A Cookie Before Dying (14 page)

“Thanks ever s-so.” Olivia shivered, but not from the sudden cooling of the air. Shock had begun to set in. Buddy edged closer to her, while Spunky, dripping wet and unusually subdued, snuggled up against her ankle.

“Cody, it’s me,” Del said into his cell. “Come to the park right away, south of the band shell, near the statue. Yeah, I’m aware there’s a storm; I’m in it. So is your dog, by the way, as well as a deceased male, Caucasian. Apparent stabbing victim. Don’t quote me on that, I haven’t found a weapon. It might be underneath him. Get here as fast as you can and bring a couple extra umbrellas.”

Del snugged his cell into an inside pocket of his jacket. Without touching the body, he leaned in close with his flashlight. “Expensive leather jacket,” he said. “What’s this?” An object protruded from the man’s right hand. As the light caught a metallic sheen, Olivia inhaled sharply. It looked to her like the shaped edge of a tin cookie cutter. She thought back to the Duesenberg cookie cutter that had gone missing after the store event. That was made of tin. She told herself that lots of cookie cutters were made of tin, and there were lots of tin cookie cutters floating around Chatterley Heights. Besides, the small object could be anything.

“I don’t recognize the guy,” Del said. “Any chance you do?”

“What? Oh. No, he doesn’t look familiar.” Olivia wrapped her arms tighter around herself. “Wait a sec,” she said as the light reached the man’s face. “Hand over the flashlight, will you? Thanks.” Del held the umbrella while Olivia knelt down, her knees sinking into the squishy ground. Her stomach lurched, but she forced herself to lean closer to the body. She trained the light on the man’s hair, which hung in short strings down the sides of his head. The layered ends were even and precise, indicating a professional trim. Earlier, the hair color had looked black, but now she could see it was dark brown. And the dampness had brought out natural curls. She sat back on her knees and slid the light up and down the man’s torso.

A siren pealed in the distance. Spunky and Buddy lifted their heads and peered toward the sound. “That’ll be Cody,” Del said. “Did you notice something I should know about?”

“I can’t be positive.” Olivia struggled to her feet and traded the flashlight for the umbrella, “but I think this might be the man I saw running from Charlene’s store.”

“Okay, we’ll get Charlene and her brother to see if they can identify him. They might stonewall, given they’ve tried so hard to keep his existence a secret.”

“I might have a first name for you. Geoffrey,” Olivia said. “He might be Charlene’s ex-husband.”

Del’s mouth tightened. “Where did you get this name? And why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Hey, I just found out a few hours ago, and Mom wasn’t even sure about the name. Or the marriage. She did say that this Geoffrey and Jason were friends, though, so Jason would know . . . unless he’s keeping quiet for Charlene’s sake.” Spunky smacked his wet front paws on Olivia’s leg and whimpered until she lifted him up and held him to her chest. The smell of wet dog comforted her.

“Anything else you haven’t had a chance to tell me?” There was an edge of impatience to Del’s tone.

Olivia counted to three before giving up on the power of meditation. “Look, Del, I am tired and wet and close to losing what’s left of my dinner. If I wake up before dawn and think of some tidbit that might be important, I will call you instantly.”

Del’s shoulders dropped as if the wind had gone out of him. “Livie, I’m really—”

A shout told them Cody was in the town square and trying to locate them. Buddy leaped to his feet and barked joyfully. When his master’s form became visible, Buddy shot toward him, nearly knocking him backward. “The crime scene guys will be here in about five minutes,” Cody said once he’d subdued Buddy.

“Good,” Del said. “You take Livie and those wet piles of fur home, then come right back. I’ll stay here.” He turned back to his examination of the dead man without revealing to Olivia whether he’d been about to say he was really sorry or really angry with her. She wanted not to care, but she did.

As soon as she unlocked the door of The Gingerbread House and stepped inside the following morning, Olivia heard the whirring of the mixer. She thought she caught a whiff of lemon, too, or perhaps it was her nose expecting lemon to go along with icing. Spunky wriggled in the crook of her arm. Every morning, he explored the whole store inch by inch, making sure nothing dangerous lurked in the shadows. When she put him on the floor, he took off like a windup toy. She left him to his task and headed toward the kitchen.

The mixer had quieted, and Maddie’s head poked through the kitchen door. “I thought I heard the clatter of little doggie claws,” she said. She looked better rested than she had the night before, but her voice lacked its normal exuberance. Olivia missed it.

“Tell me you haven’t been here for hours,” Olivia said, hoping a touch of lightness would bring the old Maddie back.

“I haven’t been here for hours,” Maddie said. “Only one. If I don’t get these cookies iced pronto, they won’t be dry for Gwen and Herbie’s baby shower this evening.”

“Give me a few minutes to set up the cash register, then I’ll help you.” Olivia located Spunky in the doorway of the cookbook nook. “Hey, Spunks, mind the store until we open, okay?” When she turned back toward the kitchen, Maddie had already disappeared without even a thank-you. This was serious. With mild trepidation, Olivia entered the kitchen to find Maddie hovering over a baked cookie, the omnipresent iPod plugged in her ears. So intense was her concentration that her light eyebrows nearly touched each other as she guided a plastic pastry bag filled with dark pink icing around the edges of the cookie, piping the outline of a baby carriage.

Olivia opened the small wall safe hidden behind the kitchen desk and began to count out bills and coins for the cash register. She scooped up the money and dropped it into a zippered bag. Maddie had moved on to another cookie, so Olivia decided not to interrupt until she’d set up the register and was ready to help. However, as she approached the door to the main sales area, Maddie looked up.

Maddie capped the tip of her pastry bag. “I called Bertha to come in for opening. We’ll probably be swamped again, and I need to concentrate,” she said. “You, sit.”

“What’s up?” Olivia asked as she pulled over a chair.

Maddie hauled herself up on the kitchen counter. “Since when don’t you tell me instantly the moment something important happens, like, you find a dead body in the town square?”

“Maddie, of course I was planning to tell you every detail, but this is the first chance I’ve had, and you were working so intently. . . .”

“When I say ‘tell,’ I mean call or throw pebbles at my window to wake me up, whatever works. Do you know how I found out about your little nighttime tripping-over-a-murder-victim escapade? Sitting at the breakfast table with Aunt Sadie, that’s how. She got a call from a friend in the gossip chain. She almost choked on her oatmeal. She’s nearly seventy, you know. She can’t handle that kind of shock.”

“Your aunt Sadie was chewing oatmeal while talking on the phone?”

“Don’t change the subject.” Maddie had been narrowing her eyes at her best friend since the age of ten. “If you must know, I overslept, so Aunt Sadie got it into her head that I was dying of consumption or something. She insisted on making me oatmeal, which in my opinion is only good for cookies. Now stop stalling and tell me everything, every minute detail, even if Sheriff Del swore you to secrecy.
Especially
if Del swore you to secrecy.” She slid off the counter and retrieved her pastry bag. “I’ll decorate,” she said. “You talk.”

Olivia spilled the whole story and felt better for it. When she’d finished, she poured herself the last cup of coffee, added generous amounts of cream and sugar, and started another pot.

As Maddie piped a cookie with baby pink icing, she asked, “So do you figure this Geoffrey is the jerk who gave Charlene a black eye?” Her head was bent over her cookie. “Because, between you and me, much as I dislike Charlene, I wouldn’t blame her if she iced him. It was probably self-defense, anyway.”

“There’s one detail I haven’t told you yet,” Olivia said. “It might point to a suspect. I just hope it isn’t one of us.”

Maddie paused to glance up at Olivia. “Tell me at once. It might be interesting to be a suspect . . . for about five minutes,” she said, smoothly picking up her icing where she’d left off.

“I think Geoffrey—if that’s who he turns out to be—was holding a cookie cutter when he died. Anyway, I saw something in his hand that looked like the edge of a cutter.”

Maddie frowned but did not interrupt her flooding. “What was it made of?”

“The light was bad,” Olivia said, “but it looked like tin.”

“Like our missing Duesenberg.”

“Yup. I plan to have a quiet chat with Jason as soon as—” The kitchen phone rang. Olivia was within reach, so she answered. “Mom, am I glad to hear from—”

“Yes, dear, but you won’t be glad to hear my news.” Ellie’s normally calm voice sounded tight, as if she were holding herself together. “I’ve just had a call from the sheriff. Your brother has been arrested on suspicion of murdering Charlene’s ex-husband, Geoffrey King.”

“What? No, not Jason, not in a million years. Del is out of his mind.”

“Normally, I would agree,” Ellie said, “but Jason turned himself in. Livie, he has confessed to murder. And according to the sheriff, my own son refuses to speak to me. You’ve got to get down there and talk some sense into that boy. Please, Livie, right away. I’m on my way to The Gingerbread House; I’ll take care of the store, you talk to your brother. Only please hurry.”

“I’m out the door. I’ll call Mr. Willard from my cell. We need an attorney pronto.”

 

 

A
loysius Willard Smythe, attorney at law, was waiting outside the police station when Olivia arrived. Mr. Willard, as he was generally called, did not look his usual calm self. His long, thin fingers fidgeted with the buttons on his suit coat, and his quick, dark eyes roamed restlessly until he recognized Olivia striding toward him.

“This is a terrible turn of events,” Mr. Willard said as he patted Olivia’s shoulder like a concerned uncle. “Your poor mother must be frantic with worry.”

“As am I,” Olivia said. “I could throttle Jason, the bonehead.”

Mr. Willard’s gaunt face blanched. “Do you believe that your brother might actually have committed—?”

“No, of course not,” Olivia said. “Jason isn’t a murderer, just an idiot. I do believe that he is afraid Charlene Critch might have killed her ex-husband. I’m fairly certain this Geoffrey King gave her a black eye, probably not for the first time, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been threatening her with worse.”

“Ah, I see,” said Mr. Willard. “In which case, the law would go much easier on Ms. Critch than it will on Jason.”

“Which makes my brother an idiot. Right. Anyway, now we have to figure out how to help him. I doubt he’ll help himself, not unless the real killer is arrested and turns out not to be his precious Charlene.”

“Do you happen to know if Jason might be able to produce an alibi?” Mr. Willard asked in a fatalistic tone, as if he suspected it wouldn’t be that easy.

“I haven’t a clue,” said Olivia. “Even if he could, he won’t.”

Mr. Willard waved his hand toward a bench behind them. “I suggest we sit for a few moments to develop our strategy. As you know, I do not practice criminal law, but I know several excellent defense attorneys, should the need arise. I can handle the preliminaries, but meanwhile we—meaning you, since you know your brother better than I—must think of a way to convince him to say no more without benefit of counsel.”

Olivia wanted more than anything to storm into the jail and stuff a rag in Jason’s mouth, but she agreed to sit down and work out a strategy. “A plan is a good idea,” she said. “I always feel better when I have a plan.”

For several minutes, they sat side-by-side on the wooden bench, Mr. Willard with his fingers laced together on his lap, Olivia in barely contained panic. The only plan she could think of involved bribing the police department with dozens of decorated cookies in law enforcement shapes. Bright blue service revolvers came to mind. Maybe some tulip red squad cars trimmed with gold luster dust paint, and of course a jail cell with bars formed from silver dragées. Olivia envisioned Jason’s stubborn, frightened face behind the bars. She slowed and deepened her breathing to clear her mind of lovely iced distractions. Jason needed her, whether he’d admit it or not.

“I have something of a plan,” Olivia said, “but you might not like it. I know Sheriff Del will hate it, so I don’t intend to tell him. He’ll figure it out, of course.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But there isn’t much he can do about it.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Willard. “You intend to find out who actually killed that unfortunate young man. And how might that intention convince young Jason to cease confessing at once?”