“Could Martin really stop Hugh and Edward from marrying anyone they wanted?”
Bertha pondered for a few moments before saying, “I don’t believe Mr. Martin would have cut off either of those boys, I really don’t. But when Jasmine disappeared, Ms. Clarisse accused him of getting rid of her.” With a little gasp, Bertha put her hand to her mouth. “I don’t mean Mr. Martin had her killed her or anything, Ms. Clarisse never said that, but maybe he bribed her to leave? Mr. Martin told her not to be ridiculous, he’d never waste money that way.”
“Martin said that?”
“I remember like it was yesterday,” Bertha said with an emphatic nod. “I think Ms. Clarisse believed him, too. That man never wasted a penny.”
Chapter Twenty
After Bertha left The Gingerbread House, Olivia and Maddie huddled together in the cookbook alcove to compare notes and plan their next moves. The alcove’s two small armchairs, placed so customers could glance through baking books, allowed Olivia and Maddie to keep an eye on the store. If Ellie needed help, one or both of them could spring into sales mode.
“So as I understand it,” Maddie said, consulting the notebook on her lap, “you want me to go to the library and find out from Heather how to search obituaries in Baltimore papers, right?”
“Or any mention of Jasmine Dubois. It’s a long shot, but everything we’ve learned so far—the private detective agency’s letter, the phone number on the note from Faith—it all makes me think Jasmine went to Baltimore after leaving Chatterley Heights.”
“I wish we had a last name for Faith,” Maddie said.
“I have a feeling we’ll find Faith when we figure out what happened to Jasmine.”
Olivia reached in the pocket of her linen slacks and pulled out her cell phone. “It’s eleven thirty. The noon crowd will be arriving soon. I have an appointment with Mr. Willard at one fifteen, his office, so I should be back by two thirty at the latest. Then you can split for the library, but be back by four. Mom has a yoga class.”
“Of course she does.”
Ellie Greyson-Meyers’s petite form appeared in the alcove entryway. “Customer alert,” she said. “A van pulled up out front, and five women are heading up the walk. They look like they mean business. Oh, and Sheriff Del called. He’s on his way over to talk to you, Livie.”
“Uh-oh,” Maddie said after Ellie left. “What did you do this time?”
“Smirking is not attractive.”
“But I do it so well.”
An errant wave fell over Olivia’s eye and she slid it behind her ear. “Stow my notes in the kitchen for me, would you?”
“Sure.” Maddie took a moment to smooth the wrinkles out of her form-fitting black jeans. “You do realize that Del will find out you are asking questions. Chatterley Heights is a rumor mill, and a darned good one.”
“Your civic pride is duly noted.”
“I’m only saying, Del might not be in the best of pro-Livie moods.”
Olivia shrugged with a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “I never actually promised to stop asking questions. Del can be as mad as he wants; I don’t intend to stop until I know who killed Clarisse.”
Sheriff Del arrived in uniform, which put a damper on cookie-cutter commerce. Everyone in The Gingerbread House, including Maddie and Ellie, watched with open curiosity as Olivia led him into the cookbook alcove. He hung his hat on a display stand mixer, pursed his lips, and strode around the perimeter of the alcove.
“Del, please, stop pacing and sit down.” Olivia pointed to the chair Maddie had vacated. “A lot of our customers lately are overly curious right now, and I’d rather not invite more rumors.”
“I was hoping for more privacy,” Del said.
“I told you, I need to keep an eye on the store in case—”
“In case Maddie and Ellie need you, I know.”
Del paused in midpace and glared at a large rolling pin made of shiny marble with two-tone gray swirls. It was one of Olivia’s favorite pieces. She kept it on a low shelf near the cookbook browsing table. She didn’t take Del’s frown as disapproval of her pride and joy, since she doubted he even saw it.
“I’ll make it quick,” Del said, dropping into an armchair. “I just drove back from Howard County General.” He was speaking so quietly that Olivia had to lean toward him to hear. “Sam came out of his coma.”
“That’s great news. Will he be okay?”
“Looks like it.”
“Was he able to remember anything?”
Del shifted in his chair so he could face Olivia. “He remembers finding a bag of cookies on his front porch when he got home for lunch. The bag said The Gingerbread House—he remembers that, too. But nothing afterwards. I checked with Polly at the Food Shelf. She couldn’t tell if any of the cookies you delivered went missing, but the bag didn’t. She took that home.”
“Lots of folks keep those bags,” Olivia said. “My mother has piles of them.”
“I’m not accusing you, Livie. I have to ask, were you aware of Sam’s schedule?”
With an attempt at a smile, she said, “Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t?”
“I see your point. Maybe I’d want to, but as a sheriff I’d have to apply a grain or two of salt.”
“As it happens, I did know Sam’s schedule, more or less. I suspect everyone in town does. But I did not know about his diabetes.”
Del’s half smile lasted a picosecond. “That’s the problem. Sam lives on a dead-end street with only four houses. No one else was home all morning, so no witnesses.”
Olivia leaned her back against the velvet-covered back of her armchair. “I truly had nothing to do with this. I wish you could believe me.”
Del leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His goldflecked brown eyes had turned to granite. “I never believed that you attacked Sam,” he said. “But I think you had something to do with it.”
Olivia felt the heat of anger flush her face as she sprang from her chair. She towered over Del’s chair, arms crossed over tight fists.
Unmoved by her reaction, Del said, “You told me about the letter to Clarisse that Sam delivered, remember? From a private detective agency?” Del’s eyes narrowed. “What I suspect you did not tell me was that Sam knew something about what that letter contained.”
Olivia stiffened. “Sam Parnell likes to keep secrets, when it suits him.”
“On Monday morning, he was late with his route, and he hinted it was because he’d had a long talk with you. He also indicated that he had discussed the contents of an important letter with you, and you repaid him with cookies.”
Olivia’s legs went wobbly. She took a deep breath and released it slowly, as her mother was always telling her to do. “Did Sam actually tell you all of that or was it someone else? How do you know your informant was reliable?”
“My informant was your close friend, Tammy Deacons. Sam told her when he dropped off her mail.”
So Tammy was home on Monday.
Olivia sank back in her seat. “Remember, you were called away while we were talking about the letter to Clarisse.”
“You could have called and told me later.”
“I’ve been a bit busy, in case you haven’t noticed.” Olivia knew she was being stubborn, but Del’s high-handed treatment made her seethe. It reminded her of her ex-husband.
Del stood up and reached for his hat. “I won’t keep you from your customers any longer,” he said. “I still don’t know you all that well, Livie, but I have a bad feeling right now. My instincts tell me you’re holding something back. I want you to promise me that if you find out anything relevant to Clarisse’s death—or the attack on Sam, for that matter—you’ll come straight to me.” Del stared hard at her. With mesmerizing precision, his right hand rotated the rim of his hat through the loose grip of his left thumb and forefinger.
“If I find anything solid,” Olivia said, “of course I’ll pass it on to you.” She meant it, too. She had suspicions, observations, and, okay
, that note from a “Faith” and the letter from Clarisse, but nothing that qualified as solid. That little prick of guilt wasn’t strong enough to pierce her anger.
As Del headed toward the alcove entrance, Olivia said, “I do need something from you.”
Del turned and gave her a wary look. “And that would be?”
Olivia lowered her voice slightly, to ensure she would not be heard outside the alcove. “I need to know if you consider Lucas Ashford a suspect.”
“Livie—”
“Maddie and Lucas are dating. I need to know if my best friend and business partner is becoming serious about someone who might be a murderer. If I’m not convinced Maddie is safe, I’ll investigate him by myself, so you might as well tell me.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Del plopped his hat on his head. “All right, no, I do not consider Lucas a suspect in Clarisse’s death. He spent that afternoon and evening at a friend’s house, helping to fix a complicated plumbing problem. The friend and his wife confirmed this. The job wasn’t finished until past midnight, and the couple insisted Lucas sleep in their guest room. And before you ask, both witnesses got up in the night to visit the facilities, and each heard Lucas snoring. Are you satisfied, or should I insist on a lie detector test?”
“Not necessary,” Olivia said. “Those tests aren’t admissible in court, anyway. Thanks, Del.”
“Don’t mention it. Ever.”
Olivia watched Del’s back disappear into the main sales area of the store. Lucas’s alibi sounded solid enough, and she was inclined to drop him from her suspects list. However, there was still the question of why Hugh and Edward lowered the interest rate so significantly on Lucas’s loan from Clarisse. Even if he hadn’t murdered Clarisse, Lucas could be guilty of blackmail.
Mr. Willard’s law office occupied the top floor of a narrow, two-story Georgian-style building on the east side of the town square. The building’s ground floor housed Olivia’s second favorite store, after The Gingerbread House—the Book Chat bookstore. To reach the stairs leading up to Mr. Willard’s office, she had to walk through the cookbook section and then the mysteries. It took all her willpower not to slow down and skim the titles. One of the downsides to running a store of her own was that she couldn’t linger in other shops during normal working hours. She consoled herself by breathing in the crisp smell of new books.
Olivia rejected the new-looking elevator in favor of the wooden stairs, well worn in the middle. At the top, she came to Mr. Willard’s frosted glass door, left ajar. The hinges squeaked as she edged the door inward.
“Come on in,” Mr. Willard’s voice called from an inner office. The outer office must once have been for a secretary, but today no one occupied the chair behind a battered wooden desk. An old electric typewriter, unplugged and forlorn, hinted that the office hadn’t served its original purpose for many years.
Olivia made her way toward Mr. Willard’s voice, past floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with law books. Without thinking, she dragged a finger across several spines and collected a layer of dust, which triggered a sneeze.
The inner office door opened and Mr. Willard’s head appeared. “I am so sorry for the state of my office,” he said. “I’ve done all my own administrative work for years, so I haven’t needed staff. However, a regular housekeeper might not be a bad idea.” He gestured for Olivia to enter. She couldn’t help noticing his almost skeletal hands, with the joints protruding from long, thin fingers. He looked as if he could use a few decorated cookies.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” Olivia said, taking a seat across from Mr. Willard’s desk. A quick glance told her the real work was done in his office. A new model laptop sat on his desk, closed and pushed to one side, and neat piles of legal-size papers covered at least half of the work space. File cabinets lined three walls. A large laser printer stood at the ready on a side table.
“My time is my own, so I am really quite flexible.” Mr. Willard’s smile added a moment of fullness to his cavernous cheeks. “What can I do for you, Ms. Greyson?”
“Call me Livie, please.” She took a moment to gather her thoughts. She had thought through what she wanted to discuss with him, but she had to proceed with care. “I have one simple request, but there’s more, much more, that I’d like to discuss with you. Whether I can do that depends on . . . well, on a possible conflict of interest. I know I’m being vague, but . . .”
Mr. Willard sat up straight, his eyes bright. “In fact, I am intrigued,” he said. “Might my potential conflict of interest have to do with the Chamberlain family, by any chance?”
Olivia had been concentrating so hard on how to approach the topic, she’d been holding her breath. She released it so fast her cheeks puffed out. “Yes, it would, absolutely.”
“Then you may put your mind at rest. My long association with the Chamberlain family ended with Clarisse’s death. Hugh and Edward preferred to hire the services of a large law firm in DC, so I am not privy to any confidential legal information about them.”
“Good, then I want to hire you. Or put you on retainer, if that’s the right term.”
“It is. Consider yourself my client. What may I do for you? I hope Sheriff Del has not designated you a suspect in Clarisse’s death? I’m not a criminal attorney, of course, but I can certainly recommend an excellent one.”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Good.” Mr. Willard scraped back his chair. “May I offer you a cappuccino? I was about to make some when you arrived.”
“Cappuccino? I think I hired the right lawyer.”
Mr. Willard’s laugh was deeper than Olivia would have expected, given his thinness. “While the machine performs its magic,” he said, “why don’t you start with the simple request you mentioned?”
“All right, I need a list of the cookie cutters in Clarisse’s collection, and I need it right away.” When Mr. Willard’s eyebrows arched, she added, “I’m so glad you are my attorney because now I can explain.”
Mr. Willard held up one hand. “Let me froth the cappuccinos and we can discuss this in a comfortable fashion. Something tells me it will be complicated.”
Now that she knew she could talk over her plans with Mr. Willard, Olivia could hardly wait to start. Besides, she needed to get back to the store soon, or Maddie wouldn’t have time to visit the library.
Cups finally in hand, Olivia began. “I’ve been doing some digging into Clarisse’s death. Yes, I know it could be dangerous, but I don’t care. Clarisse was my dear friend. Besides, now someone is trying to implicate me. So if you’re going to try to talk me out of it, you can save your breath.”
“Then I shall save my breath. Please go on.”
“Maddie Briggs is the only one who knows what I’m doing. She has been helping. I don’t want to put her in danger, but if you knew Maddie . . . Anyway, I started with five suspects and have more or less eliminated two—Lucas Ashford and Bertha Binkman. Unless you know something about them that I don’t?”
Mr. Willard shook his head. “I’d be surprised if either of them was guilty of murder, especially Bertha.”
“So that leaves three suspects.”
“Let me guess,” Mr. Willard said. “The brothers Chamberlain and Hugh’s fiancée, Tammy Deacons.”
“Wow, you’re good.”
“It wasn’t that difficult. Why Ms. Deacons, if I may ask?”
Olivia sipped her cooling coffee. “Tammy is an old friend of mine; it isn’t easy for me to think of her killing someone. She has always been intense in her emotions. Also determined. She has been in love with Hugh Chamberlain since . . . Well, I don’t even know since when, but she has never wavered. She hated Clarisse for turning Hugh against her—at least, that’s how Tammy saw it. I don’t really know what happened.”
Mr. Willard cleared his throat. “I thought of Clarisse as an old friend as well as a client, and I believe it was in friendship that she discussed with me her problems with Ms. Deacons. In fact, Clarisse liked t
he young woman for her strength of will and her persistence. However, Hugh became intrigued by another woman, and, as I recall, Clarisse thought her more suitable.”
“Jasmine Dubois?”
“Precisely. When Ms. Dubois left town abruptly, Clarisse confronted Martin, thinking he had driven her away. He denied doing so, vehemently. Clarisse then became convinced that Ms. Deacons had somehow threatened or tricked Ms. Dubois into leaving. Another cappuccino?”
“What? Oh, no thanks, I need to get back to the store.” Olivia handed over her empty cup. “Did Clarisse ever find any evidence that Tammy was involved?”
“Not that I am aware of. Clarisse never spoke of it again.” Mr. Willard pulled open a packed file drawer and began shuffling through the hanging files. “Here it is,” he said as he lifted out one thin, buff folder. “This is the list of cookie cutters in Clarisse’s collection. We keep it updated for assessment and insurance purposes.” He placed the file on his desk, in front of Olivia. “You don’t have to tell me why you need this so urgently, of course. . . .”
Olivia slid the file closer. “Actually, I’m hoping for your help.” She outlined her plan to host a memorial on Sunday. “Clarisse was looking at some of her cookie cutters when she died. I think those cutters are clues to her murder.”
As Mr. Willard’s thin face tightened with growing concern, Olivia steeled herself for an argument.
“My dilemma,” she concluded, “is how to make sure all three suspects attend. I might be able to convince Tammy that she and Hugh should for appearance’s sake, but I doubt Edward would care. I wondered if you might have some ideas?”
Even Mr. Willard’s gray eyebrows were thin. When they shot up, they nearly disappeared into a fold of skin. He reached across his desk, retrieved the cookie-cutter file, and opened it. He turned the pages one by one, all the time tapping one long forefinger against his lips. He seemed to be thinking rather than reading.
Cookie Dough or Die Page 20
