Chapter Seven

Mel decided the best way to deal with the brick wall in front of her was to tackle a different mystery—making those darned cookies her grandmother always made seem so easy. Low on butter and flour, she made the two-minute trip to the small local grocery store. She pushed her cart down the dairy aisle and saw a familiar face. A tingle of happiness flashed through her at the sight of Jackson standing by a case of assorted cheeses.

“Don’t tell me you get supplies for your restaurant here?” Mel teased. “No wonder your omelets are so expensive.”

“And worth every penny.” His smile worked the dimple magic. He held up a fancy package. “My dad has very few vices, but one of them is this crazy expensive French butter. I told him I’d stop by and pick some up. Then again,” he muttered under his breath, “if we don’t get this loan nailed down, he may have to make do with margarine.”

“Maybe that’s why my cookies are coming out so flat, I use butter from regular ol’ American cows.”

“Here, let me show you a trade secret.” He led her to the baking aisle and handed her a packet of shortening. Their hands lingered a moment too long as she accepted it. “Try using this instead of butter, and refrigerate the dough for about an hour.”

“Not more flour and higher temperature?”

He scoffed, making a rude raspberry sound. “Sure, if you want them hard as rocks.”

She gave him a crooked smile. “Wait a minute, are you telling me the truth, or are you trying to sabotage me in the cookie competition?”

“Relax, it’s not a competition, it’s all for a good cause.”

“Don’t tell Mrs. Oberdingle that. She already assumes I’m sleeping with the enemy to get an unfair advantage.”

Bright patches of red appeared on his cheeks. “What-what are you talking about?”

“Oh my God, you’re adorable! I’m kidding—well, I mean, she thinks I’m getting your professional expertise. If only she knew your cookie killed poor Mr. Hubbard.”

He stopped cold. All color drained from his mocha skin. At this rate, the poor guy risked fainting if blood kept rushing to and from his head. “Wait, you think my cookie killed that guy?”

Clearly Jackson did not understand the O’Rourke family humor. “Easy, I was just kidding. Turns out he had a heart condition, so I think his love for cookies in general, not yours in particular, killed him. Oh, shoot!” She looked past Jackson’s shoulder to the clock over the door. “Sorry, I’ve got to run. Barely have time for one more stab at this cookie thing tonight.”

****

Three hours later, Mel put her elbows on the kitchen counter, resting her chin on her fists as she surveyed another batch of failures. So much for the shortening solution. Time and her patience were running out. The ringing of her phone broke her out of her brooding, but only momentarily. Sadly, it was Deputy Marks.

“Ma’am—”

“Before you say anything or make fun of me for playing Nancy Drew, you were right.”

“Yeah, about that. I should have listened to you—”

“Oh my God, you’re really going to make me scrape and bow? I combed through Hubbard’s phone and—”

“You did what? Never mind, I need to tell you something.”

“Okay but let me finish. You nailed it. The man took medication for a heart condition. I saw zebras when all along it was a horse. Nothing more sinister than—”

“Mel,” he barked sharply, causing her to go silent. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you, but your missing yoga teacher turned up.”

“Oh thank goodness, that’s a relief.”

“No, you’re not listening. They found her at the bottom of Butte’s Pass. She’s dead.”