Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
The delicious mysteries of Berkley Prime Crime for gourmet detectives
The Cookie Crumbles
“I’m surprised you’re not fat,” Olivia teased her brother.
“I’m surprised you’re not in jail,” Jason said, just before forcing another half of a sandwich into his mouth. He closed his eyes in ecstasy while he chewed, which left him unaware of the sudden silence. Only when he opened his eyes and reached for the last of the food did he notice the confused stares from his nearest and dearest. “Wassup? Do I have a piece of bacon up my nose?”
Ellie frowned at him, a rare occurrence. “That was an unusual statement you made about your sister,” she said.
“What? About her being in jail?” Jason looked from his mother to his stepfather and finally to Olivia. “You really haven’t heard, have you?”
“Heard what?” Allan’s tone was clipped, no nonsense.
Jason wiped his mouth with his napkin and scraped back his chair. “Sam Parnell was rushed to the hospital, unconscious. I guess he finally got too snoopy for his own good and somebody tried to kill him.”
Olivia was first to break the stunned silence. “How do they know it was a murder attempt?” she asked. “And even if it was, what could it possibly have to do with me?”
Jason started to laugh, but the dangerous look on Olivia’s face sobered him quickly. “I don’t have the inside scoop or anything, only what’s going around town.”
“Which is?”
“Well . . . Look, Livie, don’t kill the messenger, okay? What’s going around is, Sam was eating a cookie when he collapsed, and he didn’t choke or have a heart attack or anything. He had a bag from your store, and there were still cookie crumbs and icing bits inside. All I’m saying is, it doesn’t look good.”
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COOKIE DOUGH OR DIE
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / April 2011
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eISBN : 978-1-101-47762-5
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For my father and for Marilyn
Acknowledgments
Writing a book may be a solitary pursuit, but most of us need plenty of help and support to reach the end. I’m no exception. It has been a delight to work with Michelle Vega, a talented editor who provided great ideas, as well as understanding at crucial moments. Many thanks to my longtime writing buddies: Mary Logue, Pete Hautman, Ellen Hart, and K. J. Erickson. I am grateful to the members of the National Cookie Cutter Collectors Club for their enduring passion and for their newsletter, Cookie Crumbs, which inspired many a detail in this story. Marilyn Throne has saved my life more than once with her depth of knowledge about the writing process and her no-nonsense support. Thank you, Marilyn. And, of course, my deep gratitude goes to my father and sister and to my husband, my loving cheerleaders.
Chapter One
Olivia Greyson’s eyes popped open to darkness—and to the sense that someone was downstairs. Her little Yorkie had heard something. Spunky hadn’t barked, but he was watching the bedroom door, ears perked.
Olivia’s beloved store, The Gingerbread House, occupied the entire first floor of her small Victorian home. In a town like Chatterley Heights, no one bothered with fancy burglar alarms, but Olivia—who had, after all, lived a dozen years in Baltimore—kicked herself for not knowing better. On the other hand, Chatterley Heights barely managed to provide enough crime for two officers, so what were the odds?
It must have been a dream. “That does it,” Olivia said. “No more chocolate-iced shortbread before bed. And that includes you, young man. Don’t think I didn’t see you lap up those crumbs.” Spunky objected with a whimper.
Olivia’s head dropped to the pillow, but her eyes stared into the darkness as she mentally ticked through the contents of her store—cookie cutters, first and foremost, but she locked the valuable antiques in the safe each night, along with the day’s receipts. Some of the glossier cookie cookbooks, designed for coffee table display, carried hefty price tags; however, they were too heavy to steal. The more expensive aprons, hand-appliquéd with decorated cookie designs, drew sighs only from the few customers who understood the skill it took to create them.
Olivia left only one costly piece of equipment on permanent display in the cookbook alcove, a bright red mixer set with a stunning array of attachments. It was worth stealing, but even a desperate thief might think twice. Try explaining that contraption to a pawnshop clerk.
Spunky curled into the curve of her knees, relaxing the tension in Olivia’s body, but her mind kept bouncing around the store downstairs. Luckily, she had a fail-safe method for falling asleep.
She closed her eyes and imagined herself snuggled in a fleece-lined canoe, drifting along a river of chocolate sprinkles. She smelled the rich, sensuous aroma of chocolate melting under a warm sun. Soon she felt a gentle drop as her canoe glided down a waterfall of colored sugar crystals. Sparkling cascades of violet, red, and blue splashed all around her. A soft landing in a pool of frothy icing, and she’d be asleep.
Instead, she crash-landed awake as Spunky jumped to his paws and barked at the closed bedroom door.
Olivia dragged herself up on one elbow. “What is it, Spunks?”
Spunky stiffened and growled.
Reaching over the tiny dog, Olivia patted the top of her bedside table to locate her alarm clock, also known as her cell phone. She pushed the center button to wake it up. The lit numbers at the top read four a.m.
So far, Olivia hadn’t heard a sound in the house, at least nothing besides the usual creaks or the furnace kicking on. Spunky had excellent hearing, though, so perhaps someone really was trying to get into the store—someone who didn’t realize the pricy items were locked away.
Olivia started to punch 911, then hesitated, remembering an incident the previous autumn. An extended family of hungry mice had invaded The Gingerbread House kitchen and settled down for the winter in brand-new sacks of flour and sugar. Spunky had heard them through the floor vents upstairs. It would be a shame to rouse the town’s limited police force, only to confront a band of unarmed mice. She’d never hear the end of it.
Olivia slid her feet from under the covers and into a pair of battered tennis shoes she used for slippers. Ears erect and ready for anything, Spunky hopped off the bed and trotted toward the bedroom door. His right-front paw, injured in puppyhood, twisted inward a bit, so he had a limp. Still, he moved as fast as any five-pound dog alive. He had no awareness of his size; he would protect Olivia to the death. She had no intention of allowing him to do so.
Using her firm alpha-dog voice, learned in puppy school, Olivia said, “Spunky, stay here and guard the inner sanctum.”
At the word “stay,” Spunky tilted his head sideways. A curtain of silky hair fell across his face, covering one eye. The other eye pleaded for a chance to do battle for her. Olivia reached down to smooth the hair back over his head.
“Nice try,” she said. “I’ll be right back.” She cracked open the bedroom door enough to squeeze through sideways, blocking Spunky with her foot, then snapped the door shut behind her. Spunky had a frightening habit of exploding through doorways as if escape were his only salvation. A holdover from puppyhood.
In the hallway, a nightlight made from a cookie cutter cast a glowing teakettle shape on the wall. Olivia decided to leave the overhead light off, just in case, though she still hadn’t heard any alarming noises.
At that moment Olivia heard a faint scraping sound, and it hadn’t come from the bedroom behind her. It might have been beneath her feet. Olivia knelt down, put her ear to the floor, and listened. There it was again, a scrape, like a stuck door being yanked open. The door to the supply cabinet in the kitchen made a sound like that. She kept meaning to ask Lucas Ashford, owner of Height’s Hardware next door, to stop by and sand it down. Now she was glad she’d forgotten. That telltale scraping sound told her someone was downstairs in The Gingerbread House kitchen, opening cupboard doors.
Olivia had left her cell phone by her bed, but she could use the wall phone in her small upstairs kitchen, two doors down, at the rear of the house. She bolted to her feet and reached the kitchen in seconds, panting more from anxiety than exertion. Her hand shook as she grabbed for the phone.
The noises were much louder now that she was in her own kitchen, right above the store kitchen. Olivia hesitated, listening. Surely not even a battalion of mice could make such a racket, let alone any self-respecting intruder. The sounds downstairs had become way too familiar—the clatter of metal pans, the rhythmic clink of a spoon hitting a porcelain bowl, the oven door clunking shut. Either the mice were baking cookies or . . .
“Maddie.” The name came out as an exasperated groan, as Olivia collapsed on a kitchen chair.
Madeline Briggs was her best friend, had been since they were ten years old. In the intervening twenty-one years, Maddie had brought much to Olivia’s life, including fun, a shoulder to cry on, and the occasional murderous impulse. The latter had become more common in the past year, since she and Maddie had become business partners. Olivia’s fun quotient had increased, too, but this was not one of those moments.
Olivia had dawdled at bedtime and, so far, had achieved only four hours of sleep. The last fifteen minutes had worn her out. The thought of crawling back under the covers brought her to her feet. She’d have to remind Maddie that she wasn’t in her own kitchen. After more sleep.
At that moment, the Chatterley Heights Gospel Chorus erupted into deafening four-part harmony. Except Chatterley Heights didn’t have a gospel chorus, and it was barely past four o’clock in the morning.
This was vintage Maddie. Her aunt Sadie, who’d raised her, used to complain that Maddie would awaken with a masterpiece in mind for the school bake sale, pay no attention to the time, run down to the kitchen—oblivious to the absence of sunlight—and jump headfirst into her project. Never mind that someone might be in hearing distance, trying to complete an adequate night’s sleep. Only she’d never before pulled this stunt in The Gingerbread House.
On the plus side, Maddie was responsible for several wildly creative ideas that had already made The Gingerbread House a shopping destination for customers from DC and Baltimore. Everyone loved her, and she was fun to work with. Most of the time.
Olivia grabbed her keys from the kitchen wall hook and draped them over the waistband of the sweatpants she’d worn to bed. She would simply explain to Maddie that most people don’t find loud music conducive to slumber, they would come to an agreement, and Olivia could enjoy another few hours of sleep.
First, she stopped at her bathroom to splash some cold water on her face. It didn’t help. The woman she saw in the mirror had sleep-crusted bluish gray eyes, one creased cheek, and serious bed hair. She consoled herself with the thought that she looked terrifying.
Olivia’s laceless sneakers flopped as she trudged down the stairs to unlock her front door, which opened into the house’s original entryway. A wealthy Baltimore family had built the little Queen Anne in 1889 as a summer getaway. During the following century, new owners had transformed the house into a duplex by blocking off the staircase and adding two inner doors inside the entryway. One led upstairs, the other opened into The Gingerbread House. This double entry had sold Olivia on the idea of sinking a good chunk of her divorce settlement into a mortgage. The location, the northeast corner of Chatterley Heights’s busy town square, couldn’t be more perfect. She’d decided to open a cookie-cutter store downstairs, complete with its own kitchen, and she could live upstairs, all for one hefty monthly payment.
On this particular morning, she questioned the wisdom of her business and residential choices.
Olivia unlocked The Gingerbread House and stepped inside, bolting the door behind her. She could make out shapes in the darkness, but she knew better than to feel her way along without light. The store was a glorious cookie-cutter minefield—cookie cutters served as lamp and curtain pulls, themed cookie-cutter mobiles swung from the ceiling, and small tables holding elaborate displays dotted the room. Customers with aesthetic leanings felt free to rearrange tables on whim.
Olivia twisted the dimmer switch enough so she could cross to the kitchen without breaking several toes or her neck. Even in her crabby, sleep-interrupted state, she felt a ping of pleasure as dozens of metal cookie cutters caught the light and glistened like waves in the moonlight. For Olivia, each day began like her childhood Christmas mornings, when she would sneak downstairs before anyone else was up. She would plug in the tree lights and sit cross-legged in the dark, staring at the sparkles of color. If she swung her head back and forth fast enough, the lights would blur and ap
pear to move, like multicolored shooting stars.
Then her younger brother Jason would bound downstairs, whooping and jabbering with excitement. He’d flip on all the lights and dive for his presents, ripping the shiny paper into shreds. She loved her baby brother, but he sure could destroy a moment of enchantment.
As she reached for the kitchen doorknob, Olivia took a deep breath to prepare herself for chaotic reality. At least the gospel music had stopped. Maybe Maddie was winding down, cleaning up the kitchen. Olivia turned the knob and opened the kitchen door. A blast of the Bee Gees singing “Stayin’ Alive” knocked her a step backwards.
Olivia stepped inside to buttery warmth laced with nutmeg, which almost made up for the state of the kitchen. Maddie had a gift for exuberant baking, which always resulted in a huge mess, but this time she had achieved a personal best. Apparently, it had snowed in the kitchen. Flour dusted the surface of the large kitchen table, the counter, the floor. Globs of cookie dough stuck to the walls, the door, even the refrigerator.
Maddie’s pretty round face showed smudges of flour wherever she had rubbed or swiped, including the tip of her nose. At least she’d thought to put an apron over her jeans and T-shirt. A magenta bandanna held back her springy red curls. Her curvy hips were swaying in time to the disco beat as she studied a color chart.
Olivia couldn’t help but smile.
On the kitchen table, several dozen cut-out cookies lay cooling on racks. As always, they were baked to perfection and not one second beyond. At least a dozen soupsize plastic containers, plus a large mixing bowl filled with cream-colored icing, crowded the table. Maddie had her back to Olivia while she selected a small bottle from an impressive collection of similar bottles that lined the shelves next to the color chart. After executing a smooth disco spin around to the table, Maddie scooped some icing into one of the containers, then opened her bottle of food coloring. She existed only on Planet Maddie, alone with her colors, her tunes, and a gallon of royal icing.
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