“Raoul Larssen.” Olivia waited until Maddie’s laughter subsided before she spelled it out. “See what you can find on the Internet and call as soon as you have something.”
“What are you going to do?” Maddie asked.
“I’ll stay here until we hear from the State’s Attorney. Whatever she decides, we have to move fast if we’re going to save Jason’s neck. I’ll stop by to pick up the cookies for Heather. I’m hoping she has some secrets to share. How’s Spunky?”
“Lording it over the store. We’ll have to order more Yorkshire terrier cookie cutters. Customers keep buying them as soon as they meet that little guy.”
“Yeah, he’s a born sales-pup.” Olivia checked her watch. Past noon already. She’d meant to be back in The Gingerbread House for the whole afternoon. “Do you have plans for this evening?”
“No plans.”
The subtle change in Maddie’s voice told Olivia that all had not healed between her and Lucas. It was about time to be an interfering friend. “Good. We’ll need the evening to bake and research and plan.”
“Your mom is with Jason, back in his cell,” Del said when Olivia returned. “I talked the State’s Attorney into backing off for a bit. She admitted Charlene and Charlie Critch both have O-positive blood, but she figured Jason’s confession was the clincher. I sympathized with the budget cuts she’s gotten socked with lately and pointed out that Jason would be one more prisoner in an overpopulated holding cell. I offered to do more legwork for her. However, if we don’t have anything by Saturday morning, she’s sending officers to transport Jason. He’s already on the arraignment schedule for Monday morning.”
“A day and a half. At least that’s something,” Olivia said.
“And, Livie, when I said ‘us,’ I meant Cody and me. You are not to get involved this time. Yes, I know you’ve been helpful, but this could get dangerous. So stay out of this. Do you hear me?”
“Not a word.”
“Livie, listen—”
“If I want to put myself in danger to help my brother, I have that right.”
“You’re putting Maddie in danger, too. Heck, last time you put Spunky in danger.”
“Spunky will be staying home this time.”
The front door of the police station opened and the two officers entered, looking cheerful and well fed. Del put his face close to Olivia’s, lowered his voice, and said, “If you get yourself or anyone else injured, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”
An angry retort flashed through Olivia’s mind. She repressed it, spun around, and stalked out of the police station into sweltering heat.
Chapter Sixteen
Armed with a Gingerbread House cookie box in one hand and a cookie in the other, Olivia set out for the Chatterley Heights Library and a chat with Heather Irwin, Head Librarian. The library was located at the opposite corner of the town square, so the shortest route was through the park. Olivia was relieved to see that the clue-hunting murder-gawkers had finally given up.
Del’s order to her not to try to help her own brother had left Olivia feeling both irritable and guilty. After all, Del had saved Jason from being dragged off in shackles. She was grateful for that. On the other hand, he had practically threatened her. She’d had no choice but to walk out on him.
Let it go, Livie. Jason needs you.
Enjoying the soft cushion of grass, Olivia zigzagged from one shade tree to the next. Her cranky mood began to improve. It didn’t hurt that she was munching on a violet cookie shaped like a book, entitled Purple Prose.
The Chatterley Heights Public Library was housed in a small brick building next to the post office. A flower box decorated a square window near the front door. The first thing Olivia noticed was that the petunias were fried. Heather kept those flowers watered with the anxious concern of a new mother. She must be quite ill.
As Olivia entered the library, a bell dinged over the door. Two wide-eyed young faces turned to her, at first with hope, then with despair. High school girls, probably, working a summer job to earn money for college. The reason for their despair became evident at once. Everywhere she looked, Olivia saw unshelved books teetering in stacks up to ten high. Without provocation, one stack collapsed and several books slid off a table. One of the girls, a petite redhead, tried to stem the flow and managed to rescue one book.
“So,” Olivia said, “I gather Heather is still home sick?”
The second assistant, a thin girl with bowed shoulders, gave her a half-nod. Olivia took this as an exhausted yes. “I’m sure she’ll be back soon,” Olivia said. When this didn’t seem to cheer the girls, she opened her box of cookies. “You two look like you need a pick-me-up.” She held the box out to them. “Have a cookie.”
Olivia could feel the air lighten, such was the power of Maddie’s cookies. Taking turns, the girls chose one cookie each. Olivia noticed that neither selected a book shape. “I’ll go check on Heather at home,” she said. On her way out, she left four more cookies.
Heather Irwin’s farmhouse was as dark as it had been when Olivia found the stash of stolen items in one of the barns. She hesitated at the front door, worried that Heather might be bedridden. Maybe she shouldn’t be disturbed. Or maybe she should be moved to a hospital soon.
Olivia rang the doorbell and heard it reverberate inside the house. She waited, listening for the sound of a voice or feet clumping down the stairs. She tried to turn the knob and found the door securely locked. She rang the doorbell again, longer this time. Olivia checked her watch, waited, checked again. A seed of concern took root and flowered into full-blown worry. Heather might be so ill she couldn’t get out of bed. Or worse. Olivia considered calling Del; this might be an emergency.
Get a grip, Livie. Maybe Heather was out in her barn, feeding her horse and her collection of barn cats. She might even now be on her way in to work, although Olivia thought she would have recognized Heather’s truck on the road. Heather’s truck. Olivia deposited her box of cookies on the front seat of her own car before walking around to the back of the house. The garage door was open, revealing Heather’s green pick-up inside. Olivia put her hand on the hood; the engine was cold.
The house looked as dark from the back as it had from the front. Olivia walked through the back yard, which needed mowing, and toward Heather’s large barn. The door was latched from the outside. She lifted the latch and pulled open the barn door, which required her full weight to accomplish. She stepped inside, called out Heather’s name. A horse neighed and several cats meowed, but not with the desperation of starvation. In fact, Olivia saw several bowls half full of dry cat food lined up along one wall. One small black cat ran up to her and wound around her ankles before heading for the food.
Olivia closed up the barn and circled the house. She saw no lights, either upstairs or downstairs. She pressed her nose against the kitchen window, the only one without a curtain. The kitchen had that lived-in look, with dirty dishes piled next to the sink and a coffee mug on the table. The mug looked like the same design as the one Olivia had found in the small barn.
If Geoffrey King had been hiding out in Heather’s small, rarely used barn, he might also have picked the lock to her house and taken a mug. Perhaps more. Olivia’s worry increased as she imagined Heather walking into her kitchen and finding King brewing himself a cup of coffee. King was a violent man. Heather had been calling in sick to the library every day, so she probably wasn’t dead or dying, but she might be black and blue. Maybe she was simply staying out of sight until her bruises healed. Maybe she was hiding from King, not yet aware he couldn’t hurt her any . . .
Wait a minute. None of this makes sense. . . . Heather Irwin might be quiet and solitary, but she was also strong and athletic. And smart. She had to know by now that Geoffrey King was dead. If she could open her heavy barn door and feed her animals, then she wasn’t bedridden. What if Heather’s mysterious boyfriend was Geoffrey King? Heather was shy and hadn’t been in a relationship for some time. King could be charming, especia
lly with women who were insecure about their attractiveness. Suddenly, it made sense that no one had seen this boyfriend, including Heather’s good friend and neighbor, Gwen Tucker.
Geoffrey King stayed out of sight, operating in the darkness. Maybe he stashed stolen items in Heather’s small barn because he knew she rarely went into it. But what if she’d found the loot? Olivia remembered Charlene Critch’s black eye. If King had become violent with Heather, he wouldn’t have been careful about it. Heather’s face would undoubtedly tell the tale. And King had been murdered.
Olivia left the kitchen window and headed up the gravel driveway toward her car, dialing the police station number with her thumb. Del answered before the first ring ended. “Del? Listen, I think I might have something for—” Olivia heard the roar of a powerful engine and spun toward the sound. Heather’s green truck exploded from the garage and sped straight toward her. Olivia leaped sideways off the gravel driveway, onto the lawn. Losing her balance, she collapsed into a ball and rolled, the way a ski instructor had once taught her. It had become second nature to Olivia. She had never become a confident skier, so she’d had plenty of time to practice falling.
Taking it slow, Olivia rolled to a sitting position. Heather’s green truck was already out of sight. Olivia checked for broken bones. Her injured shoulder felt sore but, on the whole, not too bad. She heard a tinny voice yelling from the grass and realized her cell had flown from her hand when she fell. At least it still worked. She followed the voice, picked up her phone, and said, “Who is this?”
“Olivia? Are you okay? You called me, remember?”
“Del, of course. I’m fine, really, only a bit shook up. However, I am pleased to report that our murder suspect list has just increased by one.”
Chapter Seventeen
“How come you get to have all the excitement?” Maddie said. She opened the box of cookies Olivia had taken with her to Heather Irwin’s farmhouse. “We might as well eat these. Good thing you stashed them in your car before Heather could run over them. What a waste that would have been.”
“Thanks for your concern about my person,” Olivia said, reaching into the box. She pulled out a pink book-shaped cookie dusted with darker pink sugar sprinkles. “They say reading is broadening,” she said.
“Try not to think about it,” Maddie said before biting the roof off a library-shaped cookie. While she chewed, she retrieved her laptop from the kitchen desk. “We weren’t too busy today, which was bad for our bottom line but good for research.” Depositing her cookie on a plate, Maddie opened the lid of her computer. “I bookmarked the good stuff.” When her bookmark list appeared on the screen, Maddie hooked her ankle around a chair and dragged it next to Olivia’s at the kitchen table. She set the computer between them. “I had to do a lot of digging to get to this point, for which I want adequate appreciation.”
Olivia reached back to the kitchen counter, grabbed Maddie’s half-eaten library, and handed it to her. “Have a cookie. Hey, your cookies are the best on earth. What appreciation could be more adequate?”
Maddie slid the box out of Olivia’s reach. “Brat. No more cookies for you. Now concentrate.” She clicked on a bookmark and up popped the website for the Royal Winnipeg Ballet, based in Manitoba.
“Manitoba, wow,” Olivia said. “How do they stay warm in those skimpy costumes?”
“Oh, the ignorance. Ballet is hard work. Sit up front at a ballet sometime; you can watch the dancers sweat.”
“Sounds like fun, but I’ll pass. What have you found?”
“Wait’ll you see, Livie, you will beam with pride. At first I thought it was a mistake on the Internet—and really, how could that be? But then I figured it out. Don’t fidget, I’m getting there. Presentation is everything. Okay, first we have to go back some years. For that I had to find an obsessive-compulsive ballet blogger, which wasn’t hard. Ballet is easy to obsess about.”
While Maddie squinted at her bookmark list, Olivia inched closer and closer until she could reach around and grab the cookie box. “Brain food,” Olivia said in response to Maddie’s glare.
“Here we are,” Maddie said. “I found this blogger who has collected the names of principal dancers and soloists for every year going back more than fifty years, almost to the troupe’s beginning. I skimmed through all of them. Just when I felt blindness begin to descend, I found this.” Maddie scrolled back to 1980 and tapped her fingernail against one name on the screen, listed under the category “Principal Players.”
Olivia leaned close to make out the tiny print. “Lara Larssen. You don’t think . . . ? The last name is spelled the same as Raoul’s, but couldn’t that be a coincidence?”
“I found a short bio on another website that mentioned Lara was married to a Latin dancer. How many Latin dancers named Larssen can there be on the earth at one time? Lara would have been twenty or so at that time, and I’d guess Raoul to be in his mid-fifties right now, so it fits.”
Thinking back to her conversation with Constance Overton, Olivia said, “Raoul told Constance his wife was dead, but we have only his word for that. Maybe she’s in hiding for reasons relating to the scar on her cheek.” She did some quick math. “But would our ballerina in the park really be so old? Lara Larssen would be pushing fifty. Could she do all those leaps?”
“Maybe,” Maddie said, “if she’d kept dancing and hadn’t suffered a major injury. The question is, why? Who dances outdoors in the middle of the night?”
Olivia selected a rectangular cookie decorated as a library card. “Someone who still longs to express herself? Not that I know anything about this artistic expression stuff.”
“However, you could be on to something, in your own fuzzy way.”
“Or she could be mentally unbalanced,” Olivia said.
“Also not unheard of in the artistic world. It would explain why she stays hidden during the day.” Maddie scrolled up to 1982 and pointed to the screen. “I have a suspicion that the young Lara Larssen’s ballet career was cut short. First, read this list.”
Olivia scooted her chair next to Maddie’s and scanned another list of dancers. “Okay, so Lara Larssen was still a principal player in 1982.”
“This is two years after she was hired by the Royal Winnipeg Ballet.” Maddie switched to another screen. “And here it lists Lara Larssen as the dancer chosen to play the role of Clara in The Nutcracker. That’s pretty heady stuff for a young ballerina. I found a review of her performance that called her the next Margot Fonteyn.”
“Margot Fonteyn . . . wasn’t she a soap opera star?” Olivia asked.
Maddie was too excited by her Internet discoveries to react. “Now it gets even more interesting,” she said, pointing to the screen. “This is the list for the following year, 1983.”
“I don’t see Lara’s name,” Olivia said.
“Exactly. She has disappeared, never to dance again, at least in public. I haven’t been able to track down another mention of her. You’d think there’d be something on the Internet, given what a splash she made and how mysteriously she disappeared.”
“I suppose you searched for death notices?”
“Of course,” Maddie said. “No luck. However, I left a question for the blogger who put together this fantastic history-of-the-ballet website. Maybe she’ll know something. In fact, let me check again and see if she’s had time to respond.”
Maddie’s fingers bounced around the computer keys, reminding Olivia of little ballet feet. While she waited, Olivia got up to fill the dishwasher and wondered if Del had found Heather Irwin and her speeding green truck. She doubted Heather would disappear forever. She loved her horse too much to leave him without care. She even loved the barn cats and had given each one a name.
“Eureka!” Maddie paused a few moments to read the blogger’s response to her question. “Okay, Livie, here’s the scoop. Lara was a gifted dancer, but she was of a delicate constitution complicated by feelings of inadequacy, or that’s what the blogger tells me. This is, after
all, the Internet, so the information might be anything from total truth to romantic hogwash. Anyway, she says Lara developed a serious problem with anorexia. In those days, ballerinas had to be tiny. They got weighed all the time. Lots of ballerinas had problems with anorexia and bulimia. It’s still a problem. Sad.”
“Any information about Lara’s ultimate fate?” Olivia asked.
“Let me finish. Nope, my blogger says she fell off the edge of the earth. I guess we struck out on this one.”
“Not to worry, we’ll keep searching.” The Gingerbread House cookie box held two more cookies. Olivia handed the gold lion with blue dragée eyes to Maddie. Olivia bit into the other cookie, a library building decorated with pale green ivy leaves.
“I need to do some cutting and baking this evening,” Maddie said. “We’ve managed to run through most of the supply in the freezer. Want to help?”
“I do,” said Olivia. “Should we grab a pizza?”
Staring at her computer screen, Maddie said, “I agreed to have dinner with Lucas tonight.” She didn’t sound happy. “I should be back in an hour.”
“Maddie? Is there something you want to talk about?” Olivia sat down next to her.
Maddie shook her head at the computer screen.
“Maybe later?”
Maddie shrugged her shoulders and stood up. “Back in an hour. Then you can lay out your plan. Because I know you have one, and it better be good. We have about thirty-six hours to save your brother.”
After Maddie left, Olivia finished cleaning the kitchen and got out ingredients in preparation for their baking session that evening. She wished she were half as well organized as everyone seemed to think she was. She had managed, without forethought, to add Heather as a suspect in Geoffrey King’s death. She’d almost, but not really, found the mysterious dancer in the park, who may or may not have witnessed Geoffrey King’s murder. And if she had witnessed the murder, she might be incapable of testifying due to mental disturbance. The suspects she hadn’t tackled at all were the obvious ones: Charlene and Charlie Critch.
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