Cookies and Scream (A Cookie Cutter Shop Mystery) (14 page)

Olivia opened the top drawer of the dresser and found lingerie neatly folded in small piles. She touched the fabric of a pale blue slip; it had the liquid feel of fine silk. She felt hesitant to paw through the soft lingerie, and she doubted it would be helpful, anyway.

“Hey, how’s it going in here?” Maddie’s voice startled Olivia, who spun around so fast she nearly lost her balance. “Whoa,” Maddie said. “Were you expecting an ax murderer?”

Olivia pushed her hair off her forehead and realized her hand was shaking. “I’m fine, really. It’s just . . . there’s something disturbing about hunting through the personal belongings of a woman who was alive only a short time ago.”

“If by ‘disturbing’ you mean ‘fascinating,’ then I completely agree,” Maddie said as she peered into the open drawer. “Those silk undies are gorgeous. I’ll bet she bought them in France. Find anything important yet?”

“Not really.” Olivia slid the top drawer shut. “The closet is precise, neat, and filled with exquisite and expensive clothing.” She opened the middle drawer, which held six elegant summer nightgowns and nothing else. The gowns were all sewn from the same fabric, a thin ecru cotton, but each design was unique, ranging from plain to tucked and beaded.

“Ditto here,” Maddie said as she selected the most ornate nightgown and unfolded it. “Wow, the tucking is done by hand. This is incredibly fine stitching. Aunt Sadie would be impressed.” She carefully folded the nightgown and returned it to its place. As she slid the drawer shut, Maddie said, “This chest of drawers is a fine piece. Excellent condition.”

“Scandinavian, right?” Olivia asked.

Maddie nodded. “Swedish, to be precise. Simple, yet elegant.” She ran her fingertips across the top. “Recently restored by someone with a lot of experience.”

Olivia knelt on the floor to open the bottom drawer. She found it empty. As she pushed the drawer forward to close it, a small object inside fell. Olivia plucked it out of the drawer.

“What’s that?” Maddie asked.

“This must have been stuck to the inside edge of the drawer.” Olivia held a folded piece of paper in the palm of her hand. “It’s probably just an old bill or something.”

“Well, open it up, for heaven’s sake,” Maddie said. “I’m not a patient woman.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Olivia carried her find to the small bureau next to Greta’s bed. She switched on the reading lamp and began to unfold the paper.

Maddie’s right hand hovered close by, fingers twitching. “You’re going slowly just to drive me crazy, aren’t you?”

“Yep, out of sheer meanness,” Olivia said. “That, plus the fact that this paper is folded so small and tight, it’s tough to find an edge. It would help if I had actual fingernails.”

“Can’t help with that.” Maddie spread her fingers. “I trim my nails really short to keep them from stabbing the rolled cookie dough.”

“Okay, got it.” When Olivia fully opened the lined paper, it was about three-by-five inches and rounded on two corners. “If this belonged to Greta, she sure had tiny handwriting.”

“Let me see.” Maddie slipped the paper from Olivia’s hands. “Tiny and shaky,” she said. “And some of it is really light, as if the pen ran out of ink and was replaced with another. It looks like a page torn from a small notebook, the kind you might carry in your pocket to write down things you’re afraid you’ll forget. Can you read this writing? I’m too impatient.”

Olivia scanned the faint, scratchy marks on the paper. “It looks like a grocery list with some numbers. There’s a line separating the list from a number at the bottom, as if Greta had been calculating the total cost of several items. Except . . .” Olivia squinted at the numbers. “Something isn’t right.”

“Really?” Maddie grabbed the list and frowned. “I don’t think these add up. Or is that my math incompetence talking?” She handed the list back to Olivia.

“No, you’re right,” Olivia said. “Also, the total is huge, and there’s no decimal point or dollar sign. Of course, Greta might simply have left those off.”

“Maybe it isn’t a total. Maybe it’s a serial number, like on a computer or something,” Maddie said. “I’ll bet it fell into the drawer when she was putting stuff away. Which would make it officially unimportant and boring.”

Olivia slipped the paper into her pocket. “We need to get out of here. I’m glad we didn’t try to pressure Cody into searching the house. I think we can safely conclude that there’s no evidence here that someone facilitated Greta’s death.”

“Maybe,” Maddie said, “and maybe not. I went up to the attic and looked around. Very interesting. If you’re wondering how Greta managed to keep the house so free of clutter, I’m here to tell you: she crammed tons of stuff into the attic. She must have sent a zillion crates from Europe. Much of it isn’t unpacked yet, but what I saw took my breath away.”

“Such as . . . ?”

“Couldn’t we go up there, just for a minute?” Maddie took Olivia’s wrist and tried to pull her toward the bedroom door.

“Maddie, we really need to—”

“Pretty please with pearlized sprinkles on top? Come on, Livie, I promise you will be amazed. And you never know, we might gain some insight into Greta. Did I mention there are photos? Entire albums of them.”

Olivia hesitated. Photos might be helpful, especially if they dated back several decades and identified people by name. Despite the lack of evidence, Olivia couldn’t shake the feeling that Greta’s death had not been entirely natural. And Greta had called her for help. “Okay, let’s take a look at that attic, but we need to make it quick.”

“Yay!” Maddie slapped her hand over her own mouth. “Oops, sorry. Excessive enthusiasm.” She grabbed Olivia’s arm and pulled her about halfway down the hallway to a door. Olivia had assumed it was a linen closet. “Ta-da,” Maddie said as the door opened to reveal a staircase, complete with a sturdy railing running up to the top. “Hurry, there’s lots to see.” Maddie ran up the steps.

Olivia followed at a more conservative pace, remembering her mother’s frequent—and, unfortunately, accurate—reminders that she often tripped over her own feet. When she reached the top, Olivia paused, momentarily overwhelmed by the jumble of objects before her. Pale light from a small window caught the shiny sapphire blue bodice of a figure-skimming evening gown that hung on an open rack. Olivia thought of Constance’s ten-year-old photo of Greta in a similar gown. All the gowns on the rack, Olivia realized, were shades of blue. Had blue simply been Greta’s favorite color, or had she chosen the color because it drew attention to her mesmerizing eyes?

“Well? Isn’t this gorgeous?” Maddie giggled like an excited little girl as she lifted the sapphire blue gown off its hanger and held it against her body. “It’s just the right length.” She twirled around. “Although I suspect it might be a tad tight through the hips. It’s sad that Greta won’t ever dance in this dress again,” Maddie said as she returned the gown to the rack.

“From what I saw of her current wardrobe, Greta wasn’t planning to attend any more balls.” Olivia saw a stack of albums on a shelf. “These must be her photos.” She picked an album with worn edges and opened it to random pages. Every photo showed Greta, in a variety of ball gowns, dancing in the arms of men who weren’t facing the camera. Olivia turned page after page. She saw a young Greta smiling, laughing, flinging her head back, looking somber. . . . She was always with a man, but again, the faces of her male companions were hidden. Olivia opened another album and found the same pattern.

“Maddie, did you look at any of these photo albums?” Olivia asked.

“I didn’t have time.” Maddie picked an album and flipped through the photos. “Wow. Greta was certainly the belle of the ball, wasn’t she? She must have had her very own photographer.”

“Or maybe Greta kept photos only if she was the center of attraction.” Olivia tried another album. “Same thing here. You know, I haven’t seen a single photo of Greta standing next to a man, as if they were a couple. Where are those husbands of hers?”

“Sadly and suspiciously deceased.” Maddie yanked a battered album from the bottom of a stack. She examined several pages, and said, “These show Greta as a teenager. She was a beauty, I’ll give her that.” Maddie flipped to the end of the album. “Here she is in Paris, I think.”

“Let me see,” Olivia said, peering over Maddie’s shoulder. “That’s Greta standing in front of the Arc de Triomphe. It’s on the Champs-Élysées in Paris.”

“Show-off,” Maddie said. “So maybe this dates from when Greta studied at the Sorbonne? Did I say that right?”

“Perfect,” Olivia said. “I suspect you’re right about the date, too. She looks quite young.”

“She could have been a model,” Maddie said. “Look at that tall, willowy figure and the long blond hair blowing in the wind.”

“If Greta had been a model,” Olivia said, “I’d understand all these photos better. It would have been natural for her to pose for any and all cameras, and photographers would gravitate toward her. Although I’d still expect some photos of her with loved ones.”

Maddie closed the album and slid it back on the shelf. “It’s sad . . . almost as if Greta never really had any loved ones. Maybe she loved only herself.”

“It certainly seems that way.” Olivia flashed back to the Gingerbread House kitchen before the cookie event they’d thrown to celebrate Greta’s arrival. Greta had struck her as self-contained. She had seemed distant . . . cold. Olivia flipped to the last page of the album she was holding. “Maddie, look at this one.” Olivia held the album with one hand and pointed to a photo of Greta sitting in a lounge chair on the deck of a ship. “She looks quite a bit older here, doesn’t she?”

Maddie took the album to study the photo more closely. “You’re right. Greta definitely looks middle-aged and not very cheerful. In fact, I’d swear she is sending mental daggers in the direction of whoever is taking the picture. Hey, there’s some lettering up high, over to the right of Greta’s head. I wonder if it’s the name of the ship she was on. Livie, hold this while I shine my flashlight on it.” Olivia complied. “The tops of the letters are cut off,” Maddie said, “but it looks like ‘Alic’ to me. What do you think?”

Olivia peered at the letters under Maddie’s flashlight. “That’s what it looks like to me, too.”

“Maybe there’s something written on the back of the photo,” Maddie said.

“Be careful,” Olivia said. “The glue is old on those little photo holders.”

“When am I not careful?” When Olivia didn’t answer, Maddie said, “Okay, point taken. I’ll squeeze the photo really gently, and it should slide out. Ah, there we go.” She turned the photo over. “There’s some faded, scratchy writing here.” She shined her flashlight on the words. “Oh my. Here, tell me what you think this says. It’s possible my imagination went berserk.” Maddie handed over the photo and flashlight.

“I see what you mean,” Olivia said after staring at the words for some time. She even turned the writing upside down to make sure it didn’t produce a different message. “
Dead and Buried.
” Olivia handed the photo back to Maddie. “That has an ominous ring to it.”

“I’ll say.”

“How old do you think Greta is in that picture?” Olivia shined her flashlight on the photo in Maddie’s hand.

“Hard to tell, given the expression on Greta’s face,” Maddie said. “That scowl might be adding years to her features. I must say, her clothes are downright frumpy. That floral skirt just sort of hangs. Wait, is that a conch shell necklace? I’ll bet this photo was taken in the mid-nineties. So Greta might have been in her early to mid-fifties. I wonder if the photographer was her last husband. Do we know his name or what happened to him?”

Olivia shook her head as she slid the photo back in place. “We are woefully ignorant about any and all of Greta’s unfortunate husbands. Let’s put that information on our computer search list.”

“Oh goodie! Isn’t it lucky that I excel in computer searches? They are such fun.” Maddie took the album from Olivia. Starting at the first page, she flipped through to the end. “Did you notice that Greta aged from maybe early twenties to her fifties through this album? No photos of men, but what do you want to bet this is her husband album?”

“You might be right,” Olivia said. “From Greta’s expression, she seems irritated with the photographer, yet she kept the photo. It’s so odd that Greta never kept photos of the men in her life. Maybe she was left with unpleasant memories of all of them.”

“I’d like to know how many of them actually died in questionable circumstances.” Maddie replaced the album on the shelf. “I’m betting it was more than one.” She wiggled her fingers and said, “I can’t wait to get to a computer.”

“We’d better wrap this up soon,” Olivia said. “Let’s look around quickly and get out of here.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Maddie scanned the remaining shelves.

Olivia peered into partially unpacked boxes until she found one containing two bundles of envelopes, some with foreign stamps, others sent from the United States. She picked up one of the packets and flipped through the envelopes.

“What did you find?” Maddie asked, looking over Olivia’s shoulder.

“I’m being idly curious, that’s all,” Olivia said. “These letters all seem to have postmarks from the 1970s and 1980s. I was wondering if . . . Yep, there it is.”

“There what is?”

“A letter from Clarisse Chamberlain. Then nothing more from Clarisse.”

Maddie whistled. “You’re thinking about that story Bertha told us, aren’t you . . . the one about Greta’s European affair with Martin Chamberlain while poor Clarisse was home with her chicken-poxed sons?”

“I am.” Olivia picked up another packet. “I’m also thinking that Greta said little about her life. She wasn’t with us for long, but still . . .”

“Maybe she had a lot to hide?” Maddie picked up another small box and looked inside. “These are letters, too. Some of the envelopes contain several letters from the same person. For such a reserved woman, Greta sure corresponded a lot.”

Olivia shrugged. “In a letter, you can be whoever you want, if you are cunning enough. My impression is that Greta was very, very cunning. I wonder why she decided to come back to Chatterley Heights. She had to know she would encounter people who knew about her past, and maybe even a few enemies.” Olivia checked the time on her cell phone. “We’ve been here too long. How many boxes of letters are there?”