“I’m searching for a potential witness to the murder.” Olivia felt relieved by the shift in Constance’s demeanor—still curt but with a hint of empathy. They’d both grown up since high school; perhaps Constance had let go of the boyfriend-stealing episode from their youth. Maybe she didn’t even remember it.
“And you think the dance instructor, Raoul, might be that witness?”
“In a sense.”
“In what sense? And why should I reveal private information about one of my renters?”
“I didn’t mean that you . . .” What was it her mother kept telling her about breathing? Oh yeah, keep doing it. “Do you know if Raoul lives in the property alone?” she asked.
Constance’s penciled eyebrows shot up. “He assured me he would be living alone. My rents include a portion of the cost of utilities. If someone else is living there with him, he should be paying higher rent, or the extra resident should be paying his or her own portion of the rent. I was specific about that. Do you have evidence someone is living with him full time?”
Olivia felt a strong need for a cookie. Then she remembered she had brought some. But where were they? “Hang on a sec, Constance. I left something on the table in the hallway.” Olivia had the impression that Constance’s eyelids had arched to her hairline, but she didn’t pause to confirm. She hurried out to the table in the hallway and found the bag on top of the silver card holder. Constance’s command to report to her office must have flustered her more than she’d realized. She resisted the urge to stuff a cookie in her mouth. With her luck, she’d wind up with crumbs on her chin.
When Olivia arrived back in the office, Constance was reading through some papers, her pen scratching notes on a pad. Olivia felt a compulsion to announce her presence. She resisted. Instead, she sat on her spindly chair, plunked the bag of cookies on Constance’s desk, and opened the top. The mingled scents of lemon zest and ginger wafted into the air. The pen slowed, then stopped. Constance’s eyes lifted from her work. She dropped her pen and reached for the bag. Olivia had to smile. A good cookie can tame the most aggressive of business school graduates.
Without comment, Constance reached into the bag and pulled out a frowning gingerbread boy dressed in purple and yellow stripes. The corner of Constance’s mouth twitched. “Reminds me of a high school boyfriend of mine, the one who dumped me for another girl. What was his name? Shane?”
“Shawn,” Olivia said.
“That’s the one.” Constance bit off the gingerbread boy’s head.
“As you know very well,” Olivia said, “the girl he began dating was me. You vowed eternal vengeance.”
“Eternity is a long time,” Constance mumbled, still chewing. She bit off a gingerbread arm and dragged the cookie bag out of Olivia’s reach. When she had swallowed the last of the gingerbread cookie, Constance said, “Excellent quality. I assume Maddie is the chief baker?” She brushed crumbs off her desk and into her wastebasket. Then she smiled. “Bribe accepted and eternal vengeance canceled. Tell me how I can help Jason.”
“Thank you.” Olivia moved her chair closer and leaned her elbows on the desk. “First, can you tell me what Raoul’s last name is? No one in town seems to have any idea, and I don’t see how he could sign rental papers without one.”
“Let me check,” Constance said, opening a file drawer on the right side of her desk. She extracted what looked like a contract. “Yes, here it is. His legal name is Raoul Larssen.”
“Larssen? Are you sure?”
“I remember now,” Constance said. “I had the same reaction, so Raoul showed me his driver’s license. He said he’d emigrated from Argentina as a young boy, accompanied by his widowed mother, who was a celebrated dancer. His mother managed to support them for a time by giving dance lessons, which is how he learned to dance. When Raoul was thirteen, his mother met and married a second-generation Swede named Sven Larssen, and mother and son took his name. Made sense to me.”
“Did he mention having any family still alive?”
Constance said, “I always ask a few questions about family members, even for a month-to-month lease like this one. You never know when some kid will move back in with the folks. Another resident means more use of utilities, maybe more damage, depending on whether the newcomer has come from, say, prison. Raoul said his mother and stepfather were deceased and his wife had died. I let it go at that. Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” Her hand slipped into the cookie bag and reappeared holding a pink rutabaga. “My kind of vegetable.”
Olivia pondered how much to reveal to Constance. “It’s important that Raoul not find out I’ve been asking about him,” she said. “I don’t have any reason to suspect him of anything, but I think he might know something or someone.... I don’t know, I might be grasping at straws, but right now that’s all I’ve got. Do you know what his wife’s name was?”
Constance clutched the cookie bag to her chest as if she thought Olivia might claim it back. “The topic never came up,” she said, “and I didn’t ask. Not my business.”
“I have a last request, and it’s an odd one. You’ll just have to trust me . . . despite my past alleged untrustworthiness.”
“Explain.”
“I have it on the best familial authority that Raoul leaves town every Thursday, and I need to get inside the dance studio. I know that borders on illegal, but—”
“You think someone else is living there, don’t you? I’m very good at math, I can add two and two. Assuming that’s your suspicion, I think we can do business. If Raoul has someone else living with him, I want to know. If I loan you the spare key, you are acting as my emissary, which isn’t illegal. In return, you must tell me if you find evidence of another resident. Otherwise, I turn you in. Deal?” Constance’s hand hovered near the file drawer.
“Deal. I might not be able to return it until tomorrow. My afternoon is jammed.”
“I’ll be looking over a new property tomorrow morning. Afternoon will be fine.” Constance swung open her file drawer and brought out a zippered bag of keys. She handed over a key labeled with a combination of letters and numbers, reminiscent of Olivia’s method for tracking cookie cutters. “A code, right?” Olivia asked.
“Of course. Wouldn’t want my keys wandering around with actual addresses on them.”
Olivia stood. “Thanks, Constance. I’m glad you haven’t been planning my painful demise all these years. Drop by The Gingerbread House sometime.”
As Olivia turned her back, Constance said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to order take-out cookies. I don’t get out much.” Olivia looked back to see Constance push back from her desk and wheel herself around it. “Unless The Gingerbread House is wheelchair accessible, that is.” Constance laughed at Olivia’s chagrined expression. “Car accident,” she said. Her wheelchair was custom-made. The part that showed above her desk looked like a well-preserved mahogany rocking chair with carved roses above an embroidered back. The bottom was a state-of-the-art motorized wheelchair. When Olivia saw the soft paisley blanket covering Constance’s lap, she realized that those lovely, long cheerleader legs were missing.
Olivia missed being with Maddie in The Gingerbread House. However, she had to work fast. Del might now believe that Jason was innocent of murder, but his confession—not to mention means, motive, and opportunity—could still send him to prison.
Olivia walked briskly, collecting a film of perspiration by the time she reached the dance studio. To divert attention, she passed the building, then doubled back through the alley to the rear entrance.
Constance had assured her the key opened both the front and back doors, and it did. Olivia slipped inside the building and locked the door behind her. She found herself in darkness. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out windowless walls, a counter, and a table with two chairs. She hadn’t thought to ask Constance for a floor plan. Some planner she turned out to be. It also never occurred to her to stop at home to pick up one of the new flashlights she had purchased after h
er dark and stormy night in the park. Olivia assumed she was in the small office that opened onto the dance floor. A ribbon of gray along the floor gave a clue to the location of the connecting door. Olivia headed toward the sliver of light, tripping over a chair leg on the way.
When she opened the door, Olivia saw daylight through the large front window and instinctively pulled back. She reminded herself that she would be invisible to someone looking into the dark studio. Probably. She wished Maddie were with her to lighten the mood. Breaking into homes, even with permission, wasn’t as relaxing as, say, baking cookies. If Raoul returned early for some reason, her plan would backfire. He would pack up and leave town, and she might never locate the dancer in the park. Jason, remember Jason. That dancer might be her brother’s only chance.
Olivia stepped out of the little office and scanned the dance floor. Aside from the front entrance, she didn’t see any other doors. She reentered the office and closed the door behind her. She felt along the wall for the light switch and, defying caution, switched it on. So what if a pedestrian glanced inside the studio and saw light under the door? Besides her mother, how many people even knew Raoul’s habit of leaving town on Thursdays?
The light revealed another closed door. It was unlocked, thank goodness. She opened it and found two light switches on a wall just inside. She flipped both. The office light turned off, and an overhead light came on, illuminating a narrow staircase. With a surge of hopeful energy, Olivia shut the door behind her and mounted the stairs.
The second floor reminded Olivia of her own apartment, with a central hallway and rooms on each side. She hurried past open doors leading into a living room, kitchen-dining room, bathroom, and a tiny room that looked like an office strewn with papers. At the end of the corridor, two bedrooms faced one another. At least, Olivia assumed they were both bedrooms. In the room to her left, she could see an unmade bed and two chairs strewn with various items of men’s clothing, including dancing costumes.
The door to Olivia’s right was closed. Attached to the doorjamb, she noticed a chain latch, the kind one might install on a front door to allow a resident to peek through without allowing access inside. Only this lock was on the outside of the door. Maybe it was left over from the era of the seamstress sisters? They’d grown old here; maybe one of them developed Alzheimer’s and began to wander at night. She’d have to ask her mom. The metal didn’t look worn, but the lock might have been used for only a short time.
Olivia tried the doorknob. It turned smoothly. Her heart quickened as she gently pushed the door inward and looked inside. The room was cluttered with discarded clothing, and there could be no doubt that it belonged to a woman. That woman was the ballerina in the park, the woman she’d seen waltzing in Raoul’s arms. As she picked her way around piles of clothing, Olivia speed-dialed Maddie.
“Livie, don’t worry, I’ve finished the cookies for Heather, and the store is quiet at the moment. So tell me everything.” Maddie’s voice was breathy with excitement. “Did you get into the dance studio? Did Constance Overton demand her vengeance after all these years?”
“I’ll tell you about Constance later,” Olivia said. “Long story. Anyway, she gave me a key and I am at this moment in the bedroom of our mysterious ballerina.” She waited for Maddie’s squeal to subside. “I’m at a small desk in the corner. No papers, just a laptop, maybe three or four years old.” Olivia lifted the lid. “Turned off,” she said. “Too bad.”
“Now if you’d brought me along,” Maddie said, “I’d fire that thing up in no time. I could probably even guess her password.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Olivia took in the rest of the bedroom. “From the state of this room, I’d say our girl has issues. Apparently, she has never heard of a clothes hanger. Or else there are none left. The closet is stuffed. I envy her wardrobe, though. So thoroughly diaphanous. She has a sewing machine set up. It’s an old Singer, must have been left by the previous owners. And there are piles of lovely fabrics.”
“Ooh, she found the stash,” Maddie said. “Aunt Sadie once told me the sisters kept a huge supply of gorgeous fabric in their attic. She always wondered what happened to it.”
Olivia picked up a pill bottle from a bedside table. “Listen to this, Maddie. Our ballerina takes pills. The label is for some generic drug with a multisyllabic name. I don’t recognize it. Hang on a sec.” She put down the phone and rummaged in her pocket for something to write on. She found an old receipt. Using a fabric marking pencil, she jotted down the drug name. She replaced the pill bottle as she’d found it and retrieved her cell.
“Maddie, you would love the closet. It’s crammed full of costumes. Not just dancing dresses, but actual costumes with headdresses and capes and . . . Wow, there must be twenty pairs of toe shoes and even more pairs of ballet slippers in here. Our dancer must have been a real ballerina. Maybe that scar on her face ended her career and made her unstable.”
“We might be able to dig something up on the Internet,” Maddie said. “That’s my specialty.”
“One more question for you, Maddie, and then I need to hang up. Did your aunt Sadie ever say anything about what happened to the sisters who owned this place? Did they sell it and retire to Florida or something?”
“It was sad,” Maddie said. “The older sister went senile, and the younger one tried to take care of her and the store at the same time. It was too much stress for the younger sister. She had a massive heart attack. Aunt Sadie said it happened on a weekend, so it was Monday before anyone realized something was wrong. The police broke into the store and found older sis wandering around half-dressed and agitated. Younger sis was dead on the floor of the kitchen. Why?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Olivia said. “I’m behind schedule. See you soon.” She closed her cell and took one last look around the bedroom. The costumes in the closet were tightly packed, but it wouldn’t hurt to look through them. Olivia’s watch read ten twenty, which left plenty of time to question Heather Irwin about the stolen items found in her barn.
Olivia set to work, moving through the costumes one by one, luxuriating in the fine silks and satins as they slid through her hands. She remembered wanting to be a ballerina when she grew up . . . until the first time she tried to dance en pointe in real toe shoes. Her poor little toes felt crushed as her entire weight balanced on those wooden tips. She lasted about a week before deciding to switch to horseback riding. That hurt, too, but not as much.
When Olivia was about three fourths of the way through the costume collection, she came to a dress composed of many translucent layers of white fabric. This might be the costume she and Maddie saw the ballerina dance in that night in the park. The next dress was white, also, as well as several more beyond it. Olivia examined each, not sure what she was looking for. After three more costumes, she found it—a large rip down the bodice and into the skirt. Olivia took the dress from the closet and held it under the bedside light. The rip could have happened during a struggle.
Reluctantly, Olivia slid the dress back on its hanger. Del would want to know everything she had found, but she wanted to put off her confession as long as possible. Del was beginning to trust her, or at least she hoped he was. He wouldn’t be happy to learn she’d been riffling through belongings without their owner’s permission.
Olivia was finishing her inspection of the dance costumes when her cell phone rang. It was her mother. She answered at once.
“Livie, it’s . . . You’ve got to come right away. I don’t know what to do.”
“What is it, Mom? You sound upset.”
“Of course I’m upset. You would be, too. They are taking Jason away.”
“Away? Who are ‘they’?”
“The police, of course. The ones from Baltimore or Howard County, I don’t know. I only know they are taking him away to be charged with murder. Del said they’ve found some evidence that Jason killed Geoffrey King.”
Chapter Fifteen
Olivia entered the Chatterley Heights po
lice station and felt as if she’d stumbled into an Agatha Christie novel, adapted for the stage, with her mother performing the role of Miss Jane Marple. Ellie Greyson-Meyers, all four-foot-eleven inches of her, single-handedly faced off two uniformed police officers. She stood between them and her son, apparently using reason to delay the inevitable. Olivia cringed when she saw Jason’s hands and feet so tightly shackled he could barely shuffle. He looked young and frightened; she wanted to ruffle his hair and comfort him. She moved toward him, and at once an officer stepped in front of her. Del gave her a slight shake of his head.
“Livie, thank God you’re here,” Ellie said. “Allan left town at the worst possible moment. You talk to them.”
“Mom, I’m not sure what I . . .”
“Tell them they can’t take Jason away. His confession was a lie, he’s admitted that.”
Sounding tired, Del said, “They have some evidence, Ellie.”
“What evidence?” Ellie said. “And it had better be good.” She planted her fists on her hips, straightened her spine, and gave the officers a hard stare. Miss Marple, Olivia thought, with a hint of Dirty Harry.
The two officers exchanged a quick glance before the taller of them said, “Blood evidence. I guess the crime lab found your son’s blood on the deceased’s shirt. Now we’d better get going, and you need to get out of the way, ma’am.”
“Wait a minute,” Olivia said, stepping closer to her mother. “It was storming the night Geoffrey King was murdered. I ought to know; I found his body, and it was soaked. How did the lab extract a clear blood sample?”
“Look, all I know is, the guy had a jacket on, and the crime lab found a dry patch with blood. You’ll have to ask them how they got it.” The officer snorted. “If you can get one of them to talk to you. All they do is run around complaining how understaffed they are and how they don’t have time to breathe.”
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