One Dead Cookie (9 page)

“What? Oh, Ida, you startled me.” Olivia spilled a few drops of coffee, which she
dabbed with her napkin. “I was just enjoying the sunrise and feeling glad that spring
is here.”

“Spring will be gone before you get that cup emptied,” Ida said. “Here, let me do
that. Lord knows I’ve got experience.” She pulled a damp rag from one of her uniform
pockets and mopped the table clean. “Hand over the cup, I’ll get you some fresh coffee.
When’s your mother getting here?”

Olivia’s watch read 6:52 a.m. “In about eight minutes, give or take.”

“Good.” Ida said. “Ellie’ll liven up the place. I suppose you want me to drag over
more chairs, like I’ve got nothing else to do. How many?”

Olivia counted on her fingers as she listed. “Mom, Allan, and Jason, that’s three.
Mr. Willard and Bertha make five. But not Maddie. She’s opening the store. And Del,
of course.” Sheriff Del Jenkins and Olivia were, as
The Weekly Chatter
had often described them until recently, an item. For both of them, free time was
hard to come by, so they invited each other to informal gatherings whenever possible.

“Forget about seeing your boyfriend,” Ida said. She poked an escaped lock of iron
gray hair back under her hairnet, which she wore while cooking. When she switched
to waitressing, she never bothered to remove it. “Don’t tell me you didn’t hear what
happened? I swear, all those years living in Baltimore drove the small town right
out of you.”

Olivia felt her face and hands chill as the blood retreated to her thudding heart.
“What happened? Is Del…is he okay?”

To Olivia’s surprise, Ida laughed. “Well, he ain’t a crime
statistic. Not yet, anyway. Though the more he hangs around you—”

“What happened?” Olivia was too worried to keep the impatience out of her voice.

“Okay, keep your bobby socks on,” Ida said. “The sheriff is just fine. Can’t say the
same for that bank teller fellow, what’s-his-name. You know, the one who’s got a pretty
cousin working over at Lady Chatterley’s?”

“Lola? But I thought her connection to the Chatterley Heights National Bank was through
her husband. He’s a vice president.”

Ida sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward, creasing her forehead with wrinkles. “How
do you think Lola’s cousin got his teller job and then got promoted to head teller
so fast? Anyway, every morning he gets to the bank early to count all the money or
something, and then he lets the other tellers in when they arrive. Only this morning,
someone was waiting for him.” Ida deepened her voice for dramatic effect. “Soon as
he unlocked the front door, somebody knocked him senseless and dragged him inside.
That’s all I know.” With a shrug of her thin shoulders, Ida scraped a chair across
the floor and shoved it under Olivia’s table. “Get the rest of the story out of that
boyfriend of yours,” Ida said, “and then tell me. You owe me.”

“This must have just happened,” Olivia said.

“Yep,” Ida said. “The sheriff called about ten minutes ago.”

“So Del told you all those details?”

“Of course not.” Ida’s tone implied Livie was one pancake short of a stack. “I got
my ways.” Shaking her head at the ignorance of youth, Ida headed for another table.

Feeling rattled, Olivia stared out the diner window and
noticed a man and a woman entering the park grounds from the southwest corner of the
town square. She couldn’t see the couple clearly, but given the woman’s animated gesticulation,
Olivia wondered if she might be her mother, Ellie. If so, the man would be Olivia’s
stepfather. Good. Ellie would probably know every last detail about what happened
at the bank. Or if she didn’t, she’d know whom to call.

As the couple cut diagonally through the park, Olivia realized the woman was too tall
to be her mother. The woman stepped into the sunlight, and Olivia recognized the shoulder-length
sandy hair of her childhood friend, Stacey Harald. Stacey’s ex-husband, Wade, walked
alongside, shoulders hunched forward and eyes focused on the grass under his feet.
According to Olivia’s watch, it was five minutes to seven, an unusual time for two
rancorously divorced individuals to be out for a chilly stroll in the park.

“Those two have been going at it for days.” Ida plunked a clean cup in front of Olivia
and filled it with steaming coffee. She slid the cream and sugar closer, and said,
“I know how much you like this stuff. One of these days it’ll catch up with you. You’ll
end up round as one of them fancy cookies you’re always making.”

“Thanks for your concern,” Olivia said. “What did you mean by ‘going at it’? Stacey
and Wade, I mean. They haven’t gotten back together, have they?” Olivia watched as
Stacey halted, planted her fists on her hips, and appeared to deliver a harsh lecture
to Wade’s stiff back.

“Ha! Not a chance,” Ida said. A half smile dispersed a wave of wrinkles across the
left side of her cheek. “Stacey’s too tough for that. She never should have married
that drunken hothead, let alone have two kids with him. Lord knows what he’s gotten
himself into now. Probably lost his job at the garage again.”

Olivia tore herself away from the drama unfolding in the park and forced her attention
back to her cookie ideas for the engagement party. She’d jotted down the two recipes
she and her mother had tried out the night before, one for lavender cookies and the
other lemon. Neither was quite right. The lavender cookies were lovely, but to Olivia
they’d tasted overwhelmingly…well, lavender. Maybe she should cut down on the lavender
and add a bit more lemon or some vanilla to mellow the flavor. She thought about using
vanilla royal icing and sprinkling lavender sugar on top, for a sweet hint of flavor.
The lemon verbena cookies posed a tougher problem. She and her mother both loved the
lemony flavor, but the cookies were an odd greenish color. Maybe if she dyed the cookie
dough….

Olivia was so engrossed in her vision of perfect cookies that she started when the
diner door opened. Her petite mother floated in, followed by Olivia’s hearty stepfather.
Allan wore a suit and tie as if he were attending a breakfast meeting to discuss business.
Her younger brother, Jason, wore his oil-stained work jeans and a light jacket over
his T-shirt. He poked his head inside and surveyed the diner as if he needed reassurance
before entering. When Ida passed by bearing a tray of cholesterol-laden breakfasts,
Jason appeared convinced.

“Livie dear, what a good idea to meet at Pete’s,” Ellie said. “Such tasty, old-fashioned
breakfasts. I’m so hungry I could eat three of them.” She slipped off a form-fitting
sweater-coat the color of ripe raspberries to reveal a comfortably loose dusty rose
outfit with a mandarin collar.

“Ooh, nice.” Olivia ran her fingertips over the silky fabric of her mother’s sleeve.
“What are those thingies down the front of your jacket?”

“They are called buttons, dear.”

“I guessed that, but—”

“They’re toad-and-ball buttons,” Allan said, looking pleased with himself.

Ellie bestowed an indulgent smile upon her husband. “Close, sweetheart, so very close.
But I think you meant
frog
-and-ball buttons.”

“Can we order?” Jason asked. “I know we’re waiting for some other folks, but I’m starving.”

Ellie scanned her menu as Ida delivered coffee. “I intend to order instantly,” she
said. “I need fortification as we finish our planning for the engagement party. I
have a tai chi class at eight thirty. I can order for Bertha and Mr. Willard.”

“Don’t bother, I know what they like,” Ida said. “Those two old love birds eat here
nearly every morning. Bertha has oatmeal and fruit, and Mr. Willard always orders
pancakes, sausage, eggs, and a blueberry muffin, but I don’t know where he puts them.”

As usual, Ida didn’t bother to write down their orders. She wouldn’t forget. As Ida
headed for the kitchen, Ellie said, “I’ve kept my Friday afternoon clear, Livie, if
you need help preparing the decorations for Saturday. I can meet you after my crazy
quilting group finishes. We are embroidering spider webs,” she added. “Such fun.”

Allan Meyers pulled a cell phone from his trouser pocket and frowned at the caller
ID. “This is a new client,” he said. “I’d better—”

“Allan.” Ellie’s narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. Olivia and Jason exchanged a
quick glance. They knew that look.

“Sorry, force of habit,” Allan said, a shade too heartily. “I’ll let it go to voice
mail.”

“Why don’t I keep the phone for you,” Ellie said,
producing one of the many macramé bags she had created. “That would make it so much
easier for you to concentrate.” She held out a small, slender hand with shiny rose
nails.

Allan grinned. “You’re a marvel, Ellie. And right, as always.” Handing over his phone,
he said, “The next time I have an irate customer, I might just turn him over to you.”

“Don’t be silly, dear. It would make me cranky.”

“Much as we’re enjoying your repartee,” Olivia said, “could we hammer out the final
details for the engagement party that’s happening in a mere three days? Because you
know how I hate meetings. I want this one to be over before we start breakfast, or
I will demonstrate cranky.”

“I need to get to the garage soon,” Jason said. “Struts hired Wade back, and she wants
me to keep an eye on him. She’s afraid he’s started drinking on the job again. He
might botch a brake job or something.”

Ida appeared with a tray of breakfast plates and a fresh pot of coffee. Clattering
eggs and bacon in front of Olivia, she said, “Bertha tried to call, but you’ve got
your phone turned off. That new girl of yours called in sick, so Bertha’s going to
the store to help Maddie. But here comes Mr. Willard.” Ida pointed a plate of cheese
omelet toward the window as a tall, painfully thin older man approached in long, loping
steps. Aloysius Willard Smythe, known to one and all as Mr. Willard, smiled at the
group inside, a gesture that tightened the skin across his prominent cheekbones. As
Olivia’s attorney, Mr. Willard had more than once helped her with sticky problems,
including her friend Clarisse Chamberlain’s murder.

As Mr. Willard seated himself, Ida delivered his pancakes, syrup, sausage, eggs, blueberry
muffin, and coffee. “If you order any more food,” Ida said, “I’ll have to drag over
another table.”

“We can finish our business in short order,” Olivia said, scanning her notes. “Mom
has agreed to help with the decorating details.”

“I’ve already spoken with several friends, as well as my poetry-writing group,” Ellie
said. “So far, eight women have agreed to help. I’m sure we’ll have more volunteers
than we’ll need.”

“I don’t know how you do it, Mom,” Olivia said. “I mean, short of holding a knitting
needle to their throats.”

“Completely unnecessary, dear.”

Olivia turned to her brother, who looked bored and hungry. “Jason, would you mind
being a general ‘gofer’ on Saturday? Events never go off without a hitch. We always
run out of something or need to find a broom in a hurry.”

“Okay,” Jason said. “Can we eat now?”

“We need a couple volunteers to offer toasts to the bride and groom,” Olivia said,
her eyes flitting between Allan and Mr. Willard.

“Sure, I’d love to,” Allan boomed, startling several diners at nearby tables.

“I would be delighted.” Mr. Willard said. “I am quite fond of Maddie and Lucas.”

Olivia drained her second cup of coffee and held out her cup as Ida returned with
the pot. Wearily squinting at her own handwriting, Olivia said, “I think we’ve covered
the most important tasks both before and during the engagement party on Saturday.
Bon Vivant will provide staff to help with the serving. That will cost a bundle, but
it’s better than trying to do it all by ourselves. I’ll take care of the expense.
Most of the refreshments will be provided by Bon Vivant, except for the cookies and
the cake. The Gingerbread House, meaning Maddie and I, are handling those. Maddie
insisted on helping, and thank goodness for that.
I’ve been working with Mom on two new recipes for the event. I’ll be using one of
the new recipes to construct a cookie cake. Wish me luck.”

A cell phone played a snippet of what sounded to Olivia like Mozart, though music
wasn’t her strong suit. Mr. Willard checked his caller ID. “I need to take this call,”
he said. “It’s a client. Do start without me.” He walked outside, where he stood in
view of the waiting group. Mr. Willard’s call ended quickly, but before he could rejoin
the group, he answered a second call. As he listened, Mr. Willard slowly shook his
skull-like head. Only Jason began eating, immune to the frank curiosity exhibited
by his companions.

By the time Mr. Willard returned, his normally benign expression had evaporated. He
looked worried. He collapsed into his chair and frowned at his eggs and sausage as
if they disturbed him. “Oh dear,” he said. “This is quite unfortunate.”

The group waited for Mr. Willard to elaborate. When he didn’t, Ellie touched his hand
with her fingertips. “Has something happened to Bertha?”

“What? Oh no, Bertha is fine. I just spoke with her, in fact.” Mr. Willard shook his
head as if to clear it. “Bertha relayed the most astonishing news about that incident
at the bank early this morning. I suppose you heard that a young teller was injured
by an assailant?”

Everyone nodded, with the exception of Jason, who was wiping up scrambled egg scraps
with a slice of toast. Olivia did not point out that the teller was in his forties.
Everyone was young to Mr. Willard.

Mr. Willard wrapped his long, bony fingers around his coffee cup as if he felt chilled.
“Bertha told me the poor unfortunate man could not describe his assailant. He remembered
only that he unlocked the bank’s outer door
and someone jumped him from behind. His nose and mouth were covered with a wet cloth.
His assistant arrived at the bank shortly thereafter and found the victim propped
up against the building, unconscious. He promptly called the police department. The
poor young fellow was rushed to the emergency room, where his wounds are being treated.”