“Thank you, I think. Good to know my baking has yet to peak. It has a long way to go to catch up to my cooking. What’s your memory of that bake-off?”
“My memory isn’t a fond one. It was my first and only bake-off back then. I was young and had all the hope in the world my cookie would win on taste, presentation, and all-out goodness. Turns out those weren’t the criteria the judge based his decision on. I entered this year’s bake-off as a kind of vindication after all these years. At the time, I wasn’t the only baker who felt we were wronged.” Eileen’s face soured.
“Only one judge?” Erno asked. “I know from Sherry’s contests, one judge is highly unusual.”
“I know what you’re thinking, that I’m a sore loser. Not true,” Eileen said. “Ivy was a gorgeous lady. The rest of us paled in comparison. Yes, her Tropical Whatchamacallit Cookie Bars were good. I tasted one. Not as good as mine, though.”
“What you’re suggesting doesn’t happen in well-run contests,” Sherry said.
“You’re a touch naïve,” Eileen added. “Winning on my second try against her cookie makes it almost all better. With three judges, all impartial. It didn’t seem to matter you didn’t vote for me. I got the majority vote from the others.”
Sherry opened her mouth to respond. The words didn’t come.
“Her story wasn’t even that good. I remember it perfectly. She simply said the cookie recipe was invented by her to woo the man of her dreams.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“You’ve heard the story before?” Eileen asked.
“Same story, different contestant. When we had Crosby over for dinner the night before the bake-off, he told me the story of his recipe, even though I told him I didn’t want to hear it and I couldn’t comment on it.” Sherry listened for any unusual reaction. The more she tried to explain herself, the deeper potential trouble she was getting in to with Eileen for not choosing her as the bake-off winner.
“You had a contestant over for dinner the night before you were to judge him?”
Sherry winced at the incredulous tone of Eileen’s voice.
“Let me explain. Crosby stopped into the Ruggery, introduced himself, and before long, Marla and I came to the realization he had been our home economics teacher in high school, a million years ago.”
Eileen’s eyebrows raised.
“Hold on, though. Give me some credit for showing integrity in maintaining impartiality during the bake-off. Remember, you’re my next-door neighbor. The two other judges gave me a look when I mentioned our connection as you approached the judging table. And it wasn’t just you and Crosby I was familiar with. I knew most of the contestants, one way or another. Augustin’s not that big a town.”
“You may have known a lot of the bakers, but did any of them try to flirt with you?” Eileen asked.
Sherry laughed. “Not that I noticed. Wouldn’t make a difference if they did.”
“Okay, I feel better now. Maybe after all these years, there’s a possibility I read the situation wrong.” Eileen sighed. “Ivy won the bake-off fair and square. Can’t penalize her for being a beauty.”
“I think that’s a good way to remember it,” Sherry said.
“If you’d like to leave a deposit for the cookie rug, I can work up the numbers,” Erno inserted into the awkward silence. “Follow me.”
Erno led Eileen to the store’s lookbooks to begin the process of working up the rug’s specifications. Sherry returned to the sales counter and the boxes of daffodil-yellow yarn dye. She unloaded the last box and finalized the inventory sheet. Her phone rang as she flattened the last cardboard box to be taken out to the recycle bin next to the driveway dumpster.
“Hello, Ruth. Do you have the complete list of guests for tomorrow night?”
“I’ve heard back from everyone on the list you gave me.”
“And we have at least one extra, so I hope you’ll make lots of salmon rolls.”
“Extra?” Ruth asked.
“I had the idea of inviting Vitis Costa, the current Augustin Marina dockmaster. He can give a short talk on the functions of the marina. I urged him to emphasize that, despite the reduced size of the operation today, the town’s economy depends in part on a healthy tourist trade, which includes the visiting boaters.”
“Good idea. And Lonnie is bringing a plus-one,” Ruth said.
“I thought that might happen. Rachel?”
“That’s right.”
“So, the final count without you and me is . . . ?”
“Somewhere between eleven and fifteen,” Ruth said.
“That’s a wide range. I’ll bring two dozen cookies.”
“Dolly will be dressed in her Colonial costume and attending the Colonial kitchen as any dutiful eighteenth-century woman would happily aspire to. You’d fit in perfectly in that era, dear.”
“Thank you, I think. See you tomorrow night.” Sherry clicked to end the call. She waited by the register as her father and Eileen approached.
“Eileen and I have wrapped up the details of her project. She’s very excited. I think you might see her on the cooking contest circuit again sometime soon.” Erno opened the door for her.
Her broad grin was accompanied by a wave goodbye.
“Dad, do you think ‘aloha’ means hello or goodbye?” Sherry asked as her father turned her way.
“Sometimes, you do ask the strangest questions. Let me think. I know it means both, and I also know it means love. It’s a pleasant greeting expressing a caring sentiment. Does that help?”
“Imagine you received a card and written inside was a note that read, ‘Aloha, my love.’ Would you take that as a ‘this can’t continue’ or as a ‘nice to see you today, my love’ note?” Sherry asked.
“Sadly, the former. Sounds like a line from a movie.” Erno softened his tone. “Did you get this note from Don? You know, he’s not the only fish in the sea. Although I do consider him a good catch for you.”
Sherry pursed her lips. “No, Don didn’t send me that note. There was a card inside the pocket of the coat I picked up from the cleaners. The one that belonged to Ivy. Effi and Sal offered it to me when they were about to donate it to a thrift store. When I tried it on, I found a card with those words written on it.”
“Not terribly unusual, except for the fact that the note may have been in the pocket for an awfully long time. The elder Curriers went to Hawaii on their honeymoon. Maybe the card was from their time in Hawaii. Maybe the inscription meant goodbye to Hawaii because they loved their trip.”
“How do you know they went there on their honeymoon?” Sherry asked.
“That’s an easy one. Years later, the islands were the theme of the rug they asked me to make for them. They were married many years by then. I made the rug and they were quite pleased with it. It wasn’t laid in their home. Rather, they put it in the yacht club. Unfortunately, the rug was heavily damaged in the marina fire. They contacted me to repair it, then never followed up. I believe it was beyond repair.”
“Wonder if the note was from Lonnie to Ivy with the meaning, ‘it’s been nice, but now it’s over?’” Sherry thought out loud. “Or was it from Crosby to Rachel? She wore the coat at some point. Or was the note written by someone else entirely? A third party.”
Erno began portioning off packets of yellow dye into groups of three.
“Do you have any idea how long ago the Hawaiian honeymoon was?” Sherry watched her father close his eyes. She assumed he was mentally running through years. She knew he held a vast database of customer information, as if his brain were a Rolodex.
He opened his eyes. “Forty-four.”
“That’s the number I was hoping you’d come up with.”
Chapter 23
The first thing Sherry did when she returned home in the afternoon was remove the freshly baked cookie bars from the pan. The coconutty bars cut nicely, thanks to the addition of parchment paper on the bottom of the baking dish. Ivy’s recipe instructions pointed out the n
ecessity of the extra layer between the batter and the baking dish to avoid sticking, and she was spot-on. She must have practiced baking these Tropical Aloha Bars a number of times to get the moist, sweet, crumby texture perfect.
Sherry stacked the bars on a blue dessert plate and covered them with plastic wrap. They would retain their moisture and form until tomorrow afternoon, she hoped. “I wonder why Crosby changed the name of the cookie from Tropical Aloha to Tropical Dream. The recipe itself wasn’t changed, for the most part, so why bother changing the name?” Sherry glanced at Chutney, who wasn’t able to come up with an answer.
Sherry rinsed her hands and picked up her phone. She began a text then deleted the two words she’d typed. Instead, she found Ray’s name in her Contacts and called him.
“Hi, Ray.”
“Is this a social call? Must be, because usually you don’t even pause long enough to give me time to return the greeting.”
“I was gathering my thoughts. I was going to text but had a change of heart. With you, it’s all about my presentation.”
“Go on.” Ray’s tone was casual, or he was distracted by multitasking, which was more probable.
“You won’t like this question, but here I go. In my opinion, Crosby had a number of family issues. Lonnie doesn’t seem particularly broken up over Crosby’s death. Lonnie is the first to tell anyone who’ll listen that Crosby was a source of disappointment for him. Rachel married a man she thought was her dream, but that dream never came true.” Sherry paused. She repeated the word, “dream.”
“The name of his bake-off cookies,” Ray said. “Tropical Dream Bars.”
“That’s right. Crosby seemed to have the closest relationship to his mother. People familiar with the situation say Ivy went out of her way to keep Crosby from taking the blame for the Augustin Marina fire. The fire that tore the family apart. Unless I’m mistaken, Ivy and Rachel may have been close, despite Rachel’s current negative opinion of Crosby. At least, close enough to share an expensive coat.”
“And your question is . . . ?” Ray repeatedly tapped something—a pen perhaps—on a hard surface.
“What would you say if I told you Crosby was a honeymoon baby?”
“I’d say that’s interesting and not unheard of, but why are you so focused on what happened decades ago?”
Sherry paused to consider facts versus speculation. Ray would jump at the chance to call her out on any theory she came up with that couldn’t be proven with solid evidence. She’d have to stick to the dry facts. She proceeded with caution.
“Crosby’s body was found at the marina. The same marina his father worked at until Crosby was in his early twenties.”
“Right.” The tapping continued.
“If Lonnie were the murderer, seems too obvious he’d return to the marina to dispose of the body. Might as well leave his business card to ensure no one overlooked his guilt.”
Ray didn’t respond.
“Rachel said Crosby was never much of a sailor. He was considerate enough to buy a boat and name it after his wife, who did enjoy being out on the water. Although he was changing the name of the boat after the divorce. Sweet Revenge is yet another calling card. If he got the boat’s name changed before Rachel took ownership, she’d have to go through the effort of renaming and repainting the boat, or live with a name that draws suspicion. All because Crosby wanted to get one last dig in on his ex-wife.”
“I’ve seen worse cases of spousal retaliation,” Ray said.
“That being said, my gut tells me neither Lonnie nor Rachel killed Crosby. Someone is out to peg them for his murder.”
She waited, and Ray stayed silent.
“Have you ever been sailing?” Sherry knew jumping from subject to subject tested Ray’s patience, but the method worked best to keep him engaged.
“Reluctantly. Case in point: I had high hopes once when I took a young lady out on a romantic sail with a skilled sailor at the helm. In my mind, the end result would be her labeling me adventurous and she’d throw herself at me.”
“How did that work out?”
“I’m single. The plan backfired. She saw the skilled sailor, not me, as the adventurous and attractive catch and threw herself at him. Reinforces the words of Shakespeare, ‘to thine own self be true.’ I tried to be something I wasn’t and it blew up in my face. Live and learn.”
“I think you’re adventurous in your own way. The right girl is out there for you. Don’t give up hope.”
“How did this call get to be about my love life anyway? Is that all you wanted to ask?” Ray’s tone grew gruff, bringing Sherry to grin.
“That’s all. Bye, Ray.”
Sherry jotted down the word, “dream,” on a scrap of paper. “Chutney, the man is a genius.” She reexamined the paper and realized it was the receipt Vitis had found under her car when he was changing the flat tires. “There’s a price written down. Was I supposed to pay for those cookies?” Horrified at the thought she had assumed incorrectly Chef Buckman’s cookies were a present, she reviewed the receipt. “This isn’t mine. But I think I know who made this purchase.”
* * *
The next day, gray clouds smothered the sun and the nip in the air was no longer a glancing blow. The weatherman on the television morning news relayed the extended forecast in two words: “cold” and “colder.” Winter had arrived. When the time came to leave for the Historical Society, Sherry changed her footwear three times, from boots to shoes to boots and back to shoes. There was a chance for sleet that evening, so Sherry finally decided on carrying her waterproof boots and leaving them in the car, for peace of mind. If what to wear on her feet was the only indecision plaguing her, she would have been quite content.
Arriving at the Historical Society an hour early would give Sherry and Ruth plenty of time to tidy up from the daily visitors before the evening guests arrived. The first thing Sherry saw when she entered the wood-and-stone, Colonial-era building was a candy wrapper on the floor.
“This could spoil the illusion of the seventeen hundreds in a hurry.” She picked up the brightly colored, crumpled paper.
“Thank you. That wasn’t there last time I swept.” Dolly approached with a broom made of a sturdy stick rod with twigs for bristles. She wore a bonnet and a white apron tied over her long, impractical dress. She swept the floor around the front entryway. The inefficient broom stirred up debris rather than containing the dust the way a modern broom would.
The woman peered up from her task. “Sherry, right?”
“Yes. Nice to see you again, Dolly. Thank you for staying on and helping with the donor party.”
“It’s my home.” Dolly didn’t break character. “Of course I’m staying to greet the guests. Welcoming strangers with food and drink is one of my most important roles as a Colonial woman. The visitors may have traveled days to get here, under difficult and dangerous circumstances, and I want to make them feel at home after their tiring journey.”
“You’re a good host.” Sherry lifted her plate of cookies. “Where should I put these?”
“Let’s bring them into the kitchen, where I’ll transfer them onto a more era-appropriate serving platter. Follow me.”
Sherry gave her cookies a forlorn glance as she traced Dolly’s footsteps into the kitchen. The overwhelming theme of the room’s décor was dark wood. The centerpiece was an oversized brick fireplace, as tall as Dolly. Sherry imagined that she, with her slight build, might have scored the job portraying a Colonial woman for the sole reason of fitting the fireplace’s dimensions to perfection. Sherry considered she, herself, would have been categorized an oversized woman hundreds of years ago, thus limiting her potential to find a Colonial husband, as, she had read, males were inches shorter on average back then.
Sherry set her cookie plate on the cloth-covered, wooden table that sat a safe distance back from the fireplace. Dolly set a hammered metal plate next to Sherry’s and began transferring the cookies from the modern plate to the hand-forged serving
platter of yesteryear.
“Is Ruth here? I thought I saw her car in the lot, unless that was yours.”
“Car? What is that? You must be speaking of my horse and wagon. I’ve put them away for the night.” Dolly side-eyed Sherry. “Yes, Mistress Ruth is tidying up the drawing room.”
“Thanks. I’ll go find her.” Sherry left Dolly stacking cookie bars. She hoped Ruth was embracing the modern era. The night was going to be awkward if Sherry was the only host speaking in twenty-first-century lingo.
“Ruth? Are you in here?” Sherry entered the large room adorned with small windows and another fireplace.
Sparsely decorated with only olive green and ivory window treatments, the room matched the kitchen in its austerity and drabness. Antique wooden chairs were set up in two rows facing the unlit fireplace. Candlelight bulbs in lantern cases were hung on the wall to mimic the lighting used before electricity. The wooden floor creaked as Sherry approached Ruth, who was putting the finishing touches on the fireplace tool arrangement.
“Hi, dear. Aren’t you excited? If we get some big donations, we can have some wonderful exhibits in the new year. I brought wine and my salmon rolls. Hopefully, you brought some sweet treats.” Ruth’s midshin-length dress billowed out as she made a lap around the edge of the room, picking up lint specks as she did so.
“I’m very excited.”
Ruth came to rest next to Sherry. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. How did you come up with your list of guests? I did some checking, and, while some are extremely well off, others wouldn’t be my pick of someone I’d consider a potentially large donor. Unless they have a strong interest in either the history of Augustin or the preservation of the harbor, I wouldn’t understand why you chose some of them.”
“It’s more about the chemistry of the group. As you said, some have the money and some have the interest in aspects of the Augustin community. Between you, Dolly, and Vitis, one of us ought to be able to convince the others to open their wallets wide. When one makes a pledge, the others will follow suit, mark my words. Before you know it, the society will have donations, the Augustin Marina Restoration Fund may have some donors and, beyond that, there may be a few surprises we didn’t count on.”
Double Chocolate Cookie Murder Page 21
