Cookie Dough or Die

Chapter Sixteen

Olivia’s hope for a quiet Tuesday, the beginning of her workweek, evaporated the moment she opened The Gingerbread House for business at nine a.m. A small group of her local regulars had already gathered on the store’s lawn, and all the prime parking spaces contained cars she recognized as belonging to antique dealers and collectors from out of town. Olivia forged a welcoming smile as she held open the front door.

Before the dealers and collectors could reach the store entrance, Olivia slipped past her customers, avoiding eye contact, and escaped to the kitchen. At the worktable, Maddie was piling decorated cookies on a platter. Behind her, the Mr. Coffee spat out its second pot of the morning. The kitchen door slapped shut behind Olivia, and Maddie looked up. Her smile of greeting melted when she saw the look on Olivia’s face.

“You told Lucas, didn’t you? Maddie, how could you?” Olivia began to pace around the kitchen. “The store is filling up with dealers and collectors and plain old busybodies.” She raked her fingers through her hair, which threw her off balance enough to bump into the table.

“Livie, take a deep breath and stand still. You’re bruising yourself and, more important, ruining your hair.” Maddie took a cookie from the platter and held it out to Olivia as she paced past. When Olivia waved it away, Maddie said, “Look, if you think I told Lucas anything about your inheritance, you are wrong. I said not one word about you last night. In fact, I haven’t even talked to Lucas since our quick dinner. It wasn’t easy to get away last night, you know. Lucas wanted me to come over and watch a DVD with him. Something about football bloopers, sounded like fun, but no, I spent the whole evening doing your bidding and awaiting your arrival. I had to fudge and say I was way behind on paying invoices so he wouldn’t think I was blowing him off. I knew he’d understand if it was business.”

Olivia heard the hurt in Maddie’s voice. “Then how . . . ?”

“How do you think?” Maddie’s arched eyebrows and clear disgust said it all.

“Are you saying . . . Tammy? ”

Maddie nodded. “Yep, I’m saying Tammy. Mind you, it could have been anyone who was there last night, but really, does anyone else fit the bill? Tammy is the one who spills huge amounts of personal information all over the Internet. She probably checks her Facebook account first thing every morning and last thing before bed. She probably spilled the whole story as soon as she got home last night. Unless she stayed over, in which case she’d use Hugh’s computer.”

The din beyond the kitchen door had reached an insistent level. “I need to get out there,” Olivia said, nodding her head toward the sales area. “We have a business to run.”

“We do, but let me handle it for a while,” Maddie said. She whipped off her apron and lifted the platter of cookies. “You need to figure out how to answer the questions you’ll be getting. Besides, no one will buy anything if you’re there. I suggest you check Tammy’s Facebook page and see exactly what deeply private thoughts she has shared with her online nearest and dearest.”

“How do I . . . ?”

“I’ll set it up for you,” Maddie said. She slid the plates on the kitchen table. “Come over here and watch me.” She sat down and opened the computer lid. Her fingers flew across the keys, leaving Olivia confused. “Play around with it,” Maddie said. “I’m out of here.”

As she settled at the computer, Olivia felt a surge of resentment. She wanted her life back. She wanted to nestle in the warm, gingerbread world of cookie cutters and decorated cookies and making a living with her best friend. But here she was, hiding from customers and hunched over a Facebook page that had invaded her privacy.

Tammy’s latest most recent entry had been posted at one o’clock that morning:

You will not believe what happened at the will reading. Mostly it was what we expected, Hugh and Edward got most of their mom’s estate, split in half, and so on. But then we found out their mom had added an extra part that said Olivia Greyson—dear friend Livie—got $150,000 AND Clarisse’s whole huge collection of antique cookie cutters!! She’s supposed to use the money for her cookie-cutter store here in town, The Gingerbread House. (A little plug for your store, Livie.)

Of course, Livie thought, this entry was written after Tammy discovered Olivia had “accepted” her Facebook invitation, which would explain the gushing.

A number of responses had been posted throughout the night and into the morning. Olivia began to read:

Lucky lady. She sure knows how to pick her friends.

Yeah, rich ones who are about to kick off.

Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

What about that postal carrier? Wasn’t he poisoned by her cookies?

What do you really know about her, anyway? She could be a serial killer.

At that point, Olivia signed off and snapped her computer shut. Her hand pressed hard on the laptop lid as if it might fly open and spew out more accusations against her. Not that it mattered; the damage was done.

There was only one path through this quagmire. Clarisse’s killer and Sam’s attacker—Olivia was convinced they were one and the same—had to be identified and arrested as soon as possible. Somehow she had to convince Sheriff Del. If she couldn’t do so, she and Maddie would have to find the killer themselves, but it would be so much easier if Del would cooperate. Although he would undoubtedly order her to stay out of it, which she couldn’t do.

Olivia wanted to escape out the back and into the alley, but instead she stepped into the store. The Gingerbread House had taken second place for too long, and Maddie needed help. The sales floor teemed with customers. Maybe they were there for the wrong reasons, but publicity sometimes took a strange form.

Maddie stood in front of her, behind the sales counter, moving at warp speed as she rang up and bagged sales. As Olivia moved into the room, she heard the volume of chatter lower, then a whoosh as customers tried to reach her first. She recognized a few Chatterley Heights residents, as well as several antiques dealers and cookie-cutter collectors. At least half the faces were unfamiliar.

A tall, thin woman of about thirty, wearing a tight sweater, skinny jeans, and combat boots reached Olivia first. She stuck out her hand, and said, “Ms. Greyson? I’m Anita Rambert, representing the Rambert Antiques Mall. We’ve never met, but perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

Olivia had heard of her, through Maddie, who had made the rounds of antiques malls when they’d first opened The Gingerbread House. Maddie had described Anita Rambert as a barracuda cookie cutter, all sharp angles and hungry eyes. When she smiled, Olivia noticed her incisors were on the pointy side.

“I’ll get right to the point,” Ms. Rambert said. “I’ll take the Chamberlain collection off your hands for a fair price, in cash. I’ll need to see a complete listing of the cutters, of course, and verification of their authenticity.”

“That’s an interesting offer,” Olivia said, “but at this early stage, I’m not yet considering my—”

“You won’t get a better one, I assure you. I know all the players in the cutter world, and not one of them has sufficient cash on hand to buy the Chamberlain collection, at least from what I’ve heard about it.”

Ms. Rambert had impenetrable eyes that matched the sleek blue-black hair she wore tied back at the nape of her neck. She possessed all the ingredients for exotic beauty, but somehow they formed a forbidding presence.

Since she was almost the same height as Ms. Rambert, Olivia looked straight into those eyes and asked, “Where did you hear about the collection?”

Ms. Rambert’s eyebrows lifted in a startled expression. “On the Internet, of course. It’s tough to keep information about a collection secret, unless the collector is a complete hermit. Unlike some art collectors, cookie-cutter collectors love to share. Really, Ms. Greyson, I’d expect you to know that already.”

“Call me Livie,” Olivia said, pasting a smile across her face.

Olivia glanced over Ms. Rambert’s shoulder to see Maddie waving at her. When they made eye contact, Maddie, who was in the middle of unpacking an upscale professional mixer to show two customers, mouthed, “Help,” and pointed toward the register. Six customers, their arms full of potential purchases, fidgeted and peered around the store looking for help. Olivia excused herself from Ms. Rambert and hurried to the sales counter.

Heather Irwin, the new, fresh-out-of-college librarian for the Chatterley Heights Public Library, stood at the front of the line clutching a dozen individual cookie cutters in her small hands. With evident relief, she dumped them on the counter. While Olivia removed tags from the cutters and rang up the charges, Heather leaned forward and said, “It’s so exciting about you inheriting Ms. Chamberlain’s whole antique cookie-cutter collection. I’ve heard it’s amazing. Would you consider letting the library host an exhibit? It would be great publicity for The Gingerbread House, after all, and maybe more people would think about supporting the library.” Heather’s sweet, young voice tightened in frustration when she mentioned support for the library.

“We’ll see,” Olivia said. “I honestly haven’t had time to take it all in.”

“Really? You mean you didn’t know that Ms. Chamberlain was leaving her—?”

A male voice from the end of the ever-lengthening line called out, “Could we save the chat for later? Some of us have work to get back to.” Must be a dealer , Olivia thought. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d come for the same reason as Anita Rambert—to make an offer for Clarisse’s collection.

Another pile of cookie cutters clattered onto the sales counter. Olivia noticed an animal theme, specifically fish, bones, cats, dogs, rabbits, and one lone ferret. “I decided to leave the pony until later,” said a round-faced young woman. “We’re hoping to get some land outside of town so we can expand.”

“Gwen,” Olivia said with genuine pleasure. Gwen Tucker and her husband Herbie ran the local no-kill animal shelter, Chatterley’s Paws. They were responsible for leading Olivia to the Yorkie rescue website where she’d found Spunky. “I didn’t know you were interested in cookie cutters.”

“I didn’t, either,” Gwen said. “But then I got this idea for making animal treats and decorated cookies as a way to tempt people to come see the animals. If their kids are with them, so much the better. How many parents could say no to bringing home a cat or a dog after watching their kid feed it a treat?”

“Especially parents who are nibbling on decorated cookies themselves,” Olivia said as she wrapped the cutters in tissue paper and slid them into a bag.

“Exactly! I figure this is the perfect time to try out my idea, now that everybody in town is talking about cookies and cookie cutters. What an incredible stroke of luck that you should inherit Ms. Chamberlain’s collection. If it contains any animal figures, would you mind if Herbie and I took pictures of them to post around the shelter? Cookie cutters are such homey things, aren’t they? We thought the pictures and the cookies and treats would put people right in the mood to complete their families with a pet or two.”

Gwen’s request sent Olivia’s mood on another trip down the slide. Everyone seemed so eager to cash in on Clarisse’s death, and Olivia’s own “stroke of luck” had happened for the same reason. She felt a sudden urge to take a shower, pack up the car, and move with Spunky to an undisclosed location.

Avoiding eye contact, Olivia worked through the line of customers in silence. If anyone started to ask a question, she pretended not to hear. By two o’clock, The Gingerbread House began to empty as cars and vans carted off four or five passengers at a time, hoping to beat the worst of the Baltimore and DC rush hours.

With only a few stragglers left in the store, Olivia gestured to Maddie that she was taking a stack of receipts into the kitchen. Once the door closed behind her, Olivia dropped the receipts in a heap on the table, sank into a chair, and let her forehead drop onto her folded arms.

Clarisse’s death and Olivia’s growing conviction it was murder, Sam’s hints about a grandchild, Sam’s possible poisoning, the inheritance from Clarisse—too much had been happening, much too fast. And now she was smack dab in the middle of the mess and well on her way to joining the suspects list.

Olivia took Spunky on a quick run in the alley behind The Gingerbread House, then sped through the receipts. Not a bad take, and the day hadn’t ended. Having finished business, she began to search the Internet for references to the Chamberlain cookie-cutter collection.

When she heard the kitchen door open and close behind her, Olivia called over her shoulder. “Hey Maddie, come here and see what I’ve found.”

“Livie, we need to talk.” The voice did not belong to Maddie.

“Del!” Guided by instinct, Olivia clicked closed the website she’d found, lowered the computer lid, and twisted around in her seat. “You surprised me. I was expecting . . .”

Del wasn’t his usual low-key self, and Olivia felt her muscles tighten. “What’s up?” She tried to keep her voice light and casual. As Del stepped around the corner of the kitchen table, she noticed he was carrying a rolled-up newspaper. “Spunky has more or less grasped the whole housebreaking thing, if that’s what you’ve brought the paper for.” Okay, that was pathetic. She instructed her mouth to stay shut.

Del unrolled the newspaper and held it out for her to see. “Did you know about this?”

Olivia recognized the front page of the local paper, The Weekly Chatter , which usually came out every Wednesday.

“Where did you get this?” she asked. “It’s only Tuesday.”

“It’s late on Tuesday, and I’m the Sheriff. Binnie always drops off an advance copy.”

“That’s mighty cooperative,” Olivia said, “for a newspaper editor.”

Del shrugged and shifted his gaze toward the cupboards. “Binnie used to babysit me when I was a kid.”

Olivia stifled an urge to laugh, but her amusement dissipated when she read the banner, “Chamberlain Death Suspicious.” She yanked the paper from Del’s hand. A photo accompanying the article showed Olivia dressed in the black pants and gray sweater she’d worn to the will reading. She was standing next to her Valiant, talking with a man whose back was to the camera. The photo caption read, “Olivia Greyson, heir to fortune, consults with her lawyer.”

“What the . . . ?” Olivia muttered. “My lawyer? Heir to fortune?”

Del said nothing. He pulled a kitchen chair near her and sat down, his legs crossed in a casual way, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. Olivia’s peripheral vision registered the rapid wiggling of his left foot.

According to the byline, Binnie Sloan wrote the piece and Nedra Sloan was credited with the photos. Dread lay like a waterlogged tennis ball in Olivia’s stomach as she forced herself to begin reading the article. Binnie’s take on her surprise inheritance appeared to depend on comments from several “confidential sources,” who offered quotes such as:

Ms. Chamberlain was a healthy, successful woman with a ton of money and a couple grown sons under her thumb.

It’s the same old story, an elderly woman gets taken in by a young con artist and leaves her a bundle, but the con artist gets impatient because the old lady won’t die fast enough.

That Greyson woman, she runs this little store with cookie cutters, and all of a sudden she’s inherited five million dollars and another million in antique cookie cutters? All I can say is, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

Olivia heard a high-pitched whimpering sound and realized it had erupted from her own throat. The newspaper dropped on her lap. She glanced over at Del, who watched her with a thoughtful expression, as if he wasn’t sure what her reaction meant.

“Del, I check my phone messages and emails all the time, and Binnie never even tried to interview me.” “There’s more,” he said. “Go to page five.”

With a deep groan, Olivia did so. She found two more photos. The first showed her with Spunky in the store’s side yard. That explained the disturbing clicks they’d heard. The caption read,” Heiress Olivia Greyson enjoys a break.”

In the second photo, Bertha stared at the camera, her eyes so wide the whites encircled her pupils. The article continued with a quote from Bertha: “I can’t believe Ms. Olivia would hurt her. Why, Ms. Clarisse treated her like a daughter.” Olivia groaned again. She could hear Bertha saying those words in all innocence, but written down they could be read as conveying shock.

It came as no surprise that the attorney Mr. Willard, along with Hugh and Edward Chamberlain, had refused to comment. Tammy Deacons was not mentioned. Either she wasn’t there at the time of the so-called interviews, or she was one of the “confidential sources.”

Olivia sprang out of her chair and slapped the newspaper down in front of Del. It made a satisfying thwap, but Del barely blinked.

“When you first barged in here, you demanded to know if I knew about ‘this.’ If you think I’d have anything to gain from this kind of exposure, you’re nuts.” Olivia hauled herself up onto the table so she could look down at him.

Del uncrossed his legs and sat up straighter. “By ‘this,’ I meant the bequest Clarisse made to you. And by the way, I’m aware it wasn’t five million dollars plus a million in antique cookie cutters.”

“How do you know?”

“I called the Chamberlain house and asked. Apparently, I have more influence than the editor of The Weekly Chatter, because Edward answered the phone and assured me you’d received only one hundred fifty thousand dollars and a collection estimated to be worth about thirty thousand.”

“It won’t make much of a dent in his inheritance, or Hugh’s,” Olivia said. “Although it sounds huge to me, and it might look like a good motive for murder.”

“It probably would.”

“At any rate, the answer to your question is a definite no. I had no hint that Clarisse planned to leave me anything at all. When Mr. Willard called to tell me she had made a bequest to me, I assumed it would amount to a few of her favorite cookie cutters, the ones with sentimental value. I was stunned when Mr. Willard read the codicil. That’s why we were talking outside afterwards, when that photo was taken. He assured me that Clarisse had wanted the bequest kept secret. You can ask him, if you don’t believe me.”

“I already have,” Del said with a faint but definite smile. “However, he couldn’t know if you’d found out from another source. I needed to hear it from you.”

He didn’t add that he now believed her, and she didn’t ask.

According to the clock over the sink, it was five. Maddie would be straightening up the chaos left behind by a crowd of excited customers. On the one hand, Olivia wanted Del to leave so she and Maddie could get back to their own investigation. On the other hand, maybe this wretched newspaper article had opened Del’s mind a bit.

“Del, remember that conversation we had at the café right after Clarisse’s death?”

Del nodded.

“You seemed so certain it was an accident. In fact, you wouldn’t even talk about the possibility of suicide. I couldn’t believe it had been either one, but the possibility of murder didn’t occur to me then. Now it has. I’ve thought for some time that Clarisse was murdered, and now I’m convinced she was. Only I don’t know by whom.”

Del leaned forward, elbows on knees, and stared at the kitchen floor for what felt to Olivia like an hour. Anyway, it was long enough for her to move through a string of emotions from intense anxiety to curiosity to embarrassment that the floor hadn’t been swept in a week.

Finally, he looked up at her and asked, “What makes you so sure?”

She should have known he’d ask her that question. How could she be convincing without involving anyone else?

“And before you tell me,” Del said, “let me add that I already know Cody shared his so-called crime scene photos with you. We had a serious discussion about that.”

“Oh dear,” Olivia said, cringing. “I hoped I wouldn’t get him into trouble, but you were so insistent it wasn’t a crime, you can’t really blame him. Blame me, if you want, but not Cody. He’s serious about his job, and I, for one, think he’s on to something.”

“So do I,” Del said.

“You do? Really? When did . . . I mean, how . . . ?”

“Give me some credit, Livie. I realize television mystery series present small-town sheriffs as buffoons or bullies, but most of us speak in complete sentences and take pride in our jobs.”

“Um, I—”

“Furthermore, I am not required to tell you, at any time, what I might know or suspect in a certain case. It makes my job a lot harder when private citizens start asking dangerous questions and putting themselves in harm’s way because they think they are smarter than I am.”

“Wait a minute, I never, ever thought I was smarter—”

“I’m not finished, Livie. I’m saying this because I care about you.”

“Well, you have a strange way of—”

Del sprang from his chair and grabbed Olivia by the shoulders. He looked into her eyes with an intensity that sent a distracting shiver through her.

Del released her as the kitchen door opened.

“I’ll finish closing up,” Maddie said quietly, her eyes darting from Del to Olivia. “Then I’ll be heading on home.” The door clicked shut.

Del slid back onto his chair. “Now having said all that, let me add that I think you are intelligent, insightful, and I want to hear everything you, and I presume Maddie, have discovered.”

An hour later, Olivia had shown Del the financial information Maddie had gathered, the websites they’d searched, and Tammy’s notorious Facebook page. She told him that Sam Parnell delivered to Clarisse a letter he thought was from a private detective, and she urged him to connect the attack on Sam with that letter.

However, as she prepared to tell Del about the letters from Faith and Clarisse, his cell rang. He turned his back on her and answered. All she heard was, “I’ll be right there.” He turned around and said, “I’ve got to take care of something.”

Del slid an arm in his uniform jacket sleeve. “I want you to delete those photos of the scene.” When Olivia opened her mouth to protest, he added, “Not because I’m the sheriff and I think you shouldn’t have them. Although you shouldn’t. I don’t think it’s safe for you to have them.”

Del picked up his hat and reached for the alley door. In a lighter tone, he said, “I’d count it as a personal favor if you wouldn’t go all Miss Marple on me.”

“You needn’t worry,” Olivia said.

With a nod, Del opened the door.

“I’m really more the Tuppence Beresford type.”

“Really? The young Tuppence or the older one?”

Before Olivia could draw in enough breath for a comeback, Del was gone.