Cookie Dough or Die

by Virginia Lowell

  “Young love can be a bit much,” Olivia said, as if she weren’t exactly the same age as Tammy.

  Mr. Willard raised his eyebrows and sighed.

  “I notice the remainder of those lovely appetizers ended up here,” Olivia said, admiring the sideboard. Several bottles of wine, both red and white, stood open and ready for pouring. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. I’d love a glass of wine, but I’d better put something in my stomach first or I can’t guarantee my ability to remain upright.” She selected a tiny egg and watercress sandwich.

  Mr. Willard’s trapped-animal stance relaxed. He abandoned his glass of scotch and picked up two olive-cheese balls. Holding one in each hand, he said, “I prefer the classics. As a small child, I used to steal these delicious little darlings right off the guests’ plates when my parents hosted a cocktail party.” One of the darlings disappeared into his mouth.

  Olivia was beginning to like Mr. Willard. If and when she needed an attorney, he’d be her first choice.

  While Mr. Willard enjoyed his second olive-cheese ball, Olivia glanced over at Hugh and Tammy, still engrossed in one another. Good. Lowering her voice, Olivia asked, “I wonder if you would mind answering a question. It’s about Clarisse’s bequest to me.”

  Mr. Willard’s narrow face assumed its legal-professional look, marred somewhat by a crumb of cheese crust at the corner of his mouth. Olivia couldn’t keep her eyes away from it, which prompted him to wipe his mouth with a paper napkin. “I wondered if you might have questions,” he said.

  “Clarisse never mentioned her will to me.”

  “Clarisse and I were in agreement that the less said about wills, the better. They tend to complicate relationships among the living.”

  “Really, Clarisse said that? Then I wonder why . . .” Olivia checked the romantic duo again. Hugh and Tammy were whispering to each other, forehead to forehead.

  “What are you wondering?” Mr. Willard asked. “Of course, in my profession there are secrets I must protect, but you’ve piqued my curiosity.”

  “Tammy and I were talking earlier, and she said Clarisse threatened to cut Hugh out of her will if he married her.”

  Mr. Willard’s thin eyebrows bunched together. He picked up two more olive-cheese balls and tossed both in his mouth at once. How did the man remain so wraithlike? Maybe he didn’t eat at home. Olivia was sure she’d noticed a wedding ring, but she didn’t want to be obvious. Presumably there was food in the larder.

  “Your information disturbs me,” Mr. Willard said finally. His hand hovered over the last smoked salmon canapé but came away empty. “Clarisse possessed enormous self-control, as I’m sure you know.”

  Olivia nodded her agreement.

  “If she actually delivered such a threat, she must have been under a great deal of stress. I feel comfortable telling you that she spoke recently of writing a new will, but her stated intention was to divide the family businesses between her two sons. She always hoped the boys would work together, melding their differing skills, but Hugh and Edward . . .” Willard sighed and shook his head. “Oil and water, those two. Oil and water.”

  The Chamberlain’s formal dining room table had been shortened as much as possible, but it still provided plenty of room for a party of twelve. Since they were only six that evening, Bertha had set the places to cluster everyone toward one end.

  Tammy had other plans. “Let’s see now,” she said, one finger to her freshly lipsticked lips, “Bertha, you sit at the kitchen end, of course, so you can serve and clear.”

  Olivia lowered her head, lest her eye rolling become obvious. Not only was Bertha a beneficiary and therefore an equal part of the group, but she clearly struggled with her breathing as she brought in a soup tureen. Willard took the tureen from her and delivered it to the table.

  Tammy scooped up a place setting. “I’ll sit at the other end,” she said as she laid out the plates and silverware. “Hugh will sit on my right, of course. Mr. Willard, you are here, with Edward and Olivia across from you.” She created a single, lonely space for Willard in the middle of one side. Edward and Olivia’s seats, on the other side, were so far apart, they’d have to fire off paper napkin airplanes to communicate.

  The group watched in silence as Tammy examined her arrangement and found it satisfactory. “Now I’m going to freshen up,” she said, “and then we can begin.”

  The moment she disappeared from sight, Mr. Willard slid his plate and utensils back to their original position catercorner from Bertha, whose round face lit up. Simultaneously, Olivia and Edward scooped up their place settings and moved them closer to Bertha, across from Mr. Willard.

  Four sets of eyes focused on Hugh, who stood at the other end of the table. He offered an expressive shrug and a grin that was both abashed and charming. “She isn’t usually like this, you know,” he said. “I mean, she’s a take-charge woman, no doubt about it, but right now she is . . .” Hugh took a quick look over his shoulder. “It’s been tough on her. She and my mother weren’t the best of chums, and after what’s happened, well . . . She isn’t someone who can fake grief, and it makes her feel uncomfortable. When she’s uncomfortable, she takes charge.” His smile broadened to reveal perfect teeth. “When you think of it, that’s a good way to handle a classroom full of first-graders.”

  Hugh’s understanding of Tammy impressed Olivia to the point of speechlessness. She knew for a fact that Tammy didn’t know herself as well as Hugh seemed to, and his description rang true. An ability to read people could be an advantage in the business world, especially for manipulating others.

  Certainly Hugh had charmed everyone at the table except his brother. Edward’s expression, as he’d listened to Hugh, could best be described as stony.

  Tammy reappeared beside Hugh and took in the table rearrangement. Olivia could almost hear everyone’s breath halt. Hugh slid his arm around Tammy’s waist, kissed her forehead, and said, “Sweetie, this has been a rough evening for all of us, and we wanted to sit closer together, you know, as friends and family. How about it? Shall we join them?”

  Tammy gazed up into Hugh’s face and said, “Okay. If it would make everyone more comfortable.”

  “Great, let’s do it,” Hugh said. As he and Tammy moved to two chairs across the table from Olivia, Hugh said, “The soup looks delicious, Bertha. You’ve outdone yourself, and that takes some doing.”

  Once Bertha had filled everyone’s soup bowl, quiet descended, interrupted only by murmured appreciation or the occasional slurp. Olivia cherished the peaceful moments. She had a feeling they wouldn’t last.

  At the end of the soup course, Bertha left to fetch the main course and side dishes. Mr. Willard gathered up the soup bowls and nearly empty tureen and followed her into the kitchen. Olivia watched his back disappear with the uncomfortable sense that she was now on her own in enemy territory.

  “Olivia, I feel as though I barely know you.” Olivia’s head snapped around in surprise as she realized it was Edward who had spoken. “Although now it appears you were my mother’s best friend for the past year.”

  “I don’t know about that,” she said. “And do call me Livie. Everyone does.”

  “That is quite a large inheritance for someone who doesn’t know if she was a best friend.”

  “My brother is inclined toward bluntness,” Hugh said, in his smoothly modulated voice. “He doesn’t actually know he is being rude. What Edward means is that Mother’s bequest to you caught us all by surprise.”

  “What I meant was, you had to have known about it. Which makes me wonder how much influence you had over her and whether she was really of sound mind.” Edward fixed her with a stare that felt like a mind probe. Intense—wasn’t that the word she kept hearing when anyone tried to describe Edward?

  “Really, Edward, is this necess—”

  “Yes, Hugh, it is necessary. How do we know she didn’t take advantage of Mother? Obviously, given how she died, she must have been slipping mentally.”

>   “Edward!”

  “Maybe you figured that out, Livie?”

  “That’s enough, Edward.” This time the voice belonged to Tammy. The take-charge Tammy, not the love slave. “Livie is our guest, and I’ve known her practically my whole life. She would never, ever do such a thing.” This was also the Tammy who earlier had accused Olivia of practically the same crime. Okay, Tammy had only questioned Clarisse’s mental faculties, not Olivia’s intentions. But it had felt the same.

  Ignoring Tammy’s attempt at intervention, Edward kept his razor eyes aimed at Olivia. It was time, she decided, to take the offensive. In a nice way, of course.

  “It seems to me,” Olivia said, “that if Clarisse had been slipping mentally, someone in the family would have noticed it before her death, not after. She taught me a great deal about business, and I can promise you that her mind was sharp and clear.” Before she could think better of it, she added, “However, I did notice that she seemed worried the last few days of her life. She certainly wasn’t failing intellectually, but something had upset her deeply. Any idea what it was?”

  “Livie,” Hugh said, “I promise you, we had no idea Mother was upset. Perhaps we should have been more observant, but—”

  “You seem to be the only one who thought Mother was upset,” Edward said.

  “No,” Olivia said, “Bertha thought so, too.”

  “What did I think?” Bertha pushed the kitchen door wide with her ample posterior to allow Mr. Willard to deliver a large platter holding a generous roast, surrounded by potatoes and carrots. Bertha followed him to the table, carrying a gravy boat and a loaf of bread.

  “We were discussing Mother’s state of mind last week, before her accident.”

  Trust Edward to be brutally blunt, Olivia thought.

  “Oh, let’s not talk about that,” Bertha said. “Not tonight.”

  In deference to Bertha’s request, dinner conversation had been minimal and dull. The meal itself was superb and gave Olivia an unaccustomed longing to learn to cook. She could bake nearly anything, but the cooking of wholesome food had never interested her. Maybe she could take lessons. Or she could simply adopt Bertha.

  Her taste buds might be delighted, but Olivia longed to probe for more information. At least she had observed some suggestive family dynamics, especially between Hugh and Edward Chamberlain. However, she needed more if she wanted to pin down the circumstances of Clarisse’s death.

  After several glasses of wine and many compliments about her cooking, Bertha radiated content. “It’s time for dessert,” she announced. “No, no, I’ll bring it myself,” she said as Mr. Willard pushed back his chair to help her. “I worked on this all day yesterday, as a special tribute to Ms. Clarisse, so I expect you all to have at least one.”

  Once Bertha was out of earshot, Tammy groaned and said, “I suppose I’ll have to eat one, but I won’t be able to fit into my new dresses.”

  “A bite is all it will take to keep Bertha happy. She understands how small you are,” Hugh said, soothing but with an undercurrent of paternalism.

  Bertha opened the kitchen door, once again by pushing with her backside. “Ta-da,” she warbled as she turned around. With a happy, loopy grin, she presented a large platter holding a precarious pyramid of decorated cookies.

  Olivia was too stunned to speak. There was silence all around, interrupted once by a titter that sounded like Tammy’s voice. Mr. Willard frowned in the direction of the dining room ceiling, his thin fingers tapping a silent rhythm on the edge of the table. He knows what happened to Sam Parnell, Olivia thought, but he wasn’t expecting this to happen.

  Across the table, Hugh tried to look composed and benign but couldn’t stop himself from shifting in his seat. Tammy’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the cookies. She quickly dropped her head and began drawing light little circles on the tablecloth with one pink fingernail. Because everyone had faced toward the kitchen when Bertha emerged with dessert, Edward was behind Olivia. She couldn’t see his face. He hadn’t made a sound since Bertha’s arrival.

  Bertha lowered the heavy platter to the table. “Now, I know this isn’t a traditional dessert, but Ms. Clarisse dearly loved her cookie cutters, so I borrowed a few. Not any of the valuable ones, of course. I found some recipes you must have given her, Livie. I used the one with the grated orange zest in the dough. Took me right back to my childhood, it did.”

  It was very clear to Olivia that Bertha had heard nothing about Sam Parnell. On the other hand, she was sure that Hugh, Edward, and Tammy had, and the presence of the cookies made them distinctly uncomfortable. Whether they were squirming because the cookies had been made by the very cutters that now belonged to Olivia or because one of them was being reminded of what they had done to Sam, not to mention Clarisse, Olivia couldn’t be sure. But if one of the guests around the table—or two or even three of them—murdered Clarisse, she began to wonder if cookies and cookie cutters might be her best tools to catch a killer.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was ten p.m. by the time Olivia returned from dinner at the Chamberlain home, and all she could think about was the soft, cool feel of her sheets as she slid into bed. There was Spunky, of course; he’d be whining to go out before she got her key in the lock. However, if he wanted a run, he was out of luck.

  Olivia unlocked the front door and found the light on in the foyer. Maddie must have forgotten to turn it off when she left. They’d have to repeat that little talk about the energy bill. As she reached for the light switch, she noticed the corner of a piece of paper sticking out under the door to The Gingerbread House. She knelt down and managed to claw out a four-by-six recipe card, with The Gingerbread House imprinted at the top and a color drawing of a gingerbread woman holding a large spoon. In the space provided for a recipe, a scrawled note read, If this note is here, so am I. Come in & talk to me. M.

  Maddie had an annoying habit of using recipe cards for everything, including notes to herself. She could go through a package in a week. Another waste of money. Then Olivia remembered: she didn’t have to worry quite so much about money anymore. What a strange feeling.

  Maybe bed could wait a bit. Spunky, however, could not. Olivia heard whimpering and scratching before she was halfway up the stairs. She opened her apartment door and squatted down quickly to intercept Spunky before he could race downstairs. Holding the squirming dog against her hip, she grabbed the leash she kept near the door. She hooked it on Spunky’s collar and hurried back outside barely in time to avoid a puppy accident.

  After Spunky finished his little tasks, he growled and strained at the leash.

  “Sorry, kiddo,” Olivia said. “Unlike you, I haven’t been napping all evening. After what I’ve just been through, it would take a fire to get me to run with you.”

  Spunky began to plead in his pathetic puppy way. As Olivia reached to pick him up, he peered toward a cluster of three arborvitae at the edge of Olivia’s property. His small body went rigid, ears perked up and nose quivering.

  Olivia knew this stance. Spunky had heard a noise he didn’t like. Probably nothing more than a bold bunny. On the other hand . . . Olivia’s ears were not as acute as Spunky’s, but when she held her breath, she did hear something. A snapping sound, or maybe a click. Could be anything. Squirrels made all sorts of odd noises when they were defending their territory.

  Spunky decided the threat warranted action. He yapped with the fierceness of a much larger creature and pulled at his leash so hard Olivia worried his little neck would snap. She grabbed the puppy around the middle and held his squirming body against her stomach while she fumbled with the front door, thanking providence that she’d chosen to live in a well-lit area of town.

  Olivia got the door open and slipped inside. She flipped the dead bolt, turned around, and rested against the door to catch her breath. Spunky stopped yapping at once and wiggled to free himself from his mistress’s death grip.

  The door to The Gingerbread House opened. “Don’t tell me,” Madd
ie’s ironic voice said. “The zombies are at the door, and you barely escaped.”

  Half an hour and a hot cocoa later, Olivia had described her dining experience in detail to Maddie. For his valor in the face of danger, whether real or imagined, Spunky was allowed to stay with them in the store kitchen. He had spent the first twenty minutes sniffing every inch and attempting to taste the sugar canister, the floor, and the lemon soap at the sink. Finally, he flopped down on a towel Olivia had put out for him. In moments, he was out.

  “Okay, my turn,” Maddie said. She gathered a stack of notes—written on blank recipe cards, of course—that she’d left on the small desk holding Olivia’s laptop. “My evening wasn’t as fraught with human drama as yours, but I found a few suggestive tidbits. I’m sure a private detective could ferret out a lot more. I found annual reports online fairly easily, which surprised me because Chamberlain Enterprises isn’t answerable to stockholders.”

  “Clarisse was a stickler about being open and aboveboard,” Olivia said. “She always said that when the product has to do with health, trust is crucial. However, you won’t find any trade secrets in those reports.”

  “Let’s hope trade secrets won’t be important in this instance,” Maddie said. “So first, this is a list of the businesses owned by the Chamberlain family. I’m sure they are familiar to you, but I never had occasion to learn what they all are.” She laid one recipe card in front of Olivia, who nodded as she read the list.

  “Do you notice anything about that list?” Maddie asked.

  Olivia read through it again and it came to her. “Most of them have something to do with health care. The family’s first company, and their biggest by far, is Chamberlain Medical Supplies. Clarisse told me that when Hugh and Edward reached their teen years, Martin started them out as stock boys in that company. They worked in the warehouse, they learned to fill orders, handle problems with customers, everything.”