As the Christmas Cookie Crumbles (A Food Lovers' Village Mystery) Read online

  And I hadn’t told my mom that after their father lost his job and hid out in the basement, and their mother’s boss refused her a loan against her paycheck, they ate nothing but Cheerios and ramen noodles with frozen peas for a week. Chiara’s response to the stories had been that we represented what he hadn’t had, what he wanted, what he would work his adorable backside off to create with me.

  My sister was right. I had no doubts about Adam’s commitment to me and our future. He’d known what he wanted to make of his life, and that he needed to leave Minnesota to get it. He liked to remind me that when I came back to Jewel Bay and he recognized me as the girl he’d let get away in college, he’d seen a second chance and grabbed it.

  My mother reached for a notepad with an F in classic script on the top and her favorite green pen to start a new list. My love for organization—and office supplies—is genetic.

  Which reminded me of Merrily and her penchant for organization. That desk, that kitchen. We’d been kindred spirits.

  “We’ll need corsages for his mother and the girls. It’s Diane, right? We’ll put snack baskets in the cabins. I know the Lodge leaves coffee and cookies out, but we’ll give them something with a bit more substance.” My mother is never happier than when she’s figuring out how to feed people. “Any food allergies that you know of? I’ll call. Do you have Diane’s number?”

  I found it and read it to her. “Mom, there’s something else I want to talk with you about.”

  “Overwhelmed with wedding details, darling? Just ask—you know I’ll help any way I can.”

  “No, not that.” I told her about seeing Walt Thornton at the Lodge, and how he refused to meet his granddaughter. My mother listened intently, palms open in her lap.

  “It’s as if Merrily was dead to them,” she said. “Then she came back to life, and died again. I can’t even imagine.”

  “How will Ashley deal with this? With grandparents who rejected her before they even met her?”

  “She may know more about her mother’s past than her father realizes,” Mom said. “After Taya learned about the girl, she told me. She’d worked out that Merrily had gone to prison pregnant. Thank heavens her sentence was short, and with good behavior, she made it even shorter.”

  “Did you ever talk to Taya about the shunning?”

  Mom sighed. “I tried. She cut me off instead. That taught me a lesson about interfering.”

  A lesson I suspected she hoped I would learn. “But how could they treat their daughter that way? And their granddaughter?”

  “Families are complicated. And some people respond to emotional injury better than others.” My mother leaned forward, hands on her knees. “Becoming a parent is to open yourself to the deepest love, and the deepest heartache imaginable. Nothing hurts like watching your child suffer. When Nick lost the love of his life, when Chiara had those miscarriages, when you …”

  “When I what, Mom?” I said, not sure I wanted the answer.

  She let out a long sigh. “When you went off to college after your father died, I knew one word from me and you’d zip home faster than boo. Selfishly, I wanted you here to comfort me, but I knew that would be a mistake. You were lost in your own grief, and I had to let you stumble your way into the world.”

  She reached out, the tips of her fingers stroking my cheek. “And darling, you have done so beautifully. My heart is about to break with love for the three of you, for Landon and the new baby, for Adam and Jason and Bill.”

  I scooted closer and for a long moment, we simply held each other. Then I rolled my stool back and met her gaze.

  “Thank you, Mom. But I didn’t sense that Walt felt any pain for Merrily’s pain. I heard only anger and shame at what she did to them. That’s how they look at it. As if everything she did wrong, she did to hurt them.”

  “Taya said much the same thing when we went into their shop. It was surreal—the place all glowing with holiday spirit, and so little of it in her.”

  Remembering Saturday morning brought back the image of Sally Grimes, on the sidewalk in front of her shop. She’d been mighty peeved at the sight of Merrily, and by her return to Jewel Bay in general. Me, I understood why she came back. The longing for home. How geography shapes your relationship to space, people, life. Growing up on picturesque family properties didn’t guarantee family harmony, but it did create a bond to the place.

  “Mom, who do you think fathered Merrily’s baby? Was it Cliff Grimes, Sally’s husband?”

  “Oh, darling, I don’t know. Leave Sally out of this. Delve into the murder if you have to, but let that go.”

  I wouldn’t ask Sally. Bad enough that her husband stole from her and had been poised to abandon her and their daughter, Sage. Family money and property hadn’t made for an easy life, though she and Sage had mended their relationship.

  But let go?

  That was a promise I couldn’t make.

  Fourteen

  Some days, on my way home, I forget where I’m headed and start to turn at the road leading to my old cabin. Despite all the work we’ve put into the house, I find myself surprised at times to be living at the Orchard again. To see the stars shining through the cherry trees as I drive in. To see Adam’s perpetually filthy Xterra in the carport.

  To be greeted not by Pepé, my mother’s Scottie, but by my—our—cats.

  And by Adam, pulling on his coat. “Hey, cutie. How’d it go at the Lodge?”

  “Great. Kyle sent home samples.” I lifted the box. “Although I’m going to have to be careful with these, not to mention all those Christmas cookies.”

  “I’ll take care of them for you.” He grinned and gave me a kiss. “Gotta run. SAR training.”

  Once a month, on Tuesday nights, Adam changes hats from kids’ camp and rec guy to wilderness medicine guru, and teaches the Search and Rescue squad the latest cool stuff.

  “Back around ten,” he said and reached for the door. Stopped, disappeared into the kitchen, and came back a minute later, a half-eaten peanut butter cookie in one hand and two more in the other. “I always tell people to take emergency rations. These are great, by the way.”

  Molly’s unChristmas cookies. I rolled my eyes.

  In the kitchen I checked the cats’ food and water and stared into the fridge. It didn’t offer a lot, a sign that I hadn’t been home enough. I made a salad and a plate of Kyle’s appetizers, careful to leave some of each for Adam. And all the trout canapés.

  My uncle the vintner had shipped us several cases of wine for the wedding, but we hadn’t tasted them yet. No time like the present. I popped the cork—such a satisfying sound—on a California red and poured a smidge into a glass. Sniffed, swished, sniffed—luscious.

  Took the first sip. Oh my.

  I filled the glass and carried it and my plate to the dining room, on the theory that eating greens now would make up for the cookies I knew I’d eat later, and that I’d eat less at the table than on the couch.

  The herbed squash crostini was as good now as it had been this afternoon. “Bad for cats!” I called to any felines in earshot, then grabbed my iPad from my bag at the front door before the cats could try my dinner for themselves. Set the iPad on the table and opened the wedding project list. Back at SavClub, I’d been trained in maintaining project lists and identifying the next action, but sometimes there were too many “next actions” for any twenty-four hours.

  Appetizers, I typed, and added the crostini and lamb skewers to the rehearsal dinner menu. The others would be perfect for the wedding dinner. The crostini was good enough to serve twice.

  I sipped Uncle Joe’s red blend and studied the list. We had the wine, and I’d met with the events coordinator—I checked those items off with glee. My dress and accessories—check. My mother was repurposing her wedding dress. Chiara and I had gone shopping and found a maternity dress that would do nicely for her, whether she was still pregnant or not. I was too excited to get a new niece or nephew—if they knew the sex, they weren’t saying—t
o fuss about her dress. Or whether we might need a last-minute substitute.

  Adam, Tanner, and Nick had chosen matching suits with coordinated shirts and ties, all tailored and ready to go. Chiara and my mother had outfitted Jason, Landon, and Bill.

  No matter what else happened, we would look fabulous.

  But I needed to check on the flowers. Test cakes with Wendy—Adam wanted to be part of that. Find thank-you gifts for Reverend Anne and our attendants, although neither Chiara nor Tanner would expect anything. Plan the wedding favors and table decorations, and rope a few friends into helping me set up. I’d booked the photographer months ago, and Adam had taken charge of the music. He said he didn’t want a bachelor party. His brothers might have other ideas.

  I scanned the guest list. The flood of early RSVPs had slowed to a trickle, but I had questions about a few couples and wasn’t sure how to follow up. Trinka at the Lodge had told me to plan on a handful of last-minute changes, but also said that the no-shows and surprise guests would probably balance each other out.

  We had an appointment to get the license tomorrow. Adam had told me to update my passport, and the new one hadn’t arrived yet. But we had time for that.

  My mother had scheduled hair appointments and a spa day—I should add Adam’s mother and the twins’ wives.

  No wonder people eloped. Trinka had said some brides started feeling homicidal at this point, and I understood why.

  But I had murder on the mind for another reason as well. Merrily Thornton was dead. Money was missing. Greg Taylor couldn’t seem to decide whether he wanted my help or not.

  I took my dishes to the kitchen and Pumpkin trotted after me. “You smell fish, don’t you, Miss Kitty?” I cut a tiny bit of the trout off one toast and set it on the mat next to her dish. She scarfed it up like the finest caviar.

  I refilled my wine and created a small dessert plate. Set the cat in her fleece-lined bed by the gas fireplace on the wall between the living and dining rooms, converted from wood in the remodel. Sandy’s bed was empty.

  On the wall next to the living room hung the one piece of art I’d left in place. A serigraph landscape, the lake and mountains stacked in receding layers of color. Kim and I had made the print together in art class, senior year. Before the accident that killed my father and nearly destroyed our friendship.

  It wasn’t my friendship with Greg Taylor, or even with his sister Wendy, that was driving me to investigate, though I wanted to help them. It was much more personal. I’d been appalled by how Merrily’s parents had treated her. And though I couldn’t explain it well, not even to myself, I felt guilty. So unfair, that a woman would be forced to work so hard to prove herself worthy of the love of friends and family that I took for granted.

  The loyalty I felt to her did surprise me. But sometimes, we meet someone and feel an instant connection. Some people might say it’s one soul recognizing another. Some would call it instinct, and others imagination gone wild. I’d felt it when she came in to the shop on her job hunt, but hadn’t acted on it. We’d gotten a second chance at friendship, and lost it.

  And I’d been a kid who’d lost a parent tragically. Though I hadn’t met Merrily’s daughter yet, and like me, Ashley did have one loving parent left, the unfairness of it all made me determined to do everything I could to help the police find the killer.

  Besides, I had a tool that works wonders.

  In the living room, I sank into the brown leather chair—a housewarming slash wedding gift from our family friend, Liz Pinsky, who knew how much I’d loved its twin when I lived in their caretaker’s cabin. The moment I picked up my iPad, a small sable cat leaped on to the arm of my chair.

  “Ah, so that’s what it takes to get your attention,” I told Sandy. “A warm lap and a plate of cookies.”

  Sandburg turned himself around, then settled down and wrapped himself in his tail, ignoring me. A few feet away, in her bed by the fire, Pumpkin raised her head, then went back to sleep.

  My trusted assistants, doing what they do best.

  Nobody knows about the Spreadsheet of Suspicion. Call it my secret weapon. The detectives have their murder books and white boards. I’ve seen them, and they work. Timelines are great when you need a linear approach, and mind maps are perfect for brainstorming. But for full-scale organizing, I love me a spreadsheet. Nothing works better to corral my questions and clues, the whats and whys and whos.

  I created a column for Merrily and listed the key facts surrounding her murder and the theft at the Building Supply. Then I added what I knew from the twenty-year-old crime, which was not much, at this point.

  The wine went down beautifully—a complex blend of fruit and spice. Sandy twitched his tail, and I gave my attention to the spreadsheet. Catalogued the photos and other items in the cigar box from her desk as best I could remember.

  I slipped the cat off my lap and headed for my old bedroom, which we were treating as a temporary storeroom. Dug out a box I hadn’t unpacked yet. Snicked open the latch of the wooden Swiss puzzle box, one of several my grandfather had brought home after the war. My version of Merrily’s cigar box, minus the cash.

  Slipped the old theater token into my pocket. Though I wasn’t sure it had anything to do with anything, it made me feel a little closer to Merrily.

  Back in the living room, the cats hadn’t moved. I plucked a peanut butter cookie off the plate. Not bad. Not bad at all.

  The next name I wrote was Greg Taylor. The first question? Motive. The second, whereabouts, which I shortened to whabouts to keep the columns uniform. Bello surmised that Greg might have had reason to kill Merrily even before discovering that she’d betrayed his trust and stolen the cash from the deposit—if she had stolen it. What if he were right? What if Greg had already harbored suspicions? Laid some kind of trap and caught her, then waited for the moment …

  It wasn’t impossible. Wendy had begged me to investigate, then backed off, fleeing the Merc when I asked one too many questions. Did she know something that might incriminate Greg? Was there some other connection—or tension—between him and Merrily?

  “What else, Sandy?” I said. “Who else?”

  Burmese cats are known talkers, but mine was keeping his own counsel tonight. I took a bite of one of Lou Mary’s bourbon balls. Strong, with a kick and plenty of substance—just like her.

  Had someone from Merrily’s more recent past wanted her dead? No doubt prison bred deadly enemies, but that was too long ago.

  Another embezzlement victim would fit Bello’s theory that embezzlers follow predictable patterns. But her only other employer had been her husband’s family business, and Brad swore she’d never stolen a cent from the plumbing company, or the community organizations she’d worked with.

  What about Brad himself? You could never rule out a spouse, even when they said all the right things, as Brad had. He’d given the impression, true or not, that the divorce was her idea. Had his resentment reached the danger point?

  I added his name.

  Truth was, I didn’t have enough info yet to know what might really have happened. The Spreadsheet of Suspicion was raising more questions than it answered.

  I lifted Sandy up gently and placed him in his bed. He let out a soft moan.

  What if I was wrong? What if Bello had it right?

  No. I didn’t believe Greg Taylor was a killer, not for one minute. But there was more to the story than he’d told me, and Wendy knew it.

  I frowned. Did that put her in danger? Murder is rarely random. Killers have a specific reason and a specific target.

  The rest of us weren’t at risk. Unless we stumbled too close to the truth.

  I heard the front door open. Ten already? Time flies when you’re probing crimes.

  “Hey, babe.” Adam enveloped me in a hug, his lips finding mine, and I forgot all about secrets and spreadsheets.

  “Now that’s what I call CPR,” he said a few minutes later. “What have you guys been up to while I was demonstrating defibrillato
rs?”

  “They’ve been dreaming of mice,” I said, waving at the cats. All of a sudden, my spreadsheet seemed silly. So I fibbed. “And I’m working on a checklist for the shop. Open and close procedures, who to call when stuff goes wrong—things the staff will need when we’re away.” Our honeymoon in January would be my first vacation since taking over the Merc. Not that I had any idea where we were going. Adam said he’d tell me what to pack the day before we left.

  “Doesn’t your mom know all that stuff?” He plucked a piece of my aunt’s fudge off the cookie plate and answered his own question. “No, I guess she doesn’t. Leave any of those appetizers for me?”

  “Of course,” I said. While he was in the kitchen, I grabbed the iPad, saved the spreadsheet, and powered down, with one last thought.

  I couldn’t be sure until the time of death was established … No one would tell me directly. I’d have to deduce it from the questions Bello asked, the avenues he followed. But if Merrily Thornton had died on Sunday, there was a good chance that while I’d been fretting over her skipping my first party in our new home, while I was worried about cookies and Christmas trees and what traditions to keep and change …

  While I’d been twittering over Christma-trivia, a woman who’d fought for everything she had was losing it all.

  ∞

  A light snow fell overnight, so my first task at the Merc Wednesday morning was to shovel out front. Up and down the street, other merchants were doing the same, and we exchanged greetings and waves. The sidewalk in front of the Thorntons’ shop had not been touched in a couple of days, so I toted my shovel up the block and cleared their walkway.

  The elegant storefront looked so neglected and forlorn, the sight half broke my heart. Would the Thorntons reopen today, or skip the season entirely? Could they return to some semblance of normalcy? How would customers, and the other merchants, respond?