Cookies and Scream (A Cookie Cutter Shop Mystery)

by Virginia Lowell

  Olivia was surprised by the depth of her disappointment. “I thought you’d found a safe house for Lisa,” she said, “and that the divorce would soon be final. What’s left? Are you worried that the investigator Lisa’s husband hired might follow you and find Lisa’s safe house? You can’t become her permanent bodyguard.”

  “The investigator is no longer a problem, and Lisa won’t be needing a permanent bodyguard.” Del’s voice sounded grim. “But she does need a good criminal defense lawyer. Last night Lisa shot her almost-ex-husband. He’s dead.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow. Listen, Livie, I have no idea how this will play out. From the information I’ve gotten so far, it isn’t slam-dunk self-defense.”

  “But the husband was abusive, wasn’t he?” Olivia asked.

  Del groaned. “Don’t ask me why, but Lisa agreed to meet with him alone. She didn’t tell anyone. He managed to get out on bail, but she would have been okay, I think, if she’d just stayed put in the safe house. Lisa says she just thought he’d be more reasonable about the divorce if he didn’t feel so ‘hounded’ by police and so forth. So she called him. Between you and me, I think she still has . . . had feelings for him. I don’t get it, but that was my impression. Lisa is . . . complicated.”

  Complicated . . . that’s one word for it. “Where did she have this meeting?”

  Del’s sigh was audible. “In a bar, unfortunately. Lisa knew full well the man had a drinking problem, but she thought he’d ‘mellow out’ better with a drink. Like he’d ever mellowed out in his life. Drinking only made him more violent. Lisa knew that.”

  Olivia heard another sigh and then silence. “Del?”

  “I’m here.”

  “So what comes next? Will Lisa be charged with murder?”

  “Don’t know yet. He was drunk, with a history of physically abusing Lisa, so there’s that on her side.”

  “Del, Lisa’s husband was a strong, violent man. Why wouldn’t the police assume self-defense?”

  “He was shot in the back,” Del said. “The gun was registered in Lisa’s name. She claims he’d taken it away from her months ago, but she can’t prove it. Besides, he’d been in jail for some time, and he didn’t have a permanent address, so where would he have been keeping the gun? It wasn’t on his person when he was arrested for trying to break in to Lisa’s apartment.”

  “So it’s her word against a dead man’s,” Olivia said.

  “Worse,” Del said grimly. “The gun itself was wiped clean, but Lisa’s prints were on the bullets.”

  Chapter Nine

  After her unsettling conversation with Del, Olivia checked the time on her cell phone. She had only a few minutes to spare before the store event for Greta was due to begin. Olivia longed to sit down with Maddie over coffee and cookies to discuss what Del had told her, but there wasn’t time. Just as well, Olivia thought. She had promised to keep the information to herself.

  Olivia entered the kitchen, where she found Maddie, Bertha, and Ellie standing near the refrigerator, quietly discussing last-minute logistics for the afternoon. Ellie cast frequent glances toward Greta, as if she were keeping watch. Greta sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap. Next to Greta’s chair, Constance sat in her wheelchair in stoic silence. On the surface, everyone appeared calm, but Olivia sensed it was the kind of calm that came before or after a storm.

  Greta inclined her head toward Constance. “I once had blond hair like yours.” Greta sounded wistful. She smoothed her white hair back from her face. “That was long ago, of course.”

  “Now, now,” Ellie said. “Constance would be the first to admit that she has her hair touched up, wouldn’t you, Constance?” Ellie’s own long tresses, proudly gray, hung in loose waves down her back.

  “If you say so, Ellie,” Constance said.

  Olivia felt as if she’d walked into the middle of a scene in a play. The characters were trying to act natural, while their body language and tones of voice screamed tension.

  Maddie picked up a tray of cookies. “It’s showtime, troops,” she said as she pushed the kitchen door open with her posterior. “Bertha and I are putting out these last trays of, if I may brag, my delightful and delicious cookies. Then we’ll unlock the doors and let the ravenous throng burst through.”

  “Greta, would you prefer to wait in here a bit?” Olivia asked. “It might be less overwhelming if you were to appear once the guests are occupied with cookies and coffee.”

  “Nonsense,” Greta said. “I am quite used to being in the public eye.” She rose to her feet and squared her shoulders. Greta’s gray silk suit must have been tailored to show off her tall, slender figure. Her erect posture and expertly applied makeup shaved at least a decade from her actual age.

  Olivia began to wonder if her mother might actually be right about the benefits of regular exercise and clean living. Luckily, she had no time to think about it. “I’ll open the doors,” Olivia said. “As always, I’ll leave it to Maddie to monitor the refreshments.”

  Maddie smirked. “Because you know I’m not above smacking a few greedy hands if they try to grab more than their fair share. Not naming any names, of course, but a certain member of the local press comes to mind.”

  “And my brother,” Olivia said.

  “Ah, Jason,” said Maddie. “I have but to glare at him, and he cowers. Anyway, I promised him some of the leftovers, so he should be motivated to make sure there are some.”

  During her lighthearted interchange with Maddie, Olivia had noted that Greta’s tight expression never relaxed. It occurred to Olivia that Greta might feel anxious about encountering someone, or perhaps several someones, from her past.

  * * *

  Half an hour into the Gingerbread House welcoming event, Olivia finally began to enjoy herself. Greta appeared to have relaxed into her role as hometown girl returning to her place of birth. The crowd of local guests dwindled steadily as folks satisfied their curiosity about Greta, while they sated their sweet teeth. So far, Anita Rambert had been conspicuously absent. In fact, Olivia hadn’t spotted a single antiques dealer among the guests, though she’d recognized several serious collectors.

  Maddie’s cookies were a huge hit, especially the cardamom tangerine shortbread. Luckily, Maddie had anticipated demand for the fragrant wedges, so she’d returned to the store kitchen before dawn to bake more. Bertha, too, had arisen early to make a backup batch of her delectable chocolate-chip oatmeal cookies. Olivia noticed that a small tray of lovely, brightly colored marzipan flower shapes had appeared on a table. She assumed her mother had created the rich almond confections, using her treasured collection of tiny fondant cutters. Ellie knew how to make all sorts of exotic treats, having taken every craft and cooking class within a fifty-mile radius.

  Olivia noted with smug relief that Binnie Sloan couldn’t seem to wrench herself away from the treats tables. Her notebook and pencil were nowhere in sight as she snatched up cookies with both hands. Olivia didn’t kid herself that mere sweets could neutralize Binnie’s acidic nature, but at least they were distracting her for the moment.

  “This is going surprisingly well, isn’t it?” Constance’s deep, clipped voice came from behind Olivia, who spun around so suddenly she nearly lost her balance. “Your mom was right about you,” Constance said with a snicker. “Balance is not your strong suit.”

  “So she keeps telling me,” Olivia said.

  “Come on, let’s find a corner.” Constance skillfully maneuvered her wheelchair to achieve a full turn in the tight space. “I scouted out the cookbook nook. It’s fairly quiet at the moment.” Without waiting for an answer, Constance headed toward the front of the store. Olivia followed.

  As they reached the cookbook nook, a young couple emerged, leaving the room empty. The cozy area had once served as the dining room for the nineteenth-century Queen Anne house. The large arched entrance conn
ected the cookbook nook with the Gingerbread House sales floor, yet the room had a quiet, secluded feel. Constance wheeled herself toward a corner where two armchairs invited shoppers to relax with a cup of coffee and a cookbook. Olivia settled in a soft, deep chair next to Constance’s parked wheelchair.

  “I love it when I get to look down on you,” Constance said. “It almost makes up for not being able to flop down in an armchair anymore. However, that’s not why I brought you here. We need to confer.”

  “Is something wrong?” Olivia asked.

  “Not wrong, exactly . . .” Constance frowned as she stared through the arched opening into the main store. “It’s a funny thing. Most everyone in town is used to me being in my wheelchair. It took a while, but I’m matter-of-fact about the whole situation, so folks start to feel more comfortable around me.”

  “Plus you’re smart and gorgeous,” Olivia said.

  “You forgot rich,” Constance said with a grin. “However, my point is that sometimes folks who don’t know me stare at me as if I’m an exhibit, or they ignore me as if I’m invisible. They don’t even notice that I’m gorgeous, let alone how smart and expensively dressed I am. On the other hand, some folks who know me well—like you and Maddie and Ellie, to name three—treat me more or less the way they would if I were still able to walk.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Olivia said. “I’m probably nicer to you than I would be if the accident had never happened. Of course, you’re a nicer person than you were then.”

  Constance tossed her long, silky hair in a gesture of impatience. “Do you mind? I’m trying to make a point here.”

  “I take back the part about you being nicer.”

  “Good,” Constance said. “My point is this: sometimes I hear things that maybe I wouldn’t hear if I were standing upright, rather than sitting in a wheelchair.”

  “You mean like gossip?” Olivia’s interest quickened. Constance wouldn’t bother with gossip unless it was important.

  Constance nodded. “Specifically, gossip about our guest of honor. Not the usual stuff, either. I’ve heard all about her numerous wealthy husbands and their suspiciously similar deaths. All of which, by the way, I’m perfectly willing to believe, having met the lady. I overheard something about twenty minutes ago, soon after the initial crowd crammed into your store.” Constance paused as if she were listening. “Peek in to the sales floor and see if anyone seems close by and a little too curious.”

  Olivia walked to the cookbook nook entrance and leaned against the edge as if she were taking a casual count of the visitors. No one seemed to notice her. “All clear,” Olivia said as she sank back into her armchair.

  Constance spoke softly. “I found this very disturbing, even more so than a string of dead husbands. I heard someone, a female voice, say under her breath something about Greta abandoning a child. At least, that’s what it sounded like. I didn’t turn my head to get a look at the woman for fear I’d frighten her away, but I got the impression she might have been muttering to herself.”

  Olivia remained silent for some seconds as she digested Constance’s story. “I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked,” Olivia said. “If she really did do away with one or more husbands, even if she was simply giving nature a little push, then I suppose it’s a short step to abandoning a child.” The emerging picture of Greta portrayed a self-obsessed woman with little or no conscience. Does that image square with my sense of Greta so far? Hard to say, but maybe. “Greta does strike me as fairly secretive,” Olivia said. “I keep wondering why she really returned to Chatterley Heights. Small towns are terrible places to hide.”

  “Yes,” Constance said, “and isn’t that lucky. If what I overheard is true, my guess is that sooner or later someone—I’m betting on your mom—will find out about it.”

  Maddie appeared at the entrance to the cookbook nook. “Livie, were you planning to make an appearance anytime soon? Because now would be good. Not to panic you or anything, but things are getting a little weird.”

  With a quick glance at Constance, Olivia asked, “Weird how? Is Binnie acting up?”

  “I wish it were that simple,” Maddie said. “If it were Binnie, I could just stuff a cookie in her mouth. No, it’s Greta . . . or maybe Olaf started it. I only know that Greta got all high and mighty and flounced off to sulk in the kitchen. Well, she didn’t exactly flounce. She isn’t really a flouncer. It was more subtle than that.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Olivia said. “Are you talking about Olaf Jakobson? I wasn’t aware he and Greta knew each other. Why was Greta upset with him?”

  Maddie flopped into the empty armchair next to Olivia. “Oh, you know what Olaf is like. His foot is permanently stuck in his mouth. I think it’s because he’s so spoiled by his vast wealth. Anyway, that’s Aunt Sadie’s theory. I don’t really know Olaf very well; he’s so much older than we are.”

  “Olaf Jakobson,” Constance said, “is not the most sensitive of human beings. He hired me to sell one of his summer homes, and I ended up firing myself. I couldn’t convince him to be reasonable. He wanted an outrageous sum for the house, even though he’d let it deteriorate. I had a buyer who wanted the house, was willing to put some money into it, but he wanted the price to come down because of its poor condition.”

  “I’m guessing Olaf wouldn’t budge on the price,” Olivia said.

  “Not one dollar,” Constance said. “And he was arrogant about it. Normally I’m fine with a touch of arrogance. I can relate. But Olaf is . . .”

  “A rich jerk?” Maddie suggested. “Obnoxiously entitled?”

  Constance threw back her head and laughed. “I was thinking ‘stubborn and not very bright,’ but I’ll add your contributions to the mix.”

  “What did Olaf say that upset Greta?” Olivia asked.

  Maddie curled her legs underneath her and settled into her chair. “I only heard part of what Olaf said. Something about Greta having to sell her worldly possessions because she’d made such a huge mistake. The last thing he said was, ‘I’ll bet you’re sorry now.’”

  A young couple peeked inside the cookbook nook. They left when they realized the comfortable chairs were occupied.

  “We should get back to our guests soon,” Olivia said. “Maddie, aren’t Greta and Olaf about the same age?”

  “I think so,” Maddie said. “I could ask Aunt Sadie. Is it important?”

  “Probably not,” Olivia said. “Right now I’m just curious, but the more I observe Greta’s personality, the more I wonder if working with her on the sale of her collection is such a good idea. I’d like to know what I’m in for. Meanwhile, I think I’ll go have a friendly chat with Olaf Jakobson.”

  As the three women emerged from the cookbook nook, the young couple reappeared along with as many cookies as they could carry. The woman gave Olivia a sheepish grin as she slipped past and headed straight for the deep armchairs.

  “I’ll replenish the trays,” Maddie said as she headed toward the kitchen.

  “I’ll help empty them.” Constance aimed her wheelchair toward the refreshment tables.

  Olivia spotted Olaf Jakobson near the large front window, where Maddie had loaded a table with a variety of cookies. Olaf downed a rosette as he listened to a woman who looked unfamiliar to Olivia. The woman’s long, blond hair swung over her shoulder as she spoke. Olaf edged closer to her.

  “People are so interesting, aren’t they?” Ellie’s voice startled Olivia, who stumbled sideways.

  “No more comments about my balance,” Olivia said. “I wouldn’t ever lose it if everyone would stop sneaking up on me.”

  “Of course not, dear. Although I didn’t actually sneak up on you. You were watching so intently.” Ellie inclined her head in Olaf’s direction. “Do you know the young woman talking to Olaf?”

  “Not a clue. She looks about my age, but I don’t remember her from high sch
ool.” Olivia looked down on her tiny mother. “I suppose you know all about her.”

  “Not all, dear, but some,” Ellie said. “She didn’t grow up here in Chatterley Heights, so you wouldn’t have known her from high school. I suspect she is about your age, early thirties, though she claims to be twenty-five. She lives in Baltimore. Her name is Desirée. Such a lovely name, don’t you think?”

  “Who names a kid Desirée?”

  “Someone prone to romanticism, I imagine,” Ellie said.

  “Okay, who did name her? What’s her last name? What is she doing here? And why is she enduring an extended conversation with Olaf Jakobson, of all people?”

  “Livie, dear, I don’t know everything. I had a brief chat with Desirée, during which she shared her first name and place of residence. She did mention that she is single, and she is thinking about moving to a small town. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”

  “You’re losing your touch,” Olivia said.

  “I was interrupted by your stepfather’s cousin.” Ellie looked to her right, where Calliope Zimmermann was engaged in a spirited conversation with Binnie Sloan. Binnie jotted rapidly in her little notebook.

  Olivia groaned. “I hate to imagine what Calliope is saying, but I’m sure I’ll find out from Binnie’s next edition of The Weekly Chatter . . . or this evening on her blog. I need to stop myself from reading that blasted blog.”

  “It is best to know your enemy’s strategy,” Ellie said.

  “If I must,” Olivia said. “Meanwhile, tell me what you know about Olaf. Maddie told me he said something to Greta that sent her off in a huff.”

  “First I need a cookie,” Ellie said. “Oh look, here comes Maddie with a full tray.” She looped her arm through Olivia’s elbow and pulled.

  Maddie saw them coming and paused to wait for them. “Hey, you two look hungry. These are the last of the cookies, so you’d better grab with both hands.”