Dead Men Don't Eat Cookies (3 page)

“Wait,” Olivia said. “What dinner?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. Del said to tell you that he’s treating you to dinner at Pete’s this evening. He’ll meet you there, but he’s not sure what time. He’ll call you when he finishes the crime scene stuff.”

“I hate to dash your hopes,” Olivia said, “but what if Del tells me there’s no evidence of foul play at the scene?”

Maddie’s windblown locks seemed to bounce with energy as she flashed a bright smile. “Not to worry. Del won’t draw his conclusions that quickly. He’ll want to do more investigating, which will give us time to do the same. Once we dig into the victim’s past, we will find what we need. I can feel it. Foul play will rear its ugly, yet fascinating head.”

A chilly breeze ruffled Olivia’s auburn hair as she crossed her own front lawn. She pulled her jacket tight around her T-shirt and held Spunky against her chest. Front door key in hand, Olivia hurried up the front steps of her little Queen Anne house to the wraparound porch. She made a mental note to start dragging out her warmer clothes. The wind was powerful enough to rock the empty chair near the large front window. A shiver snaked down Olivia’s back as she recalled seeing a dead man in that very spot. However, this was a different rocking chair. Its predecessor had gone to the crime lab, and Olivia had neglected to reclaim it. Instead, she had visited her favorite antiques mall and found a replacement, a southern country porch rocker. It was a simpler design than the abandoned rocker and, therefore, less likely to hide a body from view.

Olivia hesitated in the foyer, near the door to The Gingerbread House. The store occupied the entire ground level of her beloved Queen Anne style house. She and Maddie were business partners, but it was Olivia who carried a hefty
mortgage for the whole building. The store was always closed Sunday and Monday. Olivia had been so busy helping to set up the kitchen at the old boarding house that she hadn’t been inside her own store for two days. She was tempted to check to make sure it was ready for opening the next morning.

Bertha Binkman, their head clerk, had offered to restock the shelves for the beginning of the work week. Bertha was a woman of her word, as well as pathologically drawn to deep cleaning. Surely the store was ready to wow the most critical of customers. Besides, Spunky was due for a good, brisk walk. Except for quick outdoor bathroom breaks, he’d been restricted to the boarding house kitchen for most of the day. His exercise had ranged from begging for cookie crumbs to flopping around on his blanket. He’d be desperate for a run, no matter how short.

Olivia passed by the locked Gingerbread House door and unlocked the door to the stairway that led to her second floor apartment. As soon as she took the first step, Spunky leaped from her arms and hit the stairs running. Olivia heard an explosion of yaps as he reached the landing upstairs. Spunky had a ferocious set of lungs for a five pound Yorkshire terrier.

“Knock it off, Spunks,” Olivia yelled up the stairs. “I am a mere human. My legs won’t work any faster.” Spunky’s yaps took on a plaintive edge, as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks, although Olivia had brought his food along to the boarding house. The little guy was feisty and brave, but highly manipulative. Olivia loved him dearly. But sometimes she needed to remind him who bought the kibbles and Milk Bones. Not that it made any difference.

Spunky repeated his commands and complaints while Olivia climbed the stairs to the second floor landing. As she inserted her key into the lock, Spunky scratched at the door as if he were helping it open. Olivia felt touched that he wanted to get into the apartment so badly. When she’d first brought him home as a puppy, Spunky had tried relentlessly
to escape from the very same apartment. His instinctive desire to flee from confinement had helped him escape the puppy mill where he’d been born, and his fierce intelligence had kept him safe on the streets of Baltimore until a Yorkshire terrier rescue group finally caught up with him. Olivia was relieved that Spunky had apparently decided he was safe with her. It probably helped that she was a pushover when it came to doggie treats.

Spunky managed to squeeze between Olivia’s ankles when she opened the door. He hopped inside, paused, then turned around and waited, as if he wanted to make sure Olivia wasn’t going to lock him inside and leave. When she entered the apartment and locked the door behind them, he relaxed and headed toward the kitchen.

“Good boy, Spunks,” Olivia said. “And you’re right, it is your suppertime.” Spunky followed his mistress into the kitchen and paced impatiently, nails clacking on the tile, while she filled his small bowl with kibbles. “I owe you a long walk after keeping you cooped up all day,” Olivia said. “When we get home from our walk, we can relax on the sofa until bedtime. How does that sound?” Spunky had sunk his head into his bowl, but his fluffy tail wagged his approval.

Olivia decided to start a small pot of coffee for herself. As she opened the cabinet where she kept her favorite Italian roast, she saw her cell phone plugged in behind Mr. Coffee. She unplugged the phone and flipped it open to check for messages. There were three from Del and a recent one from a number with no name attached. “Oh jeez, I forgot about dinner with Del,” she said out loud. Spunky whined from the depths of his food bowl. “Sorry, kiddo, relaxing on the sofa will have to wait until later.” Olivia punched in her code and listened to all three of Del’s messages. “He wants me to meet him at Pete’s Diner in . . .” She glanced up at the kitchen clock. “In an hour. That gives us time for a run through the park, Spunks. Then I’ll need a quick shower and a change of clothes.”

Olivia dropped the phone on the counter and turned away. She took one step and stopped. “No, Livie,” she muttered, “do not walk away from that cell phone. You know you’ll forget it again.” As she picked it up, she remembered there’d been another message, which she had skipped because the number was unfamiliar. Probably a wrong number, but she called her voice mail and listened.

“Um, Livie?” asked the timorous female voice on the recorded message. “It’s Alicia . . . Alicia Vayle. We met earlier at the renovation site, remember? I’m sorry to bother you, but . . . Well, Calliope gave me your cell phone number. I hope that’s all right.” Olivia heard a long, shaky breath, as if Alicia might be trying to suppress tears. “Someone told me that you and Maddie have solved some crimes in town. Well, actually, it was Calliope who told me. So I was wondering . . . The sheriff called and talked to me a little while ago about finding my father’s . . . The thing is, I don’t think the sheriff believes me. That it’s really my dad, I mean. And even if I convinced him, I got the feeling he didn’t think they’d ever be able to find out what happened to him. What if his death was—” Alicia halted abruptly as if she’d run out of air. “I have to know the truth. Would you help me find it? Please? You see, I know everyone was wrong about my father. He was a good—” The message ended. Cell phones, Olivia knew, could be unpredictable, so she wasn’t too concerned.

Spunky had emptied his bowl of every kibble crumb, so he trotted to the kitchen door, where a leash hung from the knob. He stared intensely at Olivia to remind her that she’d promised him a run in the park. When she didn’t respond, Spunky went over to her. He stood on his hind legs and pawed at her jeans, whining. Lost in thought, Olivia reached down and rubbed his ears. Spunky enjoyed the attention, but that wasn’t all he’d had in mind. Finally, he resorted to a volley of insistent yaps.

“Oh, Spunky, I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” Olivia said. “We’d better do that run in the park pronto, or I won’t
have time for a shower.” She gave up on making coffee and grabbed Spunky’s leash.

A few minutes later, they were outside, heading for the park that marked the historical center of Chatterley Heights, known as the Town Square. Unlike many small towns, Chatterley Heights hadn’t been nipped too badly by the Great Recession. Tree-lined streets and vibrant small businesses, ranging from quaint to practical, formed a square around a large park. Only two shops stood empty, hoping for new owners. Olivia and Spunky waited for traffic to clear before they jogged across the street and into the park.

Spunky strained at his leash in his eagerness to run, and Olivia was more than willing to keep up. After a day of baking, she relished the exercise as much as Spunky did. “Better enjoy this while you can,” Olivia said. “Winter is coming. You know how I feel about jogging in cold winds.” Spunky picked up his pace. He didn’t slow down until they’d nearly reached his favorite spot in the park—the statue of Frederick P. Chatterley, the amusingly disreputable founder of Chatterley Heights. Spunky halted near a rear leg of the horse that Frederick P. never quite managed to mount.

“Fine, Spunks,” Olivia said. “Take your time. I need to catch my breath.” Spunky sniffed his way around the horse’s four legs, searching for the most inviting scent. Olivia followed him, keeping a tight grip on the leash. “Don’t take too much time, though,” she said. Spunky obligingly lifted his leg and aimed at the horse’s left front leg.

“I think that’s really disrespectful,” said a petulant female voice behind Olivia’s back. She spun around too quickly and lost her hold on Spunky’s leash. The little Yorkie had been too engrossed in his task to hear the woman’s approach, but he made up for his negligence by yapping ferociously as he lunged toward her. The woman froze and shrieked, “Help, someone help! It’s a mad dog. He’s trying to kill me!”

“Spunky, stop.” Olivia used a low, commanding voice that was supposed to convey authority, or so she’d read in the puppy
training books. It had never worked before. This time it did, though Olivia suspected the woman’s hysterical reaction had alarmed the little guy. He stopped yapping and stayed where he was, several feet away from the woman. “Spunky, come,” Olivia said, hoping not to break the spell. Spunky stood his ground and began to growl softly. Taking slow steps, Olivia inched toward the leash handle until she could reach down and recapture it. “Okay, kiddo, that’s quite enough bravado.” She scooped him up in her free arm. He squirmed and whined, but Olivia held him tightly around his middle. Finally, he gave up and cuddled against Olivia’s chest. “Good choice,” she whispered.

“Binnie Sloan was right about that dog of yours,” the woman said. “He’s a menace, just like Binnie says in her blog. I read it every day, so I know what’s really going on in this town.”

Olivia didn’t bother to defend her hometown or her tiny, adorable dog from the outrageous rumors Binnie Sloan perpetrated in her newspaper,
The Weekly Chatter
, and in her disreputable blog. Most Chatterley Heights citizens subscribed to the paper because it was the best way to find out who had died, the cause of death, and the funeral details. Otherwise, most of them treated the paper, as well as the blog, as dubious entertainment, not to be taken seriously. Binnie’s only employee was her niece, Nedra. Ned, as she preferred to be called, was a fine photographer. Unfortunately, she wasted her talent and skill snapping embarrassing photos of anyone her aunt happened to be targeting at the moment.

“I’m sorry,” Olivia said to the woman, “but you seem to know me, and I don’t know your name.”

“Well, of course I know you. Your picture is in
The Weekly Chatter
all the time. You run that little Gingerbread House store with all that cookie stuff. I used to have cookie cutters, but I got rid of them. Silly little things. Anyway, that’s where I was going before that vicious dog of yours attacked me—to your store.”

“I see,” Olivia said, although she still felt confused. She
guessed the woman to be in her late thirties to early forties. She was small boned and slender enough to look good in tight black jeans. No gray showed in her honey brown hair, though the lines across her forehead and around her mouth hinted at a painful past. “And your name is . . . ?” Olivia asked.

“Oh.” The woman looked flustered. “Well, my name is Crystal. Crystal Quinn.” When Olivia failed to register recognition, Crystal added, “I’m Alicia’s mother. I heard about what happened this afternoon at that place where Alicia is working part-time. I know she called you because I caught her doing it. I gave that girl a firm talking-to, believe me. Telling private things to a complete stranger . . . That girl has no sense. We had a big fight, of course. I decided to go right to your store and tell you to mind your own business.” Crystal straightened her spine and planted her fists on slender hips. “You don’t know Alicia like I do. She’s stubborn. She’ll keep calling you, trying to get you on her side.”

“What is her side?” Olivia asked. “What does she want from me?”

Crystal fiddled with the buttons on her cardigan sweater. “Oh, all right, I’ll tell you. I’m quite sure that Alicia wants you to prove I killed Kenny. She hates me that much. That’s the real reason I was coming to talk to you. I wanted to talk to you face to face to make sure you understand that Alicia doesn’t think straight. Honestly, I don’t know what to do with that girl.”

Olivia glanced at her watch. She had only half an hour to run back home, shower, and get to Pete’s Diner in time for dinner with Del. But Crystal had piqued her curiosity. She also felt a measure of sympathy for Alicia, who clearly had loved her father, and who now lived with a critical, even hostile mother. Olivia really, really wanted to hear what Crystal had to say about her daughter and about the sad pile of bones that might once have been her husband. And she seemed willing to talk.

“I need to make a quick phone call, and then we can talk
more,” Olivia said. “It would really help me to know what’s going on with your daughter.” Crystal nodded.

Olivia patted her jeans pocket and was relieved to find that, for once, she had remembered to bring her cell phone. On the other hand, letting Crystal listen in while she called to delay a dinner date with the Chatterley Heights sheriff sounded like a bad idea. “The Gingerbread House is closed on Mondays,” Olivia said. “But we could talk in the band shell, assuming it’s unoccupied. We’ll have more privacy in there, as well as protection from the wind.” There wasn’t much wind at the moment, but Olivia did not want to open up the store or, worse, invite an unpredictable stranger into her apartment for coffee, cookies, and a harangue. Besides, she still hoped to get to Pete’s Diner on time.