A Catered Christmas Cookie Exchange (A Mystery With Recipes)

by Crawford, Isis

  “Because you always do the right thing,” Bernie said, baiting her.

  “I try,” Lillian said. “Which is more than I can say about you two.”

  “Really,” Libby said. She straightened up, uncrossed her arms, and took a step inside Pearl’s office. “What makes you say that?”

  “You’re allowing Amber to enter the Baking for Life contest, aren’t you?” Lillian replied. “That’s a clear conflict of interest. Amber works for you, and you can’t tell me that you’re not going to favor her over the rest of us.”

  “So you’ve spoken to her?” Libby asked.

  Lillian stuck her chin out. “No. I haven’t.”

  “Then why did you say what you just did?”

  “I didn’t,” Lillian said.

  “If you didn’t, how do you know that Amber’s going to be in the contest,” Libby insisted.

  “The producer lady told me,” Lillian said.

  Bernie jumped in. “Yes, but that was before Amber went missing.”

  Lillian laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Bernie asked.

  “You are,” Lillian replied.

  “Why’s that?” Libby asked.

  Lillian smirked. “Because the two of you think you know so much, but you’re really running around like chickens without their heads.”

  “So why don’t you help us out?” Bernie said.

  “Why should I?” Lillian said.

  “Because you’re nice,” Libby said. “And you really don’t want to see anyone getting hurt.”

  Lillian laughed even louder at that. “I’m not nice, and I don’t care if anyone gets hurt. What am I saying?” Lillian threw up her hands in mock horror. “Someone already has.”

  “Let’s not make it anyone else,” Libby told her Lillian’s smile grew larger, if that was possible. Looking at it, Libby knew. She didn’t know how she did, but she did.

  “You know where Amber is, don’t you, Lillian?”

  Lillian nodded. “Yes, I do. Or I did. But she just doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  Bernie thought there was no mistaking the satisfaction in Lillian’s tone. “Amber told you that?”

  “No, Sheila did. Amber was at her house trying to find her aunt’s recipes when you called.”

  “Which she didn’t succeed in doing because Pearl has them,” Bernie said, thinking back to the page she’d found in the car. “Or maybe you have them now, Lillian? What do you think, Libby?”

  “I think it’s a definite possibility,” Libby replied, before turning to Lillian. “You know,” she told her, “we could always call the police and tell them we found you rifling through Pearl’s things and have them arrest you.”

  “They’d never believe you,” Lillian sneered.

  Bernie snapped her fingers. “Sure they would. Shall we see?”

  Lillian shrugged. “By all means, make the call if picking on a defenseless old lady will make you feel better.”

  “You’re hardly defenseless,” Bernie pointed out.

  Lillian laughed. “The police won’t see it that way,” she assured her.

  “You really are conniving, aren’t you?” Bernie said.

  “Everyone does the best with what they have,” Lillian informed Bernie.

  “And what do you have?” Bernie demanded.

  Libby clapped her hands. This conversation is getting us nowhere, she thought. “That’s enough,” she said as Bernie and Lillian turned toward her. “So did you find Millie’s recipe book?” Libby asked Lillian.

  “No. No, I didn’t,” Lillian said. “And if I had, I wouldn’t be telling you.”

  “What were you planning to do with it if you found it?” Bernie asked her, following Libby’s lead.

  Lillian sniffed. “I wasn’t looking for it.”

  Libby was incredulous. “How can you say that, given the conversation we’ve just been having?” she asked.

  “I can say it because it’s true,” Lillian said.

  “But we . . . ,” Libby started when Lillian interrupted.

  “I don’t remember,” Lillian told her in the sweetest tones imaginable. “It must be my dementia kicking in. It’s amazing how that works. Sometimes it’s an absolute godsend.”

  Libby’s jaw dropped. She was speechless. And it’s checkmate, Bernie thought. The game goes to Lillian.

  Libby took a deep breath and regrouped. She decided to pursue the line of questioning her father had recommended. After all, she hadn’t done so well with hers.

  “You must like Pearl a lot,” she said to Lillian.

  “Why do you say that?” Lillian asked. There was a puzzled look on her face.

  “The way you calmed Pearl down back at my house,” Libby said. “The way you drove Pearl back here. I’m not sure I would have done that.”

  “But what else could I do?” Lillian asked, her face a mask of innocence. “No one else was going to get her home.”

  “Still,” Bernie went on, picking up Libby’s lead, “she wasn’t very nice to you.”

  “She’s stressed,” Lillian said. “When she’s stressed she says things she doesn’t mean.”

  “She also drinks a lot,” Libby noted.

  “That’s because Pearl’s nervous about the contest. She really wants to win it. She needs the money.”

  “What about you?” Libby asked. “Do you need the money too?”

  Lillian’s face darkened. “A hundred thousand would be nice,” she said. “I’m not going to deny it.”

  “What would you do with the money if you had it?” Libby inquired.

  “Move out to the country and raise alpacas,” Lillian said promptly. “Maybe get a few hens so I could have fresh eggs.”

  “Is that why you were looking for Millie’s recipe book?” Libby asked. “So you could win?”

  “I told you I wasn’t looking for Millie’s recipe book,” Lillian said.

  “Then what were you looking for?” Bernie asked. “Her tax returns?”

  “Anyway,” Lillian said, hitching up her pants, “I don’t need Millie’s recipe book to win.”

  “Then what do you need it for? What were you going to do with it?” Bernie asked.

  “You really want to know?” Lillian said.

  “Yes, I really want to know,” Bernie replied.

  “Fine, then. I was going to make sure that Amber didn’t find it. I was going to burn the dratted thing in my fireplace. But now I can’t, because it’s not here. What do you think about that?”

  “Why would you do that?” Libby asked.

  A red dot appeared on each of Lillian’s cheeks. “Amber shouldn’t be on the show baking Millie’s recipes—immortalizing them, if you will. Because the truth is Millie was a lousy baker. She thought she was so good and she wasn’t. No. Amber shouldn’t be on the show.”

  “That’s the producer’s decision, not yours,” Bernie pointed out.

  Lillian stamped her foot. “Well, she’s wrong.”

  “You think you’re a better baker,” Libby asked quietly.

  “Yes,” Lillian said, “I think I’m a way better baker than Millie. In fact, I’m probably the best of the whole bunch of them. I’m the only one who knows how to make puff pastry, and my chocolate cupcakes are better than anyone’s—and that includes the ones you sell at the shop,” she said, staring at Libby. “I could have been a professional baker too if I chose.”

  “What stopped you?” Bernie asked.

  “I don’t believe in doing things I love for money,” Lillian said.

  Libby raised an eyebrow. “That’s an interesting point of view. Usually people are advised to do what they love and the money will follow.”

  “That’s what I meant,” Lillian said. “For instance, I’m not in the contest for the money,” Lillian said. “Unlike Pearl. She’ll do whatever she can for a buck.”

  “Like what?” Libby asked Lillian.

  “Nothing illegal, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Lillian replied. “I just think it’s wr
ong to do things like work as a secret shopper so you can get people in trouble. That’s like being a scab for corporate America. She wouldn’t have to do things like that if she’d stop charging stuff. It’s a sickness. Pearl thinks that all the stuff she buys is going to make her happy, but it won’t. Material things never do.”

  Bernie nodded. “Absolutely,” she lied, thinking of how unhappy she would be without Bloomingdale’s or Barney’s or Bergdorf’s. She guessed she was just shallow.

  Libby was silent for another minute. Then she said, “How did you know that Pearl had Millie’s book?”

  “I didn’t,” Lillian told Libby. “But when I picked her up to go to your place, I got out of my car to walk up and ring the doorbell and saw a page lying on her car’s seat.”

  “You mean this page?” Bernie asked, taking it out of her bag and showing it to Lillian.

  “Yes. That page. I recognized the handwriting. So then I knew.”

  Bernie stifled a cough. She hoped she wasn’t getting sick. That would be, as her mother used to say, the icing on the cake. “So did you ask her about it?”

  “Of course, I did,” Lillian responded.

  “What did Pearl say?”

  “She told me she’d sold the binder to Teresa.”

  Bernie’s eyebrows shot up. “Teresa?” Of all the women in the Christmas Cookie Exchange Club, she was, in Bernie’s estimation, the most unlikely person to be involved in something like this. “You believed her?” she asked Lillian.

  “What do you think?” Lillian sneered.

  “I think you didn’t,” Bernie answered. “Otherwise, why would you be going through Pearl’s files? See,” Bernie continued when Lillian didn’t say anything, “this is why I get the big bucks.”

  Now it was Libby’s turn. “So what were you going to do with the recipe book if you found it?” she asked, jumping to another line of questioning.

  “I already told you,” Lillian said.

  “Tell me again,” Libby said.

  “I was going to burn it,” Lillian said. “Those recipes don’t deserve to live.”

  “That’s a pretty strong statement,” Bernie said.

  “But a true one,” Lillian replied.

  “Did Millie deserve to live?” Bernie asked softly. If she’d hoped to get a reaction, she was sadly disappointed.

  Lillian looked at her blankly and sniffed. “Let’s just say that, given her behavior in this life, I can’t believe her next one is going to be very pleasant.”

  “That doesn’t answer my sister’s question,” Libby said.

  “I think it does,” Lillian said. “If you studied the teachings of the Buddha, you would understand what I am saying.”

  “What I think you’re saying is that you decided to help her out of this life and on to her next one,” Bernie said to Lillian.

  “Now you’re just being stupid,” Lillian told Bernie. “Whatever Millie got she brought on herself,” she said, and with that she walked out of the office, got her coat, walked outside, and drove home.

  “So what do you think?” Bernie asked Libby after Lillian had left.

  “I think there was no love lost between her and Millie . . .”

  “. . . or her and Pearl,” Bernie added.

  “That’s for sure,” Libby said. “I definitely would not like to have Lillian for my friend.”

  “Neither would I,” Bernie agreed. “What is it they say about friends not letting friends drive drunk? Lillian was the one who suggested the bourbon. She was the main one who kept on pouring it in Pearl’s teacup.”

  “Well, it is easier to search someone’s house if they’re passed out,” Libby pointed out.

  “It certainly is,” Bernie agreed. “I can’t believe we helped her carry Pearl down the stairs.”

  “Me either,” Libby said indignantly. She was quiet for a minute, then said, “I wonder if Lillian disliked Millie enough to kill her?”

  “Or if it’s one of the other ladies?” Libby mused.

  “Baking as a blood sport,” Bernie mused. “It certainly would never have occurred to me.”

  Chapter 24

  The house Amber was renting a room in, 2235, was dark, and there were no cars in the driveway when Marvin and Sean pulled up to it. They were in the hearse because Marvin’s car was in the shop.

  “The place looks really run-down,” Sean observed as he studied the house.

  “It looks as if no one is home,” Marvin said, coasting into the driveway.

  “That’s because they’re not,” Sean said. “Bernie told me Amber’s roommates work the night shift at the hospital. If you can call it that,” he added. In Sean’s mind, clinic would be a more accurate term. Still, it was a good place to go if you had a broken bone or a high fever.

  “So, then, why are we here?” Marvin asked. “Why don’t we go straight to the hospital?”

  “Because Amber might be here,” Sean told him.

  “Whew,” Marvin said, the word tumbling out before he could stop it.

  “Meaning?” Sean said.

  “Nothing, Mr. Simmons,” Marvin stammered.

  “It sounds like something to me,” Sean said.

  Marvin pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his thumb.

  “You should really get those fixed,” Sean told him.

  “I know,” Marvin said. “I keep forgetting.”

  “So are you going to tell me what you were going to say?” Sean asked after a short pause.

  “I’d rather not,” Marvin said.

  “Why is that?” Sean asked.

  Marvin looked down at the steering wheel. “Because it’s stupid, and you might take it the wrong way.”

  “Tell me anyway,” Sean commanded.

  Marvin blushed. Even in the dark Sean could see his skin turning darker.

  “I just thought you were thinking of breaking in,” Marvin confessed.

  Sean’s eyes widened in mock disbelief. “Me, a former officer of the law?” He laughed. “I’m appalled and shocked that you would think I would consider something like that. No. I leave things like that to my youngest daughter.” Then he reached over and gave Marvin a playful punch on his forearm. “Don’t worry, kid. The night is still young. We may get to do that yet.”

  Marvin sighed. One of these days, he would learn to keep his mouth shut. He gestured to the house. “Since no one is home, can we go now?”

  “You know what the first requisite of a good investigator is?” Sean asked Marvin.

  “No. What?” Marvin said.

  “It’s patience,” Sean said.

  Marvin didn’t point out that that was a quality Sean had very little of. Instead, he asked what the plan was.

  “Amber’s roommates get off their shift around six. Now, what I’m figuring is that first we’re going to get out of this deathmobile of yours and see if Amber is here. If she’s not, we’re going to take a walk around the premises and see if we can spot anything of interest.”

  “Like what?” Marvin said, wishing he’d brought his gloves along, because his hands were cold now and it was chilly out there.

  “I don’t know. That’s why we’re looking,” Sean told him.

  “I’d think it would be helpful if we knew what we were looking for,” Marvin said. It was not, in his opinion, an unreasonable thought.

  “Yes, it would be.” Sean shot Marvin an annoyed glance. “But unfortunately we don’t know. If we knew, we could go straight for it.” Sean took a cigarette out of the pack in his jacket pocket and lit it.

  Marvin coughed and waved the smoke away. “Would you mind opening the window a little?”

  “Sorry,” Sean said, doing as he was asked. “You know,” he said after he’d taken another puff, “when I was head of the LPD . . .”

  “LPD?” Marvin asked.

  “Longely Police Department. I would have sent four or five guys out on this detail, but now I’m a civilian and there’s just us chickens.”

  “Do you miss it?” Marvin
asked.

  “Being the chief of police or being a policeman?” Sean asked.

  “Both,” Marvin said as he watched the wind make the Christmas lights hanging on the eaves of the house next door sway.

  Sean thought about his answer for a moment. Then he said, “I miss the sense of excitement and the feeling that I was helping people out. But I don’t miss the politics. I don’t miss those one single bit. Or the having to do what seemed right instead of what was right.”

  “Libby said that’s why you lost your job, Mr. Simmons.”

  “Did she?” Sean said, and he grabbed his cane, opened the door, and stepped outside. How he’d lost his job was a long, complicated story, one that he had no desire to share with Marvin now. The wind hit him, and he quickly buttoned up his coat.

  By the time Marvin had turned the hearse’s engine off, put his collar up, exited the vehicle, jammed his hands into his pockets, and walked around to the passenger side, Sean had taken a last puff of his cigarette. He was extinguishing what was left of it under the heel of his shoe while he stood looking up at the second story of the house.

  “I don’t see any movement in there,” Sean said. “Let’s knock on the door and see what happens.”

  Which is what they did. No one answered. Sean tried again. There was still no answer.

  “Amber could be a heavy sleeper,” Marvin suggested as he ducked his chin into his collar to keep out the wind.

  “Not after this,” Sean said and he took his fist and pounded on the door.

  There was no response.

  “Amber, it’s Mr. Simmons,” he cried in a loud voice. “Come out. We need to talk.”

  Still nothing.

  “Well, if she’s inside, she’s definitely awake now,” Marvin said. “As are the neighbors.”

  Sean looked around. He didn’t see anyone stepping out on their porch. “Maybe Amber just doesn’t want to come down and talk to us. Maybe she’s hiding in her bedroom,” Sean said as he rescanned the inside of Amber’s house for movement.

  “At this point, I might be too,” Marvin observed.

  Sean ignored him and tried the door. It was locked. “Drats,” he said to Marvin, “I left my lock picks at home.”

  “Do you really have lock picks?” Marvin asked.

  “What do you think?” Sean said as he opened the mailbox and took out its contents.