Bertha answered the doorbell. “There you are, Ms. Olivia,” she said, taking Olivia’s coat. She opened the hall closet door and began to search for a free hanger.
Olivia felt a twinge of guilt when Bertha, who was neither young nor slim, began to wheeze. “That’s an old coat,” Olivia said. “You can throw it anywhere.”
Without wavering from her goal, Bertha reached one arm behind her and flipped her hand dismissively. A second later, she said, “Aha,” and pulled out a free hanger. “It’s been a long time since we had any guests but you in the house. Not since Mr. Martin passed on. God rest his soul, Mr. Martin did love his dinner parties.”
Olivia lightly touched Bertha’s forearm. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Now, don’t you fret about me,” Bertha said. “My asthma is flaring up a bit, that’s all, although the only thing that ever caused me a problem is cats, which I never go near. Come along now, everyone is here but the lawyer. All gathered in the parlor, like in a play. There’s you and me, Hugh, Edward, and Ms. Tammy, looking very pretty. I never understood what made Ms. Clarisse take against her so sudden.”
The Chamberlain house was old enough to have a front parlor, where the family would once have received visitors. To Olivia, the room felt stern, with its dark-stained mahogany furniture. The only light piece in the room was a gray marble side table, which held a round silver tray filled with canapés. It was the perfect setting for the reading of a last will and testament.
Olivia and Clarisse had chosen cozier settings for their visits, such as the front porch in warm weather and Clarisse’s office, in front of the fireplace, during the damp cold of winter. Olivia wished for a welcoming fire now, but sherry would have to do. However, she was going through hers faster than a person with an empty stomach ought to, and she wanted to keep her mind clear. She sidled over to the canapés. The smoked salmon ones looked tempting, as did the mushrooms with cream sauce. Olivia took one of each, then added a second mushroom canapé to her plate. After all, the cream sauce might help soak up the sherry.
As she nibbled, Olivia looked over the little group. Edward Chamberlain sat alone in a wingback chair, leafing through a magazine, his untouched glass of sherry on a small table next to him. Smoke floated up from the cigarette in his right hand. Olivia was struck by how much he resembled his mother, yet how different he seemed from her. Like Clarisse, he was blond, with a red sheen to his hair that showed up in sunlight or, as here, under bright incandescent light. Normally, she wouldn’t gaze so directly at someone, but Edward seemed oblivious. Even the sudden tinkle of Tammy’s laughter didn’t cause so much as an unconscious flicker of his eyelids.
Tammy chattered happily to Hugh and Bertha. She wore yet another new dress that Olivia remembered seeing recently on a window mannequin at Lady Chatterley’s. It was a figure-hugging sheath that showed off Tammy’s slim figure, in a pale green that matched her eyes, which gazed adoringly at Hugh. She’d curled her straight hair and piled it on her head. She looked as if she already owned the Chamberlain house.
As for Hugh, he was his father’s son. In looks, anyway. He had to be thirty-five at least, because he had graduated from high school by the time Olivia was a freshman. He had an abundance of dark, wavy hair and Martin Chamberlain’s handsome face, softened by an easygoing nature. When Tammy left the group to fetch a tray of hors d’oeuvres, Hugh’s eyes followed her for a moment.
Olivia was refilling her sherry glass when the doorbell rang. She took one more smoked salmon canapé before selecting a chair that would give her the best view of everyone present.
Bertha reappeared, accompanied by Aloysius Smythe, a wispy thin man with thinning gray hair and hunched shoulders. Olivia recognized him from the Chatterley Café, where she sometimes went for a late lunch while Maddie minded the store. He always arrived around two, the slowest time for the café, carrying a bulging briefcase. He would settle at a table for four and spread papers all over, giving the impression he intended to stay all afternoon.
Olivia’s first impression of the attorney as elderly and foggy changed in an instant as he surveyed the room. He had quick, dark eyes that, when they reached Olivia’s face, seemed to bore into her mind. No wonder Clarisse had thought the world of him. When he began to push a small desk toward his audience, Hugh leaped up to help. Tammy smiled as Hugh lifted the desk as if it were a stage prop.
Olivia stole a quick glance at Edward, who was scowling in Hugh’s direction. Edward sat at the edge of his seat, as if he had intended to spring forward to help but wasn’t quick enough.
The attorney placed a small stack of papers on the desk in front of him and cleared his throat. “Good evening, all of you. As you know, you are here to hear the last will and testament of Clarisse Chamberlain. I was her attorney, as well as her husband’s, for over forty years, and it is with great personal distress that I fulfill my final professional service for her.”
Looking directly at Olivia, he said, “Ms. Greyson, you are the only person present to whom I have not been formally introduced, although I certainly know of you and your place of business from the many times Clarisse spoke of you. She always did so with great admiration and affection, which is why, three months ago, she added a codicil to her will naming you as an added beneficiary.”
Olivia swallowed hard as a ball of grief hit her in the solar plexus.
“By the way, as my full name is rather a mouthful, not to mention pretentious, everyone calls me by some version of my middle name, Willard. Some people call me Mr. Willard—or plain Will, possibly because of the irony. I would be pleased if you do so, as well.”
After a moment of confusion, Olivia got it. Will . . . Lawyers write wills. She decided on Mr. Willard; it was less likely to make her giggle.
“Now, to the business at hand,” Mr. Willard said, glancing down at the papers in front of him. “I will summarize most of Clarisse’s bequests, but I will also read certain sections that she asked me to read aloud.”
A rustling sound replaced the silence as Clarisse Chamberlain’s family and friends shifted in their seats, preparing themselves to hear what she thought of them. Olivia deposited her half-full glass of sherry on the side table next to her chair so she wouldn’t down it in one gulp.
Mr. Willard picked up one sheet of paper, again cleared his throat, and began. “The bulk of Clarisse Chamberlain’s personal estate is left to her two sons, Hugh and Edward, to be divided equally between them.”
Olivia heard sighing that sounded like relief, but she couldn’t tell where it had come from. When she shot them a quick glance, both Hugh and Edward showed impassive expressions. Tammy’s hand slid over Hugh’s intertwined fingers.
Mr. Willard consulted a second sheet of paper and continued. “This includes the house and grounds, as well as savings, investments, and so forth, all of which total an estimated worth of over one million dollars, after the subtraction of Clarisse’s other bequests. However, she stipulated that the property may be sold and investments liquidated only with the free consent of both brothers or their beneficiaries should one predecease the other.”
The attorney’s eyes sought out each brother, as if he were transmitting a silent message. “As for the Chamberlain businesses, Hugh and Edward, your mother wanted you to continue as you have been, working as a team. Profits and losses are to be split evenly between you. Either of you may buy out the other by joint agreement, but you must do so formally, as you would when acquiring any existing business. Should one son predecease the other while still a co-owner, his share will pass to his heirs, unless he has provided other arrangements in his own will. If he has no heirs, the businesses pass to the remaining brother or to his heirs.”
Interesting, Olivia thought. Assuming they knew the contents of their mother’s will, neither Hugh nor Edward appeared to have a compelling reason to kill Clarisse. Unless she had hinted that she intended to change her will before she died.
Olivia studied Hugh and Edward as long as she dared, which amoun
ted to about fifteen seconds each. Neither betrayed any particular emotion. Edward stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle. Hugh bent toward Tammy as she whispered something in his ear. He nodded but said nothing in return. They looked resigned and bored. All in all, that was about what Olivia would expect from two brothers with little in common who have been shackled together for life by their deceased mother.
“Clarisse made a number of bequests to charities, which include several animal rescue organizations, national groups committed to caring for the poor, the Chatterley Heights Food Shelf, and Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine for research relating to heart disease.”
How like Clarisse, Olivia thought. She was successful, healthy, and tougher than granite, but she knew others had not been as lucky.
“We are almost finished,” Mr. Willard said, “and I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.” Faint tittering greeted his sudden shift to informality. He picked up the third and final sheet of paper on his borrowed desk.
“Clarisse made two bequests to individuals outside her family. First, to Bertha Binkman, income for life, to be adjusted for inflation, and a home for life, as well, should she wish to stay here. At any time after her sixtieth birthday, or earlier in the case of illness, Bertha may retire with full benefits, including retirement income, long-term care insurance, and other supplemental health care coverage, as needed. At retirement, she may choose to stay in the house or have the use, for life, of the guest cottage.”
Bertha burst into noisy tears. Edward checked his watch, pushed to his feet, and began to wander. He selected a magazine from a stack on the table near the parlor doorway and leaned against the wall to leaf through it. Hugh and Tammy had their heads together, deep in whispered conversation.
As Bertha’s sobs subsided, Mr. Willard once again cleared his throat. He looked at Olivia and said, “Now we come to the codicil. It is short and simple. Clarisse wanted me to read it aloud.”
Mr. Willard paused, but no one besides Olivia paid any attention. Only Bertha had a good excuse, since her outburst had brought on a wheezing attack. Mr. Willard gave up and spoke directly to Olivia.
“Clarisse had the greatest liking and respect for you, as I’m sure you know,” he said. “Here is what she wrote: ‘With deep admiration and with gratitude for our many hours of conversation, I bequeath to Olivia Greyson the sum of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, to use as she sees fit. I hope she will invest some of it in her business, which has given me many hours of pleasure. In addition, I leave her my entire cookie-cutter collection, which at the time of this writing is valued at approximately thirty thousand dollars.’”
A magazine hit the parquet floor with a slap, breaking the utter silence that followed Mr. Willard’s reading of the codicil. Olivia couldn’t bring herself to look at anyone, so she picked up her sherry glass and stared at the amber liquid. Then she emptied it down her throat.
Chapter Fourteen
“Clarisse left you how much?” Maddie’s voice came through distorted, due to the fact that she was yelling into her cell phone.
“You heard me,” Olivia whispered. She was calling from the upstairs bathroom at the Chamberlain house, after excusing herself to Bertha as the group began to wander toward the dining room.
“Clarisse left me upwards of one hundred and eighty thousand, if you count her entire cookie-cutter collection. Maddie, are you sure no one can hear you? You’re completely alone?” She feared Lucas might be lurking nearby, absorbing her information. Not that Lucas was the type to blab; however, as far as Olivia was concerned, he was still in the running for suspect number five. Or maybe number six, if she counted herself. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars plus an incredible cookie-cutter collection might be considered worth killing for.
“Wow,” Maddie said. “So does everyone hate you now?”
“I’m sure they are plotting my demise as we speak.” Olivia turned on the overhead fan and flushed the toilet.
“What’s all that noise?” Maddie asked.
“Never mind, I don’t have much time. Where are you?”
“Dinner with Lucas was short but sweet, so now I’m back at The Gingerbread House, inventorying the kitchen supplies. Why?”
“Because I want you to do something for me,” Olivia said. “We’ll be back at work tomorrow morning, so we need to use this evening well. You’re better at Internet searches than I am. I want you to use my laptop to find out anything you can about Hugh and Edward, as well as the Chamberlain businesses. Get financial information, if you can. See if there’s anything about Tammy, too.”
“I’ll start with Tammy,” Maddie said.
“Why am I not surprised?”
Olivia hurried downstairs, hoping the group wasn’t already seated in the dining room. She hopped off the bottom step to find Tammy, arms crossed tightly across her chest, leaning against the parlor doorjamb.
Startled and breathless, Olivia said, “I hope I haven’t delayed dinner. I was just . . .” She gestured upward.
“Livie Greyson, I thought we were friends.” Tammy came about as close to hissing as the human voice can manage. Her eyes were narrowed to ice green slivers, and she must have been running her fingers through her hair because her elegant pile of curls was tumbling.
“Tammy, of course we are friends. We’ve been friends so long I don’t even remember how we met. What’s wrong?” Olivia had a good idea what was wrong, but she wanted to hear Tammy’s interpretation.
Tammy unglued an arm from her chest, grabbed Olivia’s, and yanked her into the parlor. She closed the door behind them.
“Shouldn’t we be getting to the dining room?” Olivia asked.
“You’ve already been gone long enough for everyone to notice,” Tammy said. She released Olivia’s arm and glared at her. “How could you?”
“How could I what? Tammy, I honestly don’t get why you’re so angry with me. If it’s about Clarisse’s will—”
“Of course it’s about the will. Clarisse must have been going soft in the head to hand over all that money to you. She’d only known you for a year.” Tammy plunked a fist on each hip. “Unless . . . How did you get her to write that bequest?”
“All right, that’s enough.” Olivia’s even temperament did have its limits. “I had no idea Clarisse was leaving me so much as a dime. If I’d had a clue, I would have tried to talk her out of it. I’m sorry if you don’t believe me, but it’s the truth.”
Olivia expected Tammy to explode, but instead her lower lip began to quiver. Olivia instinctively reached out to her. Tammy noticed the gesture, and tears gathered in her eyes. “Oh, Livie, I’m sorry, it isn’t your fault, and it isn’t even about the money. Although the least you could do is let Hugh have the cookie-cutter collection. It belonged to his mother, after all.”
“And to Edward’s,” Olivia added, and immediately wished she hadn’t. Quickly, she continued. “What did you mean? What isn’t my fault?”
Tammy shrugged. “Oh, you know, that Clarisse loved you like a daughter and couldn’t stand me.” She walked to an ornate mirror hanging on the wall over a marble-topped chest of drawers. “She hated me, you know. She told me in no uncertain terms.” Leaning toward the mirror, Tammy took a bobby pin from her hair, reworked a curl, and moved on to the next.
“But why would she dislike you?”
Tammy frowned at a repaired curl. “Because of Jasmine.” She yanked the pin from the offending curl and started it again. “Because Clarisse thought I’d gotten Jasmine to run away and disappear forever. Believe me, if I could have done that, I would have, but Jasmine was tough. I almost liked her.” Jabbing the pin back in place, she added, “If I hadn’t hated her so much for trying to take Hugh away from me. Then she left, simply disappeared into the air, and Clarisse blamed me. Would you believe, she threatened to write Hugh out of her will if he insisted on marrying me? It’s true. She said it to my face.”
Holding a lock of hair twisted around two fingers, Tam
my swiveled her head toward Olivia. “Without her precious Jasmine around, Clarisse wanted Hugh to marry you, you know.”
“Hugh, but not Edward?”
“I can’t see why she’d want you to marry Edward. She never seemed to worry much about him. I think it’s because Hugh is the elder son, and Clarisse was old-fashioned enough to care about that kind of thing.”
Olivia doubted that but kept it to herself.
“Anyway,” Tammy said, “Hugh reminded Clarisse of Martin, so she had a soft spot for him.”
That, Olivia could believe.
Tammy finished repairing her hair and nodded her satisfaction to the gilt-edged mirror. “None of that matters now, though. There’s nothing Clarisse can do to keep Hugh and me apart.”
The dining room was nearly empty by the time Olivia and Tammy arrived. As it turned out, no one had missed them. Due to a wheezing fit, Bertha had kept the corn chowder on simmer while she searched for her inhaler. Edward was in Clarisse’s office with the door closed, taking a cell phone call from a manager at one of the Chamberlain companies. Mr. Willard and Hugh sat at one corner of the dining room table, an open bottle of Glenlivet Single Malt Scotch between them. Olivia recognized the bottle because her ex-husband had begun drinking it as he became more successful. He always left the bottle on display.
Tammy walked right over to Hugh, slid onto his lap, and planted a kiss on his cheek. Mr. Willard’s welcoming smile faded. He looked so uncomfortable, Olivia felt it her duty to rescue him. Perhaps he would be grateful enough to answer a few questions. She caught his eye and nodded a greeting. Mr. Willard responded at once by slipping out of his chair with as little movement as possible and joining Olivia by the sideboard.
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