A Catered Christmas Cookie Exchange (A Mystery With Recipes) (9 page)

“I suppose,” Rose said, reading Bernie’s thoughts. “That you and your sister would like to know why we did what we did.”

“We’d like that very much,” Libby said.

“It’s simple, really,” Rose said. Then she stopped talking.

Libby and Bernie waited. They were both eager to hear how Rose was going to spin this.

After a few beats, Rose began again. “The truth is we thought we’d get Millie’s recipe book and put it away in a safe place. It seemed like the least we could do for her, considering how much she valued it.”

“That was very nice of Rose, don’t you think, Libby?” Bernie said to her sister.

“Definitely, Bernie.”

“I thought so,” Rose replied, overlooking Bernie’s and Libby’s sarcasm. “We decided to take my car, since I’m the best driver . . .”

“At night,” Alma clarified. “I’m better during the day. She can’t parallel park.”

Rose gave her an annoyed glance, and Alma put her hand to her mouth and muttered, “Sorry.”

“So,” Rose continued, “as I was saying, I parked on the roadway and let Alma and Pearl off.”

“How were they going to get in?” Libby asked.

“Well,” Rose said, looking Bernie straight in the eye, “Millie had a spare key that she left under the garbage can . . .”

“Who knows about that?” Bernie asked her.

“Everyone,” Rose replied.

“It just strikes me as odd that a woman who was paranoid enough to keep her recipes in a safe would leave an extra key around,” Bernie observed.

Rose sighed. “You’re right. It is off. But you have to understand that the safe was a recent thing. Frankly,” she confided, leaning forward, “I think Millie was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s. Naturally, when we arrived and found the door open, we thought she’d forgotten to lock it. Which was why we didn’t call the police. But then when we went into the kitchen and found that mess, we realized we were wrong.”

“It was horrible,” Alma said, taking up the story. “Simply horrible. Who would do something like that?” she exclaimed. “It was a desecration, what with the way Millie kept her house and all.”

“So why didn’t you call the police then?” Libby asked.

Pearl shook her head. “I’m not sure I can explain. I guess we were just caught up in the moment.”

“And then,” Alma said, “we went upstairs and found the empty safe. It was shocking.”

“I can only imagine,” Libby said dryly.

“It was,” Alma insisted. “Ask Pearl. She’ll tell you.”

“It absolutely was,” Pearl parroted. Libby noted that she didn’t look at all upset.

“Can I ask you a question?” Bernie said to Alma.

“What?” Alma said nervously.

“How did you propose to open the safe?”

“I don’t understand,” Alma replied.

“Well, you ladies don’t look like safecrackers.”

Rose giggled. “Millie had the number taped to her computer. I saw it when I dropped Millie’s reading glasses off.”

“That’s not very secure,” Libby observed.

“Maybe not,” Alma said. “But at least she could remember it.”

“True,” Bernie said. That was the reason she didn’t use a combination lock at the gym. “Go on.”

Alma looked at her. “Go on with what?”

“With the rest of the story.”

“Well,” Alma said, “we were just debating what to do when Rose called and told us you were pulling into the driveway.”

“I panicked,” Rose confessed. “Totally panicked, I’m ashamed to say, and I drove away. I really don’t know what came over me.”

“I don’t either, leaving us behind like that,” Alma snapped.

“Which wasn’t very nice at all,” Pearl added as she glared at Rose.

“But I came back.” Rose said. “I had a moment of weakness, but I redeemed myself.”

“Yes, you did,” Alma grudgingly admitted.

“That’s when we hatched our plan,” Pearl said.

“The one about running down the stairs and almost knocking us over?” Bernie asked. “You mean that plan?”

“Well, it wasn’t a very good plan,” Alma admitted. “I agree. But we got scared. After all, we were in a compromising position, and we couldn’t think of a good place to hide. It would have been worse if you’d found us under the bed.”

“Or in the closet,” Pearl said.

“In either case, we thought you’d blame us for the empty safe and the mess in the kitchen,” Alma said.

“Fancy that,” Bernie said.

“Why would you say something like that?” Libby added.

“I would have in your position,” Alma said.

“What we did looked really bad,” Pearl said. “And it’s not as if you didn’t know who we were.”

“Yes. There is that,” Bernie couldn’t keep herself from adding.

“Which is why,” Rose told her, taking up the narrative thread, “we realized, on the way home, that we should call you and apologize for our conduct,” Rose said. “It was really quite wrong of us.”

“And explain,” Pearl added.

“We were just about to call you when you showed up,” Rose said, looking at Libby and Bernie. “I hope there are no hard feelings.”

“No,” Bernie answered, “there are no hard feelings, especially if you have Millie’s recipes.”

“Of course, we don’t have them,” Rose cried. “Haven’t you been listening to what we’ve been saying?”

“I’ve been listening,” Bernie responded. “It’s the believing I’m having trouble with.”

Rose gasped and took a step back. “Are you calling us liars?” she demanded.

“No,” Bernie said, “I’m not. I’m calling you fabricators of an alternative reality.”

Alma sniffed. “I don’t have the vaguest idea what you’re talking about.”

Libby explained. “I think my sister is saying that your story doesn’t exactly hang together.”

“That’s an understatement,” Bernie said.

Rose looked at Alma and Pearl before turning back to Bernie. “Come, girls, I think it’s time we went inside and had a spot of tea with something a little stronger in it for sustenance. It’s been quite the evening.” Then she turned to Bernie and Libby. “I think you owe us all an apology for your outrageous innuendos,” she told them.

“Right,” Bernie said.

Rose drew herself up to her full height. “Fine. I will call the producer and tell her about your conduct and have you removed as judges.”

“From your mouth to God’s ear,” Bernie told her.

“Your mother would have been sorely disappointed in you,” Rose said. With that, she marched up the stairs to her house with her two friends trailing behind her.

“Do you think Mom would be disappointed?” Libby asked Bernie after Rose had slammed her front door shut.

“No,” Bernie said, “I think she’d be proud of us.”

“Me too,” Libby said.

“You know what I’m thinking?” Bernie said as she turned and headed for the van.

“That we should go home and go to bed?” Libby asked.

“No. I’m thinking that this has been a long, frustrating day and that we need a drink.”

Libby jammed her hands in her pockets. “Like tea?”

“Like Scotch,” Bernie said.

Libby groaned.

“Come on, Libby, we’re almost at RJ’s.”

“We’re fifteen minutes away. RJ’s is on the other side of town.”

“Fine.” Bernie put up her hands. “You caught me. We are fifteen minutes away. We’ll just have a drink and go.”

“You swear?” Libby asked.

Bernie grinned. “Absolutely.”

Libby sighed. She didn’t believe her sister, but she was too tired to summon up the energy to argue.

I
t had started snowing again as Bernie drove through town. By the time she and Libby got to RJ’s the wind had picked up, whipping the flakes into a frenzy. All Libby could think of as she watched the snow covering the streets was the shoveling she and Bernie were going to have to do first thing tomorrow morning.

“Not many cars in the lot,” Bernie commented as she parked the van in front of the bar.

“Naturally,” Libby told her. “Anyone with any sense is home by now. Which is where we should be,” she added as she thought longingly of a pot of jasmine tea and a hot bath.

“We will be very soon,” Bernie assured her as she got out of the van.

“What’s your definition of soon?” Libby challenged.

But Bernie didn’t answer. She was too intent on getting inside. The wind was blowing the snow in her eyes and down her neck as she hurried toward the bar’s entrance. Libby was right behind Bernie as she pulled open the wooden door and stepped inside. Bernie was thinking about what kind of scotch she was going to order and whether Brandon had forgiven her yet for waking him up the way she had when she spotted Penelope Lively, the producer of
Baking for Life,
and her production assistant nursing their drinks at the bar. Bernie came to a dead stop, causing Libby to plow into her.

“Damn,” Bernie muttered.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Libby snapped. “You stopped short.”

“That’s not it,” Bernie told her, nodding in Penelope’s direction.

“I thought she was supposed to be back in the city,” Libby said as she caught sight of Penelope.

“Obviously not.”

“See, Bernie, I told you we shouldn’t have come,” Libby hissed. “Let’s go home.” The last thing she wanted to do right now was discuss the show.

Bernie was just about to agree when Penelope turned and waved to them. “Hi,” she called out over the sound of the newscast on the TV. From the look on her face and the way she was tapping her nails on the bar, Bernie decided she wasn’t a happy camper. But then, most producers Bernie had met weren’t.

Bernie tried to think of an excuse not to join her, but she couldn’t. If it had been the weekend, the place would have been so jammed she could have pretended she hadn’t seen or heard Penelope, but this was Tuesday and that wasn’t happening. Tuesdays were always slow nights at RJ’s. There were ten people sitting at the bar, a handful at the tables, and another handful split between the dartboard and the pool table.

“We have to talk to her, don’t we?” Libby said out of the corner of her mouth.

“I’m afraid we do,” Bernie replied. “Unless you can think of a reason not to.”

Libby shook her head. Much as she wanted to, she couldn’t come up with anything. “Sorry,” she said.

Libby took a deep breath, and she and Bernie plastered smiles on their faces and made their way over to where Penelope and her assistant were sitting. Discarded peanut shells crackled beneath their feet as they walked. It was one of the things Bernie liked about the place. That and the popcorn machine, the bowls of shell-your-own peanuts and pretzels on the counter, and the dusty old beer ads mounted on the wall. Or maybe, Bernie decided, she liked the place because she and her friends had been sneaking in here since they were seventeen. Of course, there was the fact that Brandon worked here—always a plus. The biggest plus, actually.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Penelope said as Bernie and Libby took seats next to her.

“I thought you’d be back in the city by now,” Bernie said.

Penelope shook her head. “We reality TV producers never sleep. I was just about to call you.”

“Really?” Bernie said.

“Yes, really,” Penelope answered. “But before I tell you why, I’d like to thank you for siccing the ladies of the Christmas Cookie Exchange Club on me.”

“
Siccing
is a little extreme, don’t you think?” Bernie asked. “Given Millie’s accident, the ladies had questions about the taping schedule, and I told them you were the person to answer their questions. That is your job, isn’t it?”

“One of them,” Penelope allowed as she glanced down at her buzzing cell phone. “However, the ladies are a little,” Penelope stopped to choose a word, “intense.”

“Agreed,” Libby said, thinking about what had just happened back at Millie’s house.

“Or maybe disagreeable is a better word choice,” Penelope said. “Or possibly obsessive.”

“Those too,” Bernie told her. “But I’m sure you’ve handled worse.”

Penelope made a face. “Not by much.” She reached for her phone. “I think I’d better answer this. Morons,” she said when she was done texting. “I’m surrounded by morons and incompetents.”

Bernie watched Penelope finish her margarita in three gulps and signal for Brandon to bring her another one. He nodded.

“The usual for you guys?” he asked Bernie and Libby.

“White wine for me,” Libby said.

“I’ll take a shot of Black Label,” Bernie told him.

Brandon raised an eyebrow.

“It’s been a tough day,” Bernie explained.

“Evidently,” Brandon said before going off and making everyone’s drinks.

“It’s really too bad about Millie,” Bernie said.

Penelope shrugged. “Everyone has to die sometime. As for me, I’d rather go the way Millie did. Quick.”

“I guess,” Libby said. She was not convinced.

“Anyway, she was old,” Penelope said.

“Maybe we should just shoot people when they hit eighty,” Libby remonstrated.

“That’s not what I meant,” Penelope said.

“Then what did you mean?” Bernie asked.

“I meant that she wasn’t a kid. She’d lived her life,” Penelope said as her fingers beat an impatient tattoo on the bar. “Although it’s too bad she couldn’t have waited to have her accident until after the filming.”

Libby was about to explain the situation, but before she could, Bernie said, “Yes, life is definitely unfair.”

Libby lifted an eyebrow, but Bernie shook her head. This was not the time to get into the whole “accident” thing.

If Penelope caught the raised eyebrow or Bernie’s sarcasm, she chose to ignore both. “On the other hand,” she continued, brightening, “as the saying goes, ‘There’s no storm that doesn’t bring someone some good.’ ”

“Meaning?” Bernie asked.

“Well, Amber told me that Millie wanted her to represent her in the contest. She said it was Millie’s dying wish.” Penelope fell silent as Brandon approached with their order.

Bernie waited to reply until after Brandon had set everyone’s drinks down in front of them and she’d taken a sip. The scotch went down nice and smooth, warming her mouth, throat, and stomach.

“That’s what she told me too,” Bernie said.

Penelope took a gulp of her margarita and put the glass down. Somehow, Bernie hadn’t expected someone who looked so angular to be drinking something so frivolous. If she had been asked, she would have pegged Penelope for a Jim Beam or Maker’s Mark kind of gal.

“At first,” Penelope went on, “I was inclined to say no to Amber, but after talking it over with my production people I said yes. It gives the show a nice hook.”

“What would that be?” Libby asked.

Penelope looked at her in disbelief. “Come on. You gotta get it.”

“No, I don’t,” Libby told her.

Penelope waved her hands in the air. “It’s drama. This is what people watch reality TV for. We couldn’t have written anything better than this if we’d tried. You’ve got the whole ‘dying wish’ thing going. You know, this kid is taking the banner from her aunt and running with it, and it also ups the tension on the show. And let’s face it, tension is good.”

“I just bet it is,” Bernie said dryly. “So I take it you’ve already told the ladies of the Christmas Cookie Exchange Club what’s going to happen.”

“Not yet, but I did just tell Amber.”

“How long ago?” Bernie asked.

“Right before you came in. You were next on my list to call.”

“That means that everyone will know,” Libby told Penelope. Then she turned to her sister. “How long do you give it? Ten minutes?”

Bernie snorted. “At the most.” She extracted her phone from her bag. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to turn my phone off. I just can’t deal with anyone else tonight.”

“Not a bad idea,” Libby said, visions of being pursued by the ladies of the Christmas Cookie Exchange Club dancing in her head.

Penelope’s phone began to ring. She looked at the caller ID. “It’s Pearl Pepperpot.”

“Good luck,” Bernie said.

“You know what,” Penelope said, “I think my phone just ran out of power.” With that she powered it down.

“They are not going to be happy,” Libby pointed out.

“No, they’re not,” Penelope agreed. “I was hoping you could help me calm the talent down.”

“How would you suggest Libby and I do that?” Bernie asked.

Penelope shrugged. “I was thinking you could call the ladies tomorrow morning and reassure them you’re not going to be biased on Amber’s behalf.”

“There’s just one problem with your idea,” Libby pointed out.

“What’s that?” Penelope asked, looking totally uninterested in what Libby was going to say.

“The ‘what’s that?’ ” Libby answered, “is how is Amber going to bake the cookies?”

Penelope made an impatient gesture with her hand. “Anyone can follow a recipe. Even I can do that.”

“True enough,” Bernie said. “Unfortunately, the Meltaways seem to have disappeared, as has the recipe—a fact I’m sure Amber has mentioned.”

“As a matter of fact, she has,” Penelope said. She finished her drink and threw a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. “However, she did say she thought she knew where Millie might have hidden another copy of the recipe. I’m banking on that.”

Bernie leaned forward. “Really?” she said. “That’s news to me. Did she tell you where she thought it might be? She never said anything about that to us.”

Penelope shrugged. “I don’t have the foggiest idea. I didn’t ask her and she didn’t tell me.”

Libby shook her head. “I can’t believe that she didn’t tell me or Bernie.”

“It’s very odd,” Bernie agreed. “Maybe she’s just playing you. Maybe she really doesn’t know.”

Penelope scowled. “I will tell you what I told her. I don’t care. I don’t care if she’s found the recipe or not.” She held up her hand to forestall Libby from speaking. “The truth of the matter is that it doesn’t matter to me if she uses Millie’s recipe or if she enters Oreo cookies into the competition. I’ve given her three extra days to come up with something—whatever that may be. Then we’re filming the show and moving on. We have a schedule to keep.” Penelope shook her head. “It’s just a show, for heaven’s sake. We’re not doing brain surgery here. It really doesn’t matter who wins or loses.” With that Penelope stood up and strode toward the door with her assistant trailing behind her.

As Bernie watched them go, she couldn’t help wondering whether or not the moto boots Penelope had on were the real deal or not. She’d just decided they were when Brandon ambled over.

“What do you think about the boots Penelope was wearing?” Bernie asked him as he collected the twenty-dollar bill Penelope had left behind.

“I didn’t notice,” Brandon told her. “Why? Was I supposed to?”

“Not really,” Bernie said. “So what do you think of her?”

“She left me a thirty-five-cent tip. What do you think I think of her?”

“Not much. I’ll tell you one thing, though,” Bernie said, thinking of Millie’s accident that wasn’t. “Winning or losing matters to someone on the show. It matters a lot.”

“The question is to whom,” Libby noted. “The way I see it, we have seven choices.” She took a sip of her wine, put the glass down, and pushed it away. She was too tired to drink.