Cookie Dough or Die

by Virginia Lowell

  Olivia mentally prepared to slice him in half with a few well-chosen words. She had to admit some satisfaction as she watched Sam’s bony face take on the look of a rat that had found itself cut off from all available methods of escape. And then a thought poked through her righteous rage—Sam loved gossip. He might be useful.

  Olivia stepped into the store and flipped the light on fully. “Let’s start over,” she said. “I was about to make a pot of coffee. How about joining me? I’ve been back in town all these months, and we haven’t had any chance to chat.” That one minor role in a high school melodrama had been time well spent.

  Sam had the dazed look of someone dropped into an alternate universe. “Well, uh . . .” He waved his hand at the mail sack hanging over his left shoulder.

  Olivia decided to misinterpret. “That thing must weigh a ton. Why don’t we go into the kitchen; you can leave it on the table while we have coffee.” She gave him a delighted smile. “Isn’t this the most perfect timing? I mean, I’m almost never in the store on Monday mornings, and here you are, ahead of schedule. You usually don’t reach here until about ten, and it’s . . .” Olivia pushed up the sleeve of her sweater to check her watch. “It’s not even eight o’clock.” She opened the kitchen door and waved him inside.

  “Okay, sure, thanks,” Sam mumbled. He slid the mail sack off his shoulder as he shuffled into the kitchen.

  Only minutes earlier, Olivia would have laid odds that Sam Parnell would never willingly enter her kitchen for a chat, let alone thank her for inviting him. However, she had watched Sam’s expression transform while she delivered her spiel. The sharp edges of his face seemed to soften, and his small, pale eyes assumed a puppylike quality. At a certain point, Olivia had stopped acting. However, empathy aside, she fully intended to learn what she could from Snoopy Parnell.

  A few minutes later, Olivia had the Mr. Coffee fired up and dripping. “I think I can produce a cookie or three,” she said, glancing over at Sam. He’d pulled his chair right up to the edge of the kitchen table, where he sat like a schoolboy with his hands on the tabletop, fingers interlaced.

  When the coffee was ready, Olivia filled two mugs. “Do you take milk or sugar?”

  “Black,” Sam said. “None of that muck for me.”

  “Here you go,” Olivia said, setting a steaming mug in front of him. She placed a plate holding six decorated cookies within his reach. She added milk and sugar, lots of both, to her own mug. “I go for the muck, myself,” she said lightly.

  Sam made no comment.

  “I have to admit,” she said, as she pulled up a kitchen chair opposite Sam, “I envy you your job. I mean, you get to be outside all day, plenty of exercise, lots of contact with people. You must have seen and heard everything by now.” Olivia sipped her coffee, watching Sam over the edge of her cup.

  Sam’s shrug conveyed agreement rather than modesty. “Folks have no idea how much we see and hear. We’re sort of invisible to most people, like a doorman or a waiter or something.” An edge of resentment had crept into his voice. “Hardly anyone knows they’re supposed to tip me at Christmas.”

  Olivia clucked her sympathetic disapproval and silently vowed to tip anyone who ever delivered anything to her. “I guess I’ve been one of those people,” she said. “I hope you will accept these cookies as a late Christmas gift?”

  To Olivia’s relief, Sam gave her a broad grin and selected a second cookie. She noticed his teeth were crooked, especially his two upper-front teeth, which virtually overlapped. Had he grown up too poor for braces? She couldn’t remember.

  “Ms. Chamberlain, now,” Sam said, his mouth still full of emulsified cookie. “Mind you, I’m real sorry about what happened to her and not to speak ill or anything, but she wouldn’t so much as look me in the eye, let alone offer me a cookie.” A chunk of his cookie broke off and dropped to the tabletop. Sam picked it up and ate it. “Bertha, though, she sometimes invites me in for warm stew on cold days.”

  “Let me warm up that coffee for you,” Olivia said. Sam relaxed against the back of his chair and allowed himself to be served.

  After refilling cups, Olivia slid onto her chair and leaned toward Sam. “I imagine the police were eager to pick your brains after Clarisse died. I mean, you’d be in the best position to know all sorts of things, like whether she’d received any mail that might have upset her? I think there was some speculation about whether her businesses were suffering in this economy, so maybe she was getting overdue bill notices or letters from collection agencies.” A blatant lie, but at least it was a place to start. “Clarisse could have hidden those things from Bertha or her family, but not from you.” Olivia held her breath, hoping she hadn’t gone overboard.

  Sam responded with a short, angry “Ha.” Resentment puckered his face and seemed to taint the sweet orange air in the kitchen. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “That Sheriff Jenkins, he looks right through me like I’m nothing but smoke. He was like that in high school, too. Thought he knew all there was to know and nothing else was important.”

  Olivia hadn’t realized that Del and Sam were the same age. Sam looked ten years older, perhaps from being outdoors so much. His skin looked dry and rough, deeply wrinkled around his eyes. It must not have occurred to him to wear sunglasses. Olivia had no recollection of ever seeing him smile or laugh with delight. His mouth seemed to have frozen somewhere between a frown and a sneer.

  “High school kids can be thoughtless,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, seems to me most folks never change. Nobody listened to me then, and nobody listens to me now.”

  “Which is foolish of them,” Olivia said. “Especially when a death is involved.”

  Sam drained his coffee cup and twisted in his seat as if to stand. She was losing him, and he’d shared nothing about Clarisse’s mail. Well, she wasn’t about to let that happen.

  Olivia scraped back her chair and grabbed Sam’s empty cup. “Let me get that for you,” she said. “You do enough walking about; you don’t need to fetch your own coffee.”

  Sam sat down. While Olivia drained Mr. Coffee’s contents into Sam’s cup, she sneaked a glance at his profile. He looked relaxed and smug. Maybe she still had a chance to coax some information from him.

  “Here you go,” Olivia said, setting the cup near Sam’s hand. “You better have these, too.” She slid the last of the cookies onto his plate. “I’ve downed too many already. I don’t get the exercise you do, and I’m afraid it’s beginning to show.”

  “Not an ounce of fat on my body,” Sam said.

  Olivia watched him devour the sky blue, tulip-shaped smiley face. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Clarisse Chamberlain,” she said. “She and I were friends, you know. I worry that something was bothering her, and I didn’t see it.”

  “You know, a couple days before she died,” Sam said, “I had a very interesting visit with Ms. Chamberlain. Very interesting. The sheriff doesn’t know about it. He couldn’t be bothered to ask. See, we got this next-day priority package that required a signature from Ms. Chamberlain, and one of the new guys put it aside and forgot about it.” He dunked a pink and red basketball in his coffee and sucked the soggy part into his mouth before it disintegrated into the cup. A clump of wet crumbs lodged in his graying beard.

  Olivia’s patience was approaching the end of its life span. Yet she waited in silence as Sam dunked and slurped his way through the cookie.

  “I knew it was real important, see, because the envelope was legal-size with an embossed return address. I figured it was maybe from a lawyer. So I volunteered to deliver it myself after work.”

  “That went above and beyond the call of duty,” Olivia said. “Very professional of you.”

  “Now the really interesting part,” Sam said, “which Sheriff Del would know if he’d asked me, is what happened when I handed that envelope to Ms. Chamberlain, which I did personally. I didn’t just leave it in her box.”

  “That was wise of
you,” Olivia said.

  “Well, what’s really interesting is, Ms. Chamberlain opened that envelope right in front of me. I guess she didn’t notice I was still there because she stood on that fancy porch of hers and ripped that envelope open and pulled out some papers. And you know what happened then?”

  Olivia shook her head.

  Sam paused for a gulp of coffee. “Well,” he said, “she made this little sound, like a cry or something, and she put her hand over her mouth.”

  “Did you see what was on those papers? A name or a title, anything at all?” Olivia knew at once that she’d taken a wrong turn.

  “I am not a snoop. I know that’s what people around here call me.”

  “Oh no, Sam, I only meant that . . . Well, if it had been me handing Clarisse that envelope, I’d be worried about her. I’d want to help. You must have felt the same way.”

  “Of course I did,” Sam said. “That’s exactly how I felt. As it happens, she got so upset, she lost her hold on those papers and one fell out of her hand. She didn’t even notice, just collapsed on the porch swing. It was windy and the paper blew off the porch. Naturally, I rescued it for her. She didn’t even thank me.” He scowled at the memory.

  “Anyway,” Sam continued, “I couldn’t help but see what it said on that paper, could I? Ms. Chamberlain didn’t even miss it, so why should I hurry to give it back? Not that it said all that much. Something about hoping the enclosed information would be helpful to her and that she should let them know if she wanted them to keep looking for the child’s location.”

  So there was a child.

  “Ms. Chamberlain looked like she was about to pass out.”

  “Did you see who signed the letter?”

  Sam perked up at the question. “Yeah, it was a private detective agency in Baltimore somewhere.”

  “Do you remember the agency’s name or address?” She’d sounded too eager; she could tell from Sam’s smug expression.

  With an exaggerated shrug, Sam said, “I guess I did, but it must have slipped my mind.” He scraped back his chair and slung his mail sack over his shoulder. “That name and address might come back to me in a day or two. Thanks for the cookies.” Then he left, whistling.

  Olivia felt so drained, she needed a cookie herself. At least she was now fairly sure that Clarisse had discovered she had a grandchild. Sam might be bluffing about seeing the private detective’s signature, but she’d have to continue their little game to find out.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Chatterley Heights Food Shelf was located in the southern part of town, an area where successive waves of immigrants had settled. Rows of brick apartment buildings alternated with small Cape Cods and 1940s saltboxes. Delivering her cookies would require a short detour from Olivia’s route to her mother and stepfather’s house, but she hadn’t allowed herself much time. She had rushed to encase each decorated cookie in plastic wrap, so Polly could hand them out individually, after which she’d had to wash a container that would hold all three dozen. She’d nestled the container inside a large Gingerbread House bag, the only one with a flat bottom. Meanwhile, she thought about the quickest yet most casual way to elicit the information she hoped Polly, heart and soul of the Food Shelf, might be able to provide.

  Polly was alone when Olivia arrived. “How thoughtful of you and Maddie,” Polly said when she saw the container stuffed with cookies. “I tell you, I was run off my feet all morning, what with all these layoffs. I swear, folks are coming from farther and farther away. They must be looking for work is all I can think, so they pack up the family in the car, if they still have a car, or maybe—”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” Olivia said. She felt guilty for interrupting, but it was well known that Polly didn’t need to breathe as often as mere mortals. “Maddie and I did get a bit carried away. You know, Clarisse Chamberlain was a dear friend, and whenever I’m upset, I bake.” She hoped she hadn’t sounded too rehearsed, which, of course, she’d been doing ever since she’d come up with the idea halfway through wrapping the cookies.

  “Oh, my dear, of course, I understand completely,” Polly said, grasping Olivia’s hands in her own. “Ms. Chamberlain was a true lady. Why, do you know, every single month without fail she’d walk over here to drop off a donation, always a generous check, which can be so useful when there are gaps in my inventory or for items people don’t normally think to donate, like soap and, between you and me, toilet paper or those more intimate—”

  “It was like Clarisse to think of that,” Olivia cut in. She forced herself to pause a beat before adding, “Of course, you’d know that. Weren’t you in high school with Edward?”

  In fact, an online search had revealed that Polly and Edward had graduated the same year and served together on the yearbook committee.

  While online, Olivia had also noticed an email from Deputy Cody, which she’d left unopened. Despite her earlier impatience, she realized she would need calm, quiet, and probably Maddie’s company to face seeing Clarisse’s lifeless body.

  “I’ve never really gotten to know Edward,” Olivia said. “Clarisse always said he took after his father, even though he looked more like her.”

  “Parents can be so blind about their children, can’t they? I see that every day here.” Polly gazed into the distance. For once, she wasn’t voicing her every thought, which made Olivia want to shake her.

  “So are you saying that Edward was . . .”

  Polly said, “Oh that Edward, my goodness. He wasn’t the least bit like his father, I’d say. Edward—he insisted we all call him that, you know, not Ed or Eddie, only Edward. Anyway, we all—the yearbook committee, that is—we used to meet at his house all the time. He was proud of his family position, not that he didn’t deserve to be, but he did like to show off that lovely home. He was so intense about everything.” Polly snickered, then covered her mouth in embarrassment. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but Edward and another boy almost came to blows one time because Edward insisted we place several pictures of his house in the yearbook.”

  “From all I’ve heard,” Olivia said, “Martin Chamberlain was quite intense, too. Maybe that’s what Clarisse meant?”

  Polly placed an index finger on her upper lip, as if she were thinking hard about Olivia’s suggestion. “Well, you know, Mr. Chamberlain sure looked intense, pacing around all the time and always, always smoking those cigarettes. But it was a different kind of intense, more like he had so much energy he couldn’t sit still. With Edward, it was more that he couldn’t let go once he’d decided something. Much as I loved Ms. Chamberlain, she was more like that. Once she made up her mind, she never changed it.”

  Olivia wanted to press for more information, but voices announced the arrival of visitors to the Food Shelf. Polly glanced at the family and reached into Olivia’s package for three decorated cookies.

  “Thank you so much, Olivia, and thank Maddie, too,” Polly said.

  She shifted into her role and greeted the family of five, who looked tired. The young woman, who held a toddler in her arms, gave Polly a brief smile, then glanced sidelong at the man. The toddler leaned away from his mother and reached for a cookie with both hands. Olivia slipped away before Polly could introduce her as the treat provider.

  Olivia stood outside her mother and stepfather’s front door, trying to quiet her mind, which roiled with questions. Was Clarisse’s grandchild a girl or a boy? Was Hugh the father? Was Jasmine Dubois the mother? Where were Jasmine and the child? Were they even alive?

  How much, Olivia wondered, could she trust Sam’s account? He had a reputation for inflating a kernel of knowledge until it popped, especially when he perceived a rapt audience.

  Olivia shook her head to clear it, but another idea intruded. What if Clarisse had been searching for Jasmine? From the conversation Olivia and Maddie overheard, Clarisse was determined to keep Hugh from marrying Tammy Deacons. Maybe she hoped Jasmine’s reappearance would break Tammy’s hold on her son? Something Polly had s
aid flashed across her mind—that once Clarisse made up her mind, she never changed it. But she did change her mind about Tammy. Why?

  And then there was Edward, who sounded more ambitious than she’d realized. Had Clarisse decided to change her will and leave the leadership of the Chamberlain businesses to one or the other son? Had she been overconfident enough to tell them—and then unyielding when the one left out objected?

  Red gingham curtains covered a small window in the Greyson-Meyer front door. When the curtains twitched, Olivia pasted on a smile and pressed the doorbell. Temple bells rang as the door opened.

  “Livie dear, I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten our brunch today, which would be so unlike you.” Ellie had twisted her hair into a loose braid intertwined with a gold ribbon. She wore pantaloons of gold silk with red threads woven throughout. Over her red silk tunic, she’d thrown a stunning shawl made of a shimmery metallic yarn.

  “Mom, you look amazing.” Olivia gave her a quick hug. “I suppose you made this . . .”

  “Ensemble?” Ellie said with her tinkling laugh. “Only the shawl. I saw the rest online and couldn’t resist. Come along now, time’s a-wasting.” She wrapped her arm around Olivia’s waist and guided her toward the kitchen. “The clothes discussion can wait. Allan is making his special pancakes.”

  Olivia caught the rich, smoky smell of bacon frying and the cakey aroma of pancakes as they arrived. On the stove, a jar of Vermont maple syrup warmed in a pan of steaming water. Olivia wished she could simply relax, laugh and eat with her family, and stuff all her thoughts and feelings about Clarisse’s death into a drawer.

  “Jason might stop by later,” Ellie said. “He has a late lunch break.”