Del slid an arm in his uniform jacket sleeve. “I want you to delete those photos of the scene.” When Olivia opened her mouth to protest, he added, “Not because I’m the sheriff and I think you shouldn’t have them. Although you shouldn’t. I don’t think it’s safe for you to have them.”
Del picked up his hat and reached for the alley door. In a lighter tone, he said, “I’d count it as a personal favor if you wouldn’t go all Miss Marple on me.”
“You needn’t worry,” Olivia said.
With a nod, Del opened the door.
“I’m really more the Tuppence Beresford type.”
“Really? The young Tuppence or the older one?”
Before Olivia could draw in enough breath for a comeback, Del was gone.
Chapter Seventeen
If Wednesday morning dawned clear and sweet with the scent of lilacs, Olivia Greyson didn’t notice. She barely noticed Spunky’s insistent tug on his leash, indicating his longing for a run. Lost in her own thoughts, she ran on automatic pilot back and forth along the alley behind The Gingerbread House. She wasn’t eager to show her face outside the store. Not yet, anyway.
“Come on, Spunks,” Olivia said as she nestled the squirming dog under her arm. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Tell you what, you were so good yesterday, why don’t you stay with Maddie and me today in the kitchen? In fact, I’ll move your spare bed and bowls down there. You have to promise to stay in the kitchen, though.” Sure, that’ll happen. At least if he escaped into the store, customers would make a fuss over him, which in turn would delay him long enough to ensure his recapture.
It was seven thirty a.m. when Olivia, with Spunky on a leash, let herself into The Gingerbread House, carrying a dog bed and water bowls, food, treats, and a few toys. She opened the door with the two fingers that weren’t already holding on to dog paraphernalia. With a whimper, Spunky whipped the leash from her other hand and bounded into the store.
“Spunky!”
“It’s okay, Livie, I heard you coming. I’ve captured the little scoundrel.”
“Maddie?” Olivia scooted inside and slammed the door with her rear end.
“Nice moves,” Maddie said.
“What are you doing here so early? Not that I’m complaining. We have work to do.” Olivia deposited the dog food and treats in the kitchen. Choosing the corner farthest from both doors, she set up Spunky’s second home.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Maddie said. She released her hold on Spunky, who raced around the kitchen in frantic circles, pausing now and then for a quick sniff. “After you called last night and told me about your conversation with Del—and by the way, I saw actual sparks in the air—anyway, I was too wired to sleep for long. So here I am, my skills and my laptop at your disposal.” She pointed to a PC on the worktable.
“Mine isn’t good enough for you?”
Maddie shrugged. “I figured you’d changed all your passwords. I can’t read French, and I doubt I could read Proust even in English translation. Also, I brought along my printer, and it would take time to get it to talk to your little MacBook thingie.”
“Great,” Olivia said. “We can both do some searching before the store opens and take turns when business is slow.”
Maddie wrapped her foot around a chair leg and dragged it to the table. While her computer booted up, she said, “By the way, I’ve made an executive decision. I realize business was fabulous yesterday, and far be it from me to quell such success, but I sent an email to everyone on our mailing list announcing that, at the current time, the Chamberlain antique cookie-cutter collection is not for sale. I asked everyone to hold their enquiries until further notice.”
“Might not work, but it’s worth a shot,” Olivia opened her laptop and pressed the start button. “My first order of business is to hunt down some background information on the editor of The Weekly Chatter , Ms. Binnie Sloan. I intend to have a meaningful chat with that woman. I want to know her sources, if any, even if I have to—”
“Don’t say it,” Maddie said. “I might be called upon to testify under oath.”
Olivia’s opportunity to talk with Binnie Sloan came sooner and more easily than she’d anticipated. Twenty minutes after The Gingerbread House opened, Maddie poked her head into the kitchen and said, “Binnie Sloan is here. She wants to talk to you. What should I say?”
“Tell her I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Will do.”
Olivia had skimmed the editor’s biography and a few of her most recent articles in The Weekly Chatter , all of which she’d found on the newspaper’s website. Her search had left her confused about Binnie. Her official photo showed a plump, middle-aged woman with large round glasses, a friendly smile, and a gap between her front teeth. Her straight, short graying hair looked unstyled, and she wore a flannel shirt for a formal photo.
Her newspaper articles, all written in a conversational style, covered town issues ranging from the need to clean bird poop off the town founder’s statue to the underrepresentation of chocolate at the last PTA bake sale. Binnie Sloan didn’t seem the type to take on a controversial topic. Or perhaps Olivia’s predicament had offered Binnie her first opportunity to dig her teeth into a story.
Olivia realized she’d spent much of her time the past year working on and in The Gingerbread House, discussing business with Clarisse Chamberlain, or hanging around with Maddie. She knew about all the bake sales her best friend had held while she was in Baltimore and how Maddie worked hard to make ends meet while still doing what she loved. But Olivia realized she’d lost touch with her home town. She vowed to get to know Chatterley Heights much better in the coming year.
However, first things first. She entered the store and spotted Maddie helping a customer. With a tilt of her head, Maddie pointed toward the antiques cabinet. Binnie stood in front of the glassed-in display, moving her head slowly as she examined each row of cookie cutters. Olivia joined her.
“Ms. Sloan? I’m Olivia Greyson. Everyone calls me Livie, and I hope you will, too.” She tried for her best warm-yet-confident smile, though the clenched teeth weren’t helping. At first glance, Binnie Sloan looked like everyone’s grandmother, but her article had revealed another side.
“Your store is marvelous,” Binnie said. “I can’t believe I haven’t come in before now—I really should have, it was remiss of me. I love these old cookie cutters. They remind me so much of my grandmother. Oh, she made the most wonderful cookies. Everyone calls me Binnie, by the way.” She focused pale blue eyes on Olivia’s face.
“Ms. Sloa—Binnie. About your article,” Olivia said. “I have to say, I wasn’t thrilled by it.” This was an understatement of gigantic proportions, but if she wanted a retraction, she’d better keep her temper.
“Oh, I’m so sorry you feel that way. Usually folks around here love to see their names in the paper, but, of course, you lived in the city for so many years.” Binnie’s gaze wandered around the store.
“You never talked to me to find out the truth. That’s . . . that’s unprofessional.”
With a dismissive wave of her hand, Binnie said, “We’re not trying to be the New York Times.”
“Well, you did practically accuse me of murder without even checking in with me. I think most folks might find that upsetting.”
Binnie offered a wide, gap-toothed smile. “Really? Based on the popularity of all those reality shows, I believe people crave attention, even when it brings public humiliation.” She shrugged. “Anyway, there’s no such thing as bad publicity anymore. Why, I peeked in your store yesterday, and it was packed with customers! So really, you have to admit my article was good for your business.”
Binnie looked so pleased with herself. Apparently, she expected Olivia to be gushing with gratitude, not whining about her threatened reputation and her silly privacy.