Double Chocolate Cookie Murder Page 2

  “Tomorrow, I’ll be in the cookie recipe contest. I saw the advertisement in the paper and decided to enter. I read you’re a judge. In the same newspaper, I also saw your rugs were on sale today, and I know that’s very unusual, so I had to rush in. Lucky me, you’re on duty today. I can kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Ha. You’re right. I’m counting on the fact my dad is okay with the rugs I chose to set at sale price. The rugs aren’t inexpensive, and this is such a great opportunity for everyone to own one. How could he not like that notion? Speaking of the sale, though, I’m afraid you’ve missed the chance to own an Oliveri original at a discount. They sold out about an hour ago.”

  He lowered his head. “My idea of rushing here took a few detours. I regret my lack of punctuality. There goes one bird I can’t kill.”

  “We do have plenty of full-price beauties to consider. Right this way.” Sherry swept her hand forward.

  Crosby didn’t budge. He raised his head, and the overhead lights picked up the pronounced creases around his eyes.

  “I had a second reason for coming today. Any chance I could run my cookie recipe backstory by you? I know it’s an important part of the recipe contest and while I think I’ve got a great story, I’m not sure its worthy of a grand prize. Any chance you’d have a listen?” Crosby flashed a shy smile.

  Sherry peered around the store to make sure they were alone. “Being a judge in the cookie contest, I can’t give any advice one way or another. You understand. If you read the contest rules, you’ll get a good idea of what we’re looking for in terms of showcasing the origin of your recipe. Beyond that, the ball’s in your court, so serve us up something special.”

  “I came up with the recipe to entice my girlfriend into becoming my wife,” Crosby blurted out, as if he hadn’t heard what Sherry just said.

  “That’s a nice story. I imagine there’ll be a wide range of stories, so be genuine and you’re automatically a contender. That’s all I can say.” Sherry silently willed him not to pursue the subject any further.

  “You haven’t changed a bit,” Crosby added. “Nice as can be. Even when you were a teenager, you were so kind to your fellow students. That’s really saying something. Teens are a tough bunch.”

  “You knew me when I was a teenager?” Sherry examined Crosby’s face.

  His graying hair and day-old scruff disguised how he may have looked decades ago.

  “Where would you know me from?”

  “I was your home economics teacher for a year at Augustin High.”

  “Mr. Banks? I’m sorry, I don’t recall a Mr. Banks.” Sherry’s head turned in the direction of the tinkling front doorbell.

  Marla and the dogs walked in.

  “I cut the walk short when it occurred to me where we know you from,” Marla called out. “Did you teach at Augustin High?” Marla unhooked the dogs’ leashes and freed the pups. She made her way across the store and parked herself next to Crosby.

  He nodded. “Sure did.”

  “Home ec. Not my favorite class but required, so I showed up. I took it as a freshman. Sherry took it as a senior the same year and, surprisingly, almost failed. Right?”

  “That’s right. Good memory,” Crosby replied.

  “I didn’t recognize your face or your name, to be honest, but your voice is incredibly distinctive,” Marla said.

  “In a good way, I’m hoping,” Crosby said.

  “You have a way of ending each sentence with a questioning lilt. I remember the tone of your voice when you lectured so vividly,” Marla added. “The students imitated you all the time. Not sure if you knew that or not.”

  Crosby winced. “Comes with the teacher territory, I’d say. Picture me with brownish hair, a lot more of it, and clean-shaven. Usually with a whisk in my hand, pointing to a recipe on the chalkboard. Teaching that course was my first real job out of college.” He put air quotes around the word “real.”

  Sherry considered Crosby’s description of his younger self, and an image of a class of disengaged teens, giggling and goofing off, emerged. Home ec was one of her favorite classes back in the day, and she knew she was alone among her peers in that sentiment. It was considered a waste of time by most students and parents and, years later, eliminated from the curriculum. The class had a revolving door of teachers placed there against their will by the school principal. The joke was, teaching the class was some sort of punishment for a misdeed. Sherry had kept her love of the course content to herself, or so she’d thought.

  “Sherry, you said the class was your favorite in four years of high school, remember?” Marla said.

  The joys of having a sister with no filter. “It was.” Sherry’s cheeks heated up.

  “I wasn’t going to mention the connection to anyone, because Sherry told me, a few minutes ago, she’s a judge in the cookie cook-off I’m in tomorrow. Don’t want to be under suspicion for favoritism.” Crosby flashed a sympathetic smile in Sherry’s direction.

  “No worries there,” Marla said. “Sherry knows most of the competitors, one way or another. Augustin’s a small town, and someone’s been after her almost every day since the contest opened for entries, for tips and advice on how to win. At least, that’s what she told me.”

  “I was wondering if Sherry thought my cookie recipe backstory was interesting enough, not that I can change it anyway. I can’t seem to persuade her to give her opinion, being an impartial judge and all, so would you mind if I ran it by you, Marla? I have a firm recollection of you being someone who isn’t afraid of giving your opinion.” Crosby laughed cautiously.

  Sherry raised her hand, as if she were back in the classroom. “I’m feeling like a fly on the wall, listening to you two talk about me. I’m standing right here, you know.”

  “Yes, sorry,” Crosby said. “In case you don’t want to hear my recipe story now, this is your chance to escape. Otherwise, I’m running it by your sister.”

  Sherry liked Crosby’s sass. Her recollection of him as a teacher was vanilla and bland. She had no memory of his wit. She had taken his class because she had to, to fulfill her graduation requirements, despite the fact that, in her early teens, she was already a better cook than most of her friends’ parents. To her surprise, the class became her favorite one of the school week. The final examination was to create the perfect meal to serve a family of four. The students didn’t actually have to cook it, merely jot down the menu on paper. The only cooking they were required to perform was to present the class with a dozen home-baked cupcakes, and that nearly cost Sherry her diploma. Sherry blinked away the unfortunate memory.

  “I’m going to have one more bite of my lunch while you tell Marla your story. Excuse me.” Sherry headed to the kitchenette. A few minutes later, she returned as the discussion of Crosby’s cookie story was winding down.

  “Do you still make the cookies for your wife, for romance’s sake?” Marla asked.

  “The romance ship sailed long ago. I doubt she’d eat anything I baked at this point. Can’t even get her to taste test my cookies for the contest. She’s out of town anyway at the moment.” Crosby lowered his head slightly.

  Sherry brushed a sandwich crumb from her forearm. “Would you like to come over for dinner tonight? The menu is Thanksgiving leftovers, so I don’t promise a gourmet meal. Marla and her husband, Grant, are invited, as are my dad and his girlfriend.” As soon as the invitation left her lips, Sherry realized the scenario sounded too coupled up. She side-eyed Marla for help.

  Marla didn’t return the glance.

  “That’s awfully nice of you. How could I resist a meal from the famous Sherry Oliveri, a former student who has gone on to greatness from humble beginnings in my classroom?” Crosby gave Sherry a respectful bow.

  Chapter 3

  “All in all, I’d say Black Friday was a success.” Sherry inserted the key in the Ruggery door’s lock. “That being said, I’m looking forward to enjoying a good meal without having to discuss design, color, and rug dimension
.”

  “Will it mess up the numbers now that Grant won’t be joining us?” Marla asked.

  Sherry was in a struggle with Chutney and Bean, who were yanking on their leashes to get a whiff of something enticing under the nearest lamppost. “Boys, stop pulling.”

  Marla scooted the dogs closer to the door with a whistle, and Sherry was able to pull the key from the lock.

  “As much as I love Grant, I was relieved he couldn’t make it tonight. I was worried Crosby thought everyone was a couple, including him and me. Now the situation is downright awkward, because Dad and Ruth changed their plans and won’t be joining us. It’s a cozy threesome. You, me, and Crosby.”

  “And you don’t want to have the conversation centered on high school or the cook-off. That’s a tall order. Those are the only two subjects we three have in common.”

  “On second thought, can we persuade Grant to join us?” Sherry asked.

  Marla lowered her gaze. “Grant’s decided to head back to Oklahoma early and let me have some family time. I haven’t stayed in Augustin for more than three days at a time for years. Which leads me to my next question: Is your guest room free for the next couple of nights, starting tonight?”

  Sherry studied the face of the athletic, loving, sometimes stubborn woman she’d shared so many childhood memories with. “Yes, of course. Is everything all right between you and Grant? I may be overstepping sisterly boundaries when I say I’m getting a feeling you two aren’t enjoying spending time together as much as you used to.”

  “As you know from your own experience, marriage has its ups and downs, and sometimes when it’s been down more than up, a little time off isn’t a bad solution.” Marla turned and led Bean down the sidewalk.

  “In my case, a little time off led to divorce court. But it was for the best.” Sherry picked up her pace and caught up to her sister. She paused when she reached the Shore Cleaners red-brick storefront. Sal was stationed opposite the lime-green neon sign announcing the cleaners was open for business. A moment later, the sign went dark.

  “Hi, Sal. How was your Black Friday?”

  “Hi, Sherry, and Sherry’s sister.” Sal’s well-earned wrinkles complicated his delicate facial features. “Black Friday. A necessary evil, I’d say. I know how your father feels. We gave away so much free business today, I’m going to have to stay open Sundays and holidays to make up for lost revenue. All in the name of customer appreciation. How about you?”

  “I’m very happy with how the day went.”

  “Before my wife comes outside, let me ask you a question.” Sal leaned in toward Sherry’s ear. His short stature meant he had to raise up on his tiptoes to best reach her. He whispered, “Effi is entering the cookie contest tomorrow with her Korean fortune cookies. My fear is she’ll be crushed if she doesn’t win. Despite her tiny exterior, she’s a strong, proud woman. Her closely guarded recipes mean more to her than me and our four adult children. What do you think? I have one of our kids on standby to feign sickness and keep her home to play nurse, if need be.”

  Sherry caught sight of Marla shaking her head ever so slightly. “I would never discourage anyone from entering a cook-off. I bet Effi has a fantastic story to go along with the cookies. Recipe contests are fun, challenging, and, yes, sometimes disappointing when you think you’re entering your best effort and you don’t win. Tell her to go for it.” She backed away from Sal.

  “Thanks. I’ll take your advice. We’ll see you at the contest tomorrow,” Sal said.

  As Sherry, Marla, and the dogs headed toward the car park, Marla commented, “Good job back there. Aren’t you tired of fielding questions like Sal’s?”

  “I don’t mind. This is the first time I’ve ever judged. I’m getting a better appreciation for the work the judges do and the contest hasn’t even happened yet.” Sherry laughed. “I’m finding out the job starts way before the contest. I’m a bit worried about what happens after the bake-off. There will be a lot more losers than winners, and they all know where I live.”

  A voice, bellowing from behind the women, startled Sherry. She reeled in the leash when Chutney began to bark.

  “Sorry I didn’t get to the Ruggery today,” Mrs. Nagle called out from her doorway. “The customers were loading up on holiday lights and extension cords and whatnots. I didn’t even get a moment to eat my lunch.”

  “Must be a good time of the year for your business. Do you have trouble keeping inventory with the wide variety of possible odd requests this season may bring?” Sherry reached the Augustin Dry Goods storefront.

  “Actually, no. I have a system that’s served me well over the years. I have a list from last year of repeat purchases from November through December. Customers love to be reminded what they may have forgotten to put on their shopping lists. I also keep a separate list of customers who have made very unusual purchases, ones that stray far from their normal tendencies. You’d be surprised how appreciative people are to be looked after this way.” Mrs. Nagle beamed a brilliant smile. “I feel like the dry goods grandma to most of Augustin.”

  “I appreciate you, that’s for sure. You and Tony are the ones we count on when we run short of thumbtacks, edging tape, scissors, you name it,” Sherry said. “I’ll see you at the cookie contest tomorrow?”

  “Definitely. Keep a look out for s’mores sandwich cookies. Those would be mine. And if the cooking contest needs batteries for some reason, the Dry Goods store just received a full-assortment shipment.”

  “Okay, thank you, Mrs. Nagle. I don’t foresee needing batteries, but I’ll keep your offer in mind. And tomorrow I’ll keep a special eye out for you and your creations.”

  “Goodbye, ladies,” Mrs. Nagle called out.

  “Was that a battery bribe?” Marla asked.

  Sherry snickered. “Very possibly.”

  If the drive home was indicative of how many people were returning home after shopping for post-Thanksgiving deals, Sherry was happy she had the role of merchant rather than customer. The local roads were jammed, presumably by cars returning successful bargain shoppers home.

  “Shopping isn’t my thing, unless you count grocery shopping,” Sherry commented. “I’m so relieved the Oliveris have put a ban on exchanging holiday presents.”

  “I agree. Surprisingly, Grant likes shopping. Or maybe it’s his excuse to get out of the house.”

  Sherry took her eyes off the road long enough to see the frown on her sister’s face. She withheld any reply to Marla’s comment and, instead, turned the conversation in a more comfortable direction.

  “I was thinking of making my Cowboy Turkey Shepherd’s Pie for dinner. I was going to try to spruce up the roasted butternut squash panzanella leftovers, but I’ve changed my mind. I think the recipe needs a total overhaul. I need to figure out how to make it contest-worthy. The contest deadline is looming.”

  “Hold that thought. We’re getting a group text.” Marla held up her phone. “From Dad. Says he can come for dinner after all, and Ruth is coming, too. Do you have enough food? Total’s up to five now.”

  Sherry steered the car into her driveway. “Should be fine. Do you think I made a mistake inviting Crosby to dinner? I mean, we barely know the man. He seemed a bit sad. What if he’s in the middle of some midlife crisis?”

  “Too late now. We’re committed. And he may not be the only one having a midlife crisis.”

  An hour and a half later, dinner was in the oven. Sherry was upstairs, changing out of her T-shirt with the gravy stain down the front and about to begin a search for a clean shirt to match her jeans.

  “Sher, your phone’s ringing,” Marla called from downstairs.

  Sherry bounded down the steps with one arm in the sleeve of a sparkly shirt, the other unclothed. “Thanks.”

  “My hands are wet.” Marla pulled the phone out of a kitchen towel. Her sister’s sly smile gave Sherry some indication who was calling. “I’ll finish the cleanup.” Marla made no effort to return to the kitchen.

  She
rry took the phone, wriggled past her sister, and made her way to the living room couch, while contorting to fit her arm into the sleeve of the shirt.

  “Hi, Don. How was your Thanksgiving?”

  “A bit quiet, but enjoyable.”

  Sherry pulled the phone away from her ear. A blaring horn pierced the earpiece. “What was that?”

  “Sorry. I’m at the Augustin Marina. A fog is rolling in. Should be gone in a few hours. Are you free for dinner? Looks like I won’t be back on the water for a while, until the weather clears up.”

  Sherry lowered the phone to her side. She took a few steps toward the kitchen and nearly bumped into Marla, eavesdropping around the corner. “He wants to have dinner. Tonight.”

  “Invite him over. I need to meet this fellow.”

  Sherry nodded. “How’d you like to come to my house for dinner? In, say, twenty minutes?”

  “A cozy date?” Don asked in a suggestive tone.

  “If you call a group of six cozy, then yes.”

  “Oh no. You had plans. We can do it another time.” Don’s voice trailed off.

  “And those plans include you, so I’ll see you soon. Do you need a ride?”

  “Nope. Thanks. I’ll grab a cab and see you soon. I’ll bring wine.”

  Sherry dropped her phone to her side.

  “You look happy,” Marla said.

  They returned to the kitchen.

  “Any guy Sherry Oliveri meets at a cook-off and captures her fancy is a match made in heaven. That is where you met, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Don was his sister’s sous-chef in the Augustin Fall Fest cook-off. Cooking isn’t his field of expertise. He’s more of a wine connoisseur. We bonded over his choice of merlots for my recipe.”

  “How romantic,” Marla teased. “It works out better that Don’s coming. Crosby won’t feel outnumbered by all the Oliveris.” She bundled the kitchen towel into a ball. “Can’t wait to meet your new fella. I’ll take a quick shower and see you in a few.”

  While Marla was freshening up, Sherry set the table. Her new seating arrangement was to place Don on one side of her and Crosby on the other. She had high hopes the two would find something in common to talk about. Desired subjects to discuss didn’t include Sherry’s days in high school. Her domestic tendencies might scare Don off. Who would be excited to date someone whose past included trading Rolling Stones concert tickets for a Julia Child cooking demonstration, as she had in her senior year?