“If I’m going to kill Binnie and Ned, I’d better lawyer up.” Maddie turned the laptop toward Olivia. “Take a look.”
Olivia pulled a chair over to the small desk and squeezed next to Maddie, who scrolled back to the beginning of the photo display. Maddie muttered vengeful threats as she scanned through Ned’s candid shots of the two of them cleaning scrunched-up paper off The Gingerbread House lawn.
“I hereby vow to do my laundry on a more regular basis,” Olivia said when she saw herself in her red shorts and pink tank top.
“That’s nothing,” Maddie said. “Check out my hair. It looks like a bale of hay exploded on my head. I’m thinking I’ll bash Ned with her own camera.”
“I don’t think this is worth a murder rap,” Olivia said as the final photo appeared. “It’s embarrassing and intrusive, but that’s what Binnie and Ned are good at.” She squinted and leaned toward the screen. “What’s that?”
“What?”
“Right there, in the second-floor window of The Vegetable Plate.” Olivia pointed to the blurred upper right edge of the photo.
Maddie peered over Olivia’s shoulder. “I do see something, but . . .” Her fingers punched the keyboard. The photo became enlarged, and was blurrier, but a head-and-shoulders-shaped dark patch showed clearly in the top-floor window of The Vegetable Plate. “We’d better email this link to Del and Cody. Maybe they can get hold of the original. I’d love to see them confiscate Ned’s camera. Can you tell if it’s a man or a woman?”
“I can’t see any hair,” Olivia said. “The sun must be picking up the face because the room behind looks unlit. That makes sense if this is the store intruder, and he doesn’t want to be caught searching for something. If it’s Charlene, I think we might see the lightness of her hair; it’s such a bright blond.”
“Brighter than nature intended,” Maddie said. “I wonder when Ned took this picture.”
Olivia flipped back through all the photos. “You aren’t in some of these, just me or the lawn, and the light is different in those pictures. I think Ned took these at two different times. I’m lucky she didn’t post a shot of me going into The Vegetable Plate.
“Knowing Binnie,” Maddie said, “she’s holding it for ransom. She probably wants an interview with you.”
“Wait a minute, I think I see something.” Olivia picked up a pencil and lightly touched the grainy face on the screen. She traced the outline of a faint, dark curve separated by a lighter patch. “Those could be teeth,” Olivia said. “I’ll bet anything that’s the man I saw running from the store. And he’s laughing at us.”
Chapter Four
Olivia arrived at the Bon Vivant a few minutes before five p.m. and found it already filling up. The restaurant had been open less than a month. Chatterley Heights residents had quickly discovered its charms, and a recent excellent review in the Baltimore Sun was now luring in more diners from the surrounding area. This was Olivia’s first look inside.
Del hadn’t yet arrived. The hostess—a tall, elegant redhead with a brilliant smile—skimmed around closely packed tables as she guided Olivia to a table for two next to a window. She pulled out a chair for Olivia and said, “The sheriff specifically requested one of our quieter tables with a view. May I bring you a glass of our house merlot while you wait?”
“I’ll start with coffee, thanks. Cream and sugar.”
The hostess flashed her snow-white incisors and disappeared. Within moments, a server appeared at the table with Olivia’s coffee and two thick menus. Olivia sipped as she gazed out the window at a brick patio bordered with pink and red tea roses, all showcased against the lush hills in the distance. This was what kept her in Maryland despite the dripping heat of late summer. All this and cookies, too.
“What? No merlot?” Olivia jumped at the sound of Del’s voice. Her chair started to tilt; Del steadied it. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m too used to sneaking up on people.”
“Do you plan to tell everyone in town that I like a glass of merlot now and then?”
Del grinned. “Everyone knows already. And just to warn you, everyone knows about your thing for pizza, too.”
“I’ve watched you down quite a few slices,” Olivia said. “Not to mention the ever-present ham-and-cheese sandwiches.” Skimming her menu, she said, “Oh look, they serve pizza here. With roasted artichoke hearts and prosciutto, which make it both healthy and ham-like. Want to share one?”
“Sounds good to me.” Del caught the waiter’s eye. “And how about that glass of merlot?”
“Make it Chianti, in deference to the pseudo-Italian nature of the meal. And only if you will join me.” Olivia had not forgotten that wine was a key part of her plan to find out what Del had learned about the break-in at The Vegetable Plate.
“Done.” Del handed over the menus and leaned on his elbows on the table. “You look nice. I like the thing you did with your hair.”
“Thanks,” Olivia said with both pleasure and relief. She knew she should have worn one of her three dresses, but she planned to go directly from dinner to her mother’s rumba class. “The thing I did with my hair,” Olivia said, “is a barrette. That’s a technical term.”
“Unless it has to do with weapons, I won’t remember it,” Del said. “As promised, this meal is on me, with thanks for donating your time and cookies to help identify the man you saw leaving Charlene’s store.” Their wine arrived, and they clinked glasses. “Nice,” Del said after his first sip. He gave Olivia a smile that warmed her from the inside, the kind of smile she hadn’t seen for some time. She almost hated to pester him for information. However.
“Sorry I couldn’t positively identify the intruder as Charlie Critch,” Olivia said. “Although I liked the kid, so I’m also glad. He and Jason have become buddies. Of course, Jason likes Charlene, too, so he might not be the best judge of character.” Olivia sipped her wine and vowed to memorize the label. She wasn’t normally a fan of Chianti, but this stuff was tasty. “So do you have any specific reason to suspect that Charlie might be the intruder?”
Del’s smile faded, but at least he didn’t start ordering her to stay out of the investigation. “We don’t have much at all yet. I’ve heard a great deal of gossip about their parents, but Charlene and Charlie are both strangely hard to investigate.”
“Strangely?” Olivia asked.
“These days we can usually learn a lot about folks simply by searching for them on the Internet. But not these kids. As far as we can tell, neither of them uses sites like Facebook or Twitter or has a blog or even posts messages on anyone else’s sites.”
“Is it too much to hope that either of them has a police record? Come on, Del, don’t make that face at me. I’m not simply curious. I’m not a gossip, either. The Gingerbread House is right next door to The Vegetable Plate, plus I suspect that whoever trashed Charlene’s store did the same to our front lawn. So yeah, I need to know.”
Del took a slow sip of his wine, let his gaze roam around the restaurant, squinted at the view from the window, and sipped again. Olivia felt like canceling the pizza, pouring the wine on his head, and stalking out. Instead she said, “Nice try. Not going to work.”
Del shook his head and laughed. “Lord help me if I ever have to interrogate you.”
“I guess you’ll have to assign someone else to do it. Or a whole team.”
“You’d make mincemeat out of them.”
“Oh please. Mincemeat? Decorated cookies, maybe.” Olivia reached across the table and touched Del’s hand with her fingertips. “I know you’re worried for my safety, and I do appreciate that, but I hope you trust me to be rational. I’m not a danger addict. If a crime doesn’t affect me or those I care about, I’ll gladly leave it entirely to you.”
“Except you seem to wind up caring about everyone you meet,” Del said. “I believe you even care about Charlene Critch. Or is it really curiosity?”
Olivia drew her hand away. “A bit of both, I guess. Charlene can be profoundly irritating, n
o doubt about it, but there’s also something lost about her. Mom told me she’d heard that Charlene was married briefly but her father had the marriage annulled.”
Del frowned. “We looked for an ex-husband, but Charlene insisted she’d never been married, and we’ve found no record of a marriage. Usually we can unearth an annulment, but apparently the paperwork, if there was any, has disappeared. The Critch family was wealthy and powerful. Charles Sr. made it a point to curry the favor of people with clout. However, if there’s an ex-husband, we’ll find him eventually through friends and relatives.”
“I suppose you’ve dug into her brother Charlie’s past? Through official channels, I mean.”
Del had apparently decided to trust Olivia, at least up to a point, because he answered without hesitation. “I’ve been checking with my sources in the DC Police Department. Nothing solid, but one buddy of mine said he’d heard the kid had a juvie record, which would be sealed. We ought to be able to dig it up, but for some reason we’ve come up empty so far. Has Jason mentioned anything about Charlie?”
“No, but I can grill him,” Olivia said. “And speaking of food preparation, I believe that’s our pizza wending toward us.”
As their pizza and house salads arrived, Del added, “By the way, thanks for forwarding Binnie Sloan’s blog link. She gave us the original photo, and we sent it along to the crime lab in Baltimore. Their photo expert might be able to enhance the guy’s face in Charlene’s window.”
“I’m impressed,” Olivia said. “How did you snag the original from Binnie without a warrant and a lengthy court fight?” She selected a large slice of pizza, one with lots of roasted artichoke hearts, and wedged the narrow end into her mouth before it could collapse.
“Easy,” Del said. “I simply pointed out the consequences if they continued to take photos of you without your knowledge and permission. I informed them that The Gingerbread House is private property, along with your home and land, and that you had a legal right to bar both her and her niece from setting foot on or in either of them. Of course, they can still photograph you from the sidewalk, but if you forbid them from entering your store or even standing at the windows, it will seriously cramp their style.”
“Wow,” Olivia said. “Thank you.”
“All part of the service.”
As they both reached for a second piece of pizza, Olivia asked, “So does all this mean we are friends again?”
Del paused in mid-reach and raised his eyebrows. “Had we stopped being friends?”
Spreading some dressing on her salad of baby greens, Olivia thanked genetics for her blush-resistant skin. “It’s just that . . . a few months ago, it seemed maybe we were becoming more than friends. Or was I imagining things?” She wrapped her mouth around an extra-large forkful of salad in a clear case of nervous eating.
Del gave her free hand a quick, hard squeeze. “You weren’t imagining things, but . . .”
Olivia wanted to encourage him to keep talking, but her mouth was crammed with greens. She tried to say “But what?” with her mouth full. It came out as “Ga-uh?”
Del threw his head back and laughed. A couple at a nearby table glanced at him and gave each other a knowing smile. “Okay,” Del said once he’d quieted down. “If you promise not to choke yourself with green stuff, I’ll talk. It’s about your ex-husband. No, hear me out. I know you assured me the marriage is over, dead, never to be revived. And I know you were being sincere.” Del picked a bit of crust off his plate and ate it.
Olivia sipped her wine and waited for him to elaborate, though it cost her a jittery stomach.
With a sigh, Del leaned toward Olivia. “Ryan is an impressive guy,” he said. “I’ll grant you he has a controlling nature, though when he suddenly showed up in your store, he did seem to be making an effort to lighten up. I think he wants you back.”
“Not a chance,” Olivia said. Her ex-husband had driven from Baltimore and appeared at The Gingerbread House without warning in mid-summer. He had babbled nonstop about his plans for a low-cost surgery clinic for the working poor, all the while pacing the sales floor and talking over customers who had questions about store items. To Olivia, it was an example of the best and the worst of Ryan. His enthusiasm could be infectious and alluring, but he often forgot that his listeners were separate from him and might have their own plans for their lives. Worst of all, Ryan had been in full swing when Del dropped in to ask if Olivia might be interested in dinner and a movie that evening. He couldn’t find a place to break into Ryan’s monologue, so he finally left. Olivia only found out Del’s intentions much later, after the warmth between them abruptly cooled.
“Some breaks can’t be mended,” Olivia said. “Ryan has a good side, and that’s what you saw, although you have to admit he was self-absorbed, too. The real problem is he tends to lose interest in his ideas once they demand too much time and administrative work. He loves to do surgery, and surgery is where he shines. He seemed to be making an effort to be less controlling because he wants me to move back to Baltimore and take care of all the stuff he hates to do. If I’m going to oversee a business, I’d much rather it be mine.”
“I can understand that,” Del said as a waiter arrived to refill their coffee cups. They both shook their heads when he asked if they wanted dessert. When the waiter was out of earshot, Del said, “I do think there was more to it. I think he misses you, and who wouldn’t? Maybe you need to think about his offer for a while.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” Teasing, Olivia narrowed her eyes at him. “Or wait, I get it. You’ve been listening to Charlene Critch, and you’ve decided I’ve brought too much sugar into your life.”
“Or maybe not enough,” Del said with a lopsided grin.
Olivia glanced at her watch and said reluctantly, “I’ve got to run. My mom’s rumba lesson begins in fifteen minutes.” But she stayed put and tilted her head at Del. “You’ve pulled back,” she said. “That’s your right, of course, only . . .” She sipped her coffee, took a deep breath, and asked, “Is Ryan the whole reason, or is there more?”
Del stared down into his coffee cup, out the window, anywhere but in her direction.
“You are free not to answer, of course,” Olivia said. “Only, could you give me a verbal hint whether you plan to answer in the next three minutes or not? It’s just that Mom’s rumba lesson waits for no one, not even her one precious daughter.”
Del’s smile was fleeting. “You have a right to know, though I’d appreciate your keeping this between us. In a sense, it’s about Ryan, but more about you. I mean you in relation to Ryan,” he added when he saw the stricken expression on Olivia’s face. “My marriage . . . Livie, I know it isn’t fair to make this comparison, but I can’t help it. My marriage ended because my wife left me for her ex-husband.”
“Oh, Del, you—”
“Don’t really want to talk about it right now,” Del said. In a softer tone, he added, “If I’m not mistaken, it’s time to rumba.”
An unusual number of well-to-do families had settled in and around Chatterley Heights, which made the town a destination for hungry artists of all types, especially those willing and able to teach. Olivia’s mother, Ellie, took full advantage of the opportunities available. On Monday evenings, she would be at her Latin dancing lesson.
The Chatterley Heights Dance Studio occupied a small building located southeast of the town square. A sister team of seamstresses had occupied the building until the early 1960s. The sisters died long before Olivia was born, but her mother had often described the elegant ball gowns and bridal trousseaus she’d admired in the large display window. Ellie had been a little girl in the fifties, but she remembered in vivid detail the delicate embroidery and tiny beads hand-stitched to satin gowns. Ellie had called it sweet karma that, after standing empty for years, the building was renovated for a dance studio. Grateful for the opportunity, underemployed dance teachers came regularly from Baltimore and DC to offer lessons in everything from hip-hop to
square dancing.
Through the studio’s front window, Olivia could see the dance floor, which covered what used to be the store’s entire sales area. The dimmed lights left the edges of the room in near darkness. Her mother appeared to be alone on the dance floor, practicing some steps. Behind her, a light shone through a doorway, which Olivia guessed was the instructor’s office. If she hurried, maybe she could catch a word with her mother alone.
Olivia stepped inside the building and felt a rush of cool, dry air. Ellie was across the room perfecting a spin that sent her long, gray hair flying out from her back. In contrast with her usual preference for loose, flowing outfits, Ellie wore a red knit dress that hugged her petite figure. A double row of short ruffles flounced around her knees as she executed a quick twisting movement.
Ellie caught sight of Olivia and waved. She held up one finger to say she’d be back in a minute and disappeared into the office. A moment later, music erupted from speakers around the dance floor, and Ellie emerged in the arms of one of the most gorgeous men Olivia had ever seen. He could have been anywhere from thirty to sixty. His tall, lean, perfectly controlled body swayed like silk in the wind, and he possessed a luxurious shock of white-streaked black hair that set off a chiseled face. He looked down at Ellie, who barely reached his shoulders, and smiled in a way that made Olivia feel squeamish.
“Quite a dancer, isn’t he?”
Olivia spun around to find her stepfather, Allan Meyers, standing behind her in the shadows. Allan’s broad, friendly face tightened as he watched his wife twirl away from her instructor, then back into the crook of his arm.
“Name’s Raoul, of course,” Allan said. “Doesn’t seem to need a last name.”
“Something tells me you’re not here for a rumba lesson,” Olivia said.
Allan laughed. “Your mother sang this fellow’s praises so much, I thought I’d have a look-see for myself. Not that I’m worried, mind you.”
A Cookie Before Dying Page 5
