Olivia had scheduled the announcement of the cookie cutter contest winner for twelve forty-five, so customers who couldn’t get away from work until their lunch hours would have at least some chance to participate. With luck, the crowd would clear out by one o’clock or shortly thereafter. Charlene must have heard about Maddie’s vegetable and fruit cookies by now and thought nothing of it.
Bertha waved to Olivia from behind the counter, where a line of customers waited to make purchases. Finally. Olivia had begun to wonder if her contest idea was so successful it had distracted folks from their new collection of hand-embroidered tea towels and their recently acquired vintage Wilton cookie cutter sets. Maddie had brought out the last of the cookies and was working the sales floor, so Olivia waved back to Bertha and headed toward the sales counter to help at the cash register. By the time she got there, the line had expanded to ten customers.
Fifteen minutes later, Olivia and Bertha had reduced the line to two customers. Olivia had a chance to survey the sales floor, which had grown denser with the arrival of the lunch crowd. The front door opened to admit a young couple she’d never seen before and, right behind them, Sam Parnell. She remembered he’d delivered their mail at about nine a.m., as usual. He was dressed in full uniform, complete with the hat that rarely left his head, but he wasn’t carrying his mailbag. Olivia assumed he’d decided to stop by on his lunch hour. Since the very first day The Gingerbread House opened its doors, Olivia could not remember Sam ever giving up his precious lunch hour to drop by. This could mean only one thing: Sam thought there was juicy gossip to be had, or perhaps helped along. Sam’s nickname—Snoopy—was well earned. Olivia’s hope for a confrontation-free event began to fade.
Olivia’s peace of mind took another hit when the front door again opened and in walked Binnie Sloan, the barrel-shaped editor of the
Weekly Chatter
, followed by her skinny young niece, Nedra. As Olivia knew from personal experience, the
Weekly Chatter
was not known for its adherence to journalistic standards.
Maybe, Olivia told herself, Binnie and Ned had come to cover the cookie cutter contest. Right. And Sam was there only to snag a cookie or three, despite his diabetes. Olivia noticed he did seem to be examining a half-f tray of decorated cookies with great interest. Finally, he selected one and took a bite. Binnie came up behind him, grabbed two cookies, and bit through both at the same time, as if they were a ham sandwich. Ned took a photo of the tray but did not indulge.
Another flurry of customers distracted Olivia for a time. When she was once again free to glance around, she saw Sam Parnell and Binnie Sloan in conversation, apparently about a sheet of paper that each of them held. Olivia told herself that they were simply comparing notes about the contest, but she didn’t find herself convincing. Her apprehension spiked higher. Turning to Bertha, she asked, “Will you be all right handling the register for a while? I’d like to check with Maddie to see how close we are to announcing a contest winner.”
“The pace seems to be settling down,” Bertha said. “You go right on ahead now.”
Olivia spotted Maddie standing in the opening to the cookbook nook, where she could see and be seen. In the crook of her right arm, she held a mixing bowl into which folks were depositing half-sized sheets of peach-colored paper. Maddie’s attention, however, was focused on the full-sized sheet of white paper in her left hand. As Olivia approached, she noticed red splotches on Maddie’s pale, freckled cheeks.
“Something tells me,” Olivia said when she reached Maddie, “that you aren’t reading the contest results.”
Without comment, Maddie handed the sheet of paper to Olivia, who recognized it at once as a copy of Charlene Critch’s anti-sugar manifesto that she and Maddie had spent Sunday afternoon cleaning off The Gingerbread House lawn.
“So Charlene printed more of these things?”
“Take another look,” Maddie said. “Then check out those folks who are just arriving.”
Obeying the last order first, Olivia watched as three women—customers who made regular trips from Clarksville in search of vintage cookie cutters—closed the store door behind them. Instead of plunging eagerly toward the ever-changing cookie cutter display as they usually did, the women paused to skim the papers they held. Their expressions appeared to range from bemused to concerned.
With chilled anticipation, Olivia turned her attention to the latest edition of Charlene’s diatribe against the demon sugar. The opening warning that “Sugar Kills” hadn’t changed, though Charlene had added an additional exclamation point. It was followed, as before, with a list of pseudo facts about how sugar accomplishes its dastardly effects. In this version, the claims were even more outrageous and, Olivia realized, more personal:
• WARNING: Don’t be fooled by a little lime zest. Cookies shaped like fruits and vegetables are still just clumps of sugar, and sugar is a weapon of human destruction.
• Sugar causes obesity, heart disease, diabetes, cancer, and dementia. If you are eating an iced cookie while reading this, you have shortened your life by several months.
• If you are pregnant and consuming sugar at this moment, you are condemning your baby to a life of illness and early death.
• No amount of exercise can undo the damage those cookies are doing to your bodies right this minute.
• Ask yourselves this question: What kind of person provides daily mega-doses of sweet poison to an entire town?
If you are worried about your health and your loved ones, come to The Vegetable Plate this evening at seven o’clock. We will plan how to take back our lives from the destructive effects of sugar in our own town.
“Wow,” Olivia said. “It seems we are a public menace. I’m wondering if we should call the police and have ourselves arrested.”
Maddie glowered. “I don’t find it amusing. Charlene is trying to destroy our business. I think we should sue her. I mean, this is illegal, right? You still have Mr. Willard on retainer, don’t you? So call him and ask if this is legal or not.”
“I don’t really see the need to keep an attorney on retainer, though I could certainly talk to him if it would make you feel better. But Maddie, nobody could possibly take this stuff seriously. It’s completely over-the-top. I’m more concerned about Charlene’s state of mind. She seems . . .”
“Insane? Bonkers? Several cookies short of a mass poisoning?”
Olivia heard a gentle laugh as her mother joined them, also holding the offending paper. “Maddie, dear,” Ellie said, “I must agree with Livie, and not only because she is my daughter. On numerous occasions, I have not agreed with her in the least, such as—”
“Mom, could we focus on the part where you think I’m right?”
“Certainly, Livie.” With a motherly squeeze to Maddie’s shoulders, Ellie said, “I do understand your feelings, Maddie. Those outlandish claims are more than lies; they are a profound insult, not only to your integrity but also to the intelligence of your customers. No, I don’t believe Charlene is clinically insane. I do sense that something is deeply amiss in her life, though, and this is her way of . . . I don’t know, assuming control?”
“Are you taking a class in Jungian analysis, Mom?”
Ellie patted her daughter’s arm. “No, dear, it wouldn’t provide nearly enough exercise for me. All I’m suggesting is that we turn our attention to Charlene’s current situation. For instance, who tore apart her store, and why hasn’t this person picked on other stores in Chatterley Heights? I have to wonder if Charlene is being tortured by a personal enemy, and maybe she feels alone. Perhaps we should talk to her, try to—”
“Uh oh,” Olivia said.
“Now hear me out,” Ellie said.
“No, I mean ‘uh oh,’ as in, look who is coming through the front door.”
Olivia noticed that the decibel level of customer chatter dropped a notch and several hands pulled back from the cookie trays as Charlene Critch closed the front door behind her. She was dressed to perfection in a figure-skimming, pink-and-white striped sundress. The stripes were vertical, of course, to emphasize Charlene’s slight figure. Her blond hair was gathered into a ponytail, with tendrils framing her face. From a distance, she could pass for a teenager.
Olivia accepted the inevitable: if there was to be a confrontation, she should be the one to handle it. For the long, complex process of creating decorated cookies, Maddie had infinite patience. For people, not so much. Forming her lips into a smile, Olivia wove through her customers and around display tables toward the front of the store.
Charlene watched Olivia’s approach with a cold stare. She didn’t speak until they were face-to-face. “How
could
you?” she said, loud enough to be heard by everyone in the store.
“How could
I
? All I did was—”
“Do you think I’m so dense I wouldn’t understand what you and Maddie are trying to do? I knew
she
was mean enough to try a stunt like this, but I can’t believe you played along. I ought to sue both of you.”
“Sue
us
? Look, all we did was host a celebration of the harvest. I really don’t think that is grounds for a lawsuit. If anything, you’re the one that—”
“This is just so . . .” Charlene’s brown eyes began to glisten with tears. “So
mean.
You were only pretending to be kind to me after my store got broken into. And now you’re trying to destroy my business.” Her thin chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath.
“Charlene, let’s talk somewhere else.”
“Don’t even bother to deny it. The evidence it right there.” Charlene pointed toward a nearby table, where a tray held three uneaten cookies: a magenta apple with a grinning pink worm, a cornflower blue carrot, and something that looked like a turnip with the icing licked off. “You and Maddie are trying to trick everybody into believing that healthy eating doesn’t matter, so they won’t come to my Healthy Eating Club, or maybe even my store. You’re trying to ruin me, and . . . and you’re willing to poison everyone in Chatterley Heights to do it.” Tears spilled down her cheeks, dragging her mascara and foundation with them.
In a flash, Olivia reached two understandings. First, Charlene probably believed everything she had written in her announcement. And second, her thickly applied makeup was an attempt to hide a black eye.
Charlene sniffled and swiped the tears off her cheeks. She seemed unaware that the bruised skin around her left eye had begun to show. “Anyway,” she said, “I didn’t come to talk to you. I need to talk to your brother.”
“Charlie? I think I saw him over by the coffee table, near the window facing the square.” Olivia waved her hand in the general direction of the window. “But Charlene, are you sure you’re all right? I couldn’t help but notice—”
“You’re the one who’s out of it,” Charlene said. “I think all that sugar has eaten holes in your brain. Charlie is my brother, not yours. I’m here to talk to Jason.
Your
brother.”
That superior edge had slipped back into Charlene’s voice. For a split second, Olivia wanted to slap her; then she remembered that someone already had. Olivia looked around for her mother. Wasn’t this where she was supposed to take over and calm the atmosphere? “I wasn’t aware you and Jason were friends,” Olivia said and instantly wished she’d stuffed a cookie in her own mouth. Charlene and Jason had been friends in high school.
“This is a small town,” Charlene said. “As you know, your
younger
brother is in my age group. Why wouldn’t we be friends?”
“Jason was in the cookbook nook a little while ago.” Olivia’s tone was curt, but she was beyond caring. “He was eating cookies. Lots of cookies.”
So much for “handling” the situation with patience.
Charlene’s perfect little chin lifted a notch. “Then I’d better find him fast. I’ve wasted too much time waiting for your sugar-soaked brain to focus. I need to save Jason from the same fate.”
I
t’s time to announce the contest winner,” Maddie said as she handed Olivia a Gingerbread House recipe card with one name on it.
Olivia glanced at the name and whispered, “Jason was convinced he would win. Looks like you didn’t give him enough hints.”
“Give me some credit, Livie. I’m not a complete pushover. I gave him a couple hints, like the Duesenberg, but it turns out he isn’t the only old car fanatic in the crowd. Also, Jason isn’t a baker, so he hasn’t developed the knack of identifying shapes. He thought the baby rattle was a barbell. It seems he didn’t process the whole baby context of the mobile.”
“He really wanted that Duesenberg cutter,” Olivia said. Maybe she would give it to him—if he didn’t irritate her too much beforehand.
“Believe me, everyone knows how much Jason wants that cutter,” Maddie said. “I’d feel bad for him except he’s been whispering with Charlene in the nook. They seem pretty cozy. Just thought I’d warn you. Now let’s get cracking, the troops are assembling.”
Olivia and Maddie headed toward the picture window looking out on the town square. Customers watched in hushed silence, as if Olivia were about to announce the next governor of Maryland.
Gotta love those cookie cutter fans.
“Thank you all for finding time on a Tuesday morning to join us for this impromptu celebration of the harvest and the eventual return of cool, crisp weather.” Olivia searched faces for Charlene but didn’t see her. She didn’t see Jason, either, which seemed odd given his longing to win the Duesenberg cutter. “I know many of you need to get back to work, so I’ll get right to the important part. Our cookie cutter contest winner today is . . . Gwen Tucker!”
As expected, Gwen selected the baby rattle for her free vintage cookie cutter. After congratulations, the majority of customers vacated the store, having feasted on a lunch of decorated cookies. For a fleeting moment, Olivia wondered if Charlene might have a point about The Gingerbread House being a den of wicked overindulgence. However, Charlene emerged alone from the cookbook nook and flung her a look of disdain, which erased Olivia’s guilt. Instead of leaving the store, Charlene joined her brother Charlie at the beverage cart by the front door. She appeared to be fixing herself a cup of tea.