“You . . . you checked my email? You hacked into my email? How could you do that?”
“It was easy, really. FYI, don’t use pet names for passwords.”
Olivia heard a choking sound come from her own throat. She breathed in deeply, then said, “What I meant was, how could you do that to me ?”
“Desperate times, Livie, desperate times. And look how fruitful it turned out to be.” Maddie bit the bottom of her lip. “Am I unfriended?”
Olivia heaved a giant sigh. “If you ever do anything like that—”
“I won’t, I promise.”
“At least ask first. Now, if I don’t get some sleep, you’ll be alone at the store tomorrow.”
“Understood. Except . . .” Maddie’s teeth captured her lip again.
“What?”
“You might want to check your email before you lose consciousness. Del wants to talk to you tomorrow. He says he left messages on your cell and your home phone. He’s willing to come to the store, but it’s important that he talk to you.”
“Tell you what,” Olivia said, dragging her unwilling body out of her chair. “For penance, you can email him from my account. Tell him to come midmorning. Maybe I can get rid of him before the lunchtime shoppers start showing up.”
“Absolutely,” Maddie said.
Olivia lifted Spunky, who melted into her arms. “Do it tonight. First thing tomorrow, I change all my passwords. I’m thinking some obscure phrases from Proust, in the original French. Good luck with that.”
Chapter Sixteen
Olivia’s hope for a quiet Tuesday, the beginning of her workweek, evaporated the moment she opened The Gingerbread House for business at nine a.m. A small group of her local regulars had already gathered on the store’s lawn, and all the prime parking spaces contained cars she recognized as belonging to antique dealers and collectors from out of town. Olivia forged a welcoming smile as she held open the front door.
Before the dealers and collectors could reach the store entrance, Olivia slipped past her customers, avoiding eye contact, and escaped to the kitchen. At the worktable, Maddie was piling decorated cookies on a platter. Behind her, the Mr. Coffee spat out its second pot of the morning. The kitchen door slapped shut behind Olivia, and Maddie looked up. Her smile of greeting melted when she saw the look on Olivia’s face.
“You told Lucas, didn’t you? Maddie, how could you?” Olivia began to pace around the kitchen. “The store is filling up with dealers and collectors and plain old busybodies.” She raked her fingers through her hair, which threw her off balance enough to bump into the table.
“Livie, take a deep breath and stand still. You’re bruising yourself and, more important, ruining your hair.” Maddie took a cookie from the platter and held it out to Olivia as she paced past. When Olivia waved it away, Maddie said, “Look, if you think I told Lucas anything about your inheritance, you are wrong. I said not one word about you last night. In fact, I haven’t even talked to Lucas since our quick dinner. It wasn’t easy to get away last night, you know. Lucas wanted me to come over and watch a DVD with him. Something about football bloopers, sounded like fun, but no, I spent the whole evening doing your bidding and awaiting your arrival. I had to fudge and say I was way behind on paying invoices so he wouldn’t think I was blowing him off. I knew he’d understand if it was business.”
Olivia heard the hurt in Maddie’s voice. “Then how . . . ?”
“How do you think?” Maddie’s arched eyebrows and clear disgust said it all.
“Are you saying . . . Tammy? ”
Maddie nodded. “Yep, I’m saying Tammy. Mind you, it could have been anyone who was there last night, but really, does anyone else fit the bill? Tammy is the one who spills huge amounts of personal information all over the Internet. She probably checks her Facebook account first thing every morning and last thing before bed. She probably spilled the whole story as soon as she got home last night. Unless she stayed over, in which case she’d use Hugh’s computer.”
The din beyond the kitchen door had reached an insistent level. “I need to get out there,” Olivia said, nodding her head toward the sales area. “We have a business to run.”
“We do, but let me handle it for a while,” Maddie said. She whipped off her apron and lifted the platter of cookies. “You need to figure out how to answer the questions you’ll be getting. Besides, no one will buy anything if you’re there. I suggest you check Tammy’s Facebook page and see exactly what deeply private thoughts she has shared with her online nearest and dearest.”
“How do I . . . ?”
“I’ll set it up for you,” Maddie said. She slid the plates on the kitchen table. “Come over here and watch me.” She sat down and opened the computer lid. Her fingers flew across the keys, leaving Olivia confused. “Play around with it,” Maddie said. “I’m out of here.”
As she settled at the computer, Olivia felt a surge of resentment. She wanted her life back. She wanted to nestle in the warm, gingerbread world of cookie cutters and decorated cookies and making a living with her best friend. But here she was, hiding from customers and hunched over a Facebook page that had invaded her privacy.
Tammy’s latest most recent entry had been posted at one o’clock that morning:
You will not believe what happened at the will reading. Mostly it was what we expected, Hugh and Edward got most of their mom’s estate, split in half, and so on. But then we found out their mom had added an extra part that said Olivia Greyson—dear friend Livie—got $150,000 AND Clarisse’s whole huge collection of antique cookie cutters!! She’s supposed to use the money for her cookie-cutter store here in town, The Gingerbread House. (A little plug for your store, Livie.)
Of course, Livie thought, this entry was written after Tammy discovered Olivia had “accepted” her Facebook invitation, which would explain the gushing.
A number of responses had been posted throughout the night and into the morning. Olivia began to read:
Lucky lady. She sure knows how to pick her friends.
Yeah, rich ones who are about to kick off.
Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?
What about that postal carrier? Wasn’t he poisoned by her cookies?
What do you really know about her, anyway? She could be a serial killer.
At that point, Olivia signed off and snapped her computer shut. Her hand pressed hard on the laptop lid as if it might fly open and spew out more accusations against her. Not that it mattered; the damage was done.
There was only one path through this quagmire. Clarisse’s killer and Sam’s attacker—Olivia was convinced they were one and the same—had to be identified and arrested as soon as possible. Somehow she had to convince Sheriff Del. If she couldn’t do so, she and Maddie would have to find the killer themselves, but it would be so much easier if Del would cooperate. Although he would undoubtedly order her to stay out of it, which she couldn’t do.
Olivia wanted to escape out the back and into the alley, but instead she stepped into the store. The Gingerbread House had taken second place for too long, and Maddie needed help. The sales floor teemed with customers. Maybe they were there for the wrong reasons, but publicity sometimes took a strange form.
Maddie stood in front of her, behind the sales counter, moving at warp speed as she rang up and bagged sales. As Olivia moved into the room, she heard the volume of chatter lower, then a whoosh as customers tried to reach her first. She recognized a few Chatterley Heights residents, as well as several antiques dealers and cookie-cutter collectors. At least half the faces were unfamiliar.
A tall, thin woman of about thirty, wearing a tight sweater, skinny jeans, and combat boots reached Olivia first. She stuck out her hand, and said, “Ms. Greyson? I’m Anita Rambert, representing the Rambert Antiques Mall. We’ve never met, but perhaps you’ve heard of me?”