Double Chocolate Cookie Murder

Book 5: Cook-Off Mystery

by Devon Delaney

Genres: Mystery; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Sherry Oliveri is used to competing in cook-offs, but this time she’s serving as a judge. The upside is that she gets to taste all the contestants’ cookies. The downside is that one of the bakers will wind up dead . . .
 
It’s the long Thanksgiving weekend, and between cooking for her family and working her dad’s store for Black Friday, Sherry has a full plate. Next, she has to judge the big cookie contest—and among the many entrants is her old high school home ec teacher, Mr. Currier.
 
For old time’s sake, Sherry invites him over for dinner, although sadly, the reunion will be short-lived. The next day, the prizes at the bake-off go missing—and later turn up at the marina, along with her ex-teacher’s body. Now Sherry has to find out who would do such a thing . . .
 
Includes Recipes from Sherry’s Kitchen!

Release date: August 24, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

“You should have worn a warmer coat. Are you in denial that winter’s around the corner?” Mrs. Nagle, bundled in a boiled wool coat and a plaid scarf, returned her attention to the door handle. “I really must replace this confounded mechanism. My hands are too cold to wiggle the key this way and that to get the blasted thing to work.”

“Let me help.” Sherry wedged herself between the woman and the storefront door. She handed Mrs. Nagle two dog leashes and took hold of the door handle.

“Two dogs today?”

“My friend and coworker, Amber, is out of town, so I’m watching her dog, Bean. He’s my Chutney’s best friend.” The door to Augustin Dry Goods opened sluggishly as Sherry applied pressure with her shoulder. “There you go.” Sherry collected the leashes from the owner of the store. Sherry was reminded and amused by the fact no one addressed Mrs. Nagle by her first name, Penny, as she watched the woman enter the doorway. She introduced herself as Mrs. Nagle and offered no alternative. Her husband, on the other hand, was Tony from the first introduction.

“Dear, would you mind helping me in with the box of holiday decorations?” Mrs. Nagle pointed to a cardboard box on the sidewalk, the size of a small steamer trunk. “Tony was in a great hurry this morning to get to the Black Friday TV sales. On one hand, I’m glad stores in Augustin don’t open until nine for Black Friday; on the other, we may be losing customers to the early bird deals the malls offer. In his rush to get to the mall, Tony left me on the curb with this monstrosity. I don’t know how I could ever lift it. We do such a good job packing up the holiday goodies after New Year’s, I always forget how much stuff we fit in the box.” The woman looked Sherry up and down. “You’re such a strong young woman. Must be all the good cooking you do.”

Sherry considered Mrs. Nagle’s description. She was strong, in a casual-exerciser sort of way. She was young, in a midthirties sort of way. She handed the leashes back to Mrs. Nagle. “Of course. Where should I put the box?”

Mrs. Nagle swept her arm forward, indicating anywhere inside the store was appreciated. Sherry grunted as she hoisted the box. She put the container inside the door before her frame collapsed from the strain. She had to remember to either take a different route from the parking lot the day after Thanksgiving next year or get in better shape.

“Phew. Glad we keep our holiday decorations in-store.” Sherry straightened and turned toward the open door. “Have a nice day.”

“You too. Don’t forget these guys.” Mrs. Nagle returned the leashes. “I’ll stop by to see what you and Erno have on sale for Black Friday.”

Without looking back, Sherry tossed Mrs. Nagle a farewell wave. “What are we putting on sale? Good question. Dad is so dead set against Black Friday sales he won’t even work the day,” Sherry mumbled.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you. Can you repeat what you said?” Sal, performing the same exercise with his key and door as Mrs. Nagle, turned his attention to Sherry as she neared.

“Hi, Sal.” Sherry nodded a hello to the elderly man who’d owned the Shore Cleaners for over fifty years. His tiny wife stood vigil over two canvas bags, presumably stuffed with laundry. “I was muttering to myself. You didn’t miss a thing.”

“Talking to yourself. This crazy time of year will do that to a sane woman.”

Sal’s wife, Effi, let loose a high-pitched giggle. “Sal!”

“I saw you helping Mrs. Nagle with her box of decorations. That woman is as precise as clockwork. The day after Thanksgiving on the nose, every year, her store goes from autumn’s harvest theme to winter holiday extravaganza, and we’re all expected to follow suit.”

“Guilty,” Sherry said. “I’m putting up our decorations today if there’s a slow time. Can’t help myself. Dad’s not working today so I want to surprise him.”

“I’m amazed he’s not working on Black Friday. I can’t resist a good sale, whether I’m on the giving or the receiving end. The cleaners is running a one-day special. Two items cleaned for the price of one. Some exclusions may apply, of course.” Sal opened the door, stepped over the threshold, and held the door open for his wife.

“Dad says he can’t witness his rugs sold at a discount, even if it’s only one day a year. Says they weren’t crafted with half talent, why should they be sold at half price.”

“Makes sense,” Sal added. “Erno’s as proud of his rugs as we are of our family business. Can’t say the same for most businesses these days. We’re a dying breed.”

“I’m sure having the store decorated for the holidays will brighten his mood when he comes in tomorrow. At least, that’s what I’m hoping. Have a good day,” Sherry called to the couple as she walked away from the cleaners.

As she headed toward the Ruggery, Sherry thought about the Thanksgiving meal she’d served the day before. As wonderful as it was to cook for most of her family, she was still sad her brother, Pep, and his new wife, Charlotte, couldn’t attend. They didn’t want to travel too far with their infant, but a smile danced on her lips as she visualized the rest of her family seated around the dining room table. Sherry’s sister, Marla, Marla’s husband, Grant, their father and his girlfriend, Ruth Gadabee. Sherry was thrilled when the lively group gushed over her menu. Well, almost all of the menu. The roasted butternut squash panzanella hadn’t come out exactly as she’d liked. How could she enter the recipe, as she intended to do, in the upcoming Holiday Sides Recipe Contest if her own family was lukewarm on the dish? Lost in thought, Sherry found herself at a dead stop in front of a stocky man in uniform.

“May I help you, ma’am?”

Sherry took note of the nameplate pinned to the man’s lapel: Hans. She lifted her gaze to his ruddy face, then up to the building sign etched in stone above a massive door behind him. “Oh my gosh. I wasn’t paying attention and I’ve walked too far. While I’m here, I’ll introduce myself.” Sherry stuck out her hand. “I’m Sherry Oliveri. Tomorrow I’ll be a judge in the bake-off here.” She shook the man’s gloved hand.

“My name is Hans. I’m head of security for the Media Center.” Hans cracked a broad smile. “Very nice to meet you. You and your dog have been walking by the building for years. Glad to finally, formally, be introduced. We are very excited to be host to the Story For Glory Cookie Bake-off. I’ll be providing security for the event.” Hans enunciated the words slowly and deliberately, with a slight Dutch accent, as if he’d practiced hard to memorize the long contest name. “Personally, I’m excited about any leftovers. I’ve been told to expect fifty-plus contestants bringing their cookies in the morning. I think I’ll skip breakfast, just in case I get to taste some of the baked goods.”

“You’ve got the right idea. I’m usually the contestant in a cooking contest rather than the judge, so I’ll be getting my first chance to taste all the entries this time around.”

“How lucky are you?” Hans’s eyes brightened as his bushy eyebrows lifted. “Even at my age I’m still a cookie monster. I have tea and cookies with my five-year-old granddaughter every time she visits.”

“This bake-off is an interesting one because the cooks prepare their recipes at home. That is a challenge all in itself, to be able to recognize when you’ve made your best batch. No time limitations like in the usual bake-off, but you might drive yourself crazy striving for perfection. The contest is also about the story behind the cookie recipe. To hear where the cooks got their recipe inspiration is what I’m most excited about.”

“Sherry. How nice to see you. Good morning, Hans.” Patti Mellitt, in a beige overcoat, approached. She was carrying a briefcase and a slouchy tote bag. What appeared to be celery stalks protruded from the bag.

“Patti, hi.” Sherry glanced at the greens. “Thanksgiving leftovers?”

Bean and Chutney strained at their leashes to get a whiff.

“Exactly. The reporter who sits next to me in the Nutmeg State of Mind newsroom texted she needs celery and did I have any. If I never see another celery stalk until summer, I’ll be happy. I made pounds of my famous sausage stuffing with it yesterday for the homeless shelter.”

“That’s why you’re the best food journalist around. You share and you care,” Sherry said.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the bake-off, right?” As Patti spoke, she flashed her credentials at Hans, who nodded the okay for her to enter the building.

“Right. Sorry you’re not on the judging panel with me. It’s my first time being on the judging end rather than the contestant end of the contest.”

“That’s a story I’d love to write about. How you’re making the transition from contestant to judge,” Patti said.

“No, no. This is a one-time deal. Competing is my passion. Judging others makes me uncomfortable. I was honored to be asked, and I’ll give it my best effort, but I’ve already got my sights on the next contest.”

“Okay, I understand. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m covering the contest for the newspaper and my podcast. May the best baker and cookie backstory-teller win.”

“And would you mind writing up a blurb for my Town Hall newsletter also?” Sherry asked. “I’ll need your input by Sunday, please.”

“Brace yourselves. Black Friday is about to begin,” Sherry told the dogs as she unlocked the Ruggery’s back door. She unhooked the dogs’ leashes. Habit dictated they remain at her feet until she rewarded them. She treated each to a crunchy biscuit from the jar she kept just inside the kitchenette. A moment later, they were on their way across the store to find a place to wrestle. She flipped on the light switches, took off her coat, and delivered her lunch sack to the kitchenette. She made her way back to the front of the store to unlock the front door and rotated the window sign to “Open.” Immediately, a group of potential customers entered.

“I’m so excited to see what you have on sale,” one woman said as she surveyed the store. “Where are your sale rugs?”

“I haven’t had a chance to put a sale sign up.” Sherry pointed to a small, handmade sign across the room. “Over there. Next to the demonstration table.”

The shoppers flocked toward the stack of area rugs, following Sherry’s lead. Along the way, she was asked if the larger, hand-loomed rugs were on sale. She delivered the bad news that only the smallest rugs were discounted. Disappointment turned to excitement when they reached the sale rugs. Sherry beamed with pride as the customers complimented her on the treasures they found for less money than at any other time of the year.

By noon, all the sale rugs had been purchased. The last morning customer was gone, so Sherry went to the kitchenette in the back of the store to retrieve the turkey cranberry panini she’d brought in her lunch sack. As she savored her first mouthful, the dogs’ chorus of barking alerted her that she wasn’t alone. She peered out of the arched doorway, then swallowed the bite of sandwich and called out, “Hello. I’ll be right there.”

“I’m sorry. You’re in the middle of lunch. Must be impossible to get a moment to yourself.” A man made his way closer to Sherry. “Please, take your time.”

“A bite here, a bite there, and, by the end of the day, somehow, I’ve finished my lunch.” Sherry laughed. She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Excuse me one sec.” She turned and took the sandwich to the small kitchen counter, well out of reach of the inquisitive Jack Russells’ jumping range. She wiped her hands on the kitchen towel and made her way to where the man stood waiting.

“How can I help you?” There was something familiar about the man dressed in a camel-hair blazer and blue jeans. At first glance, she estimated his age to be somewhere in his forties. Possibly he was a customer who hadn’t been in the store for years. If so, Erno would know the man. Her father never forgot a name or a face. He often attached a nickname to a customer to help jog his memory. The man in front of Sherry would fit the nickname Questioning Man, for the lift in his voice at the end of his sentences, making each sound like a question.

Before he had a chance to respond, the front door burst open. The bell over the door tinkled, and Bean and Chutney raced to greet the visitor. From the dogs’ reaction, Sherry knew who had arrived.

“Sherry,” shouted the woman. “Your favorite sister’s here.”

“Over here.” Sherry returned her attention to the man. “I’m sorry, my sister is visiting from out of town. May I show you a rug?”

The man stuck out his hand. “You’re lucky to have family visiting. My name is Crosby Banks. You must be Sherry Oliveri?”

Sherry shook Crosby’s hand. “Yes, that’s me. Very nice to meet you. You look familiar. Have we met?”

“Hey, Sherry. I’ve come to help out for the afternoon. Grant has some things he wants to get done, so I’m flying solo.” Marla neared.

“Marla, this is Crosby Banks. Crosby, this is my sister, Marla.”

The two smiled at each other.

“I was telling him he looked familiar. If only Dad were here, he’d help me out with where I know you from.”

Marla squinted in Crosby’s direction. “Nice to meet you. First duty is to walk these two pups. I know you probably haven’t had a minute to do that, today being Black Friday and all. Be right back.” Marla clapped her hands to herd the dogs her way.

Chutney and Bean trotted toward the leashes hanging by the front door.

Sherry turned her attention back to Crosby.

“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. . .