Looking directly at Olivia, he said, “Ms. Greyson, you are the only person present to whom I have not been formally introduced, although I certainly know of you and your place of business from the many times Clarisse spoke of you. She always did so with great admiration and affection, which is why, three months ago, she added a codicil to her will naming you as an added beneficiary.”
Olivia swallowed hard as a ball of grief hit her in the solar plexus.
“By the way, as my full name is rather a mouthful, not to mention pretentious, everyone calls me by some version of my middle name, Willard. Some people call me Mr. Willard—or plain Will, possibly because of the irony. I would be pleased if you do so, as well.”
After a moment of confusion, Olivia got it. Will . . . Lawyers write wills. She decided on Mr. Willard; it was less likely to make her giggle.
“Now, to the business at hand,” Mr. Willard said, glancing down at the papers in front of him. “I will summarize most of Clarisse’s bequests, but I will also read certain sections that she asked me to read aloud.”
A rustling sound replaced the silence as Clarisse Chamberlain’s family and friends shifted in their seats, preparing themselves to hear what she thought of them. Olivia deposited her half-full glass of sherry on the side table next to her chair so she wouldn’t down it in one gulp.
Mr. Willard picked up one sheet of paper, again cleared his throat, and began. “The bulk of Clarisse Chamberlain’s personal estate is left to her two sons, Hugh and Edward, to be divided equally between them.”
Olivia heard sighing that sounded like relief, but she couldn’t tell where it had come from. When she shot them a quick glance, both Hugh and Edward showed impassive expressions. Tammy’s hand slid over Hugh’s intertwined fingers.
Mr. Willard consulted a second sheet of paper and continued. “This includes the house and grounds, as well as savings, investments, and so forth, all of which total an estimated worth of over one million dollars, after the subtraction of Clarisse’s other bequests. However, she stipulated that the property may be sold and investments liquidated only with the free consent of both brothers or their beneficiaries should one predecease the other.”
The attorney’s eyes sought out each brother, as if he were transmitting a silent message. “As for the Chamberlain businesses, Hugh and Edward, your mother wanted you to continue as you have been, working as a team. Profits and losses are to be split evenly between you. Either of you may buy out the other by joint agreement, but you must do so formally, as you would when acquiring any existing business. Should one son predecease the other while still a co-owner, his share will pass to his heirs, unless he has provided other arrangements in his own will. If he has no heirs, the businesses pass to the remaining brother or to his heirs.”
Interesting, Olivia thought. Assuming they knew the contents of their mother’s will, neither Hugh nor Edward appeared to have a compelling reason to kill Clarisse. Unless she had hinted that she intended to change her will before she died.
Olivia studied Hugh and Edward as long as she dared, which amounted to about fifteen seconds each. Neither betrayed any particular emotion. Edward stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle. Hugh bent toward Tammy as she whispered something in his ear. He nodded but said nothing in return. They looked resigned and bored. All in all, that was about what Olivia would expect from two brothers with little in common who have been shackled together for life by their deceased mother.
“Clarisse made a number of bequests to charities, which include several animal rescue organizations, national groups committed to caring for the poor, the Chatterley Heights Food Shelf, and Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine for research relating to heart disease.”
How like Clarisse, Olivia thought. She was successful, healthy, and tougher than granite, but she knew others had not been as lucky.
“We are almost finished,” Mr. Willard said, “and I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.” Faint tittering greeted his sudden shift to informality. He picked up the third and final sheet of paper on his borrowed desk.
“Clarisse made two bequests to individuals outside her family. First, to Bertha Binkman, income for life, to be adjusted for inflation, and a home for life, as well, should she wish to stay here. At any time after her sixtieth birthday, or earlier in the case of illness, Bertha may retire with full benefits, including retirement income, long-term care insurance, and other supplemental health care coverage, as needed. At retirement, she may choose to stay in the house or have the use, for life, of the guest cottage.”
Bertha burst into noisy tears. Edward checked his watch, pushed to his feet, and began to wander. He selected a magazine from a stack on the table near the parlor doorway and leaned against the wall to leaf through it. Hugh and Tammy had their heads together, deep in whispered conversation.
As Bertha’s sobs subsided, Mr. Willard once again cleared his throat. He looked at Olivia and said, “Now we come to the codicil. It is short and simple. Clarisse wanted me to read it aloud.”
Mr. Willard paused, but no one besides Olivia paid any attention. Only Bertha had a good excuse, since her outburst had brought on a wheezing attack. Mr. Willard gave up and spoke directly to Olivia.
“Clarisse had the greatest liking and respect for you, as I’m sure you know,” he said. “Here is what she wrote: ‘With deep admiration and with gratitude for our many hours of conversation, I bequeath to Olivia Greyson the sum of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, to use as she sees fit. I hope she will invest some of it in her business, which has given me many hours of pleasure. In addition, I leave her my entire cookie-cutter collection, which at the time of this writing is valued at approximately thirty thousand dollars.’”
A magazine hit the parquet floor with a slap, breaking the utter silence that followed Mr. Willard’s reading of the codicil. Olivia couldn’t bring herself to look at anyone, so she picked up her sherry glass and stared at the amber liquid. Then she emptied it down her throat.
Chapter Fourteen
“Clarisse left you how much?” Maddie’s voice came through distorted, due to the fact that she was yelling into her cell phone.
“You heard me,” Olivia whispered. She was calling from the upstairs bathroom at the Chamberlain house, after excusing herself to Bertha as the group began to wander toward the dining room.
“Clarisse left me upwards of one hundred and eighty thousand, if you count her entire cookie-cutter collection. Maddie, are you sure no one can hear you? You’re completely alone?” She feared Lucas might be lurking nearby, absorbing her information. Not that Lucas was the type to blab; however, as far as Olivia was concerned, he was still in the running for suspect number five. Or maybe number six, if she counted herself. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars plus an incredible cookie-cutter collection might be considered worth killing for.
“Wow,” Maddie said. “So does everyone hate you now?”
“I’m sure they are plotting my demise as we speak.” Olivia turned on the overhead fan and flushed the toilet.
“What’s all that noise?” Maddie asked.
“Never mind, I don’t have much time. Where are you?”
“Dinner with Lucas was short but sweet, so now I’m back at The Gingerbread House, inventorying the kitchen supplies. Why?”
“Because I want you to do something for me,” Olivia said. “We’ll be back at work tomorrow morning, so we need to use this evening well. You’re better at Internet searches than I am. I want you to use my laptop to find out anything you can about Hugh and Edward, as well as the Chamberlain businesses. Get financial information, if you can. See if there’s anything about Tammy, too.”
“I’ll start with Tammy,” Maddie said.
“Why am I not surprised?”
Olivia hurried downstairs, hoping the group wasn’t already seated in the dining room. She hopped off the bottom step to find Tammy, arms crossed tightly across her chest, leaning against the parlor doorjamb.
“Livie Greyson, I thought we were friends.” Tammy came about as close to hissing as the human voice can manage. Her eyes were narrowed to ice green slivers, and she must have been running her fingers through her hair because her elegant pile of curls was tumbling.
“Tammy, of course we are friends. We’ve been friends so long I don’t even remember how we met. What’s wrong?” Olivia had a good idea what was wrong, but she wanted to hear Tammy’s interpretation.
Tammy unglued an arm from her chest, grabbed Olivia’s, and yanked her into the parlor. She closed the door behind them.
“Shouldn’t we be getting to the dining room?” Olivia asked.
“You’ve already been gone long enough for everyone to notice,” Tammy said. She released Olivia’s arm and glared at her. “How could you?”
“How could I what? Tammy, I honestly don’t get why you’re so angry with me. If it’s about Clarisse’s will—”
“Of course it’s about the will. Clarisse must have been going soft in the head to hand over all that money to you. She’d only known you for a year.” Tammy plunked a fist on each hip. “Unless . . . How did you get her to write that bequest?”
“All right, that’s enough.” Olivia’s even temperament did have its limits. “I had no idea Clarisse was leaving me so much as a dime. If I’d had a clue, I would have tried to talk her out of it. I’m sorry if you don’t believe me, but it’s the truth.”
Olivia expected Tammy to explode, but instead her lower lip began to quiver. Olivia instinctively reached out to her. Tammy noticed the gesture, and tears gathered in her eyes. “Oh, Livie, I’m sorry, it isn’t your fault, and it isn’t even about the money. Although the least you could do is let Hugh have the cookie-cutter collection. It belonged to his mother, after all.”
“And to Edward’s,” Olivia added, and immediately wished she hadn’t. Quickly, she continued. “What did you mean? What isn’t my fault?”
Tammy shrugged. “Oh, you know, that Clarisse loved you like a daughter and couldn’t stand me.” She walked to an ornate mirror hanging on the wall over a marble-topped chest of drawers. “She hated me, you know. She told me in no uncertain terms.” Leaning toward the mirror, Tammy took a bobby pin from her hair, reworked a curl, and moved on to the next.
“But why would she dislike you?”
Tammy frowned at a repaired curl. “Because of Jasmine.” She yanked the pin from the offending curl and started it again. “Because Clarisse thought I’d gotten Jasmine to run away and disappear forever. Believe me, if I could have done that, I would have, but Jasmine was tough. I almost liked her.” Jabbing the pin back in place, she added, “If I hadn’t hated her so much for trying to take Hugh away from me. Then she left, simply disappeared into the air, and Clarisse blamed me. Would you believe, she threatened to write Hugh out of her will if he insisted on marrying me? It’s true. She said it to my face.”
Holding a lock of hair twisted around two fingers, Tammy swiveled her head toward Olivia. “Without her precious Jasmine around, Clarisse wanted Hugh to marry you, you know.”
“Hugh, but not Edward?”
“I can’t see why she’d want you to marry Edward. She never seemed to worry much about him. I think it’s because Hugh is the elder son, and Clarisse was old-fashioned enough to care about that kind of thing.”
Olivia doubted that but kept it to herself.
“Anyway,” Tammy said, “Hugh reminded Clarisse of Martin, so she had a soft spot for him.”
That, Olivia could believe.
Tammy finished repairing her hair and nodded her satisfaction to the gilt-edged mirror. “None of that matters now, though. There’s nothing Clarisse can do to keep Hugh and me apart.”
The dining room was nearly empty by the time Olivia and Tammy arrived. As it turned out, no one had missed them. Due to a wheezing fit, Bertha had kept the corn chowder on simmer while she searched for her inhaler. Edward was in Clarisse’s office with the door closed, taking a cell phone call from a manager at one of the Chamberlain companies. Mr. Willard and Hugh sat at one corner of the dining room table, an open bottle of Glenlivet Single Malt Scotch between them. Olivia recognized the bottle because her ex-husband had begun drinking it as he became more successful. He always left the bottle on display.
Tammy walked right over to Hugh, slid onto his lap, and planted a kiss on his cheek. Mr. Willard’s welcoming smile faded. He looked so uncomfortable, Olivia felt it her duty to rescue him. Perhaps he would be grateful enough to answer a few questions. She caught his eye and nodded a greeting. Mr. Willard responded at once by slipping out of his chair with as little movement as possible and joining Olivia by the sideboard.
“Young love can be a bit much,” Olivia said, as if she weren’t exactly the same age as Tammy.
Mr. Willard raised his eyebrows and sighed.
“I notice the remainder of those lovely appetizers ended up here,” Olivia said, admiring the sideboard. Several bottles of wine, both red and white, stood open and ready for pouring. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. I’d love a glass of wine, but I’d better put something in my stomach first or I can’t guarantee my ability to remain upright.” She selected a tiny egg and watercress sandwich.
Mr. Willard’s trapped-animal stance relaxed. He abandoned his glass of scotch and picked up two olive-cheese balls. Holding one in each hand, he said, “I prefer the classics. As a small child, I used to steal these delicious little darlings right off the guests’ plates when my parents hosted a cocktail party.” One of the darlings disappeared into his mouth.
Olivia was beginning to like Mr. Willard. If and when she needed an attorney, he’d be her first choice.
While Mr. Willard enjoyed his second olive-cheese ball, Olivia glanced over at Hugh and Tammy, still engrossed in one another. Good. Lowering her voice, Olivia asked, “I wonder if you would mind answering a question. It’s about Clarisse’s bequest to me.”
Mr. Willard’s narrow face assumed its legal-professional look, marred somewhat by a crumb of cheese crust at the corner of his mouth. Olivia couldn’t keep her eyes away from it, which prompted him to wipe his mouth with a paper napkin. “I wondered if you might have questions,” he said.
“Clarisse never mentioned her will to me.”
“Clarisse and I were in agreement that the less said about wills, the better. They tend to complicate relationships among the living.”
“Really, Clarisse said that? Then I wonder why . . .” Olivia checked the romantic duo again. Hugh and Tammy were whispering to each other, forehead to forehead.
“What are you wondering?” Mr. Willard asked. “Of course, in my profession there are secrets I must protect, but you’ve piqued my curiosity.”
“Tammy and I were talking earlier, and she said Clarisse threatened to cut Hugh out of her will if he married her.”
Mr. Willard’s thin eyebrows bunched together. He picked up two more olive-cheese balls and tossed both in his mouth at once. How did the man remain so wraithlike? Maybe he didn’t eat at home. Olivia was sure she’d noticed a wedding ring, but she didn’t want to be obvious. Presumably there was food in the larder.
“Your information disturbs me,” Mr. Willard said finally. His hand hovered over the last smoked salmon canapé but came away empty. “Clarisse possessed enormous self-control, as I’m sure you know.”
Olivia nodded her agreement.
“If she actually delivered such a threat, she must have been under a great deal of stress. I feel comfortable telling you that she spoke recently of writing a new will, but her stated intention was to divide the family businesses between her two sons. She always hoped the boys would work together, melding their differing skills, but Hugh and Edward . . .” Willard sighed and shook his head. “Oil and water, those two. Oil and water.”
The Chamberlain’s formal dining room table had been shorten
ed as much as possible, but it still provided plenty of room for a party of twelve. Since they were only six that evening, Bertha had set the places to cluster everyone toward one end.
Tammy had other plans. “Let’s see now,” she said, one finger to her freshly lipsticked lips, “Bertha, you sit at the kitchen end, of course, so you can serve and clear.”
Olivia lowered her head, lest her eye rolling become obvious. Not only was Bertha a beneficiary and therefore an equal part of the group, but she clearly struggled with her breathing as she brought in a soup tureen. Willard took the tureen from her and delivered it to the table.
Tammy scooped up a place setting. “I’ll sit at the other end,” she said as she laid out the plates and silverware. “Hugh will sit on my right, of course. Mr. Willard, you are here, with Edward and Olivia across from you.” She created a single, lonely space for Willard in the middle of one side. Edward and Olivia’s seats, on the other side, were so far apart, they’d have to fire off paper napkin airplanes to communicate.
The group watched in silence as Tammy examined her arrangement and found it satisfactory. “Now I’m going to freshen up,” she said, “and then we can begin.”
The moment she disappeared from sight, Mr. Willard slid his plate and utensils back to their original position catercorner from Bertha, whose round face lit up. Simultaneously, Olivia and Edward scooped up their place settings and moved them closer to Bertha, across from Mr. Willard.
Four sets of eyes focused on Hugh, who stood at the other end of the table. He offered an expressive shrug and a grin that was both abashed and charming. “She isn’t usually like this, you know,” he said. “I mean, she’s a take-charge woman, no doubt about it, but right now she is . . .” Hugh took a quick look over his shoulder. “It’s been tough on her. She and my mother weren’t the best of chums, and after what’s happened, well . . . She isn’t someone who can fake grief, and it makes her feel uncomfortable. When she’s uncomfortable, she takes charge.” His smile broadened to reveal perfect teeth. “When you think of it, that’s a good way to handle a classroom full of first-graders.”
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