Cookies and Scream (A Cookie Cutter Shop Mystery) (19 page)

Olivia allowed herself an inward sigh as she closed the store’s door behind her. “Mr. Jakobson, I really don’t know what you have in mind. Even our most valuable antique cookie cutters aren’t terribly expensive.” She pointed toward the locked cabinet where their vintage cutters, and a few antique ones, were on display.

Olaf tossed a disdainful glance toward the antique mahogany cabinet with glass doors. “Not those,” he said. “She told me about those things, but they are nothing.”

“She?”

Olaf’s expression said clearly that he considered Olivia dense beyond belief. “Desirée, of course. I’m sure you noticed her here during your little cookie party. Stunning girl.” Olaf’s tone had softened. “She certainly stood out in
that
crowd. I am taking Desirée to dinner tonight at Bon Vivant. It’s the best restaurant Chatterley Heights has to offer, but it will have to do.”

Since Bon Vivant, with its fine food and extensive gardens, was a destination for folks from both DC and Baltimore, Olivia had no doubt Desirée Kirkwood would be impressed. She was certainly moving fast in her quest for valuable cookie cutters. It had only been a few hours since she had visited the store herself and described Olaf Jakobson as an arrogant jerk. Desirée had also insisted she didn’t know anything about antique cutters. Olivia had to wonder what had changed since then.

“Well, I’m afraid the cutters in that cabinet are all we can offer you, Mr. Jakobson. You might want to try Anita Rambert, a local antiques dealer. If anyone might have antique cutters more valuable than ours, it would be Anita. Or you might ask Desirée what type of cutter she would like.” At the very least, Olivia thought, Anita would charge him more.

“You don’t get it,” Olaf said. “I don’t have time to dig up some flea market junk dealer, and I certainly don’t have time to waste arguing with you. Desirée doesn’t know I’m getting her a gift. She mentioned Greta’s cookie cutters, so I want the most valuable item in Greta’s collection. I know you have it in your possession, so just take one out and sell it to me. Right now. I am running out of patience.”

Her mother always did breathing exercises when she was upset, so Olivia took a deep breath. Then she took another. Deep breathing, Olivia decided, was overrated. “Mr. Jakobson, Greta Oskarson’s cookie cutter collection is locked in a secure storage facility, and it will stay there while her death is being investigated and any remaining family located. Those cutters are not for sale.” Olivia strode toward the front of the store, opened the door, and held it for Olaf. “The store is currently closed.”

Olaf’s face turned dangerously red. His upper arm muscles bunched, as if he wanted to hit her. Olivia felt her hand shake, but she kept hold of the doorknob. She gave deep breathing one more try, and this time it worked, at least enough to slow her thudding heart. Olaf must have sensed Olivia’s resolve, because he strode through the open door and into the foyer. Olivia stayed by the door, her hand clutching the knob. She was afraid she might fall over if she let go. When Olivia heard the front door slam behind her, she exhaled and sank to the floor.

Maddie poked her head out the kitchen door. “Livie? I thought I heard someone yelling out here, so I . . . Why are you sitting in the doorway?”

“Well,” Olivia said, “it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

*   *   *

O
livia fixed herself a cup of coffee and relaxed on a chair in the kitchen. “Whew. Olaf Jakobson’s tirade wore me out. It’s only ten o’clock Monday morning, but I feel as if I’ve lived through a full week since I returned home from vacation.”

“You have, in a manner of speaking,” Maddie swirled pale lemon yellow icing on a daisy-shaped cookie. “First, we threw together an event for Greta. Then she woke you up in the middle of the night, gasping for breath. You called 911, raced to the emergency room, hung around with a couple of drunks, tried to wring information from Nurse Ratched about Greta’s condition . . . Then I arrived—ta-da!” Maddie flung out her arms, along with a glob of yellow icing. “I decided it was time to speed things up a bit, which involved feigning a sprained ankle and charming poor Bill the ER guy into letting it slip that Greta had died. I’m not bragging, you understand, but merely stating a series of facts.” Maddie bowed her head modestly, as befit a heroine. “Of course, there was more, but I won’t summarize since I played a lesser role.”

“Uh-huh,” Olivia said. “I do remember that I’ve spent very little time actually asleep since Greta called me. And I especially remember the part where we sneaked into poor Greta’s house, went through her belongings, and made off with her correspondence, which we spent yesterday perusing. I’m not sure that was my brightest idea ever, given Greta’s natural death has morphed into possible murder. Thank goodness Mr. Willard reassured us that the police would expect our fingerprints to be in Greta’s house, since she had asked me to handle the sale of her cutter collection.”

“Never mind that Sunday morning was the first time we had ever actually been in Greta’s house,” Maddie said. “That little fact will probably emerge eventually, but let’s not dwell on it. Mr. Willard isn’t a criminal attorney, as he so often tells us. Can the police make him tell if he knows if and why we searched Greta’s house after her death? I don’t get how that works, exactly.”

“I don’t think so, but I don’t really know.” Olivia yawned as she stretched her arms toward the ceiling. “Anyway, Mr. Willard knows lots of cutthroat criminal attorneys, should we need one.”

Maddie mixed a hint of red into purple royal icing before transferring it to a pastry bag. “I’ll bet Mr. Willard would be feeling less nervous if Del were handling the case, and so would I. Del would be furious with us, of course, but he wouldn’t turn us in to the authorities.”

“Maybe not immediately, anyway,” Olivia said. “Pass me a cookie, would you? I’m starving.” Maddie handed her a pink daisy with a red center. Olivia bit into it at once.

“Don’t bother to admire the artistry, Livie, not on my account.”

“Sorry,” Olivia said with a grimace. “Interrupted sleep makes me hungry. You know how much I love your cookies, Maddie. Anyway, I plead distraction. I was thinking about that third letter Clarisse wrote to Greta. . . . You know, the angry one. I’d love to know what Clarisse found out about Greta that was so awful. I was really hoping Clarisse had confided in Mr. Willard, but no such luck.” Olivia noticed the open laptop on the kitchen desk. “No wonder you weren’t listening in on my little contretemps with Olaf out on the sales floor.”

“You’re slipping into French again, Livie.”

“Was not.”

“Were too.”

“Maddie, I promise, ‘
contretemps’
is used as an English word, too. Look it up.”

“I am.” Maddie’s fingers sped around the computer keyboard. “Oh. Well, how was I supposed to know that?”

Olivia chuckled. “Maddie, friend of my childhood, you are the best darn web surfer I’ve ever known. I am a mere web plodder who can speak French. Also, you are better coordinated than I am.”

“True, that.” Maddie closed the laptop lid and sat next to Olivia. “I have to admit, though, I mostly struck out searching for relevant information about Greta, Olaf, Desirée, and anybody else I could think of who might be connected with Greta’s death.”

“Really?” Olivia took their empty cups to the counter and filled them with Mr. Coffee’s remaining brew. “You mean even Olaf, with his gigantic ego, doesn’t have an online presence?”

“Oh, Olaf is featured online all right, and he is
so
photoshopped. I suspect he has a full-time image fixer, some first-rate hacker who quickly wipes out anything uncomplimentary as soon as it appears.”

“Okay, then, what about Desirée?” Olivia asked. “She is young, beautiful, and a classy dresser. She has the money to hang out in Chatterley Heights solely to buy expensive outfits from Lady Chatterley’s Clothing Boutique for Elegant Ladies.”

“I did find Desirée Kirkwood online, mostly decorating the arm of powerful men inside the beltway.” Maddie began to pack the remaining lemon cutouts, fully cooled, in a covered cake pan. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Desirée is somebody’s mistress, but I found nothing to confirm that. Her address is in a tony neighborhood, so she either inherited money or has a fabulous job . . . or again, there’s the mistress thing. Desirée doesn’t do Facebook or any of the other favorite social network sites. Contrary to popular opinion, not everyone feels compelled to tell all on the Internet.” Maddie tried to wedge the last cookie-filled cake pan into their well-stuffed freezer. “I didn’t check to see if Desirée had a criminal record. That costs money, which I draw the line at spending unless it’s on fun.”

“Are you sure Desirée isn’t a fashion model, past or present?” Olivia asked.

“Positive,” Maddie said. “Her photo would be everywhere, even if she hadn’t modeled in a while. There are some really obsessed guys out there. Scary.” Maddie gave up on the freezer and put the cake pan in the refrigerator.

“What about Greta?” Olivia asked. “She was well known in European social circles.”

“Aside from the interest in her first husband’s death, society news is all I could find,” Maddie said with a sigh. “And not much of that. After her last husband died, Greta seemed to disappear, more or less. The Internet doesn’t function like a history book; it doesn’t go back and fill in all the blanks from years before its own existence. Someone has to care enough to find the missing data and post it on some website, or maybe start a website dedicated to a relevant subject, such as ‘Society Balls in the Last Millennium.’ Greta wasn’t exactly posting cruise photos on Facebook.”

“Well, I guess we’ll have to find other sources,” Olivia said.

“Like what?” Maddie capped her pastry bag and hoisted herself up onto the kitchen counter. “What’s left?”

“It’s a long shot, but Bertha might know what Clarisse was referring to in her letter, when she said she knew what Greta had done. Bertha worked for the Chamberlain family forever, and I know Clarisse often confided in her.” Olivia checked the clock. “Bertha did offer to help us get the store ready to reopen tomorrow morning. We could call and see if she’s still free.”

“Except we don’t need any help,” Maddie said. “I’ve finished many batches of cookies, so we are good to go for the whole week.”

Olivia shrugged. “I think I’ll call her in to work anyway. She might have to cancel other plans for her day, so I’ll definitely pay her. It would be worth every penny.”

As she swung her legs back and forth from her countertop perch, Maddie said, “Remember, Bertha has been known to gossip a bit. She’s the one who told us about Greta’s affair with Martin Chamberlain. What if she lets something slip about Clarisse’s letter?” Maddie fiddled with her emerald and diamond engagement ring and her brand-new wedding band. “Granted, I can get a kick out of being the subject of gossip. On the other hand, I’m not thrilled by the thought of being arrested so soon after my nuptials. Maybe in a month or two . . .”

Olivia laughed, and said, “I’ll take the rap, if it comes to that. I’ll say I duped you when you were exhausted from lack of sleep.”

“Yeah, like anyone will believe that.”

“Anyway,” Olivia said, “I think we can trust Bertha. She kept the secret of Martin’s affair with Greta until long after both Martin and Clarisse had died. I’d say Bertha is a pretty restrained gossip, especially since she started seeing Chatterley Heights’ only attorney.”

Maddie shrugged. “At this point, I’m willing to try anything or anyone, even if it means executing another illegal search. My curiosity has overtaken my fear of incarceration.”

Chapter Sixteen

“I’m so glad you called me in to work, Livie,” Bertha said as she mopped her forehead with a paper towel from the kitchen dispenser. “The air-conditioning in my little house simply isn’t up to this heat, and I sure didn’t cool down on the walk over here. Poor Mr. Willard is buried in research for a client he’ll be meeting with later today so we can’t go to an afternoon movie like we’d planned.” Bertha smiled as she examined the kitchen table. “Are all these cookies for the reopening tomorrow? My, they look lovely. I noticed new displays out on the sales floor, too. What’s left for me to do?”

Olivia exchanged a quick glance with Maddie. “Well, first we wanted to chat with you. It’s about Greta Oskarson.” Olivia hesitated, trying to come up with the right approach.

Bertha’s round face puckered, as if she felt uneasy. “I really didn’t know Greta well,” she said. “She and Clarisse were friends, for a time. After what happened between Greta and Martin, well . . . I probably shouldn’t have told you two about that unfortunate episode.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Olivia said. “The more we hear about her, the more certain we are that Greta harmed a number of people here in Chatterley Heights.”

“And now Greta has been murdered.” Bertha sounded less than heartbroken. “It just goes to show you, doesn’t it? At least I know my dear Clarisse can’t be accused of anything, bless her soul. Mind you, there was a time when she was mad enough to have murdered that woman. I wouldn’t have blamed her, either.” Bertha sighed. “But she wasn’t like that. Forgive and move on, that was my Clarisse. Martin was truly contrite about the affair, I’m sure of that. He followed Clarisse around like a puppy. He could hardly stand to see how much he’d hurt her. Honestly, I don’t think he understood how or why he ever got involved with Greta. I mean, she was beautiful and cultured and all that, but he’d met scores of beautiful, talented women, and he’d never showed much interest in anything but his businesses.”

Olivia relaxed and listened. Now that Bertha had put aside her qualms, she seemed eager to share her memories. Maddie quietly left her own chair, retrieved a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator, and filled three glasses. She selected six decorated cookies and arranged them on a plate. Before delivering the treats to the kitchen table, Maddie winked at Olivia over Bertha’s head.

“Clarisse threw herself into her work for several months,” Bertha said. “I was worried at first, but then I saw she was getting better, more cheerful. Martin paid more attention to her than he ever had, even before the boys were born. Good thing, too. Clarisse was strong-minded; she wasn’t about to put up with any more shenanigans.” Bertha picked up a pink daisy, trimmed with red, and took a bite without her usual gushing admiration of the cookie’s beauty. “Clarisse was a true lady. Would you believe she actually forgave Greta?”

“Really?” Maddie’s expressive eyes widened. Olivia held her breath, hoping Maddie hadn’t overdone the surprise act.

“God’s honest truth,” Bertha said. “I know because Clarisse started writing to Greta again, like she used to before she found out about the affair.”

Olivia decided it was too risky to ask leading questions about Clarisse’s letters to Greta. Maddie was right; if Bertha suspected they had the letters in their possession, she might not be able to keep it to herself. Maybe there was a less direct approach. “How did Clarisse find out about the affair in the first place?”

“Well, now that you ask, that’s why I was so surprised when Clarisse forgave Greta.” Bertha appeared to sink into her thoughts as she nibbled her cookie.

Maddie looked dangerously close to shaking Bertha to make her elaborate on her comment. Olivia shot Maddie a warning glance. After several seconds had passed, Olivia said, “I’m not sure I could forgive a woman who’d had an affair with my husband, especially if he’d never betrayed me before she came along. I mean, I’d be furious with him, of course, but if he’d never strayed before, I might figure the woman led him on.”

“Oh, Martin had never cheated on Clarisse before Greta, or after her, either. I’m certain of that. It was Greta who pursued Martin, not the other way around. And it was really more of a brief fling. I know because Clarisse told me.” Despite the air-conditioning, Bertha’s cheeks had reddened. She brushed a lock of gray hair off her forehead before taking a long drink of lemonade.

Bertha had been like a mother to Clarisse. Olivia was having second thoughts about forcing her to revisit such an upsetting episode. If Bertha showed any further signs of distress, Olivia would stop questioning her. Meanwhile . . . “Clarisse was an amazing woman,” Olivia said. “I can’t imagine forgiving Greta if she’d initiated an affair with my husband. How did Clarisse find out about it? Did Martin feel so guilty that he confessed?”

“Oh my, no. Not at first, anyway. Martin broke off the affair and tried to keep the whole episode hush-hush. Then some time later, Clarisse became very concerned about you, Livie. I’m not sure why, exactly. All I know is, after Martin’s death, Clarisse told me to keep an eye on you and let her know if I felt someone might be trying to take advantage of you. She didn’t explain what she meant. That was before I worked here, of course, but Clarisse knew I loved to visit The Gingerbread House. She mentioned the name Greta Oskarson, but I think Clarisse was using her as an example.”

To give herself a few moments to think, Olivia left her chair and walked over to the refrigerator, where she pretended to search for something in the freezer. Carrying the pitcher of lemonade, Maddie joined her. “Clarisse’s third letter,” Maddie whispered. Olivia nodded. Maddie reached into the freezer for a tray of ice cubes. She twisted the flexible tray to loosen the cubes before adding a few to the pitcher of lemonade.

When Olivia and Maddie returned to the kitchen table, they found Bertha lost in thought. Unpleasant memories, Olivia guessed from Bertha’s tight frown. “I’m confused about one point, Bertha,” Olivia said. “If Clarisse didn’t ask you to look after me until after Martin’s death, what triggered her concern?”

“Oh my,” Bertha said. “I hadn’t thought about that. I don’t know exactly why Clarisse got so worried about you, but . . . well, all I do know is it happened sort of suddenly.”

“Suddenly? Why do you say that?” Maddie asked.

“Well, let me think now.” Bertha sipped her lemonade. “You know, I don’t remember anything out of the ordinary happening that day, except . . . Well, there was a phone call, but now I think on it, that came before lunch, and it was just about business.” Bertha lapsed into silence.

Never a patient woman, Maddie drummed her fingers on the table. Olivia shot her a warning glance, which silenced the tapping. Maddie grabbed a fuchsia, tulip-shaped cookie and bit off the violet petal tips, one by one.

“Clarisse mostly worked at home in those days,” Bertha said. “After Martin died, she wasn’t feeling up to being on the road much. You know, visiting her businesses, chatting with everyone . . . When Clarisse was feeling sad about Martin, work could distract her, but she needed the quiet of home to help her concentrate. So I’d fix her lots of strong coffee, and she’d go into her office and close the door.”

Olivia had assumed that Clarisse’s workload was the only reason she would seem, at times, to withdraw into herself and stay home to work. Maddie popped the last bite of the tulip cookie into her mouth and reached for a two-toned yellow, rose-shaped cookie. Olivia took pity on her impatient friend and tried to speed up the questioning. “Bertha, try to think back. What happened right before Clarisse became upset and warned you that someone might somehow take advantage of me? Did Clarisse get a phone call that afternoon? Or perhaps she received a letter that seemed to change her mood?”

“Now, let me think.” Bertha closed her eyes for a moment. “Not another phone call, I’m certain of that. I remember because we still had just the one landline in the house. During our lunch together in the kitchen, Clarisse asked me to answer the phone if it rang. She was planning to go over some important papers and didn’t want to be interrupted. But the phone didn’t ring all afternoon.” Bertha swept a few strands of fine, gray hair off her forehead. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t seem to be helping much.”

“Have a cookie,” Maddie said. “It’s a proven fact that decorated cutout cookies stimulate the brain.” She shifted the plate closer to Bertha.

“Oh, you . . .” Bertha said with a girlish giggle. “I shouldn’t, not with a few pounds still to lose, but perhaps just one more.” She selected a pansy with grape and lilac petals. “This shouldn’t do too much damage. It’s so little. And so pretty.” Bertha took a dainty bite and closed her eyes as she chewed. “Heavenly,” she said.

“You’re doing a great job, Bertha,” Olivia said. “Do you remember if Clarisse received a letter or a package that day?”

Bertha’s eyes popped open. “The mail . . . The post arrived as we were finishing lunch in the kitchen,” she said. “Clarisse was heading back to her office when the doorbell rang, so she answered it. The mailman gave her a special delivery letter or a package—I didn’t see it, so I can’t say exactly—and then she went straight to her office. She took the mail with her.” Bertha’s eyes moved as if she were watching Clarisse walk away. Olivia and Maddie sat motionless, trying not to distract her. Bertha suddenly straightened in her chair. “Oh, and I just remembered . . . When the doorbell rang, Clarisse forgot to take along her coffeepot. After lunch, I always gave her a fresh pot of coffee to take with her to her office. Anyway, I was washing up and didn’t notice the pot for ten minutes or so. I dried my hands”—Bertha wrung her hands as if she were drying them—“and I brought the pot to her office myself. I just knocked quick and went in. Clarisse was sitting at her desk, holding a sheet of stationery. Only she wasn’t reading it. She was staring at the fireplace, which was odd because it was a hot day.”

Maddie snapped to attention. “Ooh, I’ll bet Clarisse was thinking about burning the letter to hide the evidence from her sons.”

“Down, girl,” Olivia said. “Bertha, did you notice anything about the letter? What color was it? Was it typed or handwritten?”

“The paper was white, I think, with a deckle edge. I think deckle edges look so classy, don’t you? I also remember there was an opened envelope on the desk, next to Clarisse’s elbow. I never saw the letter or that envelope again.”

“Maybe Clarisse
did
burn it,” Maddie insisted. “Bertha, do you remember if she started a fire that day?”

Bertha laughed. “Goodness me, I surely would have noticed that! The fireplace was always closed off during the summer to keep the heat from coming inside through the flue. Clarisse knew better than to start a fire; she’d have filled the house with smoke. Anyway, she had a paper shredder right there beside her desk, so that’s what she would have used.”

“Prosaic,” Maddie said, “but effective. I don’t suppose you heard the shredder?”

“I wouldn’t have paid attention, Maddie. I emptied that shredder every day, sometimes twice. I swear, Clarisse shredded everything, as long as it wasn’t important for taxes or such. She hated clutter.”

“She did indeed hate clutter,” Olivia said, remembering Clarisse’s nearly paper-free desktop. “I think we can safely assume she would quickly have hidden or shredded anything she felt was too private.”

As Olivia stood up to stretch, Maddie began to clear the table. In a tentative voice, Bertha said, “I don’t like to take pay when I haven’t done any work. It doesn’t feel right. Shouldn’t I be out in the store cleaning or stocking the shelves or . . . ?”

Olivia patted Bertha’s soft shoulder. “There really isn’t much to be done that can’t be fit into the workday tomorrow. Are you meeting Mr. Willard for lunch?”

Bertha sighed unhappily. “Poor Willard is so busy right now, and I do hate sitting at home with nothing productive to do. Livie, when was the last time the store got a thorough dusting from top to bottom?”

“Um, never?”

“Well then, now is the perfect time. I just love cleaning a room until there isn’t a single speck of dirt or dust anywhere.” Bertha clasped her strong hands together as if nothing could possibly excite her more than the thought of deep cleaning. “Mr. Willard won’t let me dust his office. It hurts me to walk in there without a dustrag in my hand.”

“I’m not sure we have any dustrags,” Olivia said.

“I don’t even know what a dustrag looks like,” Maddie said.

“Oh, you two. Just give me an old towel, and I’ll do the rest. I am so looking forward to making the store shine! Not that I don’t love working with customers, you understand, but there’s no satisfaction greater than cleaning a whole room to perfection.”

“If you say so.” Maddie dug through the clean kitchen towels until she found one with a frayed hem. “Don’t you need a bucket or something?”

“Goodness, no. I don’t want to get everything wet. I’ll use that spray in the little storage closet. It picks up dust and dirt so they don’t just settle back down on a surface. And it leaves such a nice shine.”

“Spray?” Maddie asked. “I don’t remember a spray can in the storage closet.”

“Really? I put it in there long ago, so you could use it if you wanted to do some cleaning. My goodness, didn’t you girls even notice it?” Bertha looked genuinely distressed by the thought.