Cookie Dough or Die accsm-1

by Virginia Lowell

  “I need to find out more about their private lives, their pasts,” Olivia said. “I want to talk to someone who can help me understand who Hugh and Edward are when they aren’t being businessmen.”

  “Ah,” Stacey said, “you want the real scoop. Well, two names occur to me off the top of my head, and one belongs to someone on your suspects list. Bertha, the Chamberlain housekeeper. She helped raise those boys, and there’s nothing like raising a kid to tell you his strengths and weaknesses.”

  Stacey stood up and stretched. “I’m truly sorry to have to give you the second name.” She slid the lid on the cake pan and snatched it up, as if she were afraid Olivia would take back the cookies when she heard the name.

  “The guy you should talk to is the perfect informant. Unfortunately, he’s also my ex-husband, Wade. He grew up near enough to Hugh and Edward that they were playmates, and he double-dated with Hugh sometimes.”

  “Can I trust anything Wade might tell me?” Olivia piled the pizza boxes on top of the cake pan in Stacey’s arms.

  “Probably not,” Stacey said. She checked the kitchen clock and said, “Okay, I’ll tell you the story, but I’ll have to make it quick.” While Olivia retrieved her coat, Stacey said, “The three boys did their underage drinking together. During that period, they went joy riding one night and smashed into a tree. Hugh and Edward claimed Wade was driving, which he denies to this day. Strings were pulled; there wasn’t an investigation. Wade took the fall, and the brothers Chamberlain came off as innocent victims.”

  “Wade is still angry?”

  “An understatement. However, I can assure you he has an alibi for Thursday and into Saturday. He had the kids. Thursday evening, they went to a monster truck show, instead of doing their homework. Where did I go wrong?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Olivia sat cross-legged on her living room sofa, staring at the small screen on her laptop. She’d been looking at the photo of Clarisse Chamberlain’s desk for almost an hour, with Spunky curled next to her, dozing off the effects of a good run in the chill of early morning. Olivia closed her eyes and leaned her head on the sofa back. Images of cookie cutters glowed on the inside of her eyelids.

  Olivia’s cell phone vibrated against her hip. Spunky’s ears perked up, but he was too sleepy to raise his head. She dug the phone out of the pocket of her hoodie and checked the caller ID. “It’s Mom,” she said. Spunky must have understood; he relaxed his ears and resumed snoring.

  “Hi, Livie,” Ellie said, “I just returned from my morning jog and got your message. Sure, I can help in the store today. I have my yoga class at four; maybe I could slip away for that?”

  “No problem.”

  “This will be fun,” Ellie said with far too much energy for eight or so in the morning. “I’ll get to spend more time with my daughter.”

  “About that, Mom . . . I’ll need to be out for chunks of the day.”

  “Oh, well then, I’ll get to spend more time with Maddie. Maybe I’ll adopt her.”

  “Ouch. Look, it’s too complicated to explain right now, but I promise I’ll fill you in when I can. Anyway, the store might be busy today. The DC cutter collectors often make the rounds in groups, and if they come to The Gingerbread House, it’s usually on a Thursday. I really appreciate this, Mom.”

  “I know that, dear. I’ll be there at nine, dressed in some appropriate yet exotic outfit.”

  Olivia ended the call and checked the time on her computer. Eight fifteen. She still hadn’t showered, and the store opened at nine. Maddie was probably there already. Olivia reset her cell to her favorite ring tone—Maynard Ferguson’s trumpet caressing a lyrical phrase from “An Offering of Love,” Part 1 —and placed it on the coffee table, next to her laptop. Leaving Spunky to snooze and snore on the sofa, she headed for the shower.

  By opening time, cars and vans had already begun to arrive from DC. Thursday was beginning to look like a repeat of Tuesday, which would be fine if it brought in anything close to Tuesday’s profit. Some out-of-town customers asked about the Chamberlain cookie-cutter collection, but apparently Maddie’s email announcement had done its job.

  Around ten thirty, a customer who was leaving held the door open and in walked Bertha, wheezing heavily. Olivia rushed over to her.

  “Ms. Olivia, now . . . wheeze . . . don’t you worry . . . wheeze . . . about me. I’m . . . wheeze —”

  “Bertha, don’t try to talk. Would a glass of water help? Nod or shake your head.”

  “Wheeze.” Bertha shook her head and handed Olivia her large pocketbook. Olivia thought about patting Bertha’s back, but she couldn’t remember if that would help or hurt. She’d been married to a surgeon, for goodness’ sake, shouldn’t she know what to do?

  “Wheeze. ” Bertha’s face was reddening at an alarming pace.

  Ellie materialized at Olivia’s elbow. “Livie dear, I think Bertha has an inhaler in her pocketbook. Why don’t I look for it?”

  When her mother tried to take the pocketbook from her, Olivia realized she was clutching it to her so tightly her hands stuck to the stiff patent leather. With calm focus, Ellie located the inhaler within seconds and folded Bertha’s fingers around it. Olivia made a silent vow to find a first-aid class and take it until she passed.

  “Thanks, Mom,” she said. “You were amazingly calm. How did you do that?”

  “Meditation, dear. Three classes a week and practice every day.”

  Olivia added a meditation class to her mental list.

  “Oh, Ms. Olivia, your store is so lovely,” Bertha gushed as her eyes roamed around the table displays and across to the baking area. She gave a small gasp of appreciation when her gaze lifted to the cookie-cutter mobiles. “My goodness,” she said, “look at that one. Those are all different baby carriage cookie cutters.”

  Olivia gazed up at the strings of cookie cutters jangling lightly in the circulating air. The baby carriages were similar in design, but some were antiques with wooden handles, some with metal or no handles, and others were plastic. One shiny tin cutter sparkled in the light, and Olivia remembered Clarisse’s sadness as she looked at the cutter display of baby items. That gave Olivia an idea. Bertha might know about Jasmine Dubois.

  Olivia stretched her arm around Bertha’s shoulders. “You’ve never been here before, have you? I’d love to show you our little kitchen at the back of the store. Would you have time for a cup of coffee?”

  “Now, Ms. Olivia,” Bertha said, “I can see how busy you are, but I would love a cup of coffee, if you can really spare the time. I’ve been feeling terrible ever since that dinner on Monday evening. About those cookies, I mean.”

  “Cookies?” Olivia cupped Bertha’s plump elbow with a guiding hand and steered her toward the kitchen.

  “I honestly didn’t know about what happened to Sam.”

  Ah. Those cookies. Olivia was amazed she’d forgotten that episode even for a moment. “Bertha, believe me, it never occurred to me you’d done that on purpose. You aren’t like that.” She closed the door to ensure some privacy.

  “Have a seat,” Olivia said. “I’ll start some fresh coffee for us.” She filled a glass with water and gave it to Bertha. Over the clatter of cups and spoons, she said, “I’m glad you dropped by. I’ve been hoping to have a chance to talk with you.”

  While Mr. Coffee dripped the last of its brew, Olivia delivered cream and sugar to the table. “You know, Clarisse never once hinted about leaving me anything in her will. When I heard how much, not to mention her entire cutter collection, I couldn’t believe it. I thought Mr. Willard must have read it wrong.”

  “I know what you mean,” Bertha said. “She always said she’d take care of me, but I never dreamed she meant she’d take care of everything for the rest of my life. Health expenses, even? I about fainted dead away.” She chuckled, ending in a cough. “Of course, if I’d died of shock, that would have left a lot more for the boys.”

  Yes. It would. Olivia filled their cups as Bertha’s plum
p face puckered up, and she began to sniffle. She rifled through her huge pocketbook. “My mother used to carry a handkerchief in her sleeve.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “Seems like a good idea about now.”

  Olivia never knew what to say when someone was crying. Phrases like “there, there” or “it’s all right” always sounded silly or insulting, and asking what was wrong felt like skipping through a minefield. So she opted for practical silence and hopped up to locate a box of tissues. She found one on the counter and delivered it to Bertha.

  “Thank you, dear,” Bertha said. “I’m not usually this way, you know, but Ms. Clarisse was like a daughter to me.” She put three tissues to her nose and blew with enthusiasm. “I’m grateful she left me so well fixed, don’t think I’m not, but I’d rather have her back. The house isn’t the same anymore. It doesn’t feel right.” Bertha plucked another tissue from the box. “It’s mostly Ms. Clarisse being gone, but it’s more than that.” She spread her strong, wide hands on the table. The knuckles were red and thickened by arthritis.

  “You know, I think it was those cookies,” Bertha said. “I felt better making those decorated cookies, using some of Ms. Clarisse’s favorite cookie cutters. It felt like she might walk in any moment and smile.” Bertha’s lips compressed. “But instead the boys and Ms. Tammy got all uncomfortable and started treating me differently after that night. I helped raise those boys, and I liked Ms. Tammy.” Bertha’s shoulders slumped, and her hands fell onto her lap. “But they’re not actin’ like the people I thought they were. None of this would be happening if my Clarisse was still alive.”

  Hearing Bertha mourn her Clarisse convinced Olivia to take her off the suspects list—and add her to the informant list. But besides hurt feelings, would Bertha be willing to share anything really negative about the boys she mothered? Or anyone, for that matter? Olivia figured she’d never get a chance like this again. Maddie and her mother seemed to be handling the store without her help, so it was now or never.

  Olivia emptied the remaining coffee into their cups. With a light laugh, she said, “You know what suddenly popped into my mind? I was imagining Clarisse arguing with that painting of Martin in the study. Remember you told me about that?”

  Bertha brightened. “My goodness, yes. She’d be so wrapped up talking to that picture, you’d think it was answering her.”

  “Is that how they argued when Martin was alive? I never knew him.”

  “Oh my, yes. They were so close, those two, but when they disagreed about something, well, I’d stay in the kitchen and wait for the house to crumble around me.” Bertha looked like her cheery self again.

  “What was their worst argument? Do you remember?”

  Bertha clapped her hands together. “Do I! It was about a year before Mr. Martin died so sudden.” Her smile faded. “But he died of those cigarettes, not from arguing, not a chance,” she said, perking up again. “He loved to argue. They never fought about business, though. It was always about the boys.” With a sigh, Bertha lapsed into silence.

  “Did they disagree about how to rear the boys?” Olivia prodded.

  “When it came to those boys, they disagreed about everything . Should they be required to dress for dinner? When and how to punish them, how many rules to give them, who they could date . . .”

  “Who they should marry?”

  “You hit the nail on the noggin. The worst argument I ever heard between Ms. Clarisse and Mr. Martin was about a young woman both boys liked. Such a pretty girl, with that lovely black hair. Feisty, too. She had a flower name, now what was it? Violet? Camellia? No, I think it started with a ‘T’ or maybe a ‘J’ or . . . It certainly wasn’t Jewelweed,” Bertha said with a hoarse laugh. “I’m always trying to get that out of the garden.”

  Olivia bit both lips and her tongue trying to avoid blurting out the name. She knew she’d sound too eager.

  Bertha straightened so quickly her body jiggled. “Jasmine,” she said. “Her name was Jasmine Dubois. I got to know her because she waitressed at Pete’s Diner. I used to treat myself to dinner there sometimes when the family would be out. I liked that girl. She had a mind of her own. I wonder where she went.”

  “What do you mean?” Olivia felt so keyed up she was having trouble remembering to breathe.

  “Well, she was there one day and gone the next. That’s what they were arguing about, Ms. Clarisse and Mr. Martin. Ms. Clarisse liked Jasmine and thought it would be nice if she married Hugh or Edward. She was smart, that’s what Ms. Clarisse said about Jasmine. She was smart and honest, and she’d be an asset. Mr. Martin thought she wasn’t good enough for one of his sons. A menial laborer, he called her. Oh, that made Ms. Clarisse mad. She was poor growing up, you see. Worked two jobs to put herself through nursing school. Mr. Martin came from money; he didn’t understand.”

  “Could Martin really stop Hugh and Edward from marrying anyone they wanted?”

  Bertha pondered for a few moments before saying, “I don’t believe Mr. Martin would have cut off either of those boys, I really don’t. But when Jasmine disappeared, Ms. Clarisse accused him of getting rid of her.” With a little gasp, Bertha put her hand to her mouth. “I don’t mean Mr. Martin had her killed her or anything, Ms. Clarisse never said that, but maybe he bribed her to leave? Mr. Martin told her not to be ridiculous, he’d never waste money that way.”

  “Martin said that?”

  “I remember like it was yesterday,” Bertha said with an emphatic nod. “I think Ms. Clarisse believed him, too. That man never wasted a penny.”

  Chapter Twenty

  After Bertha left The Gingerbread House, Olivia and Maddie huddled together in the cookbook alcove to compare notes and plan their next moves. The alcove’s two small armchairs, placed so customers could glance through baking books, allowed Olivia and Maddie to keep an eye on the store. If Ellie needed help, one or both of them could spring into sales mode.

  “So as I understand it,” Maddie said, consulting the notebook on her lap, “you want me to go to the library and find out from Heather how to search obituaries in Baltimore papers, right?”

  “Or any mention of Jasmine Dubois. It’s a long shot, but everything we’ve learned so far—the private detective agency’s letter, the phone number on the note from Faith—it all makes me think Jasmine went to Baltimore after leaving Chatterley Heights.”

  “I wish we had a last name for Faith,” Maddie said.

  “I have a feeling we’ll find Faith when we figure out what happened to Jasmine.”

  Olivia reached in the pocket of her linen slacks and pulled out her cell phone. “It’s eleven thirty. The noon crowd will be arriving soon. I have an appointment with Mr. Willard at one fifteen, his office, so I should be back by two thirty at the latest. Then you can split for the library, but be back by four. Mom has a yoga class.”

  “Of course she does.”

  Ellie Greyson-Meyers’s petite form appeared in the alcove entryway. “Customer alert,” she said. “A van pulled up out front, and five women are heading up the walk. They look like they mean business. Oh, and Sheriff Del called. He’s on his way over to talk to you, Livie.”

  “Uh-oh,” Maddie said after Ellie left. “What did you do this time?”

  “Smirking is not attractive.”

  “But I do it so well.”

  An errant wave fell over Olivia’s eye and she slid it behind her ear. “Stow my notes in the kitchen for me, would you?”

  “Sure.” Maddie took a moment to smooth the wrinkles out of her form-fitting black jeans. “You do realize that Del will find out you are asking questions. Chatterley Heights is a rumor mill, and a darned good one.”

  “Your civic pride is duly noted.”

  “I’m only saying, Del might not be in the best of pro-Livie moods.”

  Olivia shrugged with a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “I never actually promised to stop asking questions. Del can be as mad as he wants; I don’t intend to stop until I know who killed Clarisse.”
r />   Sheriff Del arrived in uniform, which put a damper on cookie-cutter commerce. Everyone in The Gingerbread House, including Maddie and Ellie, watched with open curiosity as Olivia led him into the cookbook alcove. He hung his hat on a display stand mixer, pursed his lips, and strode around the perimeter of the alcove.

  “Del, please, stop pacing and sit down.” Olivia pointed to the chair Maddie had vacated. “A lot of our customers lately are overly curious right now, and I’d rather not invite more rumors.”

  “I was hoping for more privacy,” Del said.

  “I told you, I need to keep an eye on the store in case—”

  “In case Maddie and Ellie need you, I know.”

  Del paused in midpace and glared at a large rolling pin made of shiny marble with two-tone gray swirls. It was one of Olivia’s favorite pieces. She kept it on a low shelf near the cookbook browsing table. She didn’t take Del’s frown as disapproval of her pride and joy, since she doubted he even saw it.

  “I’ll make it quick,” Del said, dropping into an armchair. “I just drove back from Howard County General.” He was speaking so quietly that Olivia had to lean toward him to hear. “Sam came out of his coma.”

  “That’s great news. Will he be okay?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Was he able to remember anything?”

  Del shifted in his chair so he could face Olivia. “He remembers finding a bag of cookies on his front porch when he got home for lunch. The bag said The Gingerbread House—he remembers that, too. But nothing afterwards. I checked with Polly at the Food Shelf. She couldn’t tell if any of the cookies you delivered went missing, but the bag didn’t. She took that home.”

  “Lots of folks keep those bags,” Olivia said. “My mother has piles of them.”

  “I’m not accusing you, Livie. I have to ask, were you aware of Sam’s schedule?”

  With an attempt at a smile, she said, “Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t?”