“Not an ounce of fat on my body,” Sam said.
Olivia watched him devour the sky blue, tulip-shaped smiley face. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Clarisse Chamberlain,” she said. “She and I were friends, you know. I worry that something was bothering her, and I didn’t see it.”
“You know, a couple days before she died,” Sam said, “I had a very interesting visit with Ms. Chamberlain. Very interesting. The sheriff doesn’t know about it. He couldn’t be bothered to ask. See, we got this next-day priority package that required a signature from Ms. Chamberlain, and one of the new guys put it aside and forgot about it.” He dunked a pink and red basketball in his coffee and sucked the soggy part into his mouth before it disintegrated into the cup. A clump of wet crumbs lodged in his graying beard.
Olivia’s patience was approaching the end of its life span. Yet she waited in silence as Sam dunked and slurped his way through the cookie.
“I knew it was real important, see, because the envelope was legal-size with an embossed return address. I figured it was maybe from a lawyer. So I volunteered to deliver it myself after work.”
“That went above and beyond the call of duty,” Olivia said. “Very professional of you.”
“Now the really interesting part,” Sam said, “which Sheriff Del would know if he’d asked me, is what happened when I handed that envelope to Ms. Chamberlain, which I did personally. I didn’t just leave it in her box.”
“That was wise of you,” Olivia said.
“Well, what’s really interesting is, Ms. Chamberlain opened that envelope right in front of me. I guess she didn’t notice I was still there because she stood on that fancy porch of hers and ripped that envelope open and pulled out some papers. And you know what happened then?”
Olivia shook her head.
Sam paused for a gulp of coffee. “Well,” he said, “she made this little sound, like a cry or something, and she put her hand over her mouth.”
“Did you see what was on those papers? A name or a title, anything at all?” Olivia knew at once that she’d taken a wrong turn.
“I am not a snoop. I know that’s what people around here call me.”
“Oh no, Sam, I only meant that . . . Well, if it had been me handing Clarisse that envelope, I’d be worried about her. I’d want to help. You must have felt the same way.”
“Of course I did,” Sam said. “That’s exactly how I felt. As it happens, she got so upset, she lost her hold on those papers and one fell out of her hand. She didn’t even notice, just collapsed on the porch swing. It was windy and the paper blew off the porch. Naturally, I rescued it for her. She didn’t even thank me.” He scowled at the memory.
“Anyway,” Sam continued, “I couldn’t help but see what it said on that paper, could I? Ms. Chamberlain didn’t even miss it, so why should I hurry to give it back? Not that it said all that much. Something about hoping the enclosed information would be helpful to her and that she should let them know if she wanted them to keep looking for the child’s location.”
So there was a child.
“Ms. Chamberlain looked like she was about to pass out.”
“Did you see who signed the letter?”
Sam perked up at the question. “Yeah, it was a private detective agency in Baltimore somewhere.”
“Do you remember the agency’s name or address?” She’d sounded too eager; she could tell from Sam’s smug expression.
With an exaggerated shrug, Sam said, “I guess I did, but it must have slipped my mind.” He scraped back his chair and slung his mail sack over his shoulder. “That name and address might come back to me in a day or two. Thanks for the cookies.” Then he left, whistling.
Olivia felt so drained, she needed a cookie herself. At least she was now fairly sure that Clarisse had discovered she had a grandchild. Sam might be bluffing about seeing the private detective’s signature, but she’d have to continue their little game to find out.
Chapter Eleven
The Chatterley Heights Food Shelf was located in the southern part of town, an area where successive waves of immigrants had settled. Rows of brick apartment buildings alternated with small Cape Cods and 1940s saltboxes. Delivering her cookies would require a short detour from Olivia’s route to her mother and stepfather’s house, but she hadn’t allowed herself much time. She had rushed to encase each decorated cookie in plastic wrap, so Polly could hand them out individually, after which she’d had to wash a container that would hold all three dozen. She’d nestled the container inside a large Gingerbread House bag, the only one with a flat bottom. Meanwhile, she thought about the quickest yet most casual way to elicit the information she hoped Polly, heart and soul of the Food Shelf, might be able to provide.
Polly was alone when Olivia arrived. “How thoughtful of you and Maddie,” Polly said when she saw the container stuffed with cookies. “I tell you, I was run off my feet all morning, what with all these layoffs. I swear, folks are coming from farther and farther away. They must be looking for work is all I can think, so they pack up the family in the car, if they still have a car, or maybe—”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Olivia said. She felt guilty for interrupting, but it was well known that Polly didn’t need to breathe as often as mere mortals. “Maddie and I did get a bit carried away. You know, Clarisse Chamberlain was a dear friend, and whenever I’m upset, I bake.” She hoped she hadn’t sounded too rehearsed, which, of course, she’d been doing ever since she’d come up with the idea halfway through wrapping the cookies.
“Oh, my dear, of course, I understand completely,” Polly said, grasping Olivia’s hands in her own. “Ms. Chamberlain was a true lady. Why, do you know, every single month without fail she’d walk over here to drop off a donation, always a generous check, which can be so useful when there are gaps in my inventory or for items people don’t normally think to donate, like soap and, between you and me, toilet paper or those more intimate—”
“It was like Clarisse to think of that,” Olivia cut in. She forced herself to pause a beat before adding, “Of course, you’d know that. Weren’t you in high school with Edward?”
In fact, an online search had revealed that Polly and Edward had graduated the same year and served together on the yearbook committee.
While online, Olivia had also noticed an email from Deputy Cody, which she’d left unopened. Despite her earlier impatience, she realized she would need calm, quiet, and probably Maddie’s company to face seeing Clarisse’s lifeless body.
“I’ve never really gotten to know Edward,” Olivia said. “Clarisse always said he took after his father, even though he looked more like her.”
“Parents can be so blind about their children, can’t they? I see that every day here.” Polly gazed into the distance. For once, she wasn’t voicing her every thought, which made Olivia want to shake her.
“So are you saying that Edward was . . .”
Polly said, “Oh that Edward, my goodness. He wasn’t the least bit like his father, I’d say. Edward—he insisted we all call him that, you know, not Ed or Eddie, only Edward. Anyway, we all—the yearbook committee, that is—we used to meet at his house all the time. He was proud of his family position, not that he didn’t deserve to be, but he did like to show off that lovely home. He was so intense about everything.” Polly snickered, then covered her mouth in embarrassment. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but Edward and another boy almost came to blows one time because Edward insisted we place several pictures of his house in the yearbook.”
“From all I’ve heard,” Olivia said, “Martin Chamberlain was quite intense, too. Maybe that’s what Clarisse meant?”
Polly placed an index finger on her upper lip, as if she were thinking hard about Olivia’s suggestion. “Well, you know, Mr. Chamberlain sure looked intense, pacing around all the time and always, always smoking those cigarettes. But it was a different kind of intense, more like he had so much energy he couldn’t sit still. With Edward, it was more that he couldn’t let go once he’d decided something. Much as I loved Ms. Chamberlain, she was more like that. Once she made up her mind, she never changed it.”