“Are you kidding, Livie? I owe you big time for passing on that story about Horace Chatterley. We do have access to Chatterley DNA, and we’ve already begun testing the skull.”
“I aim to please,” Olivia said. “What if it isn’t a Chatterley skull?”
Del shrugged. “At least we’ll know that much. If it is a Chatterley, the forensic folks will try to estimate the age of the skull. That will help us determine if it’s Horace Chatterley. Incidentally, I checked your story, and you were right. After the Stock Market Crash of 1929, Horace was destitute. His family kicked him out, so he moved into the Chatterley Boarding House. The place was well built, but without upkeep it must have declined steadily. Apparently, Horace remained arrogant even after his dramatic downfall. He treated nearly everyone with equal disdain, so he might not have been particularly popular with the other boarding house inhabitants.” Del peered into the refrigerator and selected a container. He frowned at the contents before handing the container to Olivia. “Is this the right stuff?” he asked.
“Looks like cream to me.” She sniffed it. “Fresh, too. Before we return to the living room, were you planning to tell me what we’re supposed to look for as we examine those cutters? Are you hoping to learn about anything in particular? I’d rather not appear too ignorant in front of Anita.”
Del chuckled and kissed Olivia on the tip of her nose.
“Was that it? That’s the thanks I get for telling you about Horace?”
“Not enough, huh.” Del sighed and shook his head. “About those cutters, I’m hoping for ideas, impressions, connections . . . anything to jumpstart our thinking about this case. Our top priority, of course, is the more recent murder. The plywood nailed over the hole wasn’t more than twenty years old. We think Horace’s killer patched the wall after depositing Horace inside. This is all still speculation, of course.”
“Was there any sign of the original patch?” Olivia asked.
Del leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Some nail holes. The original patch was probably just as obvious as the second one, so I suspect Kenny Vayle’s body was deposited behind that temporary wall as a matter of convenience.” Del’s eyes appeared to sparkle as the overhead light caught the gold flecks in their brown depths. “You know, if that skull belonged to Horace Chatterley, I’d get a real kick out of determining what happened to him.”
“I get that.” Olivia filled the cream pitcher and put the container back in the refrigerator. “I’d love to know how and why those cookie cutters wound up in the wall. Are they clues, or were they planted to incriminate someone? Did Horace have them with him when he died, and if so, why? Did Kenny Vayle rip out that wall and find the skull and the cookie cutters, or was he already dead before the wall was reopened?”
“Good questions,” Del said. “This is a complex case, which is what makes it so fascinating. Are we really dealing with two completely separate murders, or are they somehow connected? All we know at this point is that both men were probably murdered.”
“Well,” Olivia said, “that’s something. How was Kenny murdered?”
“Probably blows to the back of the neck and base of the skull, given the damage to some of the neck bones.”
“Blows . . . Does that mean—?”
The kitchen door opened and Maddie poked her head inside. “The natives are getting restless.” Del picked up the tray and Olivia followed him back to the living room. She noticed at once that Anita had collected all five cookie cutters and arranged them in a row on the coffee table. She picked up one cutter and examined it under a small magnifying glass. Intense concentration made her lovely face look tight and angry. Olivia and Maddie poured coffee in silence.
Anita lowered the magnifying glass to her lap and sat up straight. “These cutters,” she said, “are the real deal. They are genuine antiques, almost certainly dating back as far as the late seventeen or early eighteen hundreds. Four are tin, handmade by experienced tin workers. You can tell from the soldering, which is neat and precise. The fifth cutter is more recent—I’m guessing late nineteenth or early twentieth century. It is made of copper, rather than tin, and the design is most unusual. These five alone would fetch perhaps thousands of dollars in a bidding war among serious collectors.” Anita took a deep breath and released it slowly. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but these pieces should not be allowed to leave Chatterley Heights. They are museum quality. When the time comes, I would like to be involved in tracing their histories and arranging their display. They should be kept secure at all times. Above all, avoid damaging them any more than you already have.” Anita gave Del a pointed look.
“Thank you, Anita,” Del said. “That was most helpful. I’ll relay your concerns to the mayor. As long as the cutters are in police custody, I will keep them in our safe.” He took a sip of coffee, and said, “I’d like to hear from everyone else, too.” When no one responded, Del added, “I asked you four to take a look at these cookie cutters because I was hoping to hear different perspectives. I feel more confident that these might be part of the Chatterley collection, but I also need to understand why they were left in that wall.”
Aunt Sadie touched Maddie’s arm, and said, “Dear one, would you take my cup? I’d like to see those darlings again, if I may. I might have an idea or two.” The slight tremor in Aunt Sadie’s hand caused the cup to rattle on its saucer. Maddie quickly rescued it, while Anita, with delicate care, transferred the cutters to Aunt Sadie’s lap. Olivia felt the hushed anticipation in the room. One by one, Aunt Sadie held the cutters in the palm of her hand and closed her eyes. A gentle smile played across her face as if each cutter were sharing its story with her.
After several minutes of silence, Aunt Sadie nodded and opened her eyes. “I don’t know if any of my wanderings will be helpful, Del, but here goes. I have always been fascinated by our Chatterley origins. Many years ago, I spent several summers helping to catalog items in the mansion. I do so hope the research can be completed someday.”
Much as she loved Aunt Sadie, Olivia wished she would skip the background and spill what she knew about those cutters. She hadn’t felt this impatient since her tenth birthday party, when her parents made her wait to open up the ice skates she’d so wanted.
“I’m an old lady now,” Aunt Sadie said, “but I still remember a great deal of what I read so many years ago. I’m surprised by how much more returned to me as I held these cutters.” Aunt Sadie gently stroked the metal shapes on her lap before moving them to the table, where everyone could see them.
No one else spoke. Even Anita’s dark eyes widened with interest as Aunt Sadie pointed toward one of the cutters.
“Now,” Aunt Sadie said, “this sweet little three-petaled flower shape appeared in one of the diaries kept by Chatterley wives. You see, I was at loose ends after tutoring steadily during the school year, so every summer I volunteered to help sort through the contents of the mansion. The town had no funds to pay me, of course. This was after the last Chatterley had passed on. Or so we thought. Anyway, at the time, I was cataloging the contents of the mansion’s master bedroom.”
Aunt Sadie chuckled softly. “Bless those Chatterleys, they never parted with anything. I spent an entire summer on that room alone.” Aunt Sadie ran her index finger along the outline of the flower. “We discovered Charlotte Chatterley’s diary, which she’d written over the course of one year, 1859. During that period, she became pregnant and delivered triplet daughters.” Aunt Sadie picked up the cutter and held it up for everyone to see. “Charlotte commissioned this three-petaled flower from a local tin worker to commemorate the safe arrival of her daughters. Can you see the tiny curve at the top of each petal? It was meant to be a curl. Charlotte wrote in her diary that she was delighted with her curly-haired daughters, though her husband was greatly disappointed because she hadn’t produced three sons.” Aunt Sadie returned the flower cutter to her lap.
Olivia d
id some quick math in her head. “Aunt Sadie, did Charlotte live long enough to know Horace Chatterley?”
Aunt Sadie nodded. “Yes, indeed. She was his aunt, though not an especially fond one. In a much later diary, she described Horace as arrogant and rude. She predicted misery for his future wife.”
“I wonder if Charlotte would have predicted his murder,” Olivia said.
“The thought might have occurred to her,” Aunt Sadie said, “though she died well before Horace left his family for a string of younger women.” She selected two more cookie cutters, the boy and the girl. “I should point out that all five cutters are almost certainly one-of-a-kind.” She gave Anita a questioning glance.
Anita nodded. “Several are similar to common designs, but each has a unique aspect.”
Aunt Sadie placed the boy and girl shapes on the coffee table. “These two cutters go together.” When she slid the cutters toward each other, their outstretched hands interlocked.
“Ooh, how adorable,” Maddie said. “Who are those two?”
“These sweet little ones are very old. During my summer research, I found no mention of who first commissioned them, or when they were made. Dear old Frederick P. wasn’t much of a record keeper, and neither was his long-suffering wife. After a few generations, though, I started to notice irregular references to these cutters. Finally, I realized they were being passed down to the first-born Chatterley son on the occasion of his marriage.”
“Chatterley husbands tended to favor philandering,” Olivia said. “Maybe their wives weren’t so fond of those particular cutters. Did anyone mention their disappearance after Horace moved out of the family mansion?”
A cluster of wrinkles gathered between Aunt Sadie’s pale eyebrows as she thought back to her summer in the Chatterley mansion. “Not that I remember,” she said. “I wasn’t able to read all the family diaries, and there were other writings, as well. If it’s important, I believe many of those papers are still stored upstairs in the mansion’s attic.” With a wistful sigh, Aunt Sadie said, “Someone really ought to finish reading all those fascinating journals.”
Anita squirmed in her chair, impatient to move on. “What about those last two cutters?” she asked, nodding toward the remaining shapes. “One looks like a pregnant pig, and the other is beyond my comprehension. I’m usually quite good at identifying cookie cutter shapes.”
Aunt Sadie clapped her hands like an excited child. “I saved those two for last. I must admit, I was rather proud of myself when I identified these shapes so many years ago.” She picked up the portly pig. “This guy was commissioned by Caroline Chatterley in 1805. What looks like pregnancy is actually meant to represent the portly figure the Chatterley men often achieved as they entered middle age.”
“Whoa,” Maddie said. “Pigs are naturally portly. This fellow is downright bloated. I’m guessing Caroline had issues with her husband. Now I think of it, I don’t remember ever hearing about a Chatterley wife who actually liked her husband.”
“Oh, I do believe that Imogene truly loved Henry Chatterley,” Aunt Sadie said. “Although it’s true that Henry was not a typical first-born Chatterley man. In fact, when I ran across references to him elsewhere, it was clear he’d always maintained his slim figure.”
Olivia flashed back to Aunt Sadie’s story about Henry Chatterley. “He actually changed his surname to Jones, right? So in a sense he rejected the Chatterley legacy. I wonder . . .”
Del snapped to attention. “Remember, I didn’t grow up in Chatterley Heights, so I’ve never heard anything about Henry Chatterley. Tell me.” He listened while Aunt Sadie repeated her story about Henry’s marriage to Imogene Jones. “So Henry Chatterley became Henry Jones,” he said. “Jones is a common name. Aunt Sadie, do you know what happened to Henry after he took his wife’s name? Did he disappear? Is that what you were wondering, Livie?”
“Partly,” Olivia said. “I was also wondering if Henry might have had anything to do with his father’s murder.”
“Oh, I’m sure that isn’t true.” Aunt Sadie sounded genuinely alarmed. “Henry was such an honorable man. He became a successful attorney, and he used his earnings to help his mother and siblings after Horace lost what was left of the family fortune in the stock market crash. I can’t believe he would murder his own father, no matter how irresponsible Horace had been. What would he gain, after all?”
Del shrugged. “Rage can make people do things they wouldn’t even consider under other circumstances.”
“Well, I’ll never believe it,” Aunt Sadie said.
Del wisely dropped the subject.
Aunt Sadie picked up the last of the five antique cookie cutters, a confusing combination of curves, corners, and stemlike protrusions. “I’ll admit, I would never have identified this shape without help from Abigail Chatterley’s personal diary.”
“Abigail?” Maddie took the strange cutter from Aunt Sadie’s palm. “Wasn’t Abigail the first Chatterley wife, the one married to Frederick P.? That would mean this cutter dates back to the early 1700s, and it doesn’t look anywhere near old enough.”
“No, Maddie, dear.” Aunt Sadie retrieved the cutter. “This is a much newer cutter, commissioned by a second Abigail Chatterley. She traced the outline in her journal, but she neglected to mention what it was. I thought perhaps she was simply doodling. Abigail was artistic, you see. She did lovely free-form embroidery. We found her work in a cedar chest in one of the mansion bedrooms. As I remember, we moved that chest to the attic. I assume it was preserved with care during the mansion’s more recent renovation.”
“Lucas would have seen to that,” Maddie said. “I’ll ask him. But, Aunt Sadie, who was this second Abigail? Would she have known Horace?”
“Oh, didn’t I say?” Aunt Sadie reluctantly handed the cutter to Del. “She was Horace’s mother. Poor woman. She must have been mortified when Horace deserted his wife and children for a younger woman.”
“A scarlet woman, too,” Maddie said. “At least, that’s what Abigail must have thought.”
“Oh, I’m not so sure.” A tremor slowed Aunt Sadie’s hand as she tried to push an errant lock of gray hair off her forehead. “Remember, it was Henry, Abigail’s grandson, who took care of the family his father had abandoned. And he did so with Imogene’s full approval. In the end, the family Horace left behind fared far better than he did. There’s a certain justice in that, don’t you think?”
Chapter Eighteen
Olivia and Maddie practically floated across Aunt Sadie’s porch after the fascinating evening they’d spent discussing cookie cutters from the Chatterley collection. They didn’t notice the chill until they began their walk back to The Gingerbread House. The moment they left the shelter of the porch, a forceful wind nearly knocked them sideways.
“How long did that meeting last, anyway?” Maddie had to raise her voice to be heard over the rustling trees. “It feels like winter out here.”
Olivia pulled up the collar of her jacket. “We should have dressed warmer. No walk for Spunky this evening. He gets nervous in high winds.”
“Not fond of them myself,” Maddie said. “Let’s fire up the computer and do some research. Maybe the wind will die down later. I hope Alicia has found shelter. If she’s with that Jack guy, she’s probably okay. From Polly’s description, he sounded like a reasonable fellow.”
Olivia buried her hands in her jacket pockets as they walked past the closed businesses along Park Street. “Del doesn’t seem too worried about Alicia. Maybe there’s been progress, and Del thought we knew about it. We should check our emails when we get back to the store.”
As they came in sight of The Gingerbread House, Maddie said, “Jeez, this wind is bad. Let’s run.” She took off, and Olivia followed behind, swearing to herself that she would go back to regular runs around the park to get her muscles in shape. Spunky would benefit, too. He might work off a few of those
extra treats he got from customers and . . . well, just about everyone.
By the time Olivia dragged herself up the front steps to the porch, she was thoroughly winded, although warmer. Maddie had run ahead and reached the porch, where she was staring at the front door. Olivia paused to catch her breath, but Maddie didn’t move. “Don’t you have your key?” Olivia asked. She reached into her jacket pocket. “If you’ll move aside, I’ll unlock the door.”
“Interesting,” Maddie said.
“Not the response I was expecting.” Olivia looked around Maddie’s mass of windblown hair. “Oh no, not again,” she moaned. “Another tack hole in my lovely door . . . What does the note say?” Maddie pulled out the tack and handed over the note. “At least it’s easier to read this time,” Olivia grumbled. Written with blue pen in neat cursive, the note read: Please tell everyone to stop worrying about me and leave us alone. Jack is nice. He’s been telling me stories about my dad and helping me find out what happened to him. Alicia.
“Livie, please tell me we were never that young and dumb.” Maddie produced her own key and unlocked the front door.
“Of course we were.” Olivia scurried into the foyer and slammed the door behind them. “We were once naive teenagers, too. On the other hand, there’s a chance Alicia is right that Jack is trying to help her.”
“Then why won’t he show himself in public like a person whose face isn’t on a wanted poster?” Maddie unlocked the door of the store, reached inside, and flipped on the sales floor lights.
Olivia ran a hand through her wind-tangled hair as she followed Maddie into the store. “I don’t understand why they need to deface my lovely antique front door with tacks. Why couldn’t Alicia have left a cell phone message like a normal person?”
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