes alert between narrowed lids, studied Greta’s face. Maddie’s pale eyebrows hiked up high, as if she were thinking, What just happened here? Olivia had the same question. She sensed that her mother’s words conveyed a restrained yet firm warning, directed at Greta.
Constance’s crisp, businesslike voice broke the silence. “Let’s move on to the cookie cutter collection, shall we? I have most of it here in my safe. Livie, did you bring the rest?”
Olivia retrieved her bag from the floor beside her chair. “Right here,” she said. “Greta, I’ll need to know as much as possible about the origins of these cutters, and there doesn’t seem to be much information available. I’d rather not ask too many questions of antiques dealers. Some of them might undervalue the cutters in order to acquire them cheaply.”
“I understand,” Greta said as she reached toward the rug for the thin leather briefcase leaning against the side of her chair. She opened the case and removed a large manila envelope, which she handed to Olivia. “These notes should help you considerably,” Greta said. “You see, my second husband gave me his deceased wife’s collection. It was much smaller then, of course, but the cookie cutters intrigued me, so I decided to add to the collection. It became rather an obsession, I’m afraid. I was much younger then, and I was thinking about children, which spurred my interest. And, as I’ve confessed, I love cookies.”
Olivia was aching to open the packet and examine the information Greta and her late husband had compiled. As if she’d read Olivia’s mind, Greta said, “Go ahead, take a look. As you’ll see, my husband wrote the earlier notes. As an international financier, he was most curious about the value of the cutters. Many of them are rare finds and nearly priceless.”
Cookies and Scream (A Cookie Cutter Shop Mystery) Page 7