Virginia Lowell - A Cookie Before Dying

An angry retort flashed through Olivia’s mind. She repressed it, spun around, and stalked out of the police station into sweltering heat.

Armed with a Gingerbread House cookie box in one hand and a cookie in the other, Olivia set out for the Chatterley Heights Library and a chat with Heather Irwin, Head Librarian. The library was located at the opposite corner of the town square, so the shortest route was through the park. Olivia was relieved to see that the clue-hunting murder-gawkers had finally given up.

Del’s order to her not to try to help her own brother had left Olivia feeling both irritable and guilty. After all, Del had saved Jason from being dragged off in shackles. She was grateful for that. On the other hand, he had practically threatened her. She’d had no choice but to walk out on him.

Let it go, Livie. Jason needs you.

Enjoying the soft cushion of grass, Olivia zigzagged from one shade tree to the next. Her cranky mood began to improve. It didn’t hurt that she was munching on a violet cookie shaped like a book, entitled Purple Prose .

The Chatterley Heights Public Library was housed in a small brick building next to the post office. A flower box decorated a square window near the front door. The first thing Olivia noticed was that the petunias were fried. Heather kept those flowers watered with the anxious concern of a new mother. She must be quite ill.

As Olivia entered the library, a bell dinged over the door. Two wide-eyed young faces turned to her, at first with hope, then with despair. High school girls, probably, working a summer job to earn money for college. The reason for their despair became evident at once. Everywhere she looked, Olivia saw unshelved books teetering in stacks up to ten high. Without provocation, one stack collapsed and several books slid off a table. One of the girls, a petite redhead, tried to stem the flow and managed to rescue one book.

“So,” Olivia said, “I gather Heather is still home sick?”

The second assistant, a thin girl with bowed shoulders, gave her a half-nod. Olivia took this as an exhausted yes. “I’m sure she’ll be back soon,” Olivia said. When this didn’t seem to cheer the girls, she opened her box of cookies. “You two look like you need a pick-me-up.” She held the box out to them. “Have a cookie.”

Olivia could feel the air lighten, such was the power of Maddie’s cookies. Taking turns, the girls chose one cookie each. Olivia noticed that neither selected a book shape. “I’ll go check on Heather at home,” she said. On her way out, she left four more cookies.

Heather Irwin’s farmhouse was as dark as it had been when Olivia found the stash of stolen items in one of the barns. She hesitated at the front door, worried that Heather might be bedridden. Maybe she shouldn’t be disturbed. Or maybe she should be moved to a hospital soon.

Olivia rang the doorbell and heard it reverberate inside the house. She waited, listening for the sound of a voice or feet clumping down the stairs. She tried to turn the knob and found the door securely locked. She rang the doorbell again, longer this time. Olivia checked her watch, waited, checked again. A seed of concern took root and flowered into full-blown worry. Heather might be so ill she couldn’t get out of bed. Or worse. Olivia considered calling Del; this might be an emergency.

Get a grip, Livie. Maybe Heather was out in her barn, feeding her horse and her collection of barn cats. She might even now be on her way in to work, although Olivia thought she would have recognized Heather’s truck on the road. Heather’s truck. Olivia deposited her box of cookies on the front seat of her own car before walking around to the back of the house. The garage door was open, revealing Heather’s green pick-up inside. Olivia put her hand on the hood; the engine was cold.

The house looked as dark from the back as it had from the front. Olivia walked through the back yard, which needed mowing, and toward Heather’s large barn. The door was latched from the outside. She lifted the latch and pulled open the barn door, which required her full weight to accomplish. She stepped inside, called out Heather’s name. A horse neighed and several cats meowed, but not with the desperation of starvation. In fact, Olivia saw several bowls half full of dry cat food lined up along one wall. One small black cat ran up to her and wound around her ankles before heading for the food.

Olivia closed up the barn and circled the house. She saw no lights, either upstairs or downstairs. She pressed her nose against the kitchen window, the only one without a curtain. The kitchen had that lived-in look, with dirty dishes piled next to the sink and a coffee mug on the table. The mug looked like the same design as the one Olivia had found in the small barn.

If Geoffrey King had been hiding out in Heather’s small, rarely used barn, he might also have picked the lock to her house and taken a mug. Perhaps more. Olivia’s worry increased as she imagined Heather walking into her kitchen and finding King brewing himself a cup of coffee. King was a violent man. Heather had been calling in sick to the library every day, so she probably wasn’t dead or dying, but she might be black and blue. Maybe she was simply staying out of sight until her bruises healed. Maybe she was hiding from King, not yet aware he couldn’t hurt her any . . .

Wait a minute. None of this makes sense. . . . Heather Irwin might be quiet and solitary, but she was also strong and athletic. And smart. She had to know by now that Geoffrey King was dead. If she could open her heavy barn door and feed her animals, then she wasn’t bedridden. What if Heather’s mysterious boyfriend was Geoffrey King? Heather was shy and hadn’t been in a relationship for some time. King could be charming, especially with women who were insecure about their attractiveness. Suddenly, it made sense that no one had seen this boyfriend, including Heather’s good friend and neighbor, Gwen Tucker.

Geoffrey King stayed out of sight, operating in the darkness. Maybe he stashed stolen items in Heather’s small barn because he knew she rarely went into it. But what if she’d found the loot? Olivia remembered Charlene Critch’s black eye. If King had become violent with Heather, he wouldn’t have been careful about it. Heather’s face would undoubtedly tell the tale. And King had been murdered.

Olivia left the kitchen window and headed up the gravel driveway toward her car, dialing the police station number with her thumb. Del answered before the first ring ended. “Del? Listen, I think I might have something for—” Olivia heard the roar of a powerful engine and spun toward the sound. Heather’s green truck exploded from the garage and sped straight toward her. Olivia leaped sideways off the gravel driveway, onto the lawn. Losing her balance, she collapsed into a ball and rolled, the way a ski instructor had once taught her. It had become second nature to Olivia. She had never become a confident skier, so she’d had plenty of time to practice falling.

Taking it slow, Olivia rolled to a sitting position. Heather’s green truck was already out of sight. Olivia checked for broken bones. Her injured shoulder felt sore but, on the whole, not too bad. She heard a tinny voice yelling from the grass and realized her cell had flown from her hand when she fell. At least it still worked. She followed the voice, picked up her phone, and said, “Who is this?”

“Olivia? Are you okay? You called me , remember?”

“Del, of course. I’m fine, really, only a bit shook up. However, I am pleased to report that our murder suspect list has just increased by one.”