For my father and for Marilyn

Writing a book may be a solitary pursuit, but most of us need plenty of help and support to reach the end. I’m no exception. It has been a delight to work with Michelle Vega, a talented editor who provided great ideas, as well as understanding at crucial moments. Many thanks to my longtime writing buddies: Mary Logue, Pete Hautman, Ellen Hart, and K. J. Erickson. I am grateful to the members of the National Cookie Cutter Collectors Club for their enduring passion and for their newsletter, Cookie Crumbs , which inspired many a detail in this story. Marilyn Throne has saved my life more than once with her depth of knowledge about the writing process and her no-nonsense support. Thank you, Marilyn. And, of course, my deep gratitude goes to my father and sister and to my husband, my loving cheerleaders.

Olivia Greyson’s eyes popped open to darkness—and to the sense that someone was downstairs. Her little Yorkie had heard something. Spunky hadn’t barked, but he was watching the bedroom door, ears perked.

Olivia’s beloved store, The Gingerbread House, occupied the entire first floor of her small Victorian home. In a town like Chatterley Heights, no one bothered with fancy burglar alarms, but Olivia—who had, after all, lived a dozen years in Baltimore—kicked herself for not knowing better. On the other hand, Chatterley Heights barely managed to provide enough crime for two officers, so what were the odds?

It must have been a dream. “That does it,” Olivia said. “No more chocolate-iced shortbread before bed. And that includes you, young man. Don’t think I didn’t see you lap up those crumbs.” Spunky objected with a whimper.