Cookies and Scream (A Cookie Cutter Shop Mystery) (3 page)

“Drink up and listen,” Constance said. “Greta contacted me before she left Europe because she wanted to buy a small house in Chatterley Heights. At that time, she said nothing to me about her background or about cookie cutters. She really is serious about settling down here. She has had her fill of fancy dress balls and rich counts, or so she says. She longs for a quiet life. When Greta heard about Clarisse’s murder, she said she was saddened and disappointed. Greta and Clarisse had corresponded for some years, and once again when Greta was thinking about coming home. It was during their more recent correspondence that Greta heard good things about you from Clarisse.”

“I’m surprised Clarisse never mentioned Greta to me,” Olivia said. “Why would Greta want to move back here?”

“I’m getting to that,” Constance said. “I found her a charming little house on the north edge of town, just a block from the Chatterley Mansion. It’s actually not far from the Chamberlain house, but now . . . Well, it would have been perfect, if Clarisse were still alive. However, Greta liked what she heard about the house I found for her, and she bought it sight unseen. Yes, I’m that good. She sent most of her belongings ahead, but she carried the cookie cutters with her from Europe. She took a ship over from Europe so she wouldn’t have to part with her collection during the journey.”

Olivia drained her coffee cup. “Most people have no idea that cookie cutters can be valuable to collectors. Still, it was wise of Greta to keep an eye on her collection.”

“Indeed,” Constance said. “Greta has some money, as I mentioned. However, she’s counting on the value of her collection to provide her with that extra bit of security in the retirement she envisions for herself. So she wants to sell those cookie cutters for as much as possible, as quickly as possible. When Greta first arrived in Chatterley Heights last Saturday, she made straight for The Gingerbread House. She wanted to talk to you at once. She says she trusts you, and only you, to handle the sale of her collection for her, even though she has never met you in person. Don’t ask me to explain it.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Constance smiled. “Mind you, I didn’t say she was wrong. But to continue, Greta found The Gingerbread House closed up tight on a non-holiday workday. She didn’t realize that Bertha was on her way to the store to make sure all was well before she and Mr. Willard left for their getaway. Greta was quite upset to find no one there, so she went straight to my office. She was dragging along her entire cookie cutter collection.”

“Ah,” Olivia said. “At least I understand how part of the collection ended up in your safe.”

“Exactly. However, even my safe could not hold all of them. I knew Bertha hadn’t left town yet, so I called her cell. When I found out she’d gone to The Gingerbread House to make sure it was all locked up, I sent Greta right over. Somehow Bertha managed to cram the remainder of the collection into your little safe.” Constance glanced at the bill for breakfast, counted out exact change plus tip, and left it on the table.

“And Bertha didn’t leave me a note because . . . ?”

“Because she was feeling paranoid.” Constance reached into a quilted pocket attached to her wheelchair and produced a small mirror. A glance at her hair and face seemed to satisfy her. “Bertha was afraid someone might realize the store was empty, break in, and find the note,” Constance said. “If this intruder was looking for something valuable to steal, cracking the safe might sound like a good idea. Bertha figured she’d be arriving back home about the same time you did, so she could tell you about the collection then. She didn’t realize that you, too, might be paranoid. It never occurred to her you’d come home early and open the safe the instant you arrived, never mind it was the middle of the night.” Constance wheeled herself back from the table’s edge. “I have to say, Livie, I’m surprised. I can’t imagine what on earth possessed you to check that safe.”

Constance directed her state-of-the-art wheelchair toward the diner door before Olivia could respond. She wasn’t sure she really could explain. Maybe it wasn’t important. Surely Greta Oskarson must have accidentally knocked over the little containers of sparkling sugars while she was waiting for Bertha to secure her cutters in the wall safe. Greta might have picked up the sugars out of curiosity and put them back on the shelf without thinking about it. She wouldn’t have known how to arrange them properly.

“Almost forgot,” Constance said, twisting her head to look back toward Olivia. “Greta wants to meet with you as soon as possible to discuss selling her collection. She doesn’t assume you will buy it, of course, but she refuses to consider anyone else to handle the whole process. As you will learn soon enough, Greta is a woman who expects to get her own way. However, she can’t meet with you today. No one expected you to be back so soon, so Greta went to DC to select a few pieces of furniture for her new home. I will contact you sometime tomorrow to arrange a meeting.”

With a sense of relief, Olivia added another dollar to the tip and pushed back her chair. Bertha, Maddie, and her mom would be back in town soon. She would again have her friends and family around her, ready to offer ideas, support, and unsolicited advice. Meanwhile, Olivia intended to take it easy while she had the chance. She had nothing to worry about. The mystery of the cookie cutter–crammed safe had been solved. She could kick back and relax for the remainder of her first real vacation since she opened The Gingerbread House.

Chapter Three

Once word spread through Chatterley Heights that Olivia was back in town, her solitude evaporated. After breakfast with Constance Overton, Olivia walked Spunky back to their Queen Anne home to find her porch occupied by two of her least favorite people: Binnie and Nedra Sloan. Binnie cared only about her newspaper,
The Weekly Chatter
, and her niece, Nedra—or Ned, as she preferred to be called. Ned, who rarely spoke, provided the
Chatter
’s nonverbal elements, such as embarrassing photographs. Binnie took care of the verbal part, and not in a kind way. She also lacked any dedication to truth in journalism, though she called it “going after the essence of a story.” Olivia often felt like Binnie’s favorite target.

As soon as Olivia climbed the steps to her front porch, Ned’s camera started to flash. Olivia ignored the intrusion and let Spunky’s snarling express her opinion.

Ned, stick thin and always in motion, snapped photos nonstop, while Binnie lounged on the comfortable porch rocking chair, her pencil and notebook ready for action. Binnie’s stout figure was encased, as usual, in men’s cargo pants and, in deference to the heat, a beige T-shirt. Her numerous pockets bulged and sagged from the weight of her news-hunting tools, which included spare pens, notebooks, a simple cell phone, and an old plastic recorder. Although she hosted a blog, her irritating adjunct to
The Weekly Chatter
, Binnie never touched a computer. She wrote the fibs and left the electronic wizardry to Ned.

As Olivia inserted her key into the front door lock, Spunky yapped and struggled to free himself from her tight grip. Olivia had hoped to slip inside before Binnie had a chance to bombard her with insulting or accusatory questions, but no such luck.

“Ned, get a good shot of that nasty animal,” Binnie said. “He is baring his teeth and snarling. We’ll need a photo for the paper and, of course, our evidence file.”

Binnie was forever trying to prove that Spunky was dangerous, but so far her accusations had never been taken seriously. Olivia shoved the front door with her shoulder, clenching her teeth to keep from reacting to Binnie’s taunts. The door stuck.
This blasted heat. . . . Temper, Livie, temper.
If she could just get into the foyer before . . . Olivia pushed the door again, harder; it shifted slightly.

“So, Livie,” Binnie said, “our sources tell us you’ve gotten your hands on yet another priceless bunch of old cookie cutters. Naturally, our readers are wondering if this valuable collection will end up belonging to you, like the last one did. Care to comment?”

Olivia focused on her breathing as anger threatened to engulf her. Binnie might possibly be the world’s worst reporter, but she had a knack for nasty insinuation. Olivia warned herself not to take the bait. Clarisse Chamberlain, Olivia’s dear friend and mentor, had owned a phenomenal collection of cookie cutters. After Clarisse was murdered, Olivia had been stunned to discover that she’d inherited Clarisse’s collection, along with a generous monetary gift. Binnie Sloan, ever the opportunist, had hinted strongly in both
The Weekly Chatter
and her blog that the inheritance had given Olivia a powerful motive to kill Clarisse.

Olivia pressed her shoulder against the front door and felt it give. The door scraped against the jamb. One more push, and it should open. She’d only have to slide through and slam the door behind her, and she’d be safe. Del always insisted he’d be glad to arrest Binnie if she refused to leave The Gingerbread House’s grounds. Unfortunately, Del wasn’t around. Maybe he would never return. As a wave of sadness distracted her, Olivia loosened her hold on Spunky. The feisty little dog, sensing his mistress’s distress, wriggled out of her arms and hit the ground running. He charged toward Binnie Sloan, growling like a mama bear protecting her cub. Or so Olivia imagined.

Binnie backed awkwardly across the porch. She grabbed Ned’s elbow and tried to pull her toward the front steps. Ned pulled away from her aunt and kept her camera trained on Spunky. Ned leaped sideways as Spunky lunged at her skinny legs. Trapped against the porch railing, Ned hoisted herself up and over, landing on her backside in the grass.

Olivia tried to snatch Spunky before he could bolt off the porch after his prey. She missed. Olivia almost felt sorry for Ned, who struggled to her feet, clutching her camera to her chest as if it were an infant. Defeated, Ned wobbled across the lawn to join her aunt on the sidewalk. Glaring in Olivia’s direction, Binnie shook her fist with such violence that she backed off the curb onto the street. An oncoming car blasted its horn at her.

Spunky halted at the sidewalk as if he knew he’d reached the property line. He paced back and forth on the lawn, yapping ferociously as he guarded the perimeter. Binnie and Ned stayed put.

Olivia heard a clapping sound nearby and realized they were not alone. No fewer than five passersby had paused at a safe distance to watch the action. They were applauding Spunky. Olivia felt so proud, she almost wished she’d given birth to the little guy herself. She did wonder, though . . . were puppies born with claws?

From the look on Binnie’s face, not to mention the redness of her plump cheeks, she was now beyond enraged. She extended her right arm, pointed toward Olivia with what looked like a pencil, and shouted, “I’ll get you for this.”

Sudden quiet followed Binnie’s threat. Even Spunky stopped barking, though he growled off and on. A child’s voice broke the silence. “Mommy, Mommy, look!” The girl’s thin arm pointed in Binnie’s direction. “It’s the Wicked Witch of the West!”

*   *   *

“S
punky, my boy, you are a prince among pups.” Olivia tossed him an unprecedented third treat from the box she kept in her apartment kitchen. “However, we must face reality,” she added as she moved the treat box out of sight. “Binnie Sloan will not rest until she has both our hides hanging above her fireplace. I wish Maddie were here. But never mind, Spunks, you and I will lock the doors and spend a quiet, yet pleasant, day puttering around inside The Gingerbread House. I’d love to get a closer look at those antique cookie cutters crowding our wall safe, but that will have to wait. I need to reorganize the sales floor displays first. Then we can play.”

Olivia and Spunky headed down the hallway to the bedroom. Despite her recently installed air-conditioning, the room felt stuffy. Ignoring her unmade bed, Olivia took a quick shower and changed into white shorts and a T-shirt, the only clean clothes she could find. She had intended to finish unpacking and get a jump on the laundry, but even the thought of those chores made her feel hot . . . and bored.

For some time, Olivia had wanted to redesign the layout of the sales floor. Of course, she could always ask Maddie to come up with a plan. Maddie would generate numerous ideas with lightning speed and no concern for time and expense, although they’d be wonderfully creative. However, Maddie was out of town, and Olivia wanted to see where her own imagination might take her.

“Come on, Spunks, let’s go back downstairs to the store.” Olivia nearly tripped over her little Yorkie as he shot between her ankles in his rush for the door. In case Constance called to set up a meeting with Greta Oskarson, Olivia grabbed her cell phone and slid it into her shorts pocket. As she locked the apartment door behind them, Spunky bounded down the staircase ahead of her. Every day she reminded herself that the convenience of living above her business was well worth her hefty mortgage for the roomy Queen Anne. She marveled that the house had once served as a mere summer cottage for a wealthy Baltimore family. It was larger than her childhood home, where her mother and stepfather still lived.

When she joined Spunky in the downstairs foyer, Olivia found a pile of mail on the tile floor. By now, all of Chatterley Heights, including its post office staff, would know she had come home early. Binnie would have spread the news on her blog. Sam Parnell, mail carrier and town gossip, had undoubtedly been one of the first to find out. A devoted follower of
The Weekly Chatter,
Sam’s nickname, Snoopy, was well earned. He could twist the tiniest, most innocuous of details into scandalous gossip. He had probably rushed right over to the store as soon as he could, hoping to pick up a rumor-worthy morsel he could flesh out during his mail route. Perhaps Sam had already heard all about Olivia’s breakfast meeting with Constance, which meant he would be angling for a promising tidbit about Chatterley Heights’ intriguing new resident, Greta Oskarson.

Olivia hadn’t heard the doorbell ring earlier. She must have been in the shower when Sam arrived. She was grateful to have avoided him. However, after missing his chance to pick up some fresh gossip from Olivia, Sam must be feeling frustrated. He would be back.

Olivia released Spunky and scooped up her mail before she unlocked the door to The Gingerbread House. Spunky burst through the open door, his nails clicking on the tile floor. Olivia flipped on the lights and smiled at the sight of her little guardian, ears twitching as he performed his daily, corner-to-corner inspection of the store’s sale floor. It was good to be home.

As he’d done the night before, Spunky paused to sniff the floor near the shelf that held the display of decorating sugars. Olivia’s contented mood dimmed. She’d nearly forgotten her discovery of the oddly disarranged sparkling sugar display. Spunky seemed even more intrigued by the scents under the shelf than when he’d first detected them. Olivia dropped her mail on an empty display table and joined him. “What is it, Spunks?”

Spunky whimpered. He knew Bertha well, so Olivia guessed he’d picked up a stranger’s scent. Olivia squatted down next to him. “Want to know what I think?” she asked. Spunky tilted his head at her. “I think our mysterious new resident must have knocked over the sugar display while Bertha was busy stuffing all those cookie cutters into our wall safe. That’s all. You will meet her soon, and then you will recognize her scent. So there’s nothing to worry about, little one, though I appreciate your protective instincts.”

Spunky yapped only once, but with an edge, as if he weren’t quite convinced but was willing to wait and see.

“You have every right to feel irritated.” Olivia sat cross-legged on the floor, and Spunky crawled onto her lap. “A stranger came into the store while you weren’t here to guard the place, and that isn’t right. On the other hand, I don’t think she’s dangerous, only clumsy. Anyway, I’m sure we’ll meet her soon, so she won’t be a stranger for long.” Her explanation seemed to satisfy Spunky. He leaped out of her lap and renewed his inspection of the sales floor.

Olivia rolled to her knees and stood up. It made perfect sense that Greta Oskarson had accidentally knocked over the sparkling sugar display. Although Olivia had to wonder . . . Where was Bertha when this happened? Was she alone in the kitchen as she wedged all those valuable cookie cutters into the store safe? Why? Was she afraid Greta might learn the safe’s combination? Wouldn’t Greta have wanted to ensure her cutters weren’t damaged as Bertha packed them into such a small space? But this was useless speculation. A few disarranged sparkling sugars did not mean murder and mayhem were waiting in the wings. Never mind, Olivia told herself, Bertha would be home in a couple of days to clear up the confusion. Meanwhile, it wouldn’t hurt to leave the sugars as she’d found them.

As Olivia entered the store kitchen, Spunky scooted past her before the door closed. “Don’t get used to this, kiddo,” she said. Spunky ignored her and got to work at once. Olivia ground coffee beans and awakened Mr. Coffee from his vacation slumber. While the coffee dripped into the pot, Olivia searched the refrigerator for cream. She found an unopened container and checked the expiration date. “I’ve got one day to drink this up,” she said. “It’s a demanding job, but I’m up to it.”

“Okay, now for the fun part,” Olivia said as she fixed herself a cup of coffee and settled at the little kitchen desk where she usually reconciled receipts at the end of her workday. She dug through the desk drawer to find a small notebook and a working pen. “I have my tools, Spunks. Let’s go envision a stunning new sales floor.” To avoid interruptions, Olivia left her cell phone on the kitchen counter.

Spunky followed his mistress back to the sales floor. Apparently, he had lost interest in the mystery of the sparkling sugars, preferring to curl up on his favorite chair, where he held court daily whenever The Gingerbread House was open for business. Certain customers stopped by the store several days a week just to see Spunky. Of course, they rarely passed up the free decorated cookies. Spunky seemed to understand that he and Olivia would be on their own for the day, so he settled down to nap.

Hoping to trigger redecorating ideas, Olivia stood in the middle of the sales floor and turned a slow circle, then another. Nothing. She tried again, more slowly, giving herself time to notice the display tables and how they were arranged. Before leaving town, Olivia had removed all valuable baking items and cookbooks, and she’d left them out of sight in the locked storage room. About half the tables were empty, or nearly so. At once Olivia identified a problem she’d never considered before: all of the round, metal display tables were identical. She’d purchased them in a batch from a store that specialized in commercial furniture. The stark, utilitarian style looked anachronistic in her wonderfully quirky, nineteenth-century house. Maybe she could find round, embroidered tablecloths to cover a few of them. She might want to replace the others with similar-size wooden tables, perhaps a few antiques if they were in good condition and affordable. Or maybe she could—