“Maddie, of course I was planning to tell you every detail, but this is the first chance I’ve had, and you were working so intently. . . .”
“When I say ‘tell,’ I mean call or throw pebbles at my window to wake me up, whatever works. Do you know how I found out about your little nighttime tripping-over-a-murder-victim escapade? Sitting at the breakfast table with Aunt Sadie, that’s how. She got a call from a friend in the gossip chain. She almost choked on her oatmeal. She’s nearly seventy, you know. She can’t handle that kind of shock.”
“Your aunt Sadie was chewing oatmeal while talking on the phone?”
“Don’t change the subject.” Maddie had been narrowing her eyes at her best friend since the age of ten. “If you must know, I overslept, so Aunt Sadie got it into her head that I was dying of consumption or something. She insisted on making me oatmeal, which in my opinion is only good for cookies. Now stop stalling and tell me everything, every minute detail, even if Sheriff Del swore you to secrecy. Especially if Del swore you to secrecy.” She slid off the counter and retrieved her pastry bag. “I’ll decorate,” she said. “You talk.”
Olivia spilled the whole story and felt better for it. When she’d finished, she poured herself the last cup of coffee, added generous amounts of cream and sugar, and started another pot.
As Maddie piped a cookie with baby pink icing, she asked, “So do you figure this Geoffrey is the jerk who gave Charlene a black eye?” Her head was bent over her cookie. “Because, between you and me, much as I dislike Charlene, I wouldn’t blame her if she iced him. It was probably self-defense, anyway.”
“There’s one detail I haven’t told you yet,” Olivia said. “It might point to a suspect. I just hope it isn’t one of us.”
Maddie paused to glance up at Olivia. “Tell me at once. It might be interesting to be a suspect . . . for about five minutes,” she said, smoothly picking up her icing where she’d left off.
“I think Geoffrey—if that’s who he turns out to be—was holding a cookie cutter when he died. Anyway, I saw something in his hand that looked like the edge of a cutter.”
Maddie frowned but did not interrupt her flooding. “What was it made of?”
“The light was bad,” Olivia said, “but it looked like tin.”
“Like our missing Duesenberg.”
“Yup. I plan to have a quiet chat with Jason as soon as—” The kitchen phone rang. Olivia was within reach, so she answered. “Mom, am I glad to hear from—”
“Yes, dear, but you won’t be glad to hear my news.” Ellie’s normally calm voice sounded tight, as if she were holding herself together. “I’ve just had a call from the sheriff. Your brother has been arrested on suspicion of murdering Charlene’s ex-husband, Geoffrey King.”
“What? No, not Jason, not in a million years. Del is out of his mind.”
“Normally, I would agree,” Ellie said, “but Jason turned himself in. Livie, he has confessed to murder. And according to the sheriff, my own son refuses to speak to me. You’ve got to get down there and talk some sense into that boy. Please, Livie, right away. I’m on my way to The Gingerbread House; I’ll take care of the store, you talk to your brother. Only please hurry.”
“I’m out the door. I’ll call Mr. Willard from my cell. We need an attorney pronto.”
Aloysius Willard Smythe, attorney at law, was waiting outside the police station when Olivia arrived. Mr. Willard, as he was generally called, did not look his usual calm self. His long, thin fingers fidgeted with the buttons on his suit coat, and his quick, dark eyes roamed restlessly until he recognized Olivia striding toward him.
“This is a terrible turn of events,” Mr. Willard said as he patted Olivia’s shoulder like a concerned uncle. “Your poor mother must be frantic with worry.”
“As am I,” Olivia said. “I could throttle Jason, the bonehead.”
Mr. Willard’s gaunt face blanched. “Do you believe that your brother might actually have committed—?”
“No, of course not,” Olivia said. “Jason isn’t a murderer, just an idiot. I do believe that he is afraid Charlene Critch might have killed her ex-husband. I’m fairly certain this Geoffrey King gave her a black eye, probably not for the first time, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been threatening her with worse.”
“Ah, I see,” said Mr. Willard. “In which case, the law would go much easier on Ms. Critch than it will on Jason.”
“Which makes my brother an idiot. Right. Anyway, now we have to figure out how to help him. I doubt he’ll help himself, not unless the real killer is arrested and turns out not to be his precious Charlene.”
“Do you happen to know if Jason might be able to produce an alibi?” Mr. Willard asked in a fatalistic tone, as if he suspected it wouldn’t be that easy.
“I haven’t a clue,” said Olivia. “Even if he could, he won’t.”
Mr. Willard waved his hand toward a bench behind them. “I suggest we sit for a few moments to develop our strategy. As you know, I do not practice criminal law, but I know several excellent defense attorneys, should the need arise. I can handle the preliminaries, but meanwhile we—meaning you, since you know your brother better than I—must think of a way to convince him to say no more without benefit of counsel.”
Olivia wanted more than anything to storm into the jail and stuff a rag in Jason’s mouth, but she agreed to sit down and work out a strategy. “A plan is a good idea,” she said. “I always feel better when I have a plan.”
For several minutes, they sat side-by-side on the wooden bench, Mr. Willard with his fingers laced together on his lap, Olivia in barely contained panic. The only plan she could think of involved bribing the police department with dozens of decorated cookies in law enforcement shapes. Bright blue service revolvers came to mind. Maybe some tulip red squad cars trimmed with gold luster dust paint, and of course a jail cell with bars formed from silver dragées. Olivia envisioned Jason’s stubborn, frightened face behind the bars. She slowed and deepened her breathing to clear her mind of lovely iced distractions. Jason needed her, whether he’d admit it or not.
“I have something of a plan,” Olivia said, “but you might not like it. I know Sheriff Del will hate it, so I don’t intend to tell him. He’ll figure it out, of course.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But there isn’t much he can do about it.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Willard. “You intend to find out who actually killed that unfortunate young man. And how might that intention convince young Jason to cease confessing at once?”
“Because Jason knows I can do it. Last spring he actually said how impressed he was when I helped solve a murder. I think that’s the first and only time he has ever acknowledged that I might have a functioning brain. And he knows I love him, even when I can’t stand him, so he knows I’ll never give up. The hardest part will be convincing him that I’m not convinced Charlene killed her ex-husband.”
Mr. Willard arched his bony fingers and began to tap his fingertips against each other. Olivia knew the gesture and hoped it meant he was taking her plan seriously. He was probably making an organized mental list of all the dangers. Mr. Willard’s fingers stopped tapping, and he said, “I, too, know what you are capable of accomplishing once you are determined to do so. As your attorney, I cannot officially sanction your plan; however, time is of the essence.” His long body unfurled as he stood and offered her his hand. “And time is, as they say, a-wasting.”
Sheriff Del Jenkins plowed his fingers through his already well-furrowed hair. “Livie, I swear to you, Jason barged in here and confessed to murdering Geoffrey King. I wasn’t even considering him as a suspect, at least not yet.”
“What do you mean, ‘not yet’?’ If you have any evidence, I have a right to know.” Olivia had refused to take a seat in Del’s office, which allowed her to glare down at him from across his desk. Mr. Willard, silent and even taller, stood beside her.
Del looked more helpless than angry. “I agree,” he said, “you have a right to know. Once Jason confesse
d, I had to start investigating. It’s my job. I checked his alibi for yesterday evening, up to the time you found King.”
“And?”
Del rolled his office chair sideways toward Deputy Cody, who sat across the room at his computer, trying to look as if he were working. “Cody,” Del said, “bring Olivia and Mr. Willard some coffee, will you? Cream and sugar for Livie.” He directed a questioning glance at Mr. Willard.
“Black, thank you. I drink milk only in cappuccinos.”
Del’s mouth twitched for a moment. “Our budget doesn’t stretch beyond a ten-year-old Mr. Coffee, I’m afraid.”
By the time Cody brought their coffee, Olivia had decided to take pity on Del. He loved Chatterley Heights, and he wasn’t likely to take pleasure in arresting someone he’d known for years. He was, however, more than likely to put up his guard if he realized how determined Olivia was to identify the real killer. She accepted her cup and slid into a chair facing Del’s desk. Mr. Willard followed her example. She could almost hear Del’s sigh of relief as he dropped into his own squeaky desk chair.
“I’m glad you’re here, too,” Del said to Mr. Willard. “That boy needs to understand the trouble he’s gotten himself into by confessing. I was following a lead that suggested the killer might be from out of town, but now I have to investigate Jason. And I have to tell you, his alibi isn’t solid.”
Olivia sat forward in her chair. “What lead were you following? Could it clear Jason?”
Del hesitated, then asked Mr. Willard, “Are you here in your official capacity?”
Mr. Willard nodded. “Olivia has placed me on retainer to assist in her attempts to protect Jason. As I have reminded her, I am not a criminal attorney, but for now I am representing Jason’s interests.”
Del sipped his coffee and appeared to come to a decision. “Okay, I’ll tell you what we have so far. You might want to hire your own investigator.” His brown eyes darkened as he leaned toward Olivia. “Livie, I don’t want to hear that you have taken on any investigating by yourself, okay?”
With a slow nod, Olivia said, “I understand.”
Del held her eyes a moment longer before reaching toward a file on his desk. “Okay, Jason’s story goes like this: Charlene Critch confided in him that her ex-husband, Geoffrey King, showed up at her store a few weeks ago.” Del glanced up from his notes. “We’ve interviewed both Charlene and her brother, Charlie, and they agreed with Jason’s summary of his movements yesterday up until about eleven p.m.”
“Wait,” Olivia said. “They were all together yesterday evening?”
“Right, at least that’s what they claim. They all agree that King—who, by the way, Charlene insists was not really her husband because her father got the marriage annulled. Anyway, King had recently been released from prison after serving a sentence for robbing a jewelry store. He tracked down Charlene because he knew she had come into her trust money. He figured she’d pay him to go away. Charlene says she gave him some money, but he kept hanging around.”
“Big surprise,” Olivia said under her breath.
“Charlene admitted that King hit her on several occasions. She claims he did so when she refused to give him more money.”
“But you don’t believe her?” Mr. Willard asked.
With a shrug, Del said, “I don’t have a strong reason not to believe her. It certainly fits King’s MO.”
Olivia said, “I’m not convinced Charlene’s story explains what I saw and heard while King ransacked the kitchen in The Vegetable Plate.”
Del riffled through his file and extracted one page. “According to my report, you heard him say, ‘I’ll kill her,’ by which we assume he meant Charlene. Is that accurate?”
“First he said ‘Damn,’ and he sounded furious,” Olivia said. “At the time, I thought he might be looking for something important to him, maybe something he thought Charlene had taken from him. And don’t forget that the cash register was untouched. If all he wanted was money, it doesn’t make a lot of sense for him to break a lot of valuable objects and ignore the cash register.”
“Maybe the break-in was meant as a threat,” Mr. Willard said. “Or, given the swearing and the vow to kill her, it might have been an expression of extreme frustration at Ms. Critch’s unwillingness to meet his financial demands.”
“Maybe. . . .” Olivia thought back to that morning and pictured the scene in the kitchen. Rage, frustration . . . certainly King’s violence expressed those emotions. But it sounded more like desperation. She had no proof, so she kept her idea to herself. She couldn’t help but wonder if Charlene possessed something, maybe a document or an object, that could endanger Geoffrey King.
Mr. Willard cleared his throat. “Sheriff, may I ask how Mr. King was killed? I can promise you, by the way, that any information you are willing to share with us will be both appreciated and kept to ourselves.”
Del hesitated a moment, then asked Olivia, “Will your silence extend to Maddie and your mother? Never mind, don’t bother to answer. Of course it won’t, and it wouldn’t matter, anyway. The entire town will have heard some version of the story by this evening. I don’t know how they do it.”
Olivia almost choked on her coffee. “I think it’s something in the water. How about this, Del: Mr. Willard, I’m certain, will maintain his professional silence.” She glanced toward Mr. Willard, who nodded. “And I’ll use my very best judgment. I’ll bite my tongue if someone passes on a rumor that Jason is an axe murderer. And I do understand that there may be details you want to keep secret even from me. As you say, I’ll probably find them out, one way or another.”
“I don’t doubt it for a minute.” Del retrieved the coffeepot. As he topped off their cups, he said, “King was stabbed. Time of death hasn’t been established yet. We found a knife seemingly flung away from the scene. The crime scene unit is working on it. The storm messed up the scene pretty badly, but if there’s anything to find, they will find it. All we can do is wait.”
“What kind of knife was it?” Olivia asked.
“Next question?”
“Ah,” said Mr. Willard. “One of those details to be kept secret. I have a question concerning my client, if I may, Sheriff. I assume you have more than young Jason’s fondness for Ms. Critch, as well as his unfortunate confession, to indicate that he might be a viable suspect for Mr. King’s murder?”
Del selected another page from his case file. “As I mentioned, Jason was with Charlene and Charlie until about eleven yesterday evening. According to Charlene, King had physically assaulted her earlier in the day—she claimed not to know why—and then he threatened to return to The Vegetable Plate that evening to ‘torch the dump.’ Charlene decided to guard the store all night. As if we didn’t have police and a fire department.” Del rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, apparently seeking divine assistance to understand human behavior. “Jason and Charlie offered to help guard both the store and Charlene. Just before eleven p.m., Charlie reminded Jason that he had an early shift at Struts & Bolts Garage the next morning. Charlene insisted Jason go home and get some sleep.”
“Wait,” Olivia said, “Charlie works at the garage, too.”
“Charlie said his shift didn’t start until noon, and Struts Marinsky confirmed. So Jason left at eleven and walked to his apartment by way of the town square. Jason claims he found Geoffrey King with a gas can and lighter, on his way to torch The Vegetable Plate. He struggled with King and killed him.” Turning the page, Del said, “Back at her store, shortly after Jason left, Charlene claims she became impatient and told Charlie that it was ‘just like Geoff to make a threat and then be too lazy to carry it out.’ She said King had most likely started drinking and passed out. So she ordered Charlie to go home and get some sleep. Which he says he did.”
Clearing his throat, Mr. Willard said, “Are we to believe that Ms. Critch remained alone in her store the remainder of the night? That sounds remarkably foolhardy and somewhat out of character, if I may say so.”
&nbs
p; Olivia let out a shaky laugh. “I’ll bet she wanted a bath and some beauty sleep, plus an hour to do her makeup. That I could believe.”
Her comment drew a brief smile from Del. “In fact, Charlene claims she left soon after her brother, at approximately 11:45 p.m., and went straight—”
“But doesn’t that clear Jason?” Olivia asked. “If Charlie and Charlene left later, wouldn’t they have seen the body on their way home?”
“Charlie Critch’s rented room is in the northeast part of town, so he wouldn’t have gone through the park.”
“Unless he had a reason to, like seeing someone in the park,” Olivia said.
“Duly noted,” Del said. “Anyway, Charlene says she was afraid to cut through the park alone after dark, so she took the sidewalk straight south to her house. It made her nervous even to look toward the park, or so she said.”
“If I may interject,” said Mr. Willard, “are we to believe that a concerned brother such as Charlie would leave his sister to walk home alone in the middle of the night?”
“Good question.” Del slapped his file shut and leaned his forearms on his desk. “I wondered that myself, but when I confronted Charlie about it, he shrugged and muttered something about obeying his big sister. He didn’t sound resentful, simply embarrassed and a bit childlike. That detail does still bother me, though.”
Olivia thought back to her conversation with Struts Marinsky about the relationship between Charlene and her much younger brother. “I have a mixed reaction,” she said. “On the one hand, Charlene and Charlie must have formed a close bond because of their parents’ self-obsession. Charlene must have been both mother and father to Charlie, and he seems to adore her almost as a dependent child would. So I can see him obeying Charlene against his better judgment. But there’s another angle: Why would Charlene decide to send Charlie home first, despite her admitted fear of walking through the park? You know what I think? I think Jason is an innocent, besotted dupe, and his confession is hogwash. He’s afraid Charlene killed King because she was the last to leave. Maybe she did. Or maybe Charlie killed him to protect his sister, and she’s keeping quiet to protect him. Or they both did it.”
A Cookie Before Dying Page 11
