Virginia Lowell - A Cookie Before Dying

“You’d better take half a dozen cookies. I suspect she’s still gunning for you, despite everything she’s been through.” Maddie selected a pastry bag filled with inky blue and tackled another book-shaped cookie.

“Everything she’s been through?” Olivia asked. “Never mind, I don’t have time. You can fill me in later.” She selected six cookies with dry icing and placed them in a Gingerbread House bag. “Anything urgent, before I hit the trail?”

“Only that Bertha thinks she knows who has been stealing cookie cutters.”

“No kidding. Who?”

“Charlene Critch.”

“Now Maddie, are you sure you didn’t put that notion into her head?”

“Absolutely positive. All I did was show Bertha the list of missing cutters and ask her to keep her eyes open because they might simply have gotten misplaced. Bertha read down the list and said to me, ‘I think it might be poor little Charlene.’ I asked why she thought that and she said, ‘Well, I could be wrong, but I know I saw her holding at least three of those cookie cutters during the harvest event.’ They were all on mobiles,” Maddie said, “so it was easy to see what Charlene was holding. Bertha said she had a wistful look on her face, like maybe they reminded her of something.”

“Not enough to convict,” Olivia said as she headed for the door leading to the back alley.

“Not yet.”

The Chatterley Heights Management and Rental Company turned out to be half of a renovated duplex. It had once been a Queen Anne summer house much like Olivia’s, but smaller and split in half rather than into two levels. The exterior was in the process of being restored and repainted. The right half of the building housed a chiropractor, while the left front door sported a sign that read M & R COMPANY. The crisp block letters felt efficient and cold.

Olivia hadn’t called ahead for an appointment. It had seemed like the best approach at the time. Now she wished she had at least some sense of how the adult Constance Overton might react to her. Olivia’s watch read nine fifteen a.m. No time to worry about high school trauma. Jason was in jail and likely to stay there if she couldn’t find the mysterious ballerina—a potential witness for the defense. Constance was her best shot.

A bell tinkled overhead as Olivia entered the front door of the M & R Company. She found herself in a narrow foyer containing an old-fashioned standing coat rack and a small table. The latter held a silver-footed tray. Olivia knew something about antiques, and this tray had once been used to deliver visiting cards to the lady of the house. Now it held business cards for The Chatterley Heights Management and Rental Company, 19 Apple Blossom Road, Chatterley Heights, Maryland , followed by Constance Overton, M.B.A., Owner and Manager .

As Olivia slipped one of the cards into her pants pocket, a commanding voice called from a room somewhere down the hallway. “Second door on the right. Come on in.” The voice hadn’t changed much, though it had grown deeper and more powerful. Well, so have I. Olivia straightened her spine, the way her mother was always telling her to, and strode toward the disembodied voice.

Constance Overton hadn’t changed much, either, at least in looks. Her thick golden hair had darkened, and she now wore it short, layered, and blow-dried to create a sculpted wind-blown effect. Her face had filled out, but she still possessed a crystalline beauty. Olivia paused a moment and watched Constance’s face shift from professional welcome to recognition. She did not stand up.

“Olivia Greyson. Well, well. I heard you were back in town. You are looking . . . healthy. Sit down and tell me what I can do for you.” She waved toward three antique chairs arranged in a semicircle in front of her imposing desk.

Olivia chose the center chair, which offered a soft needlework seat. “Hello, Constance. You seem to have done well for yourself.” Her comment sounded banal. Wincing inwardly, Olivia said, “I think you might be able to help me with some information.”

Constance relaxed against the back of her chair, which seemed higher than the one Olivia had chosen. “Now you’ve made me curious,” Constance said. “I doubt you need rental property, since I heard you purchased the house with your little cookie store in it.”

“Actually, Maddie and I—you remember Maddie Briggs, don’t you? We co-manage The Gingerbread House, specializing in both modern and vintage cookie cutters.” When Constance drew in a breath, presumably to interrupt, Olivia said quickly, “I came to you because I’ve been told you manage the property on Willow Road where the Chatterley Heights Dance Studio is located. I need information about the renter. This isn’t idle curiosity on my part. You’ve probably heard about my brother, Jason?”

Constance cringed and said, “Sorry, my head is always thinking about business. I completely forgot that you were the one who found that man’s body . . . and that your brother was arrested for the murder. As I remember, Jason was a good kid. No genius, maybe, but well meaning. How does all that relate to the renter of the dance studio?”

“I’m searching for a potential witness to the murder.” Olivia felt relieved by the shift in Constance’s demeanor—still curt but with a hint of empathy. They’d both grown up since high school; perhaps Constance had let go of the boyfriend-stealing episode from their youth. Maybe she didn’t even remember it.

“And you think the dance instructor, Raoul, might be that witness?”

“In a sense.”

“In what sense? And why should I reveal private information about one of my renters?”

“I didn’t mean that you . . .” What was it her mother kept telling her about breathing? Oh yeah, keep doing it. “Do you know if Raoul lives in the property alone?” she asked.

Constance’s penciled eyebrows shot up. “He assured me he would be living alone. My rents include a portion of the cost of utilities. If someone else is living there with him, he should be paying higher rent, or the extra resident should be paying his or her own portion of the rent. I was specific about that. Do you have evidence someone is living with him full time?”

Olivia felt a strong need for a cookie. Then she remembered she had brought some. But where were they? “Hang on a sec, Constance. I left something on the table in the hallway.” Olivia had the impression that Constance’s eyelids had arched to her hairline, but she didn’t pause to confirm. She hurried out to the table in the hallway and found the bag on top of the silver card holder. Constance’s command to report to her office must have flustered her more than she’d realized. She resisted the urge to stuff a cookie in her mouth. With her luck, she’d wind up with crumbs on her chin.

When Olivia arrived back in the office, Constance was reading through some papers, her pen scratching notes on a pad. Olivia felt a compulsion to announce her presence. She resisted. Instead, she sat on her spindly chair, plunked the bag of cookies on Constance’s desk, and opened the top. The mingled scents of lemon zest and ginger wafted into the air. The pen slowed, then stopped. Constance’s eyes lifted from her work. She dropped her pen and reached for the bag. Olivia had to smile. A good cookie can tame the most aggressive of business school graduates.

Without comment, Constance reached into the bag and pulled out a frowning gingerbread boy dressed in purple and yellow stripes. The corner of Constance’s mouth twitched. “Reminds me of a high school boyfriend of mine, the one who dumped me for another girl. What was his name? Shane?”

“Shawn,” Olivia said.

“That’s the one.” Constance bit off the gingerbread boy’s head.