Cookie Dough or Die (3 page)

As soon as she moved to Chatterley Heights, Olivia set about breaking the rules. She’d adopted Spunky, a rescue Yorkie who liked to steal food off her plate. And she always wore her oldest, most dilapidated sweats to bed. The more holes, the better. It hadn’t occurred to her that anyone besides Spunky or Maddie might ever spot her in them. So much for that hint of future romance. Probably for the best.

Del looked too tired to keep up the banter, so Olivia swallowed her scathing retort. “Has something happened?” she asked him. “Is that why you’re out at this hour?”

Del hesitated, frowning. With a shrug, he said, “Everyone will know soon, anyway. I was on my way home from the Chamberlain house when I saw the lights on in here. It got me worrying. Not that there’s anything for you to worry about, it looked like an accident, but I thought I’d check on you, to be on the safe side.”

“Could you be a little less clear?” Olivia asked.

“Sorry,” Del said with a faint smile. “We got a call around two a.m. from the Chamberlain housekeeper—you know Bertha, right? Anyway, Bertha said she’d found Clarisse unconscious. We got there right after the paramedics, but there was nothing anyone could do. She was dead.”

Olivia managed a whopping hour and thirty-seven minutes of sleep before the alarm woke her. After the events of the previous night, she knew the store would be busier than usual. Even Maddie’s superhuman energy level might not be up to the demands of Chatterley Heights gossip.

After a shower, Olivia dressed in cords and a warm sweater to take Spunky on a quick walk. The morning air felt heavy and wet under slate clouds, so Spunky was more than happy to keep it short. He raced upstairs before Olivia could dry off his paws, leaped back onto her unmade bed, and burrowed his head under a blanket fold.

“Wish I could join you, kiddo,” Olivia said. She left the bedroom door ajar so Spunky could get to food and water.

For the first time since The Gingerbread House opened, Olivia felt no quickening of energy and interest at the thought of going to work. Her slump had less to do with sleep deprivation than with her struggle to grasp the reality of Clarisse Chamberlain’s death. In fact, Olivia had awakened that morning convinced that she’d dreamed the whole episode: the suspected intruder, Maddie’s middle-of-the-night baking frenzy, and Del’s bleak announcement.

She remembered feeling that same confusion when her father died, which told her how tightly woven into her life Clarisse had become. During the last few years of her marriage to Ryan, Olivia’s identity had shifted so subtly from beloved partner to appendage that she hadn’t been aware of it happening. One day they were working side by side to achieve a joint dream, and the next she was a mix of servant and arm candy. Looking back, the divorce was inevitable and necessary, but it had dealt yet another blow to Olivia’s sense of competence.

It was Clarisse Chamberlain who’d yanked her upright, brushed the dirt off her derriere, and prodded her into a turnaround. Clarisse, a successful businesswoman for over forty years, had spotted Olivia’s potential and encouraged her—okay, outright bullied her—into taking a chance on The Gingerbread House. She had become Olivia’s ongoing mentor, most enthusiastic customer, and friend. Clarisse would tell her to go downstairs and attend to business.

Olivia decided not to change out of her cozy cords and sweater; she might end up napping in the kitchen during work breaks. On her way to the staircase, she stopped for a critical look in the bathroom mirror. She looked better than she had at four a.m., but there was room for improvement. A touch of makeup, a hint of blush, and her puffy eyelids were less obvious. Her short auburn hair was behaving for once, falling in loose curls around her face. A few men, Ryan included, had noticed her unusual gray eyes, which could look blue or green depending on the color of her outfit. Arm candy, however, she wasn’t, and she had no wish to be.

Olivia drained her coffee cup and carried it with her downstairs. It was going to be that kind of day.

Maddie was opening the store as Olivia arrived. “Fresh coffee in the kitchen,” she said, eyeing the empty cup.

Olivia followed the scent of brewing coffee. “Did you get any sleep?” she called over her shoulder.

“Nope, not really. Don’t worry about me. My record is forty-eight hours without sleep. Always wanted to break that.”

“Let me know when you need a nap.”

“Will do.”

In the kitchen, Olivia filled her cup, gathered a pile of orders, and sat down at her little work desk. She’d barely begun when the kitchen door opened and Maddie poked her head inside.

“I could use some backup out here,” Maddie said.

“Sure thing.” Olivia followed her into the store. “Did we announce a fire sale? There must be a dozen customers in here already.”

“Thirteen, to be exact,” Maddie said. “And I can see more arriving. I’m guessing they’re curious to hear the latest about Clarisse’s death.”

“But why here?”

“Because,” Maddie said, “you and Clarisse were close, that’s why. If anybody has details, it’ll be her sons or you. Edward and Hugh will stay out of sight. You don’t have that option. You’re not in Baltimore anymore. But fear not, I’m right behind you.”

The moment Olivia appeared, customers flowed toward her like water through a sieve. She felt like a starlet who’d stopped in to ask for directions. However, unlike adoring fans, Chatterley Heights residents behaved with subtlety and restraint. Usually, anyway. She recognized every face, including several she’d never before seen inside The Gingerbread House.

For the next hour, customers vied for Olivia’s attention. Most of them bought something, if only a spatula or one of the less expensive cookie cutters, for the chance to talk to her for a minute. She tried to quell the most shocking rumors—especially the one that Clarisse was murdered by a motorcycle gang during a home invasion. When word spread through the store that, as far as Olivia knew, Clarisse’s death had been natural, the crowd began to shrink.

Olivia busied herself restocking shelves, while Maddie went straight for Lucas Ashford in the cookbook nook, which had once been a family dining room. A red plaid flannel shirt tucked into jeans draped Lucas’s strong, lean body. He appeared to be testing the weight of a gray marble rolling pin as if he thought it might be useful at a demolition site. Maddie was nuts about him. Her descriptions of him always included words such as “yummy,” but to Olivia, he was simply Lucas, the guy next door. When Maddie appeared at his side, he smiled down at her, and she touched his arm. A prick of sadness caught Olivia by surprise. She remembered those feelings.

“Sweetheart, how are you holding up?”

Olivia started at the sound of her mother’s voice. “Mom. Sorry, I didn’t see you.”

“You didn’t see me
down here
, you mean.” It was an old family joke, but Ellie Greyson-Meyers laughed as if she’d just thought it up. At four foot eleven, Ellie was a good eight inches shorter than Olivia, who had inherited her height from her six-foot-two father.

“Maddie can handle the store for now,” Ellie said. “Come talk to your mother.” With a firm maternal arm, she pulled Olivia into the kitchen and closed the door. Ellie hoisted her small frame onto a stool. A child of the 1960s, now approaching sixty, Ellie still favored long, flowing skirts and peasant blouses. She’d long ago cut her waistlength hair, which now hung below her shoulders in loose gray waves.

“Oh my,” Ellie said, eyeing the kitchen table. Maddie had managed to decorate about half of her flower cookies. “You and Maddie have outdone yourselves.”

“All Maddie’s doing,” Olivia said. “She is the creative genius.”

Ellie leaned forward and pointed to a cookie. “Is that a purple daffodil? If we were back in the commune, I’d wonder if Maddie’s genius got a boost from—”

“Trust me, Mom, purple daffodils grow in Maddie’s world.”

“And what about your world, Livie? You look tired. I know how close you’d become to Clarisse; her death must be a blow. Now don’t look at me like that, I’m not after gossip. It’s just that . . .” Ellie gathered her hair and pulled it behind her neck, giving it a twist so it wouldn’t fall forward. “When your father died, I grieved of course, but I also began to question myself. Should I have seen it coming? Should I have insisted he see a doctor sooner? Why didn’t he tell me about his symptoms until it was too late?”

Olivia picked up a cookie that looked like a green and orange striped rose, snapped it in half, and handed one piece to Ellie.

“I honestly don’t know how Clarisse died,” Olivia said, “but . . .”

Ellie waited, nibbling the icing off an edge of her cookie half.

“Right up until three days ago,” Olivia said, “I’d have sworn there was nothing wrong with Clarisse. She was as sharp and vibrant as ever. Then she came into the store Tuesday, and she seemed to be in a different world.”

“Maybe she’d been given some bad news about her health,” Ellie said.

The kitchen door opened, and Maddie poked her head in. “Hi, Ellie. Livie, could you come out and watch the store for half an hour, pretty please with buttercream frosting on top? Lucas wants to buy me a cup of coffee. Thank you, thank you!” She disappeared before Olivia could open her mouth.

“Are you sure you’re all right? I was planning to go to Baltimore,” Ellie said, “to take a seminar on natural healing, but I can skip that if you need me.”

“I’m okay, Mom. I need to keep busy. You go ahead to your seminar and give me a call when you get back.”

Ellie put her arms around Olivia and gave her a motherly squeeze. “I’ll keep my cell on vibrate, so promise you’ll call if you need to talk, okay?”

“Thanks, Mom. I promise.”

“Take care of yourself, Livie. Don’t beat yourself up about something you couldn’t have prevented.” She stood on tiptoes and pulled Olivia down by the shoulder to plant a kiss on her cheek.

Olivia followed her mother into the empty store, waved good-bye, and finished her restocking project. And thought about Clarisse. She wished their last time together hadn’t been so odd and unsettling. Clarisse had seemed vague and scattered, at times unaware of Olivia’s presence. Clarisse was a hardheaded businesswoman with laser-beam focus. She did not dither. But dither she did on that last visit to the store.

Olivia had the store to herself, so she sat on the high stool behind the sales counter and punched some numbers into her cell phone.

After three rings, Sheriff Del answered. “Livie, hello there. Sorry I disrupted your sleep this morning.” Olivia heard some male guffaws in the background, then, “Hang on, I’m going outside.” A minute later, Del said, “Sorry about that, I wasn’t thinking.”

“You’re a bit short on sleep, too.”

“No kidding. What’s up?”

“I’ve been thinking about Clarisse. We had dinner together last Saturday, and she seemed fine. But when she came to the store on Tuesday, she was distant, distracted. She behaved oddly, though I wouldn’t say she looked ill. I can’t help but wonder. . . . Maybe something was wrong. I think I’d like to talk with you about it. Are you free for lunch?”

“Well, I don’t know, will you be wearing that sweet little number you had on last night?”

“You get one pass for exhaustion, Del, then I start keeping score.”

Del laughed. “Fair enough. Meet me at the café around one o’clock, and we’ll talk.”

Olivia hung up and slid her phone into her pants pocket. When she twisted the stool seat around, her breath caught in her throat. At the front of the store stood Sam Parnell, postal carrier, holding a bundle of mail. She hadn’t heard him come in.

Chatterley Heights had three postal carriers, two parttimers and Sam, who’d been delivering mail for fifteen years. Every day, freezing or sweltering, he wore an official U.S. Postal Service uniform, complete with hat. He never left home without it.

“Anything interesting today?” Olivia had heard all the rumors about Sam. According to local gossip, he wasn’t nicknamed “Snoopy” for nothing.

“Looks like a whole lot of bills,” Sam said.

“Good to know. Thanks for bringing them in.” She busied herself sorting through a stack of new receipts.

“Shame about Ms. Chamberlain.” Sam’s nasal whine reached across the room.

Olivia glanced up at him, which he took as an invitation. He flipped through her mail as he crossed the store. “I guess there’s only so much stress a woman can take,” he said as he handed the envelopes to Olivia.

“Stress?” she asked, then kicked herself. She knew how much Sam loved looking as if he knew more than everyone else, and she’d handed him an opportunity.

“A woman her age, I mean, with all those businesses going at once. And two grown sons wanting to take charge. I heard she was thinking of changing her will. Must have been tough on her. I mean, Hugh and Edward, hard to tell if either one will ever settle down and have kids to carry on the family name.”