Virginia Lowell - Cookie Dough or Die

For my father and for Marilyn

Writing a book may be a solitary pursuit, but most of us need plenty of help and support to reach the end. I’m no exception. It has been a delight to work with Michelle Vega, a talented editor who provided great ideas, as well as understanding at crucial moments. Many thanks to my longtime writing buddies: Mary Logue, Pete Hautman, Ellen Hart, and K. J. Erickson. I am grateful to the members of the National Cookie Cutter Collectors Club for their enduring passion and for their newsletter, Cookie Crumbs , which inspired many a detail in this story. Marilyn Throne has saved my life more than once with her depth of knowledge about the writing process and her no-nonsense support. Thank you, Marilyn. And, of course, my deep gratitude goes to my father and sister and to my husband, my loving cheerleaders.

Olivia Greyson’s eyes popped open to darkness—and to the sense that someone was downstairs. Her little Yorkie had heard something. Spunky hadn’t barked, but he was watching the bedroom door, ears perked.

Olivia’s beloved store, The Gingerbread House, occupied the entire first floor of her small Victorian home. In a town like Chatterley Heights, no one bothered with fancy burglar alarms, but Olivia—who had, after all, lived a dozen years in Baltimore—kicked herself for not knowing better. On the other hand, Chatterley Heights barely managed to provide enough crime for two officers, so what were the odds?

It must have been a dream. “That does it,” Olivia said. “No more chocolate-iced shortbread before bed. And that includes you, young man. Don’t think I didn’t see you lap up those crumbs.” Spunky objected with a whimper.

Olivia’s head dropped to the pillow, but her eyes stared into the darkness as she mentally ticked through the contents of her store—cookie cutters, first and foremost, but she locked the valuable antiques in the safe each night, along with the day’s receipts. Some of the glossier cookie cookbooks, designed for coffee table display, carried hefty price tags; however, they were too heavy to steal. The more expensive aprons, hand-appliquéd with decorated cookie designs, drew sighs only from the few customers who understood the skill it took to create them.

Olivia left only one costly piece of equipment on permanent display in the cookbook alcove, a bright red mixer set with a stunning array of attachments. It was worth stealing, but even a desperate thief might think twice. Try explaining that contraption to a pawnshop clerk.

Spunky curled into the curve of her knees, relaxing the tension in Olivia’s body, but her mind kept bouncing around the store downstairs. Luckily, she had a fail-safe method for falling asleep. She closed her eyes and imagined herself snuggled in a fleece-lined canoe, drifting along a river of chocolate sprinkles. She smelled the rich, sensuous aroma of chocolate melting under a warm sun. Soon she felt a gentle drop as her canoe glided down a waterfall of colored sugar crystals. Sparkling cascades of violet, red, and blue splashed all around her. A soft landing in a pool of frothy icing, and she’d be asleep.

Instead, she crash-landed awake as Spunky jumped to his paws and barked at the closed bedroom door.

Olivia dragged herself up on one elbow. “What is it, Spunks?”

Spunky stiffened and growled.

Reaching over the tiny dog, Olivia patted the top of her bedside table to locate her alarm clock, also known as her cell phone. She pushed the center button to wake it up. The lit numbers at the top read four a.m.

So far, Olivia hadn’t heard a sound in the house, at least nothing besides the usual creaks or the furnace kicking on. Spunky had excellent hearing, though, so perhaps someone really was trying to get into the store—someone who didn’t realize the pricy items were locked away.

Olivia started to punch 911, then hesitated, remembering an incident the previous autumn. An extended family of hungry mice had invaded The Gingerbread House kitchen and settled down for the winter in brand-new sacks of flour and sugar. Spunky had heard them through the floor vents upstairs. It would be a shame to rouse the town’s limited police force, only to confront a band of unarmed mice. She’d never hear the end of it.

Olivia slid her feet from under the covers and into a pair of battered tennis shoes she used for slippers. Ears erect and ready for anything, Spunky hopped off the bed and trotted toward the bedroom door. His right-front paw, injured in puppyhood, twisted inward a bit, so he had a limp. Still, he moved as fast as any five-pound dog alive. He had no awareness of his size; he would protect Olivia to the death. She had no intention of allowing him to do so.

Using her firm alpha-dog voice, learned in puppy school, Olivia said, “Spunky, stay here and guard the inner sanctum.”

At the word “stay,” Spunky tilted his head sideways. A curtain of silky hair fell across his face, covering one eye. The other eye pleaded for a chance to do battle for her. Olivia reached down to smooth the hair back over his head.

“Nice try,” she said. “I’ll be right back.” She cracked open the bedroom door enough to squeeze through sideways, blocking Spunky with her foot, then snapped the door shut behind her. Spunky had a frightening habit of exploding through doorways as if escape were his only salvation. A holdover from puppyhood.

In the hallway, a nightlight made from a cookie cutter cast a glowing teakettle shape on the wall. Olivia decided to leave the overhead light off, just in case, though she still hadn’t heard any alarming noises.

At that moment Olivia heard a faint scraping sound, and it hadn’t come from the bedroom behind her. It might have been beneath her feet. Olivia knelt down, put her ear to the floor, and listened. There it was again, a scrape, like a stuck door being yanked open. The door to the supply cabinet in the kitchen made a sound like that. She kept meaning to ask Lucas Ashford, owner of Height’s Hardware next door, to stop by and sand it down. Now she was glad she’d forgotten. That telltale scraping sound told her someone was downstairs in The Gingerbread House kitchen, opening cupboard doors.

Olivia had left her cell phone by her bed, but she could use the wall phone in her small upstairs kitchen, two doors down, at the rear of the house. She bolted to her feet and reached the kitchen in seconds, panting more from anxiety than exertion. Her hand shook as she grabbed for the phone.

The noises were much louder now that she was in her own kitchen, right above the store kitchen. Olivia hesitated, listening. Surely not even a battalion of mice could make such a racket, let alone any self-respecting intruder. The sounds downstairs had become way too familiar—the clatter of metal pans, the rhythmic clink of a spoon hitting a porcelain bowl, the oven door clunking shut. Either the mice were baking cookies or . . .

“Maddie.” The name came out as an exasperated groan, as Olivia collapsed on a kitchen chair.

Madeline Briggs was her best friend, had been since they were ten years old. In the intervening twenty-one years, Maddie had brought much to Olivia’s life, including fun, a shoulder to cry on, and the occasional murderous impulse. The latter had become more common in the past year, since she and Maddie had become business partners. Olivia’s fun quotient had increased, too, but this was not one of those moments.

Olivia had dawdled at bedtime and, so far, had achieved only four hours of sleep. The last fifteen minutes had worn her out. The thought of crawling back under the covers brought her to her feet. She’d have to remind Maddie that she wasn’t in her own kitchen. After more sleep.