Virginia Lowell - A Cookie Before Dying

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-full 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.