Virginia Lowell - A Cookie Before Dying

“How can I help? Or I can be very quiet, if that would be better.” Maddie retrieved a box from the top of the refrigerator and twisted off the lid. It took a few moments for Olivia to realize that Maddie was laying cookie cutters on the kitchen table.

“Are those new?” Olivia moved her chair closer.

“I can’t get that ballerina out of my head,” Maddie said. “So I ordered all the ballet cookie cutters I could find. I guess that makes it official; I am a cookie cutter addict. They are so fun and calming and . . . Livie?”

“Hmm?” Olivia held a cookie cutter in the shape of a leaping ballerina. “Does this step have a name?”

“Jeté,” Maddie said.

“That’s French.”

“Is it? I guess I knew that once.” Maddie began to roll out a ball of cookie dough she’d been cooling in the refrigerator. After several moments of silent concentration, she glanced at Olivia, who was still staring at the leaping ballerina cutter. “Livie, you have that look on your face. What’s up?”

Olivia slid the ballet cookie cutters toward Maddie. “Let’s use only these cutters for tomorrow evening’s event.”

“Fine by me,” Maddie said.

“How early can you be up tomorrow morning?”

Maddie glanced up from her half-rolled dough.

“This is me, remember? I can stay up all night. Why?

Olivia flexed her tight shoulders. Worrying about Jason was getting to her. However, a good night’s rest would have to wait. “I haven’t returned Constance’s key to her,” she said. “We can still get into the dance studio.”

“I thought Raoul was only gone on Thursdays,” Maddie said.

“Rumor has it he goes to early Mass every weekday morning, followed by confession after Friday Mass. Any idea how long confession takes?”

With the back of her hand, Maddie pushed an errant lock of curly hair off her forehead, leaving a streak of flour behind. “According to one of my Catholic friends, the goal is to get in and out with some Hail Marys and a few Our Fathers, but if she’s feeling really guilty about something, confession can stretch to maybe fifteen minutes. But she usually makes an appointment for one of those. If Raoul goes after Mass, there’s probably a waiting line.”

“Well then, we’ll have to be efficient,” Olivia said. “I need to find the ballerina of the park, and I’m assuming she doesn’t go to Mass with Raoul.”

Maddie dipped a ballet shoe cookie cutter in flour and positioned it on her rolled dough. “If we actually find her at home, won’t she tell Raoul?”

“I don’t think so,” Olivia said as she selected a cookie cutter in the shape of a ballerina performing an arabesque. She dipped it in flour and handed it to Maddie. “Anyway, I’m guessing the woman will be out cold while Raoul is gone. I researched those pills I found next to Valentina’s bed. They were powerful sleeping pills. I suspect Raoul has been drugging her. I would love to know why.”

Maddie looked up from her cookie cutting, emerald eyes sparkling. “Wow. Do you think keeping her drugged might have something to do with King’s murder? Like maybe Raoul has some reason he doesn’t want her to be seen and identified? Maybe King got mixed up with mobsters. Maybe Raoul and the ballerina saw him and now they’re in the Witness Protection Program!”

“I doubt it,” Olivia said. “The Witness Protection Program would never have allowed Raoul to continue dancing. He’d be too recognizable, too easy to track down.”

“He’d have to give up dancing?” Maddie held a pirouetting ballerina cookie cutter in the palm of her hand. “How sad. Remind me never to witness a mob hit.”

“Duly noted.” Olivia slid a pan of cookies into the oven. “I have a theory about Raoul,” she said. “The trouble is, I don’t have a bit of evidence.”

“What? Tell me!”

“It doesn’t really qualify as a theory,” Olivia said. “I keep thinking about Ida’s story of the dancing ghost.”

The oven timer dinged. Maddie wedged open the oven door to take a look, releasing the sweet-spicy fragrance of orange and nutmeg. “Perfect,” she said. “One more batch and we’re done with the baking. Ida’s brain is a little on the buttery side, you know.”

“I got that impression,” Olivia said, “but maybe we shouldn’t ignore every detail of her story.”

“Like what?”

“Like her account of a man threatening the dancer. Ida described that incident in some detail, and I did find a dress with a rip in the front. She said the ballerina kicked him and got away. Ida seemed so pleased by the dancer’s feisti-ness that I dismissed the story as fantasy, especially when I found out she didn’t report the incident to the police. But what if it was true? We’ve been thinking of the dancer as an older woman reliving her lost days as a prima ballerina . . . as someone damaged, in need of protection from any human contact.”

While the batches of cookies were baking, Maddie had managed to whip up a batch of royal icing and divide it into covered containers for coloring. She added three drops of medium pink gel food coloring to one container and stirred the icing. “If Ida wasn’t hallucinating,” Maddie said, “then it seems to me our ballerina is one strong chick. A fighter.”

“And young,” Olivia said. “The way Ida described the incident, it didn’t sound like a typical mugging. Think about it, the man grabbed the dancer and lifted her off her feet.”

“So you think this woman might not be Raoul’s wife? But Livie, all those costumes you described to me, they must have been Lara’s from the roles she danced with the Royal Winnipeg Ballet.”

“I’m sure they are,” Olivia said, “but . . . like mother, like daughter?”

“Raoul and Lara’s daughter.... I wonder. Pregnancy would certainly explain Lara’s interrupted career.” Maddie twisted a lid on the icing container she’d been working on and sat at her laptop. “There are a lot of ballet fanatics out there. It’s hard to believe one of them wouldn’t have uncovered the fact that Lara had a daughter. And said daughter must have trained as a ballerina. Let me check her bio again.” She typed in Lara Larssen and selected Wikipedia. Skimming the brief biography, Maddie said, “Sketchy. I’m surprised her ardent fans haven’t filled in more details, but it happens all the time.”

“Exactly,” Olivia said. “Internet information can be wrong and full of holes. Someone would have to hunt down official and private documents to locate birth certificates and medical records. If there was no public notice, like a newspaper obituary, even finding a death could take a lot of effort. Lara only danced professionally for two years. Maybe those ardent ballet fans didn’t think she was all that interesting.”

“Point taken,” Maddie said. “The Internet is less than godlike. Maybe the dancer is Lara and Raoul’s daughter, but where does that get us? If Raoul is drugging her whenever he leaves the studio, we won’t be able to talk to her. It seems like an awful risk for not much gain.”

Olivia felt suddenly lightheaded and realized she had been hyperventilating. She’d already gotten away with sneaking into Raoul’s living quarters, but she’d had all day to do it, and no one had been home. Now there was a good chance someone would be there, and their time would be short. She’d be dragging Maddie into danger, too. They might be caught, even arrested. Del would never forgive her. Then Olivia thought of Jason, her baby brother, being carted off in shackles, standing trial for murder. She wished she hadn’t mentioned anything to Maddie. Luckily, she hadn’t yet revealed her real reason for wanting to get into the dance studio again—Raoul’s little private office upstairs. She was willing to bet he had records in there somewhere.