Virginia Lowell - A Cookie Before Dying

“Any idea when Charlie got to his room the night of the murder?”

“Aunt Agnes is feisty, but she’s also a pushover for a young man down on his luck. She told Del that Charlie was there this morning when she got up at six. She said he paid up all his past-due rent plus a week in advance and even cooked her some eggs he’d bought himself. She said she’d heard him come home last night. She wasn’t sure exactly, but she thought it was around ten or eleven.”

Olivia finished off a blue lamb cookie, which, combined with Spunky’s pathetic whimper from the hallway, made her feel guilty. Besides, she could almost see the scratch marks on the kitchen door. When she cracked the door open, the little Yorkie shot through and skidded into a cabinet. “Oh Spunks, what am I going to do with you?” He limped over to her, favoring the front paw that had been injured during his puppy farm days. “Give me a break,” she said, but she lifted him to her lap and scratched his ears. “So Charlie has an alibi for last night?”

“Well, here’s the kicker,” Maddie said. “I pressed for more detail, and Aunt Agnes’s story got shaky. She began to contradict herself. Finally she admitted, just between her and me, that she’d fabricated part of her story. What really happened is, a few days after the morning of her ultimatum to Charlie, she found more food missing. He was still behind on his rent, too. She kicked him out that evening when he got home from work.”

“My, my,” Olivia said. “So we don’t know where Charlie was after he left The Vegetable Plate on the night of the murder. But why would Agnes fib?”

“She felt guilty about kicking him out, and she didn’t want to get him into trouble. Personally, I think she has a soft spot for Charlie. She told me she was absolutely certain that Charlie could never have killed someone in cold blood. I guess I should have called Del right away,” Maddie said, “but I hate to be the one to get sweet, misguided Aunt Agnes into trouble with the law.”

“I’ll call him when we’ve finished,” Olivia said. “I can point him toward Agnes and let him get the story himself. I’ll mention she said a few things at the baby shower that made you start wondering if she’d gotten the days mixed up.”

“You’d lie for me?”

“It isn’t a lie, exactly. It’s more like . . . well, like using a royal icing mix when you’re in a hurry, rather than taking the time to mix the ingredients yourself.” Olivia reached into the cookie box and withdrew a purple Yorkie with big pink eyes. She put it back.

“You mean like a shortcut?” Maddie asked.

“A shortcut, yes.”

“That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“I know,” Olivia said, “but just go with it. What else did you learn?” She peered into the cookie box and chose a yellow cow with purple sprinkles. Finding it unappetizing, she left it on the table.

“Nothing,” Maddie said. “Where do you suppose Charlie Critch has been staying since Agnes kicked him out?”

“Probably with Charlene. She’s so protective of him, I can’t see her making him sleep under a bridge.”

Maddie picked up Olivia’s cow cookie and bit off the tail. “I’m wondering if Charlie told Charlene about his predicament. Wouldn’t she have come up with the money for his rent? Or at least fed him so he wouldn’t have to steal food? Hey, what if that stash you found in Heather’s barn was Charlie’s, not Geoffrey King’s?”

“If Charlie had all those valuable items at his disposal, wouldn’t he try to sell them to get rent money and food? Or heck, why not steal food from a grocery store, if he was so good at stealing?”

“I guess,” Maddie said. “I think we need to find out where Charlie has been bunking for the past week. Del won’t want to tell us, and Charlie will probably lie to him, anyway. I’ll bet Jason knows.”

“My brother is not speaking to me,” Olivia said. “And even if he were, he wouldn’t want to make Charlie look suspicious.”

“Just try, okay, Livie? I know you’re feeling tired and scared. I can tell because cookies seem to irritate you when things feel out of control.” Maddie closed the cookie box and slid it onto the top of the refrigerator. “So here’s a plan for you. Get a good night’s sleep, then go shake that brother of yours until he spills some information.”

“Sure thing, Mom,” Olivia said. “Only I’m afraid he’ll cough up a more convincing confession.”

Some folks revel in heat and humidity, oblivious to the shiny layer of sweat that covers the body, but Olivia Greyson wasn’t one of them. Now that Spunky was no longer an exuberant puppy with an unpredictable bladder, he didn’t need a walk every few hours. However, after a frantic day in The Gingerbread House, followed by the Tuckers’ baby shower, the little Yorkie had been cooped up in Olivia’s apartment for too long. She knew if she didn’t take him for a long walk, he’d want to play all night.

By the time she and Maddie finished their pizza-fueled brainstorming about murder suspects, it was ten p.m. As soon as Maddie left for home, Olivia clicked a leash on Spunky’s collar and allowed him to lead her downstairs. Heavy, damp air coated her as she locked the front door behind them. The humidity had no effect on Spunky’s energy level. Olivia let him determine their direction, which he did by perking up his ears, sniffing the air, and yanking her forward. Their walks usually began with a romp through the town square, but a small group of flashlight-wielding clue hunters still wandered the park, shouting each time they thought they’d found a piece of evidence. Spunky seemed to disapprove of the noise level. He veered east on Park Street, leading Olivia away from the town square. Lovely Victorian-era houses, most of them small and well maintained, lined both sides of east Park Street. The glow from old-fashioned streetlamps, matching the one near the band shell in the town square, created an atmosphere of comfort and safety.

“I’m not worried about murderers on the loose,” Olivia said to Spunky. “Not when I have you to protect me.” Spunky wagged his tail at the sound of her voice but kept up his pressure on the leash. At Willow Road, he stopped to sniff the air.

“This is new territory for you,” Olivia said as Spunky turned onto Willow Road. He dragged her south, toward a fire hydrant that hadn’t seen refurbishing in many years. “Found a juicy one, have you,” she said as Spunky eagerly sniffed every square inch. While he used the facilities, Olivia gazed around. On Willow Road, some of the oldest homes in Chatterley Heights mingled with small businesses and run-down bungalows. Olivia felt safe in every area of town; however, it was getting dark and a couple streetlights were out farther down the street. She tugged at Spunky’s leash. He ignored her and stood his ground.

“Come on, Spunks, how about we go home and have a treat.”

When Spunky’s terrier stubbornness took hold, even the word “treat” failed to budge him. He strained forward, his little nails scraping the sidewalk.

“Oh, all right,” Olivia said, “we can go on a ways, but then home.” She loosened the leash, and Spunky led her on a brisk walk down Willow Road. After two blocks, he stopped beside a streetlamp and tilted his head as if listening. Olivia listened, too, and heard faint strains of music from farther down the street. Then she realized where they were—about half a block away from the Chatterley Heights Dance Studio.

Olivia figured it was about ten thirty, which seemed late for a dance lesson. Curious, she followed Spunky until they reached a vacant wooded lot across the street from the studio. They stopped under a darkened streetlamp. For once, Spunky exercised self-restraint and sat quietly on the sidewalk. The studio’s floor-to-ceiling plateglass window had no curtain, tempting passersby to stop and observe lessons in progress. Olivia’s mother had mentioned that it took some getting used to, but once she lost herself in the dancing she didn’t notice being watched.