“And if I don’t pay up, you’ll hold it against me forever, right?” A corner of Del’s mouth quivered as he stifled a smile. “Okay, as it happens, Crystal, at least, has finally begun to weaken after two weeks of stonewalling. They blame each other, or Kurt, for Kenny’s death. Mind you, Kurt isn’t entirely blameless. Once her father’s remains were discovered, Alicia became suspicious of Robbie, so he wanted her gone.”
“How did Kurt fit in?” Olivia asked. “Robbie wanted an excuse to kick Alicia out of the house, so she wouldn’t hear or observe something that pointed to Robbie’s guilt, right? Is that how Kurt fits in?”
Del nodded. “Crystal told us Robbie hoped to portray Alicia as unstable. That’s why he visited your store. To further his plan, Robbie told Kurt a lie about Pete’s intentions toward Alicia. He hoped Kurt would react violently and that Alicia, in turn, would react hysterically. He also supplied Kurt with an array of his favorite weapons. When Pete fired Alicia, it fit right into Robbie’s scheme.”
“Switchblades,” Olivia said. “Scary. Did Robbie consider the possibility that Alicia might have been hurt?”
Del shook his head. “Robbie didn’t care. He was more concerned with protecting himself. He’d already convinced Crystal that she was solely responsible for her husband’s death. He hoped she would confess if the remains were ever discovered. He hung on to the murder weapon without Crystal’s knowledge, thinking it might come in handy as further evidence against her.”
Ellie shivered. “What a horribly controlling man.”
“Robbie hadn’t read enough murder mysteries,” Olivia said, “or he’d have known more about forensics. But I suppose he was arrogant enough to think he already knew everything.”
“Well, Robbie still hasn’t confessed,” Del said, “but the forensics will get him when he goes to trial. Crystal is convinced she killed Kenny with one blow. She didn’t even try to make it sound like an accident. However, the blow that struck Kenny’s neck didn’t kill him. He’d have fallen to the floor, head first, probably knocked unconscious. Crystal thought he was dead or about to die. By her own admission, she didn’t think to check his pulse. She just ran to find Robbie.”
“And Robbie took care of everything?” Olivia asked. “Just like he always did?”
“That’s our conclusion,” Del said. “The second blow was higher and broke Kenny’s neck.”
Olivia thought back to Crystal’s tearful confession. “I suppose Robbie might continue to stonewall, but it seemed clear to me that Crystal hit Kenny only once, and she believed she’d killed him. She seemed genuinely shocked and confused when I asked if she hit him a second time. Robbie was cool and controlling, as always.”
“So very sad,” Ellie said. “Crystal never learned to stand up for herself, so she became prey for men like Robbie.”
“I’m confused by one thing,” Olivia said. “We ran up to room seven when we heard a crash. When we arrived, we realized that Robbie had smashed a hole in the wall right where he’d hidden the murder weapon. Why would he do that?”
“Interesting question.” Del chuckled. “Naturally, Robbie told us he’d had no idea the board was behind that wall.”
“I wonder . . .” Ellie tilted her head like a curious bird. “Lenora can be so single-minded, you know.”
“Okay, Mom, so that means . . . what, exactly?”
“Oh, Livie, dear, I was remembering you as a toddler. You wanted to taste everything, which kept your father and me on our toes. One day your father was making a mustard and cheese sandwich when he saw that you were about to taste a toothpick you had found on the kitchen floor. He quickly put a spoonful of mustard in your little open mouth, while he snatched the toothpick from your hand. So clever of him.”
“That explains why I’m not fond of mustard,” Olivia said. “Now back to Robbie and the hole in the wall . . . ?
Maddie looked up from her perusal of a diary. “Oh, I get it,” she said. “Robbie wanted to distract Lenora from pounding her little hammer into that part of the wall. Maybe he also hoped to cover the murder weapon with plaster to make it less visible.”
Del shrugged. “It’s a working hypothesis, anyway.”
Maddie plunked a stack of four journals on the coffee table. “Fascinating as our discussion has been, are we ready to move on? Because these are the journals on Aunt Sadie’s list, and I can’t wait to see what they have to say about those antique cookie cutters.”
The fire had begun to die down. Aunt Sadie pulled her sweater more tightly around herself, and said, “Maddie, dear, would you read the passages to us? My eyesight is not what it used to be.”
Del hopped up to add another log to the fire. Olivia smiled her thanks as he returned to his chair.
“This will be fun.” Maddie picked up a journal with a tan leather cover and opened to a page she had marked with a scrap of paper. “Okay, this was written by Charlotte Chatterley in 1859. That three-petaled flower cookie cutter was hers. Charlotte wrote, My new little girls are the delights of my life. They are healthy and beautiful, with strong lungs and lovely curls. I am thankful I did not contribute three more Chatterley sons to the world. I must teach my innocent little daughters to be careful whom they marry. Should I read more?” Maddie asked.
“Thank you, Maddie.” Aunt Sadie sighed. “That passage says enough, I think. You see, Charlotte’s husband already had a mistress when he married, and he saw no reason to change afterward. Those little curly-haired girls gave Charlotte three good reasons to go on.”
“Next,” Maddie said, opening a journal with a black cover. “This one was written in 1833 and belonged to Harriet Chatterley. I don’t remember anything about her.”
“Oh yes, Harriet,” Aunt Sadie said. “She was one of several Chatterley wives whose journals mentioned the little boy and girl cookie cutters whose hands interlock. Such a lovely image. Do read us the passage, Maddie.”
Maddie opened the journal and began to read. “I wish my dear mother-in-law had buried those hand-holding cookie cutters in the garden instead of passing them to me. Now I must give them to my lovely daughter-in-law, who deserves someone better than my first-born son. I shall try to help her through the difficult years to come.” Maddie closed the journal. “That was disturbing. Any idea what happened to that lovely daughter-in-law, Aunt Sadie?”
“I’m afraid she died giving birth to a son. I suspect her husband shed no tears. As I remember, he quickly replaced her.” Aunt Sadie blinked rapidly, fighting tears of her own.
Picking up the third journal, Maddie opened to a passage which she skimmed quickly. “This one is powerful,” she said. “It was written in 1805, by Caroline Chatterley. I have asked the tinsmith to create a cookie cutter to my specifications. I did not tell him why I wanted such a shape, but when he met my husband, I believe he understood. It will be a secret to which only we Chatterley wives will be privy, and our hearts will be lighter for it.” Maddie closed the journal. Grinning, she said, “I think we can all agree that Caroline commissioned the portly pig cutter.”
No one spoke as Maddie picked up the fourth journal. She held it up so everyone could see the intricate flowers, embroidered in shades of purple, clustered on dark green vines that curled around the surface of the pale green cloth cover. “Isn’t this journal gorgeous? It belonged to Abigail Chatterley. Oh, I remember now. Aunt Sadie, didn’t you mention that Abigail did free-form embroidery? She was Horace’s mother, right?”
“Yes, indeed,” Aunt Sadie said. “Poor Abigail was a sensitive soul. Her journals are filled with bits of her own poetry. I must ask Lucas to look in the attic for a trunk filled with her embroidery. Oh, I do go on, don’t I? Please read her words to us, Maddie.”
Maddie silently skimmed the page. “Abigail is the one who commissioned that odd cookie cutter with the geometric design. None of us could figure out what it was supposed to represent.” Maddie turned the page. �
�Here’s Abigail’s drawing, too. My, my, she certainly wrote some scathing comments about her own son, Horace. Listen to this: Recent stories of my son’s appalling behavior have so saddened my heart. If only Horace were more like his dear father, may he rest in eternal peace. Horace has a good and loyal wife at home, and children who need a better example. Though perhaps they are better off without his presence. Their mother, bless her, does her best, and I help when I can with food and clothing. All this while Horace lavishes gifts on other women. May God forgive me, I often wish it had been my son taken from me by influenza, rather than his kind and loving father.”
Maddie had finished all the diary readings. No one spoke for some time. Olivia watched the dying fire, letting the words of four Chatterley wives meld together in her mind. As the last log turned to ash, she said, “I sense a theme in those passages.”
“Yeah,” Maddie said. “Being a Chatterley wife wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.”
“That could be said of many wealthy families.” Ellie rolled back her shoulders to restore her posture. “And of less well-to-do ones, too. Sadly, it is nothing new.”
“Yes, but most disgruntled wives don’t express themselves through cookie cutters,” Olivia said. “Think about it. Those four Chatterley women, from different generations, turned to cutters to handle rejection, neglect, betrayal by their husbands . . . which makes me wonder if Abigail Chatterley’s oddly shaped cutter had a special meaning. Her embroidery work was so flowing and beautiful. Why would she draw a geometric design and go to the trouble of having a cookie cutter made in that very shape? And I find it even more intriguing that all five of those cutters were found with Horace Chatterley’s remains. I wonder why.”
“We wondered the same thing, Livie.” Del took a small notebook from his pants pocket and leafed through it. “The placement of those cutters, when we found them, indicated they might have been arranged on top of Horace’s body after he was placed inside the closet.”
Olivia jumped up and began pacing the parlor. “Del, I never asked . . . Why didn’t I catch sight of Horace’s bones when we were trying to see Kenny’s cookie cutter necklace? Kenny and Crystal did.”
“Because the bones had been covered by a cloth of some sort,” Del said, “possibly by Kenny. The material was coated with dust, but not enough to date it from the 1930s. Remember, that closet had been in use when Horace died. He had stored shoes, clothing, even some books in there. We figured Horace’s killer shoved him toward the back of the closet, covered him, and left the other items scattered around him. Kenny found him, but he wouldn’t have been eager to let anyone else in on the secret.”
“Yet you said the cutters had been arranged on top of Horace’s body?” Olivia ran her hand through her hair, frustrated by her confused thoughts.
“That’s right.” Del checked another page in his notebook. “Okay, here it is. Forensics indicated remnants of a tarp among the bones. So the cutters were arranged on the body, and the tarp was then spread on top. The cloth was added later.”
“So, that might mean . . .” Olivia sank onto the settee and stared into the dying fire. Spunky reclaimed her lap.
“What?” Maddie demanded. “Livie, I’m dying here. What does all this mean?”
Olivia shook her head. “We’d never be able to prove it.”
Del touched Olivia’s arm. “Livie, are you thinking that Horace’s wife or children might have killed him, then for some reason buried him with those cookie cutters.”
Olivia shook her head. “No, Horace had already squandered the family fortune. His wife and children knew he was living in squalor, and his eldest son was already taking care of them. What would they gain from murdering him?”
“Then who?” Del reached over the arm of the settee to take Olivia’s hand. “What are you thinking, Livie?”
“I can’t be sure.” Olivia stroked the soft hair on Spunky’s head. She saw Aunt Sadie pull a length of yarn from a skein and smile as her hands resumed their rhythmic knit and purl. A little ding sounded in Olivia’s head. “I’m thinking Aunt Sadie didn’t have you and Lucas cart that box of journals down from the attic merely so we would empathize with those unhappy Chatterley wives.”
All eyes focused on Aunt Sadie, whose innocent expression blossomed into a grin. “I hoped you would feel empathy, of course,” she said. “But after all these years and generations of anguished Chatterley wives, is it truly necessary to assign guilt?”
“It’s just human curiosity,” Maddie said. “Livie is right. We can’t prove anything now.”
“Exactly.” Aunt Sadie resumed her knitting.
“Lucas will be here soon to take Aunt Sadie and me home.” Maddie nestled the journals into the trunk, while Del stirred the ashes of the dying fire to cool it more quickly.
Olivia found herself wondering about Imogene Jones. Unlike her husband, Imogene had a colorful history. She’d demonstrated a ruthless streak. Driven by her zeal for social reform, she had reputedly been a mistress to several wealthy, powerful men. They had been willing, in exchange for Imogene’s favors, to finance her schemes to help the downtrodden. Olivia wanted to believe that Imogene’s marriage to Henry had been a love match. After all, Henry saved his mother and siblings from abject poverty, which would have impressed Imogene. Henry also provided substantial funding for Imogene’s reform projects. But what if Henry had wanted to help his own father? What if Horace, lacking his son’s compassion but willing to use it to his own advantage, had begged more and more money from Henry? Wouldn’t Imogene have been angry the old reprobate was draining the family coffers? Might she have been furious enough to—
“Livie?” Del touched her arm. “What are you thinking?”
Olivia started, even though he had spoken softly. “Sorry, Del, I was following a convoluted and wildly speculative train of thought. Probably not important.” She stared at the cooling logs and smiled to herself.
When the doorbell rang, Maddie hopped up to open the front door for Lucas. While he and Maddie wrapped a heavy shawl around Aunt Sadie’s shoulders, Del took Olivia’s hand and entwined his fingers with hers. “We should sit by a fire to discuss long-ago murders more often.”
“I agree.” Olivia gave Del a quick kiss on the tip of his nose. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
Olivia grinned. “Thank you for not being a Chatterley son . . . and for being you.”
Recipe
Pete’s Meatloaf
1½ pounds lean ground beef (or lean ground turkey)
2 large eggs, beaten
2 tablespoons dried (or 3 tablespoons fresh) rosemary, finely chopped
freshly ground pepper, to taste
1-2 dashes Worcestershire sauce
½ cup dry oatmeal
1 tablespoon olive oil, divided
5 large shallots, finely chopped
¼ cup bell pepper (any color), finely chopped
1 small clove garlic, finely chopped
1 cup chili sauce (Heck, I use the whole bottle. Pete)
⅓ cup petite diced tomatoes, well drained
2-3 tablespoons brown sugar (to taste)
1-2 tablespoons Dijon mustard (to taste)
¼ teaspoon horseradish (if desired)
Preheat oven to 350°F. In a large bowl, mix together beef or turkey, eggs, rosemary, pepper, Worcestershire sauce, and oatmeal.
Heat the olive oil in a frying pan. Add the shallots and sauté lightly. Add to the turkey mixture. Add more olive oil to the frying pan, if necessary, and lightly sauté the chopped bell pepper and garlic until softened but not browned. Add to turkey mixture.
In a small mixing bowl, combine chili sauce, diced tomatoes, brown sugar, horseradish, and Dijon mustard. Mix well.
Pat the turkey mixture into large loaf pan or casserole. Spread topping evenly over meatloaf. Bake for one hour or until done.
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Dead Men Don't Eat Cookies Page 29
