“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 her 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?”