A Catered Christmas Cookie Exchange (A Mystery With Recipes) (3 page)

“I guess it’s possible,” Libby agreed. “Nevertheless, we should still go check out her house on the off chance they’re there.”

Amber let go of her pigtail and started playing with the buttons of her jumpsuit. “I guess.”

“Do you have any other suggestions?” Bernie asked Amber.

Amber shook her head. “Not really.”

“Then let’s go,” Bernie said. She glanced at her watch. It was a little after eight. If they hurried, they might be able to wrap this up by nine and still salvage the evening.

“S
o the cookies weren’t in Millie’s house?” Sean asked Bernie as he and his daughters tucked into slices of chocolate truffle cake and sipped their coffee.

Even though it was eleven o’clock at night, Sean wasn’t about to let that stop him from enjoying his daughters’ baking or their coffee. Fortunately, he’d been blessed with an iron-clad digestive system and sleeping after drinking coffee had never been a problem. If it had been, he never would have been a policeman for all those years.

“No, they weren’t,” Libby said as she sampled the icing on the cake.

It was made with butter, egg yolks, sugar syrup, 70 percent dark chocolate, and a little bit of coffee, plus a teaspoon of vanilla. In other words, the buttercream was perfect. It was ambrosial. In her opinion, people who made frosting out of flavorings, powdered sugar, and butter shouldn’t call their product buttercream frosting. Because it wasn’t. It was some pale imitation. This, the stuff that she and Bernie made, was the real deal. And even though it was technically tricky to make—you had to be careful not to scramble the eggs when you heated them up or when you added the hot sugar syrup—the end result was worth the trouble.

Libby was thinking that it was more than worth the trouble when she picked up the truffle that was sitting on top of her slice of cake and bit into it. She’d made the truffles two days ago and stored them in the fridge because they didn’t have a long shelf life—maybe a week at the most—due to the fact that she’d used heavy cream in them.

They were good too. Really good. Better than the ones Harrods made, in her humble opinion. They literally melted in your mouth. Maybe, Libby thought, we can sell them in A Little Taste of Heaven as a holiday gift or for Valentine’s Day. Get some nice boxes. Maybe something pale green and silver or a rosy pink and gold. Do a variety of flavors. Modern ones. Like lavender and honey. Or lime and chili. Or almonds and sea salt. She was trying to come up with other combinations when she became aware that Bernie was talking and turned her attention to her.

“And we looked,” Bernie was saying to her dad as she added a little more cream to her coffee. This morning she’d decided she had to go on a diet because her jeans were getting tight around the waist, but not tonight. Tonight she needed cream in her coffee and chocolate cake in her stomach. After all, what was an extra five hundred calories, give or take a few? Tomorrow was another day. “We looked all over the place.”

“What do you mean by ‘all over the place’?” asked Sean, seeking clarification.

“I mean,” Bernie replied, “that we looked in the kitchen, the living room, and the dining room.”

Sean took a sip of coffee, then put the cup down. “How about upstairs?”

“That too,” Bernie replied. She paused for a moment to stretch. She’d had a kink in her back ever since she’d offloaded three fifty-pound bags of flour from the van this morning. “We looked in the bedrooms, and we even checked the basement and the garage in case Millie had taken them out there and forgotten to put them in her car. The cookies weren’t there. They weren’t in Millie’s house.”

Libby weighed in next. “Dad, it’s the neatest house I’ve ever been in,” she told him. “There is nothing—and I mean nothing—out of place. It’s even neater than Bree’s. If the cookies were there, believe me, we would have found them.”

Sean took another forkful of cake and let it dissolve in his mouth while he thought over what Libby and Bernie had just said. He was glad that Mr. Evans, whoever he was, hadn’t picked up this cake—thereby leaving it for the family to enjoy.

Sean frowned and put his fork down. “So what I hear you saying is that someone actually took the cookies.” He didn’t try to hide the skepticism in his voice.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but it certainly looks that way,” Bernie replied. “I mean they weren’t in the house. To top it off, all the doors and windows were locked. We checked,” Bernie said, forestalling her dad’s next question.

“So someone really did take them out of the car,” Sean mused. “Either that or Millie just imagined making them.”

Libby gave her dad the look.

He raised his hand. “I was just covering all the possibilities.”

“A highly dubious possibility because she’s been talking to us about the cookies she was going to submit for judging for months now,” Libby said. “Isn’t that right, Bernie?” she asked, turning to her sister.

“For at least three weeks,” Bernie replied. “And Millie might be annoying, but she’s definitely not crazy, Dad.”

“I didn’t say she was,” Sean answered.

“And anyway,” Bernie added. “We found the cookie pans soaking in the sink, so there’s no doubt she’d used them.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Sean said. He ate another sliver of cake, then went on to a different topic. “Libby, correct me if I’m wrong, but what I’m also hearing from you and Bernie is that everyone knew about her cookies, right?”

“Everyone in the Christmas Cookie Exchange Club did,” Libby answered. “No doubt about that. No doubt at all.”

“Those people would be?” Sean asked. “Refresh my memory.”

Bernie rattled their names off. “Barbara Lazarus, Lillian Stein, Teresa Ruffino, Alma Hall, Sheila Goody, Pearl Pepperpot, and Rose Olsen. And of course Millie Piedmont.”

Sean took a deep breath and let it out. “Ah yes. How could I have forgotten. Down at the station we liked to call them the busybody brigade.”

Libby laughed. “Or worse.”

“That too,” Sean said, thinking of the time last week when Alma Hall and Sheila Goody had almost caught him smoking outside the shop.

“Do I smell tobacco?” Alma had asked, wrinkling up her nose as she’d passed by him while he’d been standing in the alley by the shop.

Sean had pretended to smell the air. “I don’t,” he’d lied as he moved his foot over the butt he’d just disposed of. At the time he remembered thinking that she reminded him of a bloodhound, with that droopy face and big nose of hers.

Then Sheila had squinted at him. “There must be something wrong with your nose because I can smell the tobacco from here. Are you smoking?” she asked him, making it sound as if he were engaged in some unspeakable rite.

“Me?” Sean had said. “Never. It must have been from some passerby,” he’d told Sheila, favoring her with his most convincing, boyish smile. “Smoking is a filthy habit. I think people that do that should be tied to the mast and flogged to within an inch of their lives.”

“You are not as funny as you think you are,” Alma had told him.

“And you’re not as clever,” Sean had shot back.

Alma had sniffed, and she and Sheila had walked off. Thank heavens. Because the last thing he needed was for them to tell Libby and Bernie that he was smoking.

Alma and Sheila liked causing trouble—they lived for it, actually—and since his daughters didn’t know he’d gone back to smoking, the two older ladies would have hit the jackpot. At the time, he’d considered doing a preemptive strike and telling Bernie and Libby, but after further consideration, he’d decided against it.

Why disturb the balance? Because if he was being honest with himself, he knew that they knew. His daughters weren’t stupid, after all. Far from it. Furthermore, they knew that he knew that they knew. No, on reflection it was better to keep things status quo. That way they didn’t have to have the “Dad, You Have to Quit for Our Sakes” talk. On that note, he turned his attention to the matter at hand.

“Who else knows about the contest?” Sean asked his daughters.

“We know,” Libby answered. “The TV crew knows. Amber. There was a small article in the local paper.”

“I didn’t see it,” Sean said.

“That’s because it was about four lines,” Libby told him. “When you come right down to it, it’s really not such a big deal except to the Christmas Cookie Exchange Club members, of course. The show doesn’t have a big following.”

“It’s not exactly as if they’re wrestling alligators.” Sean smiled at the thought. Now that would be a sight to see. He took another sip of coffee. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “Moving on, all of these women are in their late sixties and early seventies, correct?”

Libby nodded. “Yes.”

“So what you’re positing,” Sean continued, “is that one of our female senior citizens came along right after Millie’s accident, opened the door, took the cookies, closed the door, and went on her way, leaving Millie seriously injured.”

“Or caused the accident in order to steal the cookies,” Bernie said.

Sean ate the last mouthful of cake on his plate. “Don’t you think that, given the age, the gender, and the social class of the people we’re talking about, that seems even more unlikely than the first scenario you proposed?” he asked after he’d finished swallowing. “And that’s saying a lot. Elderly middle-class women don’t do the kind of things you’re proposing.”

“Not as a rule,” Bernie agreed.

“But then how do you explain the cookies disappearing and Millie’s comments?” Libby demanded.

“Millie had an attack and hit the tree and the cookies went flying out the window,” Sean said promptly.

“The Buick’s windows were closed,” Libby reminded him. “At least, that’s what Matt said.”

“He was the first responder?” Sean asked.

Libby nodded.

“He’s pretty reliable,” Sean conceded as he studied the Christmas lights on Mrs. Sullivan’s notions store across the street. Each year they got more and more elaborate. At this point, the shop looked like a gingerbread house. “Always has been.”

Everyone was silent for a moment.

Then Sean asked, “Who called the accident in?”

“A passerby,” Bernie answered.

“A local?” her dad inquired.

Bernie shook her head. “A visitor to the Minces.”

Sean raised an eyebrow. “He . . .”

“She,” Bernie corrected.

“Fine. She. Was a little out of the way.”

“She got lost,” Libby explained. “She took a left at Route 21 instead of a right.”

Sean nodded. It was an easy enough mistake to make. “She stayed at the accident scene?”

“Until Matt arrived,” Bernie replied. “But,” she continued, anticipating her dad’s next question, “she didn’t touch anything or move Millie except to open the door and check and make sure she was breathing. She told Matt that she was afraid to do anything else. She was afraid she’d make matters worse.”

“Wise choice,” Sean said. Unless it was absolutely necessary, it was always better to wait until the EMTs arrived. Sean thought for a while. Then he said, “You know what I would do if I were you? I’d go back to the scene when it’s light out and look around and see what I can find.”

Libby drained the last drop of coffee from her cup. “Any particular thing you’d be looking for?”

“Obviously, the cookie tins,” Sean replied promptly. “I mean they can’t just have disappeared. Either someone took them or they’re lying on the ground. Besides, then you can tell Amber you’ve covered all the possibilities. You owe her that much.”

“True,” Bernie said.

“We owe Millie as well,” Libby added. “Even if she does always make snide comments about our cinnamon rolls.”

“That’s because she thinks hers are better,” Bernie replied. “Which they are so not.”

“Agreed,” Sean said. “They’re like hockey pucks.”

“Plus she uses cheap cinnamon,” Libby said.

“The cheapest,” Bernie agreed.

“You mean there are different kinds?” Sean asked.

“Four,” Libby told him. “Three of them are cassia root.” She stifled a yawn. She was too tired to get into it now. “I guess we should get to bed if we’re going to be mucking around in the woods tomorrow,” she said, changing the subject.

“And doing all those snowflake cookies,” Bernie added. “Whose idea were those anyway?” she asked. They were extremely time-consuming, what with making the dough, rolling it out, cutting out the cookies, and then baking and icing them. In addition, the pans took up every inch of oven space, effectively ruling out the oven for other uses.

“Yours,” Libby said.

Bernie was taken aback. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Libby remembered the conversation well. “I tried to tell you not to do them, but you kept telling me they’d go really fast.”

Bernie didn’t reply. She decided she had to be exhausted because she couldn’t think of a snappy comeback.

I
t was gray and overcast the next morning as Libby and Bernie left A Little Taste of Heaven and walked outside to the van. They each held cups of French roast coffee, heavy on the cream and light on the sugar, and a petite pain left over from the day before.

“It’s going to snow,” Libby predicted as she took a bite of her roll and savored the crunch of the crust, the softness of the dough, and the sweet taste of the butter she’d slathered on it. “God, I love these rolls,” she added as she got into the van and turned it on. In this kind of weather the van had to be warmed up before it would run well. “It’s one of the pleasures of winter.”

Bernie grunted her agreement as she took a swallow of her coffee. She definitely was a dark-roast person, she decided. She’d heard the blather about the higher temperature roasting killing the finer notes of the coffee beans, but the light brews just didn’t do it for her, and she wasn’t a big fan of the pour-over either, while she was on the subject. Maybe her palate wasn’t sufficiently sophisticated. Yes. That must be it, she decided as she finished her roll, closed her eyes, and leaned her head back against the seat. She was tired, and it was only eight-thirty in the morning, but then she and her sister had been up baking since five.

“I spoke to Amber while you were taking a shower,” Libby said.

“And?” Bernie replied. She kept her eyes closed.

“Millie isn’t any better. They moved her to the ICU early this morning.” Libby looked at her watch. “Amber told me she was going over there to check on her.”

Bernie opened her eyes, sat up, and took a swig of her coffee. “So she won’t be in this morning?”

“No. She will be. But she’ll be late. I already called and asked George to fill in till she shows up at the shop. He wasn’t so bad,” Libby added in response to the expression on her sister’s face.

“Except for the fiasco with Mrs. Wills’s cookies,” Bernie said, brushing a bread crumb off her lap. She’d gotten an early-morning phone call from Mrs. Wills, who’d told her what had happened. At length.

Libby took a sip of her coffee. She’d melted a small square of 72 percent chocolate in it and the result had exceeded her expectations. “Well, Mrs. Wills does mumble.”

“Agreed. But how do you get almond shortbread and French macaroons mixed up? Then there was turning on the coffee machine and forgetting to add the water. Now that’s bad.”

“It could have been,” Libby conceded, visualizing having to buy a new coffee-making system. Not cheap. “At least Googie caught it in time,” Libby said as she put the van in reverse. “Good Mathilda,” Libby crooned to it as she gently pressed the gas pedal. A moment later they were off and running. “All I can say is thank God for small mercies.”

“It’s definitely going to snow,” Bernie commented, changing the subject as she looked at the sky while they drove through Longely.

As the town spooled by, Bernie decided she liked the way it looked at this time of year. She liked the wreaths with their big red bows on the doors and the candles in the windows. She liked the Christmas lights wound around the eaves of the houses and twisted about the street lamps and the trees.

She even liked the inflatable snowmen and the lighted wire deer that moved their heads from side to side and up and down. However, she could do without the snow. It was one thing when she was skiing in Aspen, but quite another when she was shoveling sidewalks in Longely. Bernie was thinking about how long it had been since she’d been on the slopes when they arrived at the site of the accident.

Between last night and this morning, the traffic cones and the debris had been cleared away. The only reminder of what had happened was the gash in the tree trunk that Millie had hit. Libby drove by it and parked on a straight part of the road so that anyone coming around the bend could see the van. Their vehicle wasn’t much, but it was all they had, and she had no intention of losing it to a freak car accident.

Everything was silent when Libby turned off the van and pocketed the key. Then she and Bernie got out. The sound of the van doors shutting cut through the quiet.

“Pretty deserted,” Bernie commented. “There aren’t even any crows.” Which was saying a lot because these days there were crows everywhere in Longely. They’d become the new geese.

“So I noticed,” Libby agreed, looking around. “No one ever uses this road. I mean it’s not exactly a direct route to anything. It meanders all over the place. Dad said it used to be a plank road before they had cars.” She indicated the landscape with a sweep of her hand. “This all used to be farmland.”

Bernie reached into her jacket pocket for her gloves and slipped them on. “Maybe that’s why Millie took it.”

“Because it used to be a plank road?”

Bernie laughed. “No, although given the way she drives everyone might have been happier if she did use a horse and carriage. I’m just saying that Millie might have chosen to use this road because there isn’t any traffic on it and it was easier for her to drive on. Except, of course, at night because there are no lights on it.”

“It was dusk when Millie crashed,” Libby pointed out.

“Sometimes dusk is even harder to see in than the dark,” Bernie said. “Everything is gray. At least in the dark people are using their lights.”

“I wonder if Millie was using her high beams,” mused Libby.

Bernie shifted her weight from one foot to another. Then she bent down and pulled up her socks. “Another question to ask Matt,” she said when she was done.

“If this turns into a real investigation,” Libby said.

“Which we hope it doesn’t, right?”

“Right,” Libby said, nodding her head. “But Dad is correct about one thing.”

“What’s that, Libby?”

“This thing . . .”

“Thing?”

“Situation. Is weird. There is definitely something off about it.”

“I’m sure there’s a simple explanation,” Libby said.

“Me too,” Bernie replied. “I’d just like to find out what it is.”

“I don’t think that’s too much to ask,” Libby replied.

“Neither do I,” Bernie agreed.

The sisters fell silent as they walked along the side of the road to the scene of the accident. They kept their eyes down, looking for the cookie tins, but they didn’t see them or anything that remotely looked like them lying among the gravel that lined the road’s shoulder.

“God, it’s quiet,” Libby said uneasily for the second time after another minute had gone by. “I mean you can’t even hear the traffic out here.”

“That’s because there isn’t any, and there isn’t any because there are no houses out here,” Bernie said.

“It’s kind of spooky,” said Libby.

“Some people would say it’s peaceful,” Bernie replied.

“Not me,” Libby answered. “I like neighbors. Sleeping out here would give me the willies.” She shivered and jammed her hands more firmly in the pockets of her down parka. Even though she had gloves on, her hands were still cold. “Now what are we looking for again?” she asked.

Bernie shrugged and zipped up the collar of her sheepskin jacket, the one she’d bought for 60 percent off at this little shop in Brighton Beach late last winter when they spent the day in Brooklyn. “Besides the cookie tins?”

“Yes. Besides the cookie tins.”

“I’m not sure. I guess this is going to be one of those ‘we’ll know it when we see it’ deals.”

“If we see it, Bernie.”

“Exactly, Libby.
If
being the operative word.”

The sisters looked at each other.

“This is going to be a wild goose chase, isn’t it?” Libby said to her sister.

“Possibly,” Bernie said.

Libby cocked her head and looked at her sister.

“Okay, Libby. Probably. Because even if we don’t find the tins, that doesn’t mean someone who was driving by didn’t see them and stop and pick them up.”

“At night? On this stretch of road? I don’t think so.”

“You’re right,” Bernie admitted as she flipped up the hood on her coat.

Libby sighed and stifled a cough. She just knew she was going to get sick. “We should be back at the shop working.”

They had six orders to get out, as well as nine tortes, the snowflake cookies, and twenty assorted cheesecakes in addition to their regular menu, and as if that weren’t enough, they had to be at the Longely Community Center at six-thirty tonight for the judging.

“I know. But you said it yourself. We’re doing this to make Amber feel better,” Bernie reminded her. “I mean she’s always been there for us. We can’t ignore this, especially since she asked for our help.”

“You’re right. You’re right,” Libby said, looking abashed. “I’m just crabby . . .”

“And tired . . .”

“And overworked.”

“Exactly,” Libby said.

“Welcome to retail at Christmas,” Bernie said.

Libby laughed. Then she got serious. “Poor Millie. Christmas is a rotten time to be in a hospital.”

“Maybe she’ll be out by then.”

“Hopefully.”

“What does Amber say the docs are telling her?”

“They don’t know. It’s a wait-and-see situation.”

“That sucks,” Bernie said.

The sisters stopped in front of the tree Millie had crashed into. Bernie put her hand up and touched the gash in the trunk that Millie’s Buick had made and shook her head. “I hate to think what would have happened to Millie if she’d been going faster.”

“She’d be dead,” Libby said matter-of-factly. “No doubt about that.” She looked into the woods. “Now how are we going to do this?”

“I was figuring we’d split up and walk around and see if we can spot the cookie tins.”

“Do you know what the tins look like?”

“No,” Bernie said. Talk about stupid questions. “But how many other tins could there be lying around on the forest floor? None. That’s how many.”

Libby studied the ground for a moment before saying, “They could be hidden behind a branch or under a rock.”

Bernie let out an exasperated sigh. “Then we won’t find them. Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Libby frowned. “You know what we should have brought along? What would have helped?”

“A flask of hot chocolate?”

“A metal detector.”

Bernie rolled her eyes and hugged her collar to her to stop the wind from going down her jacket. “Such a practical suggestion. You mean the one we don’t have in the storage closet.”

Libby put her hands on her hips. “Ha. Ha. I think the suggestion has merit.”

“You would.”

“Meaning . . .” Bernie started to speak, then changed her mind. “Anyway, metal detectors don’t pick up tin.”

“Of course they do.”

“No. They don’t.”

“They pick up pennies, don’t they?” demanded Libby.

“I guess they do,” Bernie conceded.

“So why not tin? After all, it is a metal alloy.”

“Fine. You’re right.” Bernie brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead. She was too tired to argue anymore. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a metal detector lying around.”

“I know.”

“So why did you bring it up?”

“I was talking theoretically.”

These were the times when Bernie wanted to strangle her sister. Instead she took a deep breath and said, “Okay, now that we have that settled, why don’t we just do a quick walk through the woods. At least,” Bernie added, trying to inject a more positive note into the proceedings, “the ground is relatively bare. Not like it would be in the summer or the fall. It’ll make things easier to see.”

“Not by much,” Libby muttered.

Lord grant me strength
, Bernie thought as she stepped into the woods. Libby followed.

“How about you go to the right and I’ll go to the left?” Bernie said.

Libby nodded her agreement. She looked at her watch. “How long do you think we should do this for?”

“Half an hour?” Bernie suggested, thinking of the tortes waiting to be made and the fact that they had to pick up more sugar before they went back to the shop.

“Works for me,” Libby said as she set off. She’d taken five steps when an idea occurred to her. “There aren’t any snakes here, are there?” she asked her sister. She hated snakes. She hated them almost as much as she hated spiders.

“None. They hibernate in the winter.”

“You’re positive?”

“Absolutely. Except for the big Burmese pythons. I understand one of them ate a deer recently. Just kidding,” Bernie said when Libby came to a dead stop. “Really.” Bernie raised her right hand. “I sister swear.”

“That’s not funny,” Libby huffed.

“You’re right,” Bernie said, endeavoring to look contrite and failing. “It’s not.” Somehow she managed to stifle her laughter.

Libby gave her a dirty look before going back to searching. Sticks cracked under her and her sister’s feet.

“Having trouble?” Libby asked as Bernie stumbled and cursed.

“Not at all,” Bernie said. She wasn’t about to admit that wearing boots with four-inch heels while walking around in the undergrowth probably hadn’t been the best idea.

“I just don’t want you to twist your ankle or anything,” Libby said in her most sickly sweet tone, “and not be able to wear stilettos. That would be a tragedy.”

Bernie decided not to bother answering. After all, they were supposed to be looking for something, not sniping at one another. She and her sister both kept their eyes down. They saw rocks and fallen branches and empty beer bottles and fast-food wrappers, but no cookie tins.

“Think we’ve gone far enough?” Libby asked Bernie after five minutes had elapsed.

“I think maybe we should give it another twenty feet or so. I mean, if the tins are going to be here, they’ll be near the road.”

Bernie looked at her watch. Another twenty-five minutes to go. In different circumstances, she would have found this a pleasant outing. As in if it were warmer and if they didn’t have so much work to do. Then she felt a freezing drizzle falling on her face. Lovely. Enough was enough. She was just about to tell Libby she would wait for her in the van when she spotted something about twenty yards away in the underbrush. She squinted, trying to make it out. It was brownish. And had some sort of shape. It definitely wasn’t a tree.