Of Cookies and Deadly Secrets

By the time the guests started showing up, November was ready for them.

She ran her fingers along the bulge in her skirt pocket, gazing around at her handiwork. White twinkle lights glowed in every corner of the basement, and the snowflake-embroidered tablecloth looked bare and inviting. Her gaze landed on an oak door against one wall, and she realized she had one more thing she needed to do.

Tell-tale voices from the top landing signified the first guest arriving. November’s heart beat faster even as she heard a woman responding to Lulu’s high-pitched babble. Lulu bounced down the stairs into view, the woman appearing in her wake, stiff in her sweater and carrying a plastic container of cookies.

Lulu said the woman’s name, her flushed cheeks and tone implying that she was announcing the next First Lady.

“Hi.” November offered a hand, watching as her guest shifted her container to her hip in order to shake it. “Thanks for coming! Go ahead and get your cookies on the table then make yourself at home.”

She busied herself with rearranging the name cards as her guest placed her container on the section reserved for iced sugar cookies. Lulu vanished to collect more guests, and the basement began to fill, but more noticeably the tables did. Cookies by the dozen, a dozen different kinds in the most pleasing array. Red velvet, molasses, chocolate macaroons. Only the section for the gingersnap remained bare.

November bit her lip and pretended to observe the sweatered ladies milling at the refreshment table. Her fingers tapped a rhythm against her calf. What was keeping Lulu and her final guest?

Shoving her anxiety into a dark corner of her mind, she slipped through the oak door and breathed in the musty, slightly burnt smell. A green glow emitting from a single screen lit the small office room. The computer was ready and waiting for her.

November squeaked the desk drawer open and fingered the tape. Perfectly smooth. Perfectly clear. She eased the tape into the pocket in her skirt.

“November!” Lulu sang.

November sidled back into the main party room as if she’d been there all along. Lulu was just coming down the stairs along with the final guest – a tidy, tight-faced young man with a container of gingersnap cookies tucked under his arm.

He offered his right hand to November to shake. “Sorry I’m a tad late.”

November smiled, her gaze straying toward the cookies. “The important thing is you’re here. You can just set that down over there.”

He nodded and began to move away. November flexed her fingers, but averted her eyes so she didn’t appear too hawklike.

“Oh!” said Lulu. “I forgot. This is Mr. Christy.”

Mr. Christy smiled awkwardly as November nodded her dismissal.

“Over here, Lulu.”

Lulu moved closer, grinning. “How’d I do?”

“Just fine.” November watched Mr. Christy set his cookies down and head toward the refreshments. “Over here, Lulu.”

“What?” asked Lulu but she trailed her to the gingersnaps.

November pulled out her tape. “What’s Mr. Christy doing?” She bent over the container.

“He’s in the punch. I mean, he’s getting punch.”

“Good,” November murmured, tearing off a piece.

“What—”

“What’s he doing now?” She tilted the container, attaching the piece of tape and smoothing it flat.

“Still punched.”

November pinched the tape between her fingernails and pulled it off with a satisfying zing. “Perfect. Come on.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what you’re up to? With a party for gosh sakes?”

November didn’t feel like answering, already moving straight for the office room. She could sense Lulu sulking from somewhere over her shoulder as she sat at the desk and clicked on a computer file, the tape still stuck to her nails.

Blown up photos of a kitchen knife popped up on the screen. November peered at the tape, holding it up to the photos.

“I’m lost,” said Lulu. “What—”

“The fingerprints, Lulu! Look!”

She sat back to watch Lulu scrunch her eyebrows together. “You can’t see any fingerprints in that photo, and it’s too dark to see anything on the tape either.”

November shook her head while protesting. “No, they’re the same! Mr. Christy had the murder weapon! I’m trying to prove it.”

“Why would Mr. Christy have your kitchen knife?”

November raised her eyes to the ceiling. “It’s an image, dope.”

“An image of your kitchen knife.”

“Murder weapon!”

Lulu peered over at her, aghast. “Who was murdered with your kitchen knife?”

November slapped the tape down on the edge of the monitor and glared at her. “Why do you keep saying that?”

Lulu touched two fingers to the screen. “It has the same black smudge here, and the edge looks blunt.”

“Oh you can see that but not his obvious fingerprints?” November pushed her chair back to stand up.

A beginning gasp fell out of Lulu’s mouth but she interrupted herself. “Why do you want to kill Mr. Christy?”

Mr. Christy shouted from the other end of the door. “You in there?”

November hopped over to join him in the main party room, easing the door shut behind her. She smiled and turned her eyebrows up in a way she hoped looked apologetic. “Is there a problem?”

“Yeah, I just couldn’t help but notice I’m the only… male here? Is this intentional?”

“Oh sorry, yes I hope you don’t mind.” She moved to make room for a worried looking Lulu.

“No offense, but I do mind. It’s awkward.” Mr. Christy thrummed his fingers together down by his waist, staring at the table loaded down with cookies.

“Oh.” November followed his gaze. “Well, would you like to start the exchange early?”

He smiled. “I’d like that very much.”

They walked over to the table. “Everyone, start swapping! We should have six each.”

The ladies rushed to get to their containers, removing their cookies to replace them with new ones. Excited chatter rose to a cacophony, and November turned away, slipping her hands inside her pockets.

Lulu stared at her with a creased forehead. “You didn’t bring any cookies? I mean, make any?”

November gasped and slapped a hand to her cheek. “Oh I’m so stupid, I forgot.”

Lulu folded her arms. “No you didn’t. You’re up to something.” She looked over at Mr. Christy, who was passing around his cookies.

November curled her fingers around her notepad and slid it out of her pocket. “Do you have a pen?”

Lulu jumped and scrambled for the office.

Already the guests were sealing the lids on their containers. The chatter died down a little as they stared at November.

“The pen, Lulu!” November shouted. Lulu dashed back into sight, panting, and dropped a chipped red pen onto the pad.

“Thank you.” She supported the pad with her left hand and began to write furiously with the other. She flipped over a page and wrote more. And more.

“Just some farewell notes,” she said in answer to everyone’s unspoken question. “Lulu--” She handed over the pad. “Tear out a page for each guest please.”

Lulu squinted and November held back a laugh. “’Don’t eat the gingersnaps’? What even?”

November bent closer. “He’s a serial killer. The cookies aren’t safe.”

Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline, her mouth forming into a small “o” shape. “How do you know?” She whispered, the notepad paper crinkling under her grip.

November mimicked her expression. “Just do as I say? Or innocent women might die, from worst causes than a few too many calories.”

Lulu bit her lip and nodded. “Call me later. I mean… just tell me in person… about—forget it.” She tore out a sheet and handed it to one of the confused guests.

A murmur rose, growing louder once everyone had read the note. Mr. Christy gazed down at his, face red. From rage, probably.

November allowed herself a quick smile before clapping her hands once to be heard above the noise. “Thanks for coming, everyone. Enjoy the cookies except the gingersnaps and those touching it.”

She watched with satisfaction as Mr. Christy balled the paper in his fist and let his cookies drop roughly onto the table.

“Lulu, please clean up here. I’ll escort our guests to the door.”

November smiled with her eyes and gestured, before placing Mr. Christy’s container of cookies back in his arms. “Don’t forget these!”

Everyone but Lulu followed her up the stairs. The short hallway to the front door was brightly lit. November jogged forward to hold the door open for her guests, the fake wreath swinging on its hook as she did so.

“Good night!” she called as they went to find where they’d left their cars.

Mr. Christy was last. November had made sure of that, and she latched onto his arm, still wearing her broad smile. “Not you, Mr. Christy.” He froze in his tracks, not looking at her.

She took his container of cookies and set it on the floor. “Let’s go for a walk.” She pulled him out the door and onto the walk. A lantern lit up their view of the yard, and the crisp air bit at their lungs.

“No,” said Mr. Christy, tugging his arm away.

“But it’s such a lovely evening.” November pulled a kitchen knife out of her pocket and held the tip to his stiff back. She watched his shoulders tense and tightened her grip on his arm. “Are you sure?”

Mr. Christy began to walk with her across the yard, away from the street. Frost crunched underneath their shoes.

“I knew you’d change your mind!”

He looked over their shoulders, but November pushed the knife in deeper so that it ate through his sweater. “You’re crazy,” he gasped, voice strangled.

“Thank you.” She gave the knife a jab.

He groaned through his teeth. “What are you stabbing me in the back for?”

November laughed quietly, enjoying the way it carried off in the wind with a visible puff of her breath. “Too bad you’re funny too.”

“Just tell me what you’re abducting me for. I don’t have anything worth stealing.” His shoulders heaved as he drew in deep breaths.

“Oh I’m not abducting you, Mr. Christy. I’m not robbing you. I’m killing you.”

She stopped and turned him around. They stood behind the house, a stretch of woods at their backs. The lantern threw a yellow light over the patch of grass in front of their feet.

Mr. Christy’s next exhale came out shakier, the smoke wavering in the air before disappearing. November thought she heard him ask why.

“I know what you are, see. This fate has been coming to you, and as you can see no one is going to save you.”

She swung the knife up toward his neck, and a bead of blood glittered a trail down the blade. He moved his head back, look hardening. “What am I?” His lips formed the words with difficulty.

November moved her lips next to his ear. “A serial killer.”

Mr. Christy closed his eyes. “Lord help me.”

He flinched when she firmed the knife’s hold on his neck. “I saw your fingerprints on this knife. You’re a killer.”

He opened his eyes, staring sideways at her face and then down at the ground. “You’re not very good,” he whispered.

“What—” November started, but Mr. Christy’s fist slammed into her stomach. She gasped and pulled back, doubled over. Before she could even draw a breath, he had both her wrists in one hand and plucked the knife from her grasp.

Mr. Christy backed November up toward the house and her head bounced off a sill. He moved his hand up to her collarbone, knife pressed to her neck. She found she couldn’t move, only stare in surprise.

“Why did you target me?” he demanded.

“I—” The knife bit into the side of her throat and she gasped and coughed.

“Because you’re the serial killer, aren’t you? So why me?”

November stared into his eyes. Most of his face sat in shadows but she could see the rage – and alarm – there. She tried to smile, but felt her own blood leave her neck to mingle with his, and she mostly grimaced.

“I read all about you, Mr. Christy. I know your type. Disgusting.” She put as much fire into her tone as she could but found her throat way too dry.

“And what type is that?”

November pulled her lips apart to show her teeth. “Too nice.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not that nice,” Mr. Christy snapped. “Does the younger girl know?”

“You mean my sister?” November coughed. “Lulu is too stupid to understand these things.”

“I’d say that girl suspects more than you know.” Mr. Christy sighed and shook his head. He unpinned her, holding up his cell phone and pressing the call button. “I’m not a killer, but this will still hurt you more than it hurts me.”

November raised her eyebrows and reached to grab the knife, but Mr. Christy was still way too fast for her. His knuckles tore into her face, her head snapping back from the impact only to crash into the side of the house. She flopped forward onto the grass like a beaten rag doll, focusing on nothing but the pain raging through her head and the blood freezing on her cheeks. The edges of her vision turned black, her thoughts dipping to another level of consciousness. Red lights flashed behind her eyelids, and her lips twisted into a smile.

Justice was the best dessert, and she couldn’t wait to eat it.