A Cookie Before Dying (13 page)

“Livie, you don’t think Jason would . . . ?”

With a slow shake of her head, Olivia said, “I can’t believe that he would. It’s a valuable cutter, but Jason knows I’d let him have it free, or at least for next to nothing. Anyway, he seemed awfully focused on Charlene and her problems. It’s hard to imagine he’d even have thought about it. Well, I won’t worry about it tonight, and don’t you, either. It’ll turn up. Maybe it fell off and someone put it somewhere in the store. I’m sure we’ll find it in the light of day. You look baked to a crisp. How many days has it been since you slept?”

Maddie yawned and stretched. “I’m fine. I went to bed early Sunday night.”

“This is Tuesday evening. I’ll clean up. You go home and get some rest.”

For once, Maddie didn’t argue.

Olivia lay awake and listed her midsummer resolutions. First, buy a new bedroom air conditioner. Second,  never read the Cookie Cutter Collectors Club’s latest
Cookie Crumbs
newsletter right before bed. Way too stimulating. She could read a thriller and still drift off, but looking at photos of vintage cutters made her want to run out and find an all-night flea market.

It didn’t help Olivia’s sleep problem that the temperature in her second-floor bedroom was in the mid-eighties with a dew point she could take a bath in. The Weather Channel had mentioned a storm nearby, possibly heading in their direction. It couldn’t arrive soon enough.

Olivia lay spread-eagle on her bed wearing only panties and a loose cotton T-shirt that reached to her mid-thighs. When she’d first moved into her apartment, she had talked herself out of replacing the old window air conditioner in her bedroom. After all, it might be noisy and slow but it still worked. Frugality was her lifetime habit, inheritance or no inheritance. But with the distractions of Maddie’s impromptu cookie event and Charlene’s dramatic appearance, she hadn’t remembered to turn the useless thing on until bedtime. The day’s heat had snaked through the myriad, inevitable cracks in the old house and slithered up the staircase, gaining strength as it curled into her bedroom.

“I’ve been lying here for hours,” Olivia muttered. She switched on the bedside lamp and checked her cell phone for the time. It was one a.m. “Okay, thirty-five minutes.”

Spunky’s tiny body stretched out flat at the foot of the bed, as far as possible from Olivia. When she spoke, he lifted his eyelids and dropped them shut in one smooth movement.

Olivia considered going to her kitchen and pouring herself a glass of wine. No, she had to open the store in the morning; she couldn’t afford to feel groggy. She’d finished her last library book. Music never helped her to sleep, and the only television was in her living room, where the air conditioner was even older and louder.

Olivia shifted sideways to a cooler place on the sheet. Forcing her eyes shut, she tried deep breathing, which her yoga-addicted mother insisted would relax her. It made her crabby. As if mirroring her mood, Spunky raised his head and growled. But he was looking toward the bedroom windows, not at Olivia. She sat up, listened, but heard only the racket made by the air conditioner.

“What is it, Spunks?”

Spunky fixed his limpid brown eyes on Olivia and whimpered. His head snapped back toward the window, ears perked. The air conditioner consumed one of two bedroom windows. Spunky leaped off the bed and trotted to the second, moonlight-filled pane, where he fidgeted and whined. When he gave Olivia his most heartrending look, the one with the pleading eyes and tilted head, Olivia turned off the bedside lamp and joined him at the window.

“I don’t see anything,” she said. Spunky stood on his hind legs and leaned his front paws on her shin. Olivia picked him up so he could look outside. “See? Dark of night, not a creature is stirring.” Spunky’s ears fell, then shot up again. This time Olivia heard it, too, even with the air conditioner whining in her right ear. She turned it off. The sound came through clearly, a howl that would have sent a chill down her spine if the room temperature hadn’t already risen by at least a degree.

“Hang on a sec, kiddo,” Olivia said, depositing Spunky at her feet. At once he began to hop on his back feet and paw at the wall. Olivia unlocked the window and lifted the crank, but the humidity-swollen frame stuck. She hit the wood with her fist and felt it shift. She hit it again, and the window cracked open, allowing heavy, wet air to penetrate the only slightly drier room. She cranked the pane wide.

Spunky yapped until Olivia picked him up. Together they peered out through the screen at what looked like black nothing until Olivia’s eyes adjusted and the clouds parted to reveal streaks of moonlight. She began to distinguish large shapes: other buildings on either side of The Gingerbread House, trees in the town square, the lamplight near the late-nineteenth-century band shell. Spunky wriggled his front paws free of Olivia’s grasp and reached out to touch the screen. He yapped three times and went silent. A faint howl answered his call.

“Oh no, don’t tell me.” Olivia pressed her forehead against the screen. “Is Buddy out there, Spunks? Is that Buddy howling?” Spunky yapped and wagged his tail. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Deputy Sheriff Cody Furlow’s dog, Buddy, was huge, even for a black Labrador. However, the part about having black fur would explain why Olivia couldn’t see him. Buddy and Spunky had forged a special bond and sometimes led one another into trouble, or out of it.

“Buddy sounds unhappy. Serves him right for running away.” Spunky leaped out of Olivia’s arms and ran to the bedroom door, which was closed to keep in the cooler air. Olivia sat on her bed and speed-dialed Cody’s cell. The call went to voice mail. “Cody? This is Olivia Greyson. It’s—” She checked her cell. “It’s one twenty a.m., and I think Buddy ran off again. Unless he’s home with you, he’s probably the dog I can hear howling from the town square. Anyway, Spunky thinks it’s him. Good luck.”

Hoping her job was done, Olivia flopped back on her bed. Spunky had other ideas. He scratched the closed door, whimpering piteously. Olivia groaned. “All right, I’ll make another call, but I’m not opening that door.” Still on her back, she punched in her speed-dial code for the police department. She got a recording telling her to dial 911 for an emergency. At the end of the message, she was instructed to press “one” to leave a message for the Chatterley Heights Police Department. She questioned whether Buddy on the loose would qualify as 911-worthy. However, it couldn’t hurt to leave a message for Cody.

While Spunky paced between the door and the window, Olivia closed her eyes. She had done her duty, which ought to help her relax and fall asleep. She envisioned wading into a chocolate lake dotted with pink and yellow sugar sprinkles. She swam to the opposite shore and entered a real gingerbread house, minus the child-eating witch. The air smelled like ginger and cloves and cinnamon, and the shelves were stocked with iced gingerbread. She reached for a piece and felt how moist and light it was as she bit into it. A tiny sound made her glance down at her feet, where a marzipan puppy with licorice eyes gazed up at her. As she broke off a bit of gingerbread to give him, she became aware of an almond smell and realized the puppy was melting from the heat in the kitchen. The oven door was open and heat was pouring out, which meant the wicked witch was—

A breath-stopping howl reached her through the open bedroom window. Spunky answered with his own version, which sounded more like an extended yap.

“Thank goodness I didn’t adopt a beagle,” Olivia said. She rolled over on her stomach. “You’re really worried, aren’t you, Spunks?” With tiny, galloping steps, Spunky ran to the bed, leaped onto it, jumped back down, and ran back to the window.

“What’s more to the point,” Olivia said, “you aren’t going to let me sleep until we rescue Buddy. Though Lord knows what we’ll do with the brute if we do manage to capture him.” She slipped into jeans and a T-shirt and slid her cell phone into her pocket. She tried to pick up Spunky before opening her bedroom door, but he wiggled free and raced for the front door of the apartment. He held still long enough for Olivia to hook a leash on his collar, then stood on his hind feet and strained toward the door. “I’m worried, too,” she told him as they headed out into the night. “I hope it isn’t Cody he’s howling over.”

Dense, wet fog rolled in as they made their way across the town square, with Spunky barking and Buddy howling back. A vivid streak of lightning sliced the sky south of the park, followed by a loud boom and, a few seconds later, a long rumble. As all the lights in and around the town square blinked out, Olivia realized a major storm was moving in . . . and the booming sound hadn’t been thunder. She hadn’t thought to grab a raincoat, and she didn’t even own a flashlight. She needed to start taking the Weather Channel more seriously. It would be too time-consuming to go back for rain gear. Better to find Buddy as quickly as possible and race back to the now darkened Gingerbread House. If the storm hit too fast and hard, they could all take shelter in the band shell.

The combination of dark and fog made it tough to determine direction, though a flash of lightning nearby illuminated the outline of the band shell. Olivia didn’t catch sight of Buddy, though. She loosely held Spunky’s leash and allowed him to lead her, which he did with fierce terrier determination. She was glad he weighed only five pounds and had minuscule legs, or he would have yanked her off her feet and dragged her through the damp grass.

Without hesitating to sniff the air, Spunky pulled Olivia around the band shell and toward the statue of Frederick P. Chatterley. As they passed the horse’s rump, Olivia was able to make out Buddy’s large form sitting on his haunches, his head lowered. He lifted his head as they neared. When he recognized Spunky, Buddy barked once and lowered his head again. He edged his front legs forward until his belly reached the wet grass, raised his head to the dark sky, and howled with a mournfulness that made even Spunky pause. Lightning slashed the darkness, illuminating the south end of the town square. A split second later came the rumbling of thunder. Olivia shivered as foreboding sliced through her. In that moment of light, she had seen a human form sprawled motionless on the grass, inches from Buddy’s front paws.

With Spunky beside her, Olivia ran toward Buddy and knelt on the damp grass. “Cody?” Even as she whispered the question, Olivia realized that the prone form was not Deputy Cody. Cody was a skinny six-foot-three. She touched the man’s jacket, then drew her hand away, remembering her rudimentary forensics. The material had felt like leather. Under his jacket, this man had the broad shoulders and muscled build of a weight lifter. He lay on his stomach, his face hidden from view. His head was bare, and his dew-soaked hair looked black.

Instinctively, Olivia reached toward his neck to feel for a pulse, then pulled back as she touched cold skin. A wave of revulsion turned her stomach. Spunky was braver, or at least more compelled by curiosity. He trotted around the dead man and sniffed his hand before Olivia yanked him back. Buddy’s mournful brown eyes watched her as if expecting the human to take charge.

“Stop being such a wimp,” Olivia muttered. “I meant me, not you,” she said to Buddy. As the first raindrops landed on her back, she opened her cell and punched in 911.

 

 

S
oaked to the skin, Olivia huddled between Spunky and Buddy, peering into the darkness to avoid looking at the dead man nearby. “I guess this is a two-dog night, huh, guys?” Neither dog laughed. Olivia heard a shout from somewhere close by, but the rain was falling so furiously she couldn’t see more than a couple feet in any direction. The second shout was even closer, from somewhere to her left. “Hello?” she called.

“Where are you? Can’t see a thing in this mess.” It was Del’s voice, worried and irritated and very welcome.

“Del, it’s me, Livie. I’m—We are south of the band shell, right before you get to the statue.”

Del sounded quite close and even more cross when he shouted, “Why on earth aren’t you
inside
the band shell?” He arrived right behind her, panting but dry under a large umbrella. “Here, hold this,” Del said, handing the umbrella to Olivia. He took off his raincoat and wrapped it around Olivia’s trembling shoulders. Pulling on crime-scene gloves, he leaned over the prone body and felt for a pulse. “He’s dead.”

“I know.”

Del pulled a flashlight from his uniform jacket pocket and squatted down, playing the light slowly over the body and along the soaked ground. Olivia tried not to watch, but she couldn’t help herself. Del seemed interested in the area around the man’s left shoulder. Olivia saw nothing but dark, wet grass. Del carefully lifted the man’s shoulder off the ground enough to see beneath it. The grass, protected from rain by the man’s chest, glistened with a dark liquid. Blood.

“Try to keep the umbrella over him, Liv. The scene is enough of a mess as it is.” Del dialed his cell with his thumb. “I’m going to start with the assumption that you did not kill this man,” he said as he waited for an answer to his call.