“My, my,” Olivia said. “So we don’t know where Charlie was after he left The Vegetable Plate on the night of the murder. But why would Agnes fib?”
“She felt guilty about kicking him out, and she didn’t want to get him into trouble. Personally, I think she has a soft spot for Charlie. She told me she was absolutely certain that Charlie could never have killed someone in cold blood. I guess I should have called Del right away,” Maddie said, “but I hate to be the one to get sweet, misguided Aunt Agnes into trouble with the law.”
“I’ll call him when we’ve finished,” Olivia said. “I can point him toward Agnes and let him get the story himself. I’ll mention she said a few things at the baby shower that made you start wondering if she’d gotten the days mixed up.”
“You’d lie for me?”
“It isn’t a lie, exactly. It’s more like . . . well, like using a royal icing mix when you’re in a hurry, rather than taking the time to mix the ingredients yourself.” Olivia reached into the cookie box and withdrew a purple Yorkie with big pink eyes. She put it back.
“You mean like a shortcut?” Maddie asked.
“A shortcut, yes.”
“That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“I know,” Olivia said, “but just go with it. What else did you learn?” She peered into the cookie box and chose a yellow cow with purple sprinkles. Finding it unappetizing, she left it on the table.
“Nothing,” Maddie said. “Where do you suppose Charlie Critch has been staying since Agnes kicked him out?”
“Probably with Charlene. She’s so protective of him, I can’t see her making him sleep under a bridge.”
Maddie picked up Olivia’s cow cookie and bit off the tail. “I’m wondering if Charlie told Charlene about his predicament. Wouldn’t she have come up with the money for his rent? Or at least fed him so he wouldn’t have to steal food? Hey, what if that stash you found in Heather’s barn was Charlie’s, not Geoffrey King’s?”
“If Charlie had all those valuable items at his disposal, wouldn’t he try to sell them to get rent money and food? Or heck, why not steal food from a grocery store, if he was so good at stealing?”
“I guess,” Maddie said. “I think we need to find out where Charlie has been bunking for the past week. Del won’t want to tell us, and Charlie will probably lie to him, anyway. I’ll bet Jason knows.”
“My brother is not speaking to me,” Olivia said. “And even if he were, he wouldn’t want to make Charlie look suspicious.”
“Just try, okay, Livie? I know you’re feeling tired and scared. I can tell because cookies seem to irritate you when things feel out of control.” Maddie closed the cookie box and slid it onto the top of the refrigerator. “So here’s a plan for you. Get a good night’s sleep, then go shake that brother of yours until he spills some information.”
“Sure thing, Mom,” Olivia said. “Only I’m afraid he’ll cough up a more convincing confession.”
Chapter Twelve
Some folks revel in heat and humidity, oblivious to the shiny layer of sweat that covers the body, but Olivia Greyson wasn’t one of them. Now that Spunky was no longer an exuberant puppy with an unpredictable bladder, he didn’t need a walk every few hours. However, after a frantic day in The Gingerbread House, followed by the Tuckers’ baby shower, the little Yorkie had been cooped up in Olivia’s apartment for too long. She knew if she didn’t take him for a long walk, he’d want to play all night.
By the time she and Maddie finished their pizza-fueled brainstorming about murder suspects, it was ten p.m. As soon as Maddie left for home, Olivia clicked a leash on Spunky’s collar and allowed him to lead her downstairs. Heavy, damp air coated her as she locked the front door behind them. The humidity had no effect on Spunky’s energy level. Olivia let him determine their direction, which he did by perking up his ears, sniffing the air, and yanking her forward. Their walks usually began with a romp through the town square, but a small group of flashlight-wielding clue hunters still wandered the park, shouting each time they thought they’d found a piece of evidence. Spunky seemed to disapprove of the noise level. He veered east on Park Street, leading Olivia away from the town square. Lovely Victorian-era houses, most of them small and well maintained, lined both sides of east Park Street. The glow from old-fashioned streetlamps, matching the one near the band shell in the town square, created an atmosphere of comfort and safety.
“I’m not worried about murderers on the loose,” Olivia said to Spunky. “Not when I have you to protect me.” Spunky wagged his tail at the sound of her voice but kept up his pressure on the leash. At Willow Road, he stopped to sniff the air.
“This is new territory for you,” Olivia said as Spunky turned onto Willow Road. He dragged her south, toward a fire hydrant that hadn’t seen refurbishing in many years. “Found a juicy one, have you,” she said as Spunky eagerly sniffed every square inch. While he used the facilities, Olivia gazed around. On Willow Road, some of the oldest homes in Chatterley Heights mingled with small businesses and run-down bungalows. Olivia felt safe in every area of town; however, it was getting dark and a couple streetlights were out farther down the street. She tugged at Spunky’s leash. He ignored her and stood his ground.
“Come on, Spunks, how about we go home and have a treat.”
When Spunky’s terrier stubbornness took hold, even the word “treat” failed to budge him. He strained forward, his little nails scraping the sidewalk.
“Oh, all right,” Olivia said, “we can go on a ways, but then home.” She loosened the leash, and Spunky led her on a brisk walk down Willow Road. After two blocks, he stopped beside a streetlamp and tilted his head as if listening. Olivia listened, too, and heard faint strains of music from farther down the street. Then she realized where they were—about half a block away from the Chatterley Heights Dance Studio.
Olivia figured it was about ten thirty, which seemed late for a dance lesson. Curious, she followed Spunky until they reached a vacant wooded lot across the street from the studio. They stopped under a darkened streetlamp. For once, Spunky exercised self-restraint and sat quietly on the sidewalk. The studio’s floor-to-ceiling plateglass window had no curtain, tempting passersby to stop and observe lessons in progress. Olivia’s mother had mentioned that it took some getting used to, but once she lost herself in the dancing she didn’t notice being watched.
The spotlights above the dance floor were turned off, but a light from farther back in the studio faintly illuminated the back room. It appeared to be empty. Yet Olivia could hear music coming from the building, so either Raoul was still there or he’d left a classical radio station turned on. Or she assumed it was a classical station. Unlike Maddie, Olivia wasn’t mad about music. Her knowledge of music began and ended with the folk and light rock her parents had played while she was growing up. Her father had liked several classical pieces, but Olivia couldn’t distinguish Beethoven from Rachmaninoff. She knew as much about music as she did about cooking—with the exception, that is, of decorated cookie baking.
The music stopped in mid-phrase. Assuming the free concert had ended, Olivia tugged on Spunky’s leash. His little legs tightened, and his silky ears perked as high as they could go. “I need to get up in the morning, you know,” she said. “Some of us have a store to run and can’t loll around all day filing our nails.” Spunky, of course, ignored her.
The music began again, louder than before. This time, Olivia heard a recognizable waltz tune, lilting and lyrical, though she couldn’t name the title or the composer. She watched the studio window as if it were a ballroom scene in a movie, and it became one. A couple materialized on the dance floor and began waltzing with such grace that Olivia suspected she wasn’t watching a ballroom dancing lesson. Though she couldn’t see his features, she could tell that the male dancer was tall. As the couple rounded the dance floor, the light emanating from the back room revealed the man’s full head of hair. He had to be Raoul. The female dancer was hidden by his body as the coup
le danced through the sliver of light.
Spunky had settled on his haunches to watch the show, but Olivia was beginning to feel voyeuristic. In a mesmerizing swirl, the couple circled the dance floor again and again. Each time they passed close to the front window, Olivia strained to see Raoul’s partner. She gathered the impression of a petite woman wearing a silky gown that flowed with her movements. Could she be the ballerina seen dancing in the town square at night?
Olivia lifted Spunky, who whimpered but didn’t yap. “Let’s get a bit closer,” she whispered. Across the street and next to the studio, another unlit streetlamp kept one side of the building in darkness. Olivia waited for the waltzing couple to reach the back of the dance floor before she carried Spunky across the street. They settled in the dark, near the edge of the window. From where she stood, Olivia could see about half of the dance floor. Spunky remained quiet. Maybe he was as curious as Olivia about this lovely and mysterious scene.
The music ended. Holding Spunky firmly in both arms, Olivia leaned her right shoulder against the rough stone wall and peered into the studio. Spunky’s head jerked as strains of another waltz began. This time even Olivia recognized the piece—“The Blue Danube.” She heard the tinkle of feminine laughter and wondered if the choice of music amused the woman.
Now that Olivia was closer she could hear the occasional murmur of voices, though no clear words. As the couple glided near her hiding place, she flattened against the wall. The dancers had taken their fourth turn around the floor, and Olivia still hadn’t gotten a look at the woman’s face or hair. She decided to be bolder. Leaning her cheek against the window frame, she looked inside. If they danced close enough and looked directly toward her, Raoul and his partner might see the outline of her head. Spunky kept quiet, his head swiveling as he followed the movements.
Olivia held her breath as the two waltzed closer and closer to her. She couldn’t believe they hadn’t noticed her. She could make out Raoul’s face as he smiled down at his partner with tenderness. The woman lifted her face toward his and a lock of her hair escaped from the bun at the nape of her neck. The long strand fell down her back. In the dim light, it looked white, though it might have been white-blond.
At that moment, Spunky reverted to his noisy self, barking and squirming as if a pack of starving coyotes were bearing down on them. The young woman yanked away from Raoul and spun around to stare out the window. Olivia clutched Spunky against her chest as she flattened herself against the outside wall. She edged away from the window into the safety of darkness. For a split second, though, she had glimpsed the woman’s face. It was a pale oval of perfection, except for one flaw—a long scar down her left cheek.
Chapter Thirteen
“I thought we agreed to meet at six a.m. How long have you been up?” Maddie said as she let herself into The Gingerbread House on Thursday morning. In her bright yellow tank top and matching shorts, she reminded Olivia of a sun sprite. “Hey, Spunky.” At the sound of his name, the sleepy Yorkie lifted his head and yawned a yap. Olivia looked up from a star-shaped tin cookie cutter she was examining. “Couldn’t sleep after what I saw last night. I think I found our ballerina.”
Maddie squealed, setting Spunky off on a round of yapping. “Oops, sorry, Spunks, I got carried away.” She picked him up to calm him. “So shouldn’t we go over to meet this woman? Like, right now?”
“And chase her out of town? No, we need to be careful. She might be hiding for a reason.” She told Maddie about the woman’s disfigurement. “Anyway, I figured I might as well get started on a cookie cutter inventory. I want to see if the Duesenberg was our only missing cutter.” Olivia squinted at a tiny adhesive label inside the star. “These tiny numbers are a pain to read.”
“Probably because you’re reading in near darkness.” Maddie turned the lights to high and said, “Et voyeur!”
“I think you meant ‘Et voilà,’ but it’s an interesting substitution.”
“Fine. I will never again attempt to speak French.”
“Probably wise,” Olivia said. “Okay, I’m about halfway through our inventory list, and here’s what I’ve found so far.” She handed over a list of numbers, some with notes beside them.
Maddie groaned. “I’ll never understand how you remember what number belongs to which cookie cutter. I need at least a description. Or a sketch would be best.”
“I’ve explained it to you.”
“Yeah, I know, it’s a series of codes describing the characteristics of each cutter, so there’s virtually no possibility of misidentifying one. Unless you are me. I’m only comfortable with numbers that end with the word ‘dozen.’ ” Maddie scanned the list and whistled. “However, I totally understand your notes. Either we’ve gotten sloppy or someone has been pilfering cookie cutters from our displays. We are missing four.”
“Five, counting the Duesenberg,” Olivia said. “And we still have half the inventory to check. We’ll get through these faster if you read the numbers to me.”
“I’ve been known to see a two and call it a three, but sure, why not.” Maddie began to recite numbers, while Olivia worked the codes in her head. Twenty minutes later, they’d finished the task.
“Seven cutters missing,” Olivia said. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair and made a mental note to brush it before heading for the police station to talk to Jason.
“That might be a normal level of pilfering, more or less,” Maddie said. “Cookie cutters are easy to slip into a pocket. We don’t magnetize them or anything.”
Olivia shook her head. “I do this inventory regularly, most recently last Friday. Since we opened The Gingerbread House, only two cutters have gone missing. As you may recall, the culprits turned out to be two middle-school boys shoplifting on a dare.”
“Ah, good times,” Maddie said. “I do remember those boys returned to the scene of the crime with their irate and embarrassed mothers, one of whom suggested a day in lockup might teach her son a lesson. Personally, I think she just wanted a break from her kid.”
“I know I would,” Olivia said. “We’ve left the same displays up since Tuesday, so there’s no way of knowing when the cutters were taken and if they were taken all at once.”
“We probably shouldn’t have left Clarisse’s vintage cutters on display,” Maddie said. “Though it looks like we lucked out. Only her Duesenberg cutter went missing. The others are still here. Isn’t that a bit strange? The vintage cutters are the most valuable. Why not steal them first?”
“I don’t know.” Olivia reached out to tap the vintage bluebird cookie cutter, the lowest one on the bird mobile. It drifted gently at the touch of her hand. “Maybe monetary value wasn’t the point. Or the thief figured I’d have noticed the losses earlier if they were Clarisse’s vintage cutters.”
Maddie tapped an index finger against her lips. “There’s another possibility,” she said. “The stolen cutters might have sentimental value for whoever took them. Or, of course, it might be random stealing for the sake of stealing.” Maddie skimmed the list in her hand. “Here are the stolen shapes: a star, a teapot, a carrot, a sailboat, a party dress, an apple—and the Duesenberg, of course. What an odd combination. The thief could be a man or a woman.” She shrugged her shoulders and handed the list back to Olivia. “I vote for Charlene Critch.”
Olivia laughed for the first time in days. “Why does that not surprise me. At least the list doesn’t scream out my brother’s name. Except for the Duesenberg, of course.”
“I’m betting someone besides Jason had a reason for taking the Duesenberg,” Maddie said. “And we’ll find out what it is. So what’s next, and does it involve cookies?”
“Good idea,” Olivia said. “I need to focus.” Olivia dimmed the store lights and gave Spunky a quick pat on the head. His tail flapped once. “You guard the store, Spunks. Maddie and I have work to do.” Spunky closed his eyes as Olivia massaged his ears. When she let go, he circled his bed and sank down to sleep.
“That’s
one pooped pup,” Maddie said.
“He had an exciting evening.” Olivia led the way into the kitchen and flipped on the lights. “Now, in answer to your question, next we discuss suspects other than Jason. And yes, we need to whip up a batch of cookies for later.”
“Excellent,” Maddie said, reaching for the trusty Artisan stand mixer. “Do we have time to make a new batch of dough, or should I see what’s left in the freezer?”
“Better check the freezer. I’ll need the cookies for later today when I visit Heather Irwin. If she’s back at work, I should bring extra cookies for her assistants and for library patrons. See if there are any bookish shapes in the freezer. I’ll help in a sec, as soon as I wash up.” Olivia shut herself inside the little bathroom at the back of the kitchen. Seeing herself in the mirror made her glad she kept a few emergency items in the medicine cabinet. She washed her face before tackling her hair. Sun exposure had lightened the auburn color, while a hard night of sleep had pushed up a clump in back and flattened one side. Olivia was not vain, but she had her pride. She would not be seen in public with smashed and clumped-up hair. Especially not by Del. She found a tiny bottle of hotel shampoo in the cabinet and washed her hair in the sink. Finally, she applied lightly tinted sunblock; the radio had promised another hot, sunny day. A swipe of mascara, advertised not to run, and she was ready.
When Olivia reappeared in the kitchen, Maddie had laid out two dozen cookies to defrost on racks. Maddie looked up from her mixer and said, “Good, you washed your hair. I didn’t want to say anything, but you looked like a Dust Bowl survivor.”
“Thanks ever so.”
“No charge.” Maddie swept her arm toward the defrosting cookies. “Those are the bookiest shapes I could find. I even found a few actual book shapes. Also a lion—there’s always a lion or two outside big, old libraries—plus some gingerbread house shapes that look sort of like the Chatterley Heights Library. Then we have an A, a B, and a C; gingerbread boys and girls; a few cats—”
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