Cookies and Scream (A Cookie Cutter Shop Mystery)

by Virginia Lowell

  Olivia took a deep breath. “After we found out Greta had died, we sneaked into her house to find out more about her. We wondered . . . well, we had so many questions about Greta’s history, and we thought it possible that her return to Chatterley Heights had stirred up some old resentments. We wanted a look around her house. Let me assure you that we did not break in. The doors were unlocked.”

  “Is that all?” Mr. Willard asked.

  “Well, we did borrow some old letters . . . and a mysterious note we found.”

  Mr. Willard’s forehead wrinkles reformed themselves as he frowned in puzzlement. “Letters? A note? Why? As far as I know, Greta Oskarson died of natural causes.”

  “We think she might have been murdered,” Maddie blurted. “We were afraid Cody would screw up and not investigate.”

  “And now,” Olivia said, “we’re not sure what to do with what we’ve got. From the content of the letters, it looks to us like Greta was blackmailing a lot of people. Also, we found some correspondence from Clarisse Chamberlain that implies Greta did something unforgivable, something beyond her fling with Martin.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Willard sipped his cappuccino. “That is disturbing. And you believe that others, perhaps citizens of Chatterley Heights, might have suffered at Greta’s hands?”

  Olivia nodded. “We’re also wondering if the rumor that she expedited her wealthy husbands’ deaths might be true.”

  “All this makes Greta sound like a master criminal,” Mr. Willard said with a faint smile. “Perhaps I can put your minds at rest, at least a bit. I was concerned when I heard Greta was moving back here. I was aware of her brief relationship with Martin Chamberlain, and I was not surprised. Greta was stunning and ruthless, even in her youth, and I was afraid she might take advantage of people I cared about . . . including you, Livie. So I touched base with several of my legal contacts in Europe. I learned that, contrary to rumor, the deaths of Greta’s husbands were thoroughly investigated and found to be due to either natural causes or, as in the case of her first husband, accident. The only exception was her last husband, who was also reported to have died by drowning, but only because there wasn’t sufficient evidence to draw a different conclusion. Greta was not a mass murderer, at least.”

  “At least?” Maddie shifted her chair closer to Mr. Willard’s desk. “Does that mean she was something else . . . like a blackmailer?”

  Mr. Willard’s bony shoulders lifted in a shrug. “It is possible. According to my contacts, blackmail allegations couldn’t be proven. The authorities received blackmail complaints from second parties—wronged wives, for instance. They accused Greta of conducting affairs with their husbands for the express purpose of blackmailing them. The descriptions of Greta’s technique were remarkably consistent, but the authorities were never able to obtain sufficient evidence. The victims themselves invariably refused to cooperate.”

  “Wow,” Maddie said. “Greta must have found some really good dirt on those guys.”

  “She was clever, obviously,” Olivia said. “We read some letters she’d received. Several of the victims hinted that Greta was blackmailing them, but the letters were so guarded in their phrasing, it’s hard to see how they could be used as evidence. The victims must have been terrified of exposure.”

  “Ah yes,” Mr. Willard said. “The Greta I knew had a penchant for wealthy, prominent men.”

  “I’ll bet,” Maddie said. “Wealthy, prominent men make perfect blackmail victims.”

  “Until one of them decides to fight back,” Olivia said. “Then it’s—” Her cell phone blasted out the first two lines of the Blood, Sweat & Tears version of “You’ve Made Me So Very Happy.” Olivia glared at Maddie, who gave her a sheepish look.

  “Sorry, sometimes I, um, energize Livie’s ringtone,” Maddie explained to Mr. Willard.

  When the raucous music began again, Olivia grabbed her phone. “I’ll turn it off,” she said.

  “No, don’t,” Mr. Willard said. “Any call before nine a.m. is likely to be important.”

  “Or it’s a scammer from some island in the Pacific,” Maddie said.

  “Nope, it’s my mom. I suppose I should answer.” Olivia opened her phone and put it to her ear. “What’s up, Mom? Everything okay?”

  “Livie, I’m so glad I caught you. I’m just heading off to an early yoga session, which I sorely need, but I . . .” Ellie’s voice grew fainter, and Olivia guessed she was speaking to someone else. “Sorry, Allan wanted to know where his clean shirts had gotten to, and I had to explain that shirts don’t get clean if they aren’t transported to the laundry room. Oh, and before I forget, come to dinner here this evening. Jason will be there.”

  “Okay. Any special reason?”

  “Just that I need a family dinner. Now, where was I?”

  “Heading for yoga,” Olivia said. “Beyond that, I haven’t a clue.” She glanced at Maddie and rolled her eyes. “Mom, what’s up? Why are you going to yoga at this hour of the morning? Are you okay?”

  “I’m a bit distracted, that’s all.” Ellie’s sigh came through clearly. “Hang on.” Seconds later, Ellie said, “If you must know, it’s Calliope. I’m at my wit’s end.”

  “Wait a sec, Mom.” Olivia held her hand over her phone, and said, “I’ll be right back, I promise, but there’s something going on with Mom. She’s usually so cool and calm about people. However, Calliope rattles her.” Olivia lifted her drowsy pup and handed him to Maddie.

  “By all means, speak with your mother,” Mr. Willard said. “Use the outer office for privacy. If Ellie is flustered, something must be wrong. Maddie and I will chat until you return.”

  “Thanks.” Olivia hurried to the outer office and closed the connecting door. “Okay, Mom, tell me what’s going on with Calliope. Cal, I mean. Aren’t you afraid she’ll hear you talking about her?”

  “I’m outside now, on my way to yoga, but I’m taking the slow way. I’m not in a terrible rush, for once,” Ellie said. “I will never get used to calling her Cal. I don’t know why, but every time I look at her, I think ‘Calliope.’ She’s so . . .”

  “Horse-like?”

  Ellie giggled. “Such a terrible thing to say, dear, but I’m afraid it’s true. It wouldn’t be nearly as noticeable, I think, if her personality were less . . .”

  “Pushy?”

  “I was going to say ‘forceful,’ which isn’t much nicer, when you think about it. I do feel compassion for her, of course. She isn’t terribly attractive, which can be a burden for a woman, and her forcefulness doesn’t help. Difficult personality traits do seem more acceptable in beautiful women. So unfair, but it’s the way the world seems to work, even when a woman has other—”

  “Mom, did you and Calliope come to blows or something?”

  “Oh, no, dear, so far I’ve maintained my ladylike demeanor, but my control is slipping. I’m worried about Jason.”

  Olivia began to pace around the empty desk in Mr. Willard’s outer office. “I’m getting confused, Mom. Jason is usually so easygoing, in a snarky sort of way. Has Calliope upset him?”

  “No, not at all,” Ellie said. “They are planning to move in together.”

  Olivia’s thigh hit the corner of the desk as she turned too sharply. “Did you just say ‘move in together’? I’m having trouble wrapping my mind around that concept.”

  “Livie, for heaven’s sakes, I didn’t mean move in together as in move in together. You see, Jason so wants to buy a little house of his own.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Olivia said. “It’s all he talks about lately.”

  “That’s the problem,” Ellie said. “This morning before work, Jason came to the house for an early breakfast. Calliope was there, of course, and Allan, and me. Everything seemed to be going fine. Then Jason began talking about buying a house. Well, you know how excited he gets when he focuses on a goal.”

 
; “Normal people get excited, Mom. Jason gets obsessive. So I’m guessing it was Calliope’s idea that she take up residence in this fantasy house?” Olivia remembered how insistent Calliope had been that the Gingerbread House cookbook nook would make a perfect little apartment.

  “Yes,” Ellie said, “and it isn’t a fantasy house. Jason wants to buy the house where Greta Oskarson died.”

  “Whoa. That’s just wrong, on so many levels. First, Greta died in that house, or at least would have if I hadn’t called 911 for her. And second, it has only been about a day since her death. Has Jason been inhaling gasoline? Why would he want that particular house, anyway?”

  “Oh, he got it into his head that he might be able to buy it cheaply because . . . you know.”

  Olivia hiked herself up onto the empty desk and rested her free arm on the sturdy old Underwood typewriter. “Jason thinks no one will want that house because Greta became ill in it and then died at the ER? That’s a stretch, even for Jason.”

  “I’m now inside the band shell in the park,” Ellie said. “It’s still too early to arrive for yoga, so I think I’ll sit on the bench for a bit. It’s so lovely and cool in here. I need a calming environment. Where was I?”

  “You were about to tell me that Jason liked the idea of Calliope moving into Greta’s house with him, which only confirms my long-held belief that Jason is not my actual genetic sibling. Does he believe Calliope will help him pay the mortgage? Because it’s my impression that Calliope is a professional moocher. She wants to have her own space without paying for it.”

  “Yes, that has puzzled me, too,” Ellie said.

  “I wouldn’t say I’m puzzled by it. Calliope is broke, probably always has been, so mooching has become a way of life for her.” Olivia sneaked a peek at the time on her cell. “Mom, I really have to go now. Could we—”

  “But Calliope isn’t broke,” Ellie said. “She’s got scads of money. She could buy Chatterley Heights outright, yet she doesn’t want to pay for so much as a room.”

  “But—”

  “Yes, I know, Calliope lived in Europe for years, which isn’t cheap. From what she has told us, she was always a guest in someone’s villa or castle or whatever. It puzzled me beyond endurance, so I dragged Allan away from his beloved computer and insisted he tell me Calliope’s life story. Allan knows all about it, of course, because Calliope is his cousin on his mother’s side, and his mother was the kind of person who kept track of every family member . . . even ones she hadn’t met or never wanted to see again.”

  Olivia had to admit, at least to herself, that she was curious. “Okay, I’m sure I’ll regret this, but what is Calliope’s story?”

  “I’m glad you asked, Livie, because I still have ten minutes to wait before my yoga session, and talking helps calm and center me.”

  “So glad I can help,” Olivia said. “And I promise not to interrupt unless absolutely necessary. I’m hoping it will take well under ten minutes.”

  “You see,” Ellie said, “Calliope’s parents, unlike poor Allan’s folks, were incredibly rich. Calliope’s mother and Allan’s mother were sisters, both of them very attractive. Of course, Allan is quite good-looking, in a male sort of way. Although he isn’t tall. Everyone else in Allan’s family is tall, even his sister.”

  Olivia cleared her throat.

  “As I was saying,” Ellie said with a hint of sternness in her tone, “Calliope’s mother, whose name escapes me, was considered a great beauty. She caught the eye of an extremely wealthy German businessman . . . although, according to my mother-in-law, theirs was truly a love match. Calliope was their only child. They adored and pampered her. Calliope wasn’t a beauty like her mother. You see, she looked like her father.”

  Ellie paused a moment to let that sink in. “All was well until Calliope was nine years old, when her adoring parents died in a small plane crash. Calliope was left alone with piles of money, all of it tied up until she turned eighteen. Someone had to raise her, but none of her relatives really wanted her, only because they couldn’t get their hands on her money. Young Calliope was passed around until she finally reached eighteen and inherited her fortune. Since then she has lived a nomadic life, much like her childhood. She often stayed with acquaintances, and she does, as you put it, mooch. Her hosts must have known she was wealthy and hoped she would eventually reward them for their hospitality. So very sad.”

  “I don’t know, Mom. It seems to me Calliope might have had lots of friends if she’d paid her own way. She could have bought a villa of her own and provided hospitality to others. She made choices that drove people away.”

  Ellie was silent for so long that Olivia wondered if they’d been cut off. “Mom? Are you still there?”

  “I’m not sure I agree with you, Livie.” Ellie sounded sad. “I think about how Calliope grew up after their parents died. Being passed among resentful relatives must have felt awful, as if she would never again be loved for herself. Maybe that’s all she wants. Maybe mooching is her way of testing people to see if they accepted her presence only in hopes of being paid. I suspect I’ve already failed that test, which is why she’s so eager to leave our home.”

  “No, Mom, never. Besides, even if Calliope is purposely testing people, how were you to know? I mean, let’s face it, she can be a pain in the—”

  “Oops, I only have two minutes to get to yoga. But don’t hang up, Livie, I can sprint and talk at the same time. I still haven’t told you the real reason I called.” Ellie’s voice began to fade in and out, so Olivia assumed she was jogging. “It’s about Greta Oskarson. What did Cody say when you told him about the letters you and Maddie took from Greta’s house?”

  “Um, well . . .”

  “Oh, Livie, was he really angry?”

  “Not exactly.” Olivia slid off the desk and began to pace. “We haven’t quite gotten around to telling him about the letters.” Olivia heard a moan across the phone connection. “Does it really matter at this point? Cody hasn’t tried to contact me. We’ve been speaking with Mr. Willard, and he hasn’t heard any rumors that Greta was murdered, so I assume—”

  “Well, you and Mr. Willard assume wrong.”

  From her mother’s agitated tone, Olivia decided silence might be the wisest choice.

  “Livie, I am standing at the door to the yoga studio, and I really, really need yoga, so I’ll say this quickly. I wish you had told Cody earlier about Greta’s letters. It would have looked so much better. You see, I have a good friend who volunteers at Chatterley Heights Hospital. I ran into her during my morning jog. She told me that Cody decided to check with the Howard County crime lab about whether Greta should be autopsied, and they urged him to transport her body to them immediately. They performed the autopsy last night.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Apparently, it’s complicated, but there’s a chance Greta did not die from natural causes,” Ellie said. “That’s all I know except my friend said something about the police searching Greta’s house. She didn’t know if they’d already conducted the search, or if they were planning to do so.”

  Maddie’s and my fingerprints are all over Greta’s house. “Okay, Mom. Thanks for telling me. And don’t worry. My attorney happens to be in the next room, chatting with Maddie.”

  “Ah, dear Mr. Willard,” Ellie said. “At least you are in capable hands.”

  “We’ll be fine, Mom. Only just to be on the safe side, you might want to double up on those yoga sessions.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking, dear.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Gingerbread House would reopen in one day, and Olivia felt more than ready. The store, on the other hand, looked as if a gang of sugar-crazed children had used it as a playground. There was serious cleaning up to be done.

  Olivia stood in the middle of the cookbook nook, envisioning a new display design, when she heard the front doorbell ring. Since
most of their customers knew the store was closed on Mondays, Olivia considered ignoring the bell and staying where she was. She began to sort through her latest shipment of cookbooks, which she had deposited on a side table. As Olivia scooped up an armful of books, the doorbell rang again. Maybe it was her mother. It wasn’t Maddie. Lemon-scented air had begun to drift into the cookbook nook, which meant Maddie was busy baking in the kitchen.

  Olivia unlocked and opened the front door, half expecting her mother to tap-dance past her into the foyer. To her surprise, the visitor was the young blonde with the exotic first name—Desirée. She was dressed for the heat in khaki shorts that showcased her long, shapely legs. A tight, pale-blue tank top molded itself to her slender, yet curvy, upper torso.

  “Hello, welcome to The Gingerbread House,” Olivia said. “The store is closed today, but you are welcome to come in for a visit, if you wish. Let me find a place for these cookbooks, and I’ll show you around.” She deposited her load on an empty display table near the cookbook nook entrance and hurried back to the main floor, eager for a chat with the young woman who had looked so familiar to Greta Oskarson. Olivia found Desirée gazing through the glass doors of the locked cabinet, where they displayed the more valuable vintage and antique cookie cutters. Desirée was so engrossed in her examination of the cabinet’s contents that she started at the sound of Olivia’s shoes on the tile floor.

  “Oh, sorry,” Desirée said with a light laugh. “I’m just so fascinated by these old cookie cutters that I go off into a dream world, you know?” She offered her hand to shake. “I’m Desirée Kirkwood, by the way. I attended your cookie event last Saturday, but you probably wouldn’t have noticed me.”

  As Olivia shook the slender, perfectly tanned hand and gazed into her violet eyes, she thought how hard it would be not to notice Desirée.

  Desirée turned back to the cookie cutters and said, “This display makes me think of my mother and my grandmother. During the holidays, I used to sit on a stool in the kitchen and watch the two of them make gingerbread cookies. They didn’t have really old cookie cutters, like, you know, antiques or whatever. I think my grandmother used to have some old ones, but they were long gone by the time I came along. After that, I think she collected box tops or something and sent away for some cheap ones. I think those cookie cutters were too flimsy to make it all the way to antique, you know?” Desirée’s sneering tone implied that inexpensive plastic or box-top cookie cutters were invariably worthless, though Olivia knew that cutter collectors searched long and hard for that elusive 1970s-era plastic cutter of Snoopy sitting on a pumpkin.