I scurried after her.
“I thought we should try to make some cookies,” she said. “They may not be as good as Martha’s, but what’s the worst that can happen?”
“Isn’t that what the victim always says before she enters the dark house alone in those B movies with a serial killer waiting in the basement?”
Eleanor smirked as she pulled out a bag of flour and some sticks of butter and smoothed a crumpled piece of paper onto the counter. “All we have to do is follow this recipe and we’ll be fine.”
“What are we making?”
“I call them Kitchen Sink Cookies.”
We set to work. Eleanor measured out the ingredients while I mixed. Rolled oats, walnuts, sugar, and three eggs went in after the flour and butter.
“Wait—there’s no coconut in this recipe,” I demurred as Eleanor dumped in half a bag of shredded coconut.
“I know, I like it, though.” She followed up with a mountain of chocolate chips, popping a handful into her mouth.
I peered at the paper again. “And no chocolate chips, either.”
“Details, details.” Eleanor waved a hand in the air. “Everyone knows that chocolate makes everything better.”
The batter was so heavy by this point that we had to take turns mixing it by hand because it was too dense for the beaters.
Eleanor peered at the recipe again. “Ah, rats! I knew I’d forget something. The vanilla! Never mind, I have bourbon. Should work just as well.” She pulled a flask out of the back pocket of her jeans and sloshed a glug into the bowl.
We dropped it by huge clumps onto baking sheets and slid them into the oven. Soon a wonderful aroma wafted through the store.
“This should entice the customers,” I said, breathing in deeply. “Even if they don’t taste good, they smell great.”
I was just taking the first batch out of the oven when the doorbell jangled and Martha swept in.
“Uh-oh, caught in the act,” Eleanor muttered.
“What on earth are you two doing?” Martha took a small piece off one cookie and bit into it gingerly while we held our breath. “Amazingly good. I think you two should make all the treats from now on.”
“Now look what you’ve done,” I said to Eleanor. “This is why I pretend not to know how to fix the garbage disposal at home.”
Eleanor didn’t answer. She was too busy finishing her first cookie and reaching for another. She drank like a fiend and ate whatever she wanted, but her body was lithe and fit, and the energy fairly sparkled from her. There were laugh lines around her eyes, her hair was completely white, but her skin was luminous with hardly a wrinkle.
Martha shook her head sorrowfully. “There’s no justice in this world. Look at her, Daisy. And she never goes to the doctor either.”
Martha’s physician saw her more often than he did his own mother.
“If I’m going to take my clothes off in front of a man, I need more of a payoff than a chit to pick up some pills.” Eleanor licked melted chocolate off her lips. “My arteries are all clear, anyway. Those lipid thingys don’t stand a chance against high-octane vodka. And I run five miles every day.”
I nodded. I knew she did yoga, too. “I walk Jasper a lot and I think the crossword puzzles help keep my brain active. How about you, Martha?”
Eleanor snorted. “The only running she ever does is to the shoe sale at Macy’s.”