Olivia rubbed her brother’s back the way her mother used to when he was croupy as a little boy. “I’m confused about one thing,” she said. “If Charlie stayed all night, why did you make a point of saying he wouldn’t have seen anything because his route home didn’t go through the park?”
“I got confused, too,” Jason said. “The next morning, when everyone knew about Geoffrey, Charlene told me she sent Charlie home right after me. Charlene said he didn’t want to go, but she insisted. Charlie usually does what Charlene tells him to do. She locked all the doors behind him and stuck chairs under the doorknobs and kept her cell with her while she slept upstairs. And that’s all I know.”
Olivia pondered the implications of Jason’s story, which sounded reasonable to her . . . except for the part about Charlene Critch being so concerned about everyone else’s sleep. The fact that she chose to stay alone in the store sounded suspicious. What if she had already planned to kill Geoffrey if he did show up? She wouldn’t want Charlie involved. And what about Charlie? He didn’t have a home to go to, so perhaps he decided to sleep in the park. He might have reasoned that he could keep an eye on The Vegetable House from the band shell. Maybe Charlie took a knife from the store’s kitchen, in case he had a run-in with Geoffrey King.
Mr. Willard checked his watch and stood up. “As your attorney,” he said to Jason, “I strongly advise you to stop confessing to a crime you did not commit. We will inform the sheriff that you are recanting your confession. Agreed?”
Jason nodded his assent. To Olivia, her little brother looked liked a boy who needed a nap. It saddened her to think of him curled up on a hard cot, isolated and scared. “One last question, Jason. When you stupidly . . .” Deep breath, release slowly, like Mom does. “When you confessed to Geoffrey King’s murder, was it because you wanted to protect Charlene only or because you wanted to protect both Charlene and Charlie?”
Jason’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You don’t think Charlie—”
“I don’t think anything yet. Answer the question.”
“I wanted to protect Charlene, of course. I mean, Geoffrey was a jerk, and I was the one who first introduced them. I felt responsible, you know? I didn’t know what he was like then, but still . . . He treated Charlene really badly. He slugged her in the face last weekend, you know. If she killed him, it was in self-defense, but I knew she’d get in trouble anyway because she didn’t call the police right away.”
Mr. Willard cleared his throat twice. “Jason, I must ask you this, and I urge you to be open with me. Do you have reason to believe that Charlene did kill her ex-husband in self-defense? Because if so, I can help her. I’ll find her an excellent attorney, and she may avoid prison altogether.”
“All I know is what I already told you.”
Olivia kissed her brother’s forehead and ruffled his stringy hair. “We’ll get you out of this somehow,” she said. “So stop confessing, start proclaiming your innocence, and if you remember anything else, call your attorney. Or me.” She exchanged a glance with Mr. Willard, who nodded and closed the notebook in which he’d been recording the conversation. Before ringing the bell to summon Del or Cody to let them out, Olivia turned to her brother. “I’m sending Mom to see you. You will talk to her. Won’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah,” Jason said. “Send her soon, okay?”
Chapter Fourteen
As Olivia burst into The Gingerbread House kitchen, Maddie’s head snapped up and cornflower blue icing squirted onto the worktable. “Crap,” Maddie said.
“Sorry,” Olivia said. “I’m behind schedule. How are the library cookies for Heather going?”
“Slowly. If you intend to keep finding bodies and tracking down killers, we’ll need more help in the store.” Maddie refocused her pastry bag on a cookie shaped like a book and wrote READ A COOKIE on the cover. “How’s Jason doing?”
“Better, if you don’t count the need for a shower and deep depression. He has agreed to see Mom. Also, he confessed to making a false confession and has promised to confess no more. Then again, he is hopelessly in love with Charlene Critch.”
“So it’s a good news/bad news thing.” Maddie finished her book cover and stretched. “I hope you’re including me in some of this sleuthing around town. Much as I adore decorating cookies, my back is forgetting how to straighten up.”
Olivia poked her head in the fridge and found a bowl covered with plastic wrap. “What’s this?”
“My tuna salad,” Maddie said. “Something to cleanse the palate between cookies. Try it. If I do say so myself, I have perfected the art of tuna salad.”
“I’m starving. I might have missed breakfast this morning. I don’t remember.” Olivia found some bread that wasn’t too dried out and piled tuna salad on a slice. “This is great. Is there any dish you can’t create?”
“Liver and onions. Unless I leave out the liver part. What’s next on the agenda?”
“Could you spare me a few of these cookies?” Olivia asked. “I need to bribe my next informant.”
Maddie winced as she stretched her arms behind her back. “Ah, much better. Who is your next informant?”
“Constance Overton.”
“You’d better take half a dozen cookies. I suspect she’s still gunning for you, despite everything she’s been through.” Maddie selected a pastry bag filled with inky blue and tackled another book-shaped cookie.
“Everything she’s been through?” Olivia asked. “Never mind, I don’t have time. You can fill me in later.” She selected six cookies with dry icing and placed them in a Gingerbread House bag. “Anything urgent, before I hit the trail?”
“Only that Bertha thinks she knows who has been stealing cookie cutters.”
“No kidding. Who?”
“Charlene Critch.”
“Now Maddie, are you sure you didn’t put that notion into her head?”
“Absolutely positive. All I did was show Bertha the list of missing cutters and ask her to keep her eyes open because they might simply have gotten misplaced. Bertha read down the list and said to me, ‘I think it might be poor little Charlene.’ I asked why she thought that and she said, ‘Well, I could be wrong, but I know I saw her holding at least three of those cookie cutters during the harvest event.’ They were all on mobiles,” Maddie said, “so it was easy to see what Charlene was holding. Bertha said she had a wistful look on her face, like maybe they reminded her of something.”
“Not enough to convict,” Olivia said as she headed for the door leading to the back alley.
“Not yet.”
The Chatterley Heights Management and Rental Company turned out to be half of a renovated duplex. It had once been a Queen Anne summer house much like Olivia’s, but smaller and split in half rather than into two levels. The exterior was in the process of being restored and repainted. The right half of the building housed a chiropractor, while the left front door sported a sign that read M & R COMPANY. The crisp block letters felt efficient and cold.
Olivia hadn’t called ahead for an appointment. It had seemed like the best approach at the time. Now she wished she had at least some sense of how the adult Constance Overton might react to her. Olivia’s watch read nine fifteen a.m. No time to worry about high school trauma. Jason was in jail and likely to stay there if she couldn’t find the mysterious ballerina—a potential witness for the defense. Constance was her best shot.
A bell tinkled overhead as Olivia entered the front door of the M & R Company. She found herself in a narrow foyer containing an old-fashioned standing coat rack and a small table. The latter held a silver-footed tray. Olivia knew something about antiques, and this tray had once been used to deliver visiting cards to the lady of the house. Now it held business cards for The Chatterley Heights Management and Rental Company, 19 Apple Blossom Road, Chatterley Heights, Maryland, followed by Constance Overton, M.B.A., Owner and Manager.