A Cookie Before Dying

by Lowell, Virginia

  When Olivia entered the kitchen, Maddie had the mixer going as close as possible to the phone receiver. With a rhythmic splat-splat, the paddle whacked the ingredients into a smooth dough. Maddie slid the mixer farther away but didn’t turn it off as Olivia lifted the phone receiver.

  “Ryan?”

  “What is that racket? Can’t Maddie do that someplace else? I’m on the phone.”

  “You’re actually in The Gingerbread House kitchen, Ryan.” However, Olivia shot Maddie a pleading look, and the mixer stopped.

  “That’s better. Livie, listen, I’ve got great news. The clinic is moving along faster than we ever anticipated, and we might be able to open in a month. I need to talk to you about that as soon as possible. I’ll stop by tomorrow evening. We can go out to dinner somewhere. I know there isn’t much in that little town, so we’ll head out and find something more interesting. I’ll pick you up at seven. I’ve got a lot—”

  “Ryan, stop, take a breath. I’m glad the clinic plan is going well, but tomorrow is impossible for me. I have other plans.”

  “Cancel them. This is important.”

  “My plans are important, too, and I resent your—”

  “Look, Livie, I don’t have time to argue. I’m meeting tonight with a backer, and I can’t be late. You and I have something very important to talk about, and it can’t wait any longer. So I’ll see you—”

  “Ryan, do not come here tomorrow, do you hear me? Ryan?” Olivia slammed the phone on its cradle. “He hung up on me. Can you believe that?”

  “Oh yes,” Maddie said, “I can believe it. If he does show up, can I punch him in the nose? Or perhaps a more sensitive spot?”

  “I can’t worry about Ryan right now.” Olivia flopped down on a chair. “We have only one more day to come up with something, anything, that will keep Jason from being taken away and booked for Geoffrey King’s murder. I need to think.”

  “How can I help? Or I can be very quiet, if that would be better.” Maddie retrieved a box from the top of the refrigerator and twisted off the lid. It took a few moments for Olivia to realize that Maddie was laying cookie cutters on the kitchen table.

  “Are those new?” Olivia moved her chair closer.

  “I can’t get that ballerina out of my head,” Maddie said. “So I ordered all the ballet cookie cutters I could find. I guess that makes it official; I am a cookie cutter addict. They are so fun and calming and . . . Livie?”

  “Hmm?” Olivia held a cookie cutter in the shape of a leaping ballerina. “Does this step have a name?”

  “Jeté,” Maddie said.

  “That’s French.”

  “Is it? I guess I knew that once.” Maddie began to roll out a ball of cookie dough she’d been cooling in the refrigerator. After several moments of silent concentration, she glanced at Olivia, who was still staring at the leaping ballerina cutter. “Livie, you have that look on your face. What’s up?”

  Olivia slid the ballet cookie cutters toward Maddie. “Let’s use only these cutters for tomorrow evening’s event.”

  “Fine by me,” Maddie said.

  “How early can you be up tomorrow morning?”

  Maddie glanced up from her half-rolled dough.

  “This is me, remember? I can stay up all night. Why?

  Olivia flexed her tight shoulders. Worrying about Jason was getting to her. However, a good night’s rest would have to wait. “I haven’t returned Constance’s key to her,” she said. “We can still get into the dance studio.”

  “I thought Raoul was only gone on Thursdays,” Maddie said.

  “Rumor has it he goes to early Mass every weekday morning, followed by confession after Friday Mass. Any idea how long confession takes?”

  With the back of her hand, Maddie pushed an errant lock of curly hair off her forehead, leaving a streak of flour behind. “According to one of my Catholic friends, the goal is to get in and out with some Hail Marys and a few Our Fathers, but if she’s feeling really guilty about something, confession can stretch to maybe fifteen minutes. But she usually makes an appointment for one of those. If Raoul goes after Mass, there’s probably a waiting line.”

  “Well then, we’ll have to be efficient,” Olivia said. “I need to find the ballerina of the park, and I’m assuming she doesn’t go to Mass with Raoul.”

  Maddie dipped a ballet shoe cookie cutter in flour and positioned it on her rolled dough. “If we actually find her at home, won’t she tell Raoul?”

  “I don’t think so,” Olivia said as she selected a cookie cutter in the shape of a ballerina performing an arabesque. She dipped it in flour and handed it to Maddie. “Anyway, I’m guessing the woman will be out cold while Raoul is gone. I researched those pills I found next to Valentina’s bed. They were powerful sleeping pills. I suspect Raoul has been drugging her. I would love to know why.”

  Maddie looked up from her cookie cutting, emerald eyes sparkling. “Wow. Do you think keeping her drugged might have something to do with King’s murder? Like maybe Raoul has some reason he doesn’t want her to be seen and identified? Maybe King got mixed up with mobsters. Maybe Raoul and the ballerina saw him and now they’re in the Witness Protection Program!”

  “I doubt it,” Olivia said. “The Witness Protection Program would never have allowed Raoul to continue dancing. He’d be too recognizable, too easy to track down.”

  “He’d have to give up dancing?” Maddie held a pirouetting ballerina cookie cutter in the palm of her hand. “How sad. Remind me never to witness a mob hit.”

  “Duly noted.” Olivia slid a pan of cookies into the oven. “I have a theory about Raoul,” she said. “The trouble is, I don’t have a bit of evidence.”

  “What? Tell me!”

  “It doesn’t really qualify as a theory,” Olivia said. “I keep thinking about Ida’s story of the dancing ghost.”

  The oven timer dinged. Maddie wedged open the oven door to take a look, releasing the sweet-spicy fragrance of orange and nutmeg. “Perfect,” she said. “One more batch and we’re done with the baking. Ida’s brain is a little on the buttery side, you know.”

  “I got that impression,” Olivia said, “but maybe we shouldn’t ignore every detail of her story.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like her account of a man threatening the dancer. Ida described that incident in some detail, and I did find a dress with a rip in the front. She said the ballerina kicked him and got away. Ida seemed so pleased by the dancer’s feisti-ness that I dismissed the story as fantasy, especially when I found out she didn’t report the incident to the police. But what if it was true? We’ve been thinking of the dancer as an older woman reliving her lost days as a prima ballerina . . . as someone damaged, in need of protection from any human contact.”

  While the batches of cookies were baking, Maddie had managed to whip up a batch of royal icing and divide it into covered containers for coloring. She added three drops of medium pink gel food coloring to one container and stirred the icing. “If Ida wasn’t hallucinating,” Maddie said, “then it seems to me our ballerina is one strong chick. A fighter.”

  “And young,” Olivia said. “The way Ida described the incident, it didn’t sound like a typical mugging. Think about it, the man grabbed the dancer and lifted her off her feet.”

  “So you think this woman might not be Raoul’s wife? But Livie, all those costumes you described to me, they must have been Lara’s from the roles she danced with the Royal Winnipeg Ballet.”

  “I’m sure they are,” Olivia said, “but . . . like mother, like daughter?”

  “Raoul and Lara’s daughter.... I wonder. Pregnancy would certainly explain Lara’s interrupted career.” Maddie twisted a lid on the icing container she’d been working on and sat at her laptop. “There are a lot of ballet fanatics out there. It’s hard to believe one of them wouldn’t have uncovered the fact that Lara had a daughter. And said daughter must have trained as a ballerina. Let me check her bio again.” She typed in Lara Larssen and sele
cted Wikipedia. Skimming the brief biography, Maddie said, “Sketchy. I’m surprised her ardent fans haven’t filled in more details, but it happens all the time.”

  “Exactly,” Olivia said. “Internet information can be wrong and full of holes. Someone would have to hunt down official and private documents to locate birth certificates and medical records. If there was no public notice, like a newspaper obituary, even finding a death could take a lot of effort. Lara only danced professionally for two years. Maybe those ardent ballet fans didn’t think she was all that interesting.”

  “Point taken,” Maddie said. “The Internet is less than godlike. Maybe the dancer is Lara and Raoul’s daughter, but where does that get us? If Raoul is drugging her whenever he leaves the studio, we won’t be able to talk to her. It seems like an awful risk for not much gain.”

  Olivia felt suddenly lightheaded and realized she had been hyperventilating. She’d already gotten away with sneaking into Raoul’s living quarters, but she’d had all day to do it, and no one had been home. Now there was a good chance someone would be there, and their time would be short. She’d be dragging Maddie into danger, too. They might be caught, even arrested. Del would never forgive her. Then Olivia thought of Jason, her baby brother, being carted off in shackles, standing trial for murder. She wished she hadn’t mentioned anything to Maddie. Luckily, she hadn’t yet revealed her real reason for wanting to get into the dance studio again—Raoul’s little private office upstairs. She was willing to bet he had records in there somewhere.

  “You’re right,” Olivia said. “We’d be taking a big risk for little or no gain. I’ll give Constance her key back tomorrow. Meanwhile, let’s finish these cookies and get a good night’s sleep for once.”

  They finished by two thirty Friday morning. Olivia sent Maddie home, left the kitchen a mess, and checked the store locks. A sleepy Yorkie snuggled against her chest as she lumbered up the stairs to her apartment. She told herself that leaving Maddie out was the best decision. She wouldn’t have much time to search through Raoul’s papers, if indeed she could find any helpful documents, but she’d do what she could. If she got caught, so be it. Her baby brother was worth the risk.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Promptly at five forty-five Friday morning, after less than three hours of fitful sleep, Olivia gave Spunky extra food and a hug. She locked her apartment door, leaving behind her whining pet. Halfway down the stairs, she realized something was amiss in the foyer. She could see light streaming from the entrance to The Gingerbread House. She was already keyed up. A break-in at the store was the last thing she needed. She eased down the steps, mentally preparing herself for whatever disaster awaited. A light thump-rattle sound came from inside the store, like someone bumping into a display table. Olivia froze five steps from the bottom of the stairs and reached into her jeans pocket for her cell.

  “I thought those stealthy steps might be you.” Maddie’s face peeked around the doorjamb. “Cutting it a little close, aren’t we?” She wore black jeans and a black T-shirt. Her bright red hair hid underneath a large beret. Black, of course. “What, you thought you could sneak off on an adventure without me? Please. I’ve known you too long to fall for your feeble effort to pretend you’d changed your mind. I could tell the moment you decided to go it alone. So come on, we need to be hiding outside the dance studio in time to see Raoul leave for Mass. Otherwise, we can’t be sure he’s gone.”

  Olivia heaved a dramatic sigh. “Oh, Maddie, Maddie, Maddie. You’re my best friend, and you are totally nuts.”

  “If that’s your way of admitting you can’t outsmart me, then apology accepted. Now, let’s get a move on.”

  Maddie turned off the store light while Olivia poked her head out the front door. Except for one car, the town square looked deserted. That wouldn’t last long. Business owners would begin arriving anytime after six a.m., especially for the two restaurants, which opened at seven. “Let’s go out the back,” Olivia said. “I wish I’d thought this out better, but I was dead tired last night.”

  “Not to worry,” Maddie said. “I’m at my best when I’m winging it. You did remember the key, right?”

  Olivia felt the shape of it in her pocket. “Present and accounted for. That much I planned.”

  They slipped into the empty alley behind The Gingerbread House. “Good thing it isn’t garbage day,” Olivia whispered. “Let’s go behind the stores instead of down Willow Road, then we can cut through that little park across the street from the dance studio.”

  “Good idea,” Maddie said. “No one uses that park much, and it’s got lots of trees. Try to look like we’re out for an early morning walk, in case some obsessive store owner decided to arrive early to do inventory or something. You never know.”

  Olivia and Maddie walked with brisk casualness down the alley behind the stores on the east side of the town square. They’d encountered no one by the time they reached the park that stretched for a block from Hickory Road to Willow Road. The wooded area wasn’t really a park, simply a large lot that had gone wild after two small houses burned down decades earlier.

  Once they’d decided on a spot to hide and watch for Raoul to leave for Mass, Maddie asked, “What if he takes the back door?”

  “No reason he would,” Olivia said. “Constance said he goes to St. Francis, which is on south Park Street. The greater danger is he might cut through these woods.”

  “That’s so comforting.”

  “That’s why we’re staying on the north edge.” Across the dance floor, Olivia saw a light flick on in the office at the rear of the studio. Instinctively, she drew back behind a tree, yanking Maddie with her.

  “Ow,” Maddie whispered. “I think you dislocated my shoulder.”

  “Sorry. Look, there’s Raoul in that little room at the back.” Within seconds, the light went out. For several moments, the dance floor looked deserted. Olivia moved out of cover of the tree to see better. “I think he did go out the back,” she said, cursing herself for overconfidence.

  “No, I can see him,” Maddie said. “The front door is opening.” This time it was she who strong-armed Olivia out of sight.

  Dressed in a light gray suit, Raoul looked exotically handsome. He glanced up and down the street before he crossed the lawn and walked to the north side of the studio. Maddie groaned. “Oh geez, what now? He’s supposed to go south.”

  Olivia shifted several trees over to get a better view of the studio’s north side. She saw Raoul pause and look up at the top floor. “I think he’s checking at our ballerina’s window. Maybe he wants to be sure she’s asleep, not watching for him to leave.”

  “Do you think he left her room unlocked?” Maddie asked. “We might be able to talk to her.”

  “He’s leaving. I wonder if he was worried she hadn’t swallowed those pills I saw next to her bed. Okay, he’s out of sight, time to rumba.” Olivia glanced up and down Willow Road. “No cars,” she said. “This is a quiet area, thank goodness. Let’s double back to the end of the block and go up the alley in back of the studio.”

  “Okay, but we’d better step on it.” Maddie’s strong legs took her quickly through the trees. Olivia had to rush to keep her in sight. Once in the open, they tried to look casual, especially when several cars drove past. By the time they reached the rear door, Olivia felt so wound up she fumbled as she tried to fit the key in the lock.

  “Livie? Are you okay? Your hand is shaking.”

  “Just excited,” Olivia said. “I felt a lot calmer yesterday when I had more time. Okay, we’re in.” She took a deep breath, which slowed her heartbeat. She couldn’t afford a case of nerves, not with Jason’s life on the line. She locked the door behind them and put her finger to her lips as she pointed to the staircase. “Our dancer is probably upstairs,” she whispered, “asleep or awake.”

  Maddie nodded. “I’ll go check on the bedroom, if you want to get going in the study.”

  “Thanks.” Olivia led the way upstairs. At the top, she pointed Ma
ddie toward the bedroom. “I’ll be there,” she whispered, nodding toward the study. “Be careful.” Maddie grinned like a kid playing a game of international espionage, which triggered one of Olivia’s bad feelings. She told herself Maddie was reliable . . . for the most part. When it was important. Too late now, anyway.

  In the small, littered study, Olivia realized at once that Raoul, though precise and meticulous as a dancer, had no organizational impulse when it came to paper. She headed for a wooden desk with two drawers. It looked old, battered rather than antique. Papers covered the top of the desk, the chair seat, and the bookshelves. There were papers on the floor and she didn’t see evidence of any attempt to sort them into piles. Olivia felt overwhelmed. She wondered if Raoul experienced the same emotion, having to deal with all this paper. She scanned the top of the desk and saw numerous invoices, apparently for medical treatments, many of them stamped PAST DUE. Would an itinerant dance teacher be able to afford health insurance, let alone such an array of medical bills?

  Olivia checked dates and found a pattern. The oldest papers were on the floor, more recent ones on the bookshelves, and the newest papers covered the desk. She extricated a letter from the chaotic desktop. It was a brief description of a patient’s treatment progress, signed by a psychiatrist at The Psychiatric Institute of Washington in DC. Olivia was skimming through it, feeling guilty, when she heard a creaking sound behind her. She spun around to face the door.

  “Hey, it’s just me,” Maddie whispered. “Wait’ll you hear what I found out. What’s wrong? You look like you’re about to faint.”

  “This is me being excited. Read this.” Olivia handed the letter to Maddie.

  “Wow,” Maddie said. “Patient has regressed . . . down from ninety to eighty-five pounds . . . appears to be hallucinating about being attacked again . . . reliving trauma. . . . The letter is dated yesterday. This must be where Raoul goes every Thursday.”

  “I’d bet on it,” Olivia said. “I suspect that attack was no hallucination.”