Cookies and Scream (A Cookie Cutter Shop Mystery)

by Virginia Lowell

  Olivia drew out the notes and scanned the first page quickly. They were written in a mixture of French and English. “Some of the cutters appear to be incredibly old,” she said. “How on earth did you obtain them?”

  “Oh, we always kept our eyes open,” Greta said.

  Maddie grabbed the first page from Olivia’s hand. Skimming through it, Maddie said, “Yikes. Some of these cutters must have been unearthed at archaeological digs. Have they been authenticated?”

  “Indeed, most of them have,” Greta said. “My husband consulted experts, as you’ll see from the second set of papers. He died before the task could be completed. I continued to collect cookie cutters for many years after his death, and I did my best to continue the authentication process. All this was decades ago, of course, when collecting antique cookie cutters wasn’t as popular as it became later. Then the truly valuable cutters began to disappear into private collections, most of them here in the United States.”

  “Given the value of this collection,” Constance said, “I think it should be kept in a secure storage facility. The Chatterley Heights National Bank maintains such a facility not far from here, and I have already made arrangements with them. Since I now have the entire collection, I will deliver it and bring you the keys, Livie. There will be one key for you, Livie, and one for Greta. That way you two can examine the collection as needed while you develop suggested prices.”

  One glance at Maddie’s face told Olivia she wasn’t the only one about to explode with excitement at the thought of poring over such a promising collection. She genuinely hoped Greta wasn’t a serial husband killer. That would definitely mar the thrill of handling genuine antique cookie cutters, not to mention the satisfaction of dispersing them back into the world. Maybe she could buy one or two cutters herself if she dipped into her inheritance from Clarisse Chamberlain. Clarisse would have approved.

  Clarisse . . . had she truly forgiven Greta for her affair with Martin? Olivia had begun to regret her quickness to offer her services for free. However, since she’d never before brokered a collection sale, she would chalk it up to experience. Greta said she had corresponded with Clarisse until shortly before her death. Clarisse, Greta claimed, had praised Olivia’s business acumen and honesty, which was why Greta had chosen her to handle the sale. It sounded like something Clarisse would do. It also sounded too good to be true.

  Olivia gave herself a mental slap upside the head. Don’t overanalyze your good fortune, she told herself. And don’t expect disaster. The chance to work with Greta’s fascinating collection promised to be one of the high points of her life, and she intended to enjoy it to the fullest.

  Chapter Eight

  Olivia, Maddie, and Ellie stepped out of Constance’s cool office into blistering heat. Olivia checked her cell phone and discovered it was already noon. Their welcoming cookie event for Greta Oskarson was due to begin in one hour. The meeting with Greta and Constance had lasted far longer than Olivia had anticipated. Thank goodness Constance had volunteered to transport Greta to The Gingerbread House before the event.

  Olivia challenged the strict Chatterley Heights speed limit and arrived at The Gingerbread House in record time. She parked her car on a side street off the square, where an old oak tree offered deep shade. Maddie and Ellie were opening the car doors before Olivia could turn off the engine. “I caught sight of the Gingerbread House porch,” Maddie said. “It is crammed with people. We’d better take the alley and slip in through the kitchen door.”

  They backtracked half a block to the alley entrance. Olivia wasn’t concerned about encountering a customer in the alley, but she worried that Binnie and Ned might be hanging around near the store’s back door, which led directly into the kitchen. Ned had a habit of snapping photos nonstop to keep her victims off guard. Inevitably, some of the photos were less than flattering. Binnie always chose the most embarrassing examples to post on her blog, using captions such as: “Olivia Greyson sneaks furtively through the alley behind her store. What is she hiding this time?”

  Maddie had her back door key ready. She didn’t bother to knock before she unlocked and shoved open the alley door, which tended to stick in the heat. A startled cry came from inside the kitchen. Maddie froze. Olivia and Ellie slipped past her to find Bertha and her distinguished “gentleman friend” embracing. Olivia couldn’t help herself; she giggled. Aloysius Willard Smythe, known as Mr. Willard to nearly everyone, winked at Olivia over Bertha’s shoulder.

  Bertha twisted around, clutching Mr. Willard’s wispy upper arm. “Goodness, you three, you scared the living daylights out of me.” In the past, Olivia would have worried that the older woman’s reddened cheeks meant an impending asthma attack, but Bertha’s breathing sounded normal . . . if a trifle rapid.

  “I’m so sorry we startled you,” Olivia said. “We didn’t mean to burst in on you, but when we noticed all those people on the porch, we decided to sneak in through the kitchen. Has the crowd been well behaved, more or less?”

  “Oh my, yes, they’ve been polite. I let Willard come in early, and everyone stepped aside to let him pass. I think they’re all just curious about Greta Oskarson and hoping to get a cookie before they’re all gone.”

  “Moreover,” Mr. Willard said, “I believe our own local press corps had not yet arrived, so courtesy and reason prevailed.” Mr. Willard’s grin dispersed waves of thin wrinkles around the corners of his mouth. Everything about Mr. Willard was thin, even his eyebrows, but his frail appearance was deceptive. When confronted with a legal dilemma, his long years of experience as an attorney and his laser intellect were unbeatable. Bertha was the only one who dared refer to him merely as “Willard.”

  “Our meeting with Constance took much longer than I’d anticipated,” Olivia said, “but it was worth the time. I’ll fill you both in on the details later. Right now I want to be sure we’re ready to open the store on time, more or less. Constance and Greta will arrive here together, and you know how Constance is about promptness.”

  “Don’t you worry now,” Bertha said. “The Gingerbread House is nearly ready for a wonderful event. Dear Willard helped me carry out the heaviest trays, so the rest should be easy. Goodness, those cookies look so interesting, and they smell delicious. Maddie, you are a wonder.”

  “Shucks, twern’t nothin’,” Maddie said as she cracked open the kitchen door to peek into the store. “Wow. Livie, Ellie, you’ve got to see this.” She held the door wide.

  The Gingerbread House had never looked so enchanting, Olivia thought. Bertha had outdone herself, with Mr. Willard’s help, in a very short time. She had decorated many of the display tables with tableaus representing fairy tales. Olivia admired two scenes, in particular. One showed a witch peering through the window of a gingerbread house at two small children. On another table, covered with a lake-blue cloth, four ducklings swam in a circle around a lovely swan. All of the figures were cookie cutters. “Everything looks wonderful,” Olivia said. “However, we aren’t done yet. Let’s get moving.”

  With so many hands to help, the store was ready with twenty minutes to spare. Olivia considered opening early, but the guest of honor hadn’t yet arrived.

  Ellie frowned as she peered through the front window. “I’m worried Greta and Constance might have to force their way through the guests on the front porch.”

  “Constance has a plan,” Olivia said. “She’ll bring Greta in through the kitchen, if necessary. I’m more worried about how they’ll get to the store. As far as I’m aware, Constance wheels herself all over town. I’ve never seen her drive. Well, she must have a specially equipped car. I hope so, anyway.”

  “Oh, Livie.” Ellie sighed. “You do need to work less and get out more. Do you remember Irv and Louisa?”

  Olivia narrowed her eyes at her mother. “I get irritable when you use non sequiturs. Is this leading to one of your lengthy and excessively detailed stories? Because—”


  “Irv and Louisa owned a farm south of town,” Ellie said. “When you were a child, Louisa used to sell eggs and fresh vegetables door-to-door. You saw her often.”

  Olivia shrugged. “Sorry, Mom, I just don’t remember. We’re running out of time, so if there’s a point to this . . .”

  “There is, Livie. Two points, in fact. First, if you paid more attention to your surroundings, especially the people, you might be quicker to understand human behavior. However, you have me to do that for you, so I’ll move on to point number two.” Ellie gave Olivia’s arm a maternal pat. “A year or so before you moved back to Chatterley Heights, Louisa was the victim of a hit-and-run accident while she was delivering fresh eggs to the Chatterley Café. The morning cooks at the café heard the accident and ran outside, but no one got the license plate number or remembered what the vehicle looked liked. Well, naturally they were all so upset about Louisa that they didn’t think to . . . Livie, dear, don’t scrunch up your eyes like that. You will wrinkle. What was I saying? Oh yes, Louisa was badly injured and could no longer walk. They had no medical insurance, so Irv and Louisa had to sell their farm to pay her medical bills. Now they live in town, in an apartment. It’s little but really quite sweet, and they do seem happy.”

  It took all the self-discipline Olivia possessed to keep from glancing at the clock. She told herself that her mother’s stories, pointless and interminable as they might seem, always had a purpose. If only she would get to it faster. . . .

  “Irv and Louisa had enough to live on,” Ellie said, “but they were used to being active. They wanted to do more than sit around and watch television.” She glanced at her watch. “Relax, Livie. Everything is ready for the event, and I predict that Constance and Greta will arrive momentarily at the alley door. Bertha will let them in.”

  “I can’t believe I’m encouraging you, Mom, but what on earth do Ed and Louisa—”

  “Irv and Louisa, dear.”

  “What do Irv and Louisa have to do with Greta and Constance?”

  “That’s an excellent question,” Ellie said with the merest hint of triumph in her voice. “You see, Irv and Louisa desperately wanted to be out and about—they so loved their drives in the country—but Louisa was in a wheelchair and she needed other equipment, for breathing and so forth. Constance offered to make the payments on a specially made van for their use if, in return, Irv would pick up Constance, along with her wheelchair, and drive her whenever and wherever she wanted to go. Within reason, of course.”

  Behind Ellie’s back, the kitchen door opened, and Bertha poked her head out. “Constance and Greta just arrived,” Bertha said. “Constance wanted me to give this to you right away.” She handed Olivia a small key ring with one key. “She said it’s for the secure storage vault. Should I bring Greta and Constance out here?”

  “Not just yet,” Olivia said as she took the key. “The crowd on the porch will see Greta through the front window, and I want to make sure she is mentally prepared.”

  Once Bertha had returned to the kitchen, Olivia said, “Nicely played, Mom. The timing of your Harve and Louisa story was perfect.”

  “Irv and Louisa.”

  “Sometimes you drive me crazy,” Olivia said, “but there’s no denying your unique genius.”

  Ellie took her daughter’s arm and guided her toward the kitchen door. “Now, Livie, I meant what I said earlier. The more closely you observe human behavior, the better honed your instincts about people will become. Such a useful skill.” Ellie paused near the kitchen door. “I’m worried about this afternoon,” she said.

  “Really? Why?”

  With a slight shake of her head, Ellie said, “I’m not sure. There’s something about—”

  The kitchen door burst open, and Bertha appeared. “We really need you in the kitchen, Livie. Maddie doesn’t know what to do.”

  “What—” Olivia felt herself being pushed and pulled into the kitchen, where she found Maddie and Constance doing their best to convince Greta not to bolt for the alley door.

  The kitchen phone was off the hook and emitting loud, irritating beeps. Olivia reached toward the receiver, but Maddie snatched it away. “Don’t hang it up.” There was a hint of hysteria in Maddie’s voice. “We’ve been getting calls.”

  “I did not come here to be mocked and threatened.” Greta’s rage was evident in her clenched jaw and flushed cheeks.

  “What’s going on? What calls?” Olivia glanced at her mother, who shrugged.

  “From Binnie,” Maddie said. “We’ve hung up on her twice, but she instantly calls back. She keeps spewing nonsense about Greta’s past. As usual, Binnie is hiding behind those ‘anonymous sources’ she finds under rocks.”

  “How does Binnie even know we are here?” Olivia sank onto a kitchen chair.

  “Who knows?” Maddie said. “I suspect she has winged minions with cell phones.”

  Olivia sighed, and said, “Greta, on behalf of the entire town of Chatterley Heights, I apologize for Binnie Sloan’s existence. She is deluded enough to believe it’s acceptable to make up facts, as long as they create a sensational story. Believe me, the best way to handle Binnie is to ignore her. Better yet, laugh at her. We will laugh with you.”

  The flame began to fade from Greta’s cheeks. Ellie pulled over a chair and offered it to Greta, who sank into it. “You are wise beyond your years,” Greta said. “I had hoped that returning to the town of my birth would free me from all the envy and the wagging tongues, but I see now that I was idealizing my childhood. I was happy then, and protected. I was perhaps a bit spoiled by loving parents.” Her wistful smile softened her features. “I had hoped to erase . . . But one cannot go back in time.” She straightened her spine. “But one can go forward, I hope.” Greta had spoken so softly that Olivia wasn’t sure she had understood.

  * * *

  Shortly, The Gingerbread House would open its doors to the public for the first time in over a week. The crowd had expanded, now filling the porch, the steps, and much of the front lawn. The Chatterley Heights communication network had performed at peak efficiency to spread the word about the cookie event Olivia and Maddie had thrown together to welcome Greta Oskarson back home. Olivia noticed a number of unfamiliar faces, which told her how well the news of the fabulous antique cookie cutter collection about to go on the market had spread. Olivia felt almost as nervous as when she’d watched her first customers explore the newly opened Gingerbread House. She wanted everything to look and taste perfect.

  Olivia’s excitement took a hit when she glanced at the front window and saw Binnie Sloan’s round face sneering at her. Next to Binnie, a camera pressed against the window, hiding Ned’s thin, pinched features.

  Maddie emerged from the kitchen holding aloft a large tray piled high with rosettes. Glancing toward the window, she said, “Ah, the vultures descend. I’m not referring to the guests, I hasten to add.” Maddie turned her back to Binnie and Ned as she centered her tray on a small table. “Aunt Sadie’s embroidered tablecloth is perfect,” she said. “I love the way the gingerbread boys and girls are playing ring-around-the-rosy along the edge. Aunt Sadie is a creative genius, and I’m not just saying that because we share significant DNA.” A sharp rapping sound made Maddie frown toward the window. Ned snapped her picture.

  “Speaking of shared DNA . . .” Olivia watched as Binnie slapped her ever-present notebook against the window so she could jot something down. “I can’t wait to see what she says about us on her blog.”

  “We really, really need a heavy curtain for that window,” Maddie said. “I’ll ask Aunt Sadie to make one for us. I’m thinking along the lines of a thick tapestry.”

  Olivia felt her cell phone vibrate in the pocket of her light linen pants. She resisted the urge to answer it, and the vibrating stopped. As Olivia rearranged a display of royal icing mixes, her cell vibrated again. She checked the caller ID. “It’s Del,” she s
aid. “I’ll take it in the cookbook nook.”

  “I’ll load up the last couple of tables with goodies,” Maddie said as she headed toward the kitchen. “Then we’ll be ready to throw open the doors and let the festivities begin.”

  Olivia’s cell phone had stopped vibrating by the time she reached a private corner in the cookbook nook. She flipped it open and found that both calls had been from Del. Olivia hesitated. She so wanted to talk to Del, but that might take a while. She wanted to give him her full attention.

  Once more the phone in Olivia’s hand began to vibrate. Del, again. Now she was worried. She answered at once. “Del? Is everything okay?”

  “Livie, I’m so glad I finally caught you.” Del sounded breathless. “Are you alone?”

  “Well, in a manner of speaking.”

  “Does that mean ‘yes’ or ‘no’?” Del asked.

  “Yes, I’m alone in the cookbook nook at the moment, but there are zillions of people waiting to come inside. We’re hosting a cookie event to welcome Greta Oskarson back to Chatterley Heights. What’s going on?”

  “Listen, Livie, I can’t talk for long, but I wanted to let you know . . . there’s been a development here.”

  “Is Lisa all right?”

  Del hesitated for a second. “Lisa is okay, technically speaking, but . . . Livie, please don’t tell anyone what I’m about to say. It’ll get out soon enough, but I’m trying to keep it quiet as long as possible.”

  “Del, you’re scaring me.” Olivia poked her head outside the nook entrance. She drew it back quickly as the kitchen door opened.

  “There’s nothing for you to worry about,” Del said. “However, the situation here has become more . . . complex. It looks like I won’t be back home for a while. The Twiterton sheriff will be handling Chatterley Heights emergency calls until I return.”