“I didn’t realize you’d been married,” Olivia said as she selected a smaller purple and lavender macramé to hang from the sales counter. “But if you raised Matthew from age four, where was your sister?”
“She lived with us,” Rosemarie said. “Of course, our parents figured out what happened and wouldn’t speak to either of us, but at least Annmarie and the baby had a place to live that wasn’t with the father. My husband and I worked full-time, so we all lived fairly comfortably. Then my husband got sick. Matthew was about three, too young for Annmarie to go to work, and I had to quit my job to take care of my husband. For a while, we were all hopeful, but the cancer was aggressive and, well, my husband lived less than a year.” Rosemarie ran her fingers through her short brown hair, drawing Olivia’s attention to gray roots. She knew Matthew was about twenty-five. If Rosemarie was thirty-three when her sister was pregnant with him, she would be about fifty-eight now. She’d never remarried, which meant she’d raised Matthew on her own.
“I know what that’s like,” Olivia said, touching Rosemarie lightly on the shoulder. “My dad died of pancreatic cancer when I was a teenager. It took him very fast.”
Rosemarie took a gulp of her coffee. “It got worse,” she said. “I was heartbroken, but with Annmarie and Matthew there, I had something to live for. I went back to work. When Matthew started preschool, Annmarie got a part-time job. We were doing okay.” Rosemarie’s voice trailed off. Olivia knew there was more, so she arranged a display of party-themed cookie cutters and waited. “One morning, Annmarie dropped Matthew off at preschool and headed for work. She never made it. Some kid out joyriding slammed into her car on the driver’s side. She was gone by the time the police arrived.”
Olivia tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “I can’t even imagine.…”
Rosemarie plunked her cup down on the sales counter and took a deep breath. “It was a long time ago,” she said. “I raised Matthew, of course. I couldn’t love him more if he were my own son. Maybe I spoiled him a bit, but…anyway, I know he’s high-strung and moody. I guess he inherited that much from his father. But he didn’t inherit his father’s meanness, I swear he didn’t. My sister was a good person, and so is Matthew. I know with absolute certainty that he didn’t kill Paine Chatterley. I just can’t prove it.”
Olivia felt a sinking feeling that stretched from her chest to her stomach. She knew what was coming.
“That’s why I’ve come to you, Livie.”
“Rosemarie, I can’t—”
“Now hear me out.” Rosemarie sounded commanding, more like the successful, middle-aged administrator she was. “You’re so smart, Livie, and you’ve done this sort of thing before—you know, helping an innocent person who is accused of a crime he could never, ever have committed.”
“But—”
“Please, Livie. I need your help. The sheriff won’t tell me anything, and you and he…well, maybe he’ll talk to you. Livie, I’m desperate. I have to help Matthew. He’ll clam up and get stubborn and make things worse.” Tears dripped off Rosemarie’s chin and plopped onto the collar of her raincoat.
“I suppose I could talk to Del,” Olivia said. “Only I can’t promise—”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, Livie. I’d better run; there’s still so much to do to prepare for this dreadful weekend.” Rosemarie squinted up at the store’s Hansel and Gretel clock, a gift from Olivia’s mother. It was lovely but so intricate that even Ellie couldn’t read it accurately.
“It’s somewhere around seven to seven fifteen,” Olivia said. When she saw the mute plea in Rosemarie’s eyes, Olivia added, “I can’t force Del to share anything with me, but I will talk to him.”
Once Rosemarie had left, Olivia took Spunky on a quick outdoor bathroom break in the side yard. For once, the little guy was efficient. According to her watch, Olivia had thirty-nine minutes before opening time. The town square teamed with people, many of whom she did not recognize. She hoped the visitors had come for the festivities and not merely to gossip about Chatterley Heights’s sensational murder and arrest.
As she and Spunky reentered the front yard, Olivia recognized the back of a distinctive wheelchair making its way up the newly finished ramp that skirted the steps leading to The Gingerbread House porch. The wheelchair—half state-of-the-art motorized vehicle and half antique rocking chair—as well as the dark blond hair showing above the backrest belonged to Constance Overton, owner of the Chatterley Heights Management and Rental Company. The two were becoming friends, despite their high school tussle over a boyfriend.
Spunky welcomed Constance with a friendly bark. Constance stopped her wheelchair and turned her head. “Is that you, Spunks, old buddy? I see you’ve been taking Livie for some much needed exercise. No offense, Livie.”
“Very little taken.” Olivia unlocked the front door and held it wide. “Does the ramp pass inspection?”
“It’s perfect,” Constance said as she guided her chair into the store. “I’m grateful.”
“Some of the other shopkeepers on the square are dragging their feet,” Olivia said. “I’m hoping the Victorian look will ease their concerns.”
Constance shrugged her slender shoulders. “Well, Lady Chatterley’s got their ramp set up in time for this weekend, so I’ve got cookies and clothes. My two highest priorities.” Her teal cashmere sweater and the matching blanket on her lap were undoubtedly special ordered by Lady Chatterley’s. “Matthew did a nice job with the Victorian gingerbread touches for both ramps,” Constance said. “He’s why I’m here.”
Olivia poured a cup of coffee from a large urn she’d set up in the cookbook nook, near two easy chairs and a table supplied with cream, sugar, and a large tray piled with decorated cookies. “Does everyone in town know Matthew has been arrested, and will all of them be pumping me for details?” Olivia handed the coffee cup to Constance.
“The rumor is going around,” Constance said. “I guessed it was true because Matthew didn’t show up to work on my building at six thirty a.m., like he usually does. I wasn’t sure until I saw Rosemarie York leaving your store this morning. There’s only one reason she’d be here so early on such an important day: she wants you to rescue Matthew from the sheriff’s clutches.”
“Why does everyone believe I can make murder charges go away?”
“Down, girl,” Constance said. “Not everyone thinks you can work miracles. I certainly don’t, and I say this with newfound sisterly affection. That being said, I want Matthew exonerated as much as the next person. I recently bought out the dentist who owned the other half of my building, so I could expand the M & R Company. Matthew is in the middle of renovating the facade. Call it enlightened self-interest. Matthew is a self-involved hothead, probably because Rosemarie spoiled him, but he is supremely talented. Also, I don’t think he’s controlled enough to murder Paine Chatterley without waking up Hermione and several surrounding neighborhoods. Now I want a cookie.” Constance wheeled herself toward the cookbook nook.
Olivia followed her and flopped down in one of the stuffed chairs. The store opened in twenty minutes, but final preparations would have to wait for Bertha to arrive. “Constance, let me ask you this: what if Hermione manipulated Matthew into helping with Paine’s murder?”
Constance nibbled on a cookie shaped like a waving banner. Pink writing on maroon icing read “Eat Me!” “Here’s what I think,” she said. “If Hermione got Matthew to kill her husband, she’d have promised him something that would further his career. More work on the mansion, maybe, I don’t know. Anyway, if there was such a promise and Hermione lets Matthew rot in jail, he will sing like a birdie.”
“But, Constance, how does that help Matthew? He would still be charged as an accessory, at the very least. And he’d need some proof that Hermione was complicit.”
“Well, I don’t have any proof, but I do have some interesting information,” Constance said with a grin that displayed her perfect former-cheerleader teeth. “Yesterday just before closing ti
me, I had a visit from Hermione Chatterley. She wanted to put Chatterley Mansion on the market. Yep, less than twenty-four hours after Paine’s death, his wife is making plans to get out of town.”
“Which means,” Olivia said, “out of the country. Though I presume Del has her passport since he considers her a suspect. Or at least he did yesterday when he suggested I babysit Hermione sometime this weekend. He hasn’t mentioned if he’s changed his mind.”
“Hand over another cookie.” Constance held out a perfectly manicured hand. “I need the calories.”
“I hate you,” Olivia said as she passed along a balloon cookie with mauve and white stripes, specially ordered by Mayor Karen Evanson to match the banner stretched across the band shell.
“Yes, of course you do.” Constance savored a ladylike bite before saying, “I doubt Del has decided to trust Hermione. He’s too good at his job, which means he is always suspicious. You need to tell him about Hermione’s urgent desire to exit Chatterley Heights.”
“Me?”
“Well, I can’t tell him,” Constance said. “It’s a professional ethics thing. I took her on as a client, or at least I pretended to do so. I promised her I’d do a quiet search for a buyer who doesn’t live here in town. So obviously she wants to arrange an exit as soon as possible, and she’s trying to avert suspicion. Anyway, I’ve done my duty, and we both have work to do.” Constance executed a smooth wheel-around and headed toward the front door, snagging another cookie on the way. “The sooner Matthew gets back to work on my building makeover, the happier I’ll be,” Constance said over her shoulder. As Olivia hurried to open the door for her, Constance added, “By the way, I’m taking a risk by sharing this information in possible violation of professional ethics. I’m doing it for the good of the town and the success of the celebration. Not to mention it’ll look good for Del if he can wrap up this investigation himself. I think my taking such a selfless risk merits several dozen cookies at, say, half price?”
“Constance, you’re doing this to get Matthew back to work on your building.”
“That, too, but mostly for the cookies.”
“Geez, you’re a cheapskate,” Olivia said. “You’re rolling in dough.”
“Yeah, but not the kind that turns into cookies. And I didn’t get rich by paying retail.”
Chapter Ten
On the first day of Chatterley Heights’s two-hundred-fiftieth birthday celebration, The Gingerbread House filled up within minutes of opening, though not entirely out of eagerness to buy cookie cutters. Hometown customers knew that the store’s front picture window offered a panoramic view of the town square. Since the Queen Anne that contained The Gingerbread House was built on a small hill—better described as a mound, really—folks inside the store would be able to watch the morning parade over the heads of the crowds outside. A few onlookers chose to sit on the front porch or the steps. However, anyone who dared to stand outside, blocking the view from inside, ran the risk of being run out of town on a sharp-edged rail. Several out-of-towners had already abandoned the porch after receiving this warning from townsfolk.
Olivia was happy to stay inside for the simple reason that the plate glass would mute the sound of the Chatterley Heights High School marching band. She would never admit this openly since many of her customers had school-aged children in the band. Of course, many of those same parents were currently inside The Gingerbread House and likely to stay through the parade. After enduring home practice sessions, they had done their duty.
With commerce suspended in deference to the parade, Olivia joined her staff and customers at the window. Her mother, being four foot eleven, had secured a spot in front. Bertha, who shared Olivia’s height advantage, stood with her behind the onlookers.
“Aren’t they lovely,” Bertha said as three majorettes passed into view. “And so limber.” Bertha was in her sixties and always on the go, but she was far from athletic. Since becoming involved with the widowed Mr. Willard, Bertha had slowly whittled down to a pleasant plumpness. Olivia’s mother, on the other hand, could probably keep up with those majorettes without breaking a sweat.
As three young trumpeters passed, one of them struggling to get back in step, Olivia asked, “Couldn’t Mr. Willard join us to watch the parade?”
“Oh, the poor dear is in his office, working. He feels terrible about the mix-up over Paine Chatterley being declared dead.” Bertha put her fingers to her lips. “I didn’t mean that to sound so cold—now that he’s actually dead, I mean.”
“Bertha, you couldn’t be cold if we encased you in ice. I knew what you meant. Does Mr. Willard have some new information about Paine Chatterley’s death certificate? I mean the one he received years ago.”
“Here comes the piccolo,” Bertha said. “I do love the piccolo. It sounds so brave, high above the rest of the instruments. Although…are those the right notes?”
“Not a one.” Olivia was so glad for the thick plate glass. She didn’t have the best musical ear in town, but something was going very wrong with the piccolo part. Luckily, the girl passed out of sight, to be followed by the softer flutes.
“Willard is so upset with himself for not noticing a problem,” Bertha said, her eyes following the clarinet players as they marched by. “Though really, how could he have known? It was sent from England, looking all official with a stamp and a signed letter.”
“Of course he couldn’t have known,” Olivia said.
“Well, he insists it was plain as plain could be, if he’d only done a little checking. But, well, at the time he didn’t see any reason to be suspicious. Of course, it was many years ago, and he was less experienced then, which is what I told him in no uncertain terms. Also, that was right when his wife got so sick.”
The lone tuba straggled by, taking up the rear of the marching band. Next came the parade banner—mauve, as Karen Evanson had decreed during the planning committee’s fateful last meeting. The mayor herself followed, head held high and smile tight. Olivia lost interest in the parade. She backed away from the group at the window, followed by Bertha.
In the cookbook nook, as they started more coffee and replenished the cookie supply, Olivia asked, “Did Mr. Willard happen to mention why he should have recognized the death certificate as a forgery?”
“Oh my, he was so mortified. And the mayor was quite irritated with him, although the sheriff couldn’t have been nicer about it. But Willard insisted he was at fault because he did have several papers in his files that Paine had signed.”
Olivia almost dropped a plate of cookies. “Are you saying that Paine Chatterley signed his own death certificate?”
“Well, not exactly,” Bertha said as she snapped the lid on the coffee urn. “Some other document in the package from England, I think. Anyway, it makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly does.”
With Ellie, Bertha, and the temporary help—two high school girls—handling the sales floor, Olivia slipped into the kitchen to make a quick call to Del.
“Hey, Livie, good timing,” Del said. “Just a minute, let me…” Del’s cell went quiet for a few moments. “Okay, it’s quieter in here. I’m going a little nuts. Karen wants me and Cody everywhere at once.”
“And you with a murder to solve.”
“Exactly. Listen, Livie, could you break away for an hour or so to visit Hermione Chatterley this afternoon? All I can get from her is a blank stare and a lot of mumbled nonsense.”
“I’ll make it work,” Olivia said. “What do you need from her?”
“Any reference to Matthew Fabrizio, no matter how inconsequential it sounds. I can’t hold him any longer with what I’ve got even though Hermione is absolutely certain he is guilty. I’ve got no witnesses who can swear Matthew threatened to kill Paine Chatterley. That doesn’t mean he is innocent; he’s still my best suspect after the run-in he had with Paine about his questionable lineage. But I need more to go on.”
With one hand, Olivia poured herself some coffee and
retrieved the cream from the refrigerator. “Del, were you aware that Hermione Chatterley wants to sell the mansion as soon as possible? She approached Constance about putting it on the market. Constance doesn’t want it generally known that she’s the source of the information. Professional ethics or something. I haven’t had a chance to call you; it’s been so chaotic here.”
As if to prove her point, the kitchen door burst open to reveal one of the high school girls she’d hired for the weekend. “Ms. Greyson, I don’t know what to do. We had five of those pretty aprons on display, and they sold in, like, five minutes, and there’s all these ladies who want to buy more of them.”
Olivia held up one finger and pointed to her cell. “Del, I—” A demanding knock on the alley door interrupted her. She opened the door to find Rosemarie York, her fist poised for another knock. “Um, could I call you back later, Del? Life is getting complicated at this end.”
“There’s a lot of that going around,” Del said, chuckling. “I’ll follow up with Constance and promise to say it’s a rumor going around. Small towns and gossip, that sort of thing. Call me when you’ve had a chance to talk to Hermione.”
As Olivia signed off, Rosemarie marched into the kitchen and sat at the worktable. Her hair needed brushing, her raincoat was missing a button, and she looked every minute of her fifty-eight years.
The young clerk eyed Rosemarie uncertainly before saying, “Everyone else is so busy.…”
Olivia grabbed a set of keys from the kitchen counter. “Here, this key opens the storage room. Do you know where that is? Good, then right inside there’s a hook on the wall. There are ten more aprons hanging on it, already tagged. Put them all out on the coatrack. Go.”
When the Cookie Crumbles Page 12