“Who would know a lot about Hugh and Edward?”
“Like what?”
Olivia leaned back in her chair and stared at a stain on the kitchen ceiling. A plan had been forming in her mind. It might not work, could even make the situation worse. On the other hand, with so little evidence available, her idea might flush out a murderer.
“I need to find out more about their private lives, their pasts,” Olivia said. “I want to talk to someone who can help me understand who Hugh and Edward are when they aren’t being businessmen.”
“Ah,” Stacey said, “you want the real scoop. Well, two names occur to me off the top of my head, and one belongs to someone on your suspects list. Bertha, the Chamberlain housekeeper. She helped raise those boys, and there’s nothing like raising a kid to tell you his strengths and weaknesses.”
Stacey stood up and stretched. “I’m truly sorry to have to give you the second name.” She slid the lid on the cake pan and snatched it up, as if she were afraid Olivia would take back the cookies when she heard the name.
“The guy you should talk to is the perfect informant. Unfortunately, he’s also my ex-husband, Wade. He grew up near enough to Hugh and Edward that they were playmates, and he double-dated with Hugh sometimes.”
“Can I trust anything Wade might tell me?” Olivia piled the pizza boxes on top of the cake pan in Stacey’s arms.
“Probably not,” Stacey said. She checked the kitchen clock and said, “Okay, I’ll tell you the story, but I’ll have to make it quick.” While Olivia retrieved her coat, Stacey said, “The three boys did their underage drinking together. During that period, they went joy riding one night and smashed into a tree. Hugh and Edward claimed Wade was driving, which he denies to this day. Strings were pulled; there wasn’t an investigation. Wade took the fall, and the brothers Chamberlain came off as innocent victims.”
“Wade is still angry?”
“An understatement. However, I can assure you he has an alibi for Thursday and into Saturday. He had the kids. Thursday evening, they went to a monster truck show, instead of doing their homework. Where did I go wrong?”
Chapter Nineteen
Olivia sat cross-legged on her living room sofa, staring at the small screen on her laptop. She’d been looking at the photo of Clarisse Chamberlain’s desk for almost an hour, with Spunky curled next to her, dozing off the effects of a good run in the chill of early morning. Olivia closed her eyes and leaned her head on the sofa back. Images of cookie cutters glowed on the inside of her eyelids.
Olivia’s cell phone vibrated against her hip. Spunky’s ears perked up, but he was too sleepy to raise his head. She dug the phone out of the pocket of her hoodie and checked the caller ID. “It’s Mom,” she said. Spunky must have understood; he relaxed his ears and resumed snoring.
“Hi, Livie,” Ellie said, “I just returned from my morning jog and got your message. Sure, I can help in the store today. I have my yoga class at four; maybe I could slip away for that?”
“No problem.”
“This will be fun,” Ellie said with far too much energy for eight or so in the morning. “I’ll get to spend more time with my daughter.”
“About that, Mom . . . I’ll need to be out for chunks of the day.”
“Oh, well then, I’ll get to spend more time with Maddie. Maybe I’ll adopt her.”
“Ouch. Look, it’s too complicated to explain right now, but I promise I’ll fill you in when I can. Anyway, the store might be busy today. The DC cutter collectors often make the rounds in groups, and if they come to The Gingerbread House, it’s usually on a Thursday. I really appreciate this, Mom.”
“I know that, dear. I’ll be there at nine, dressed in some appropriate yet exotic outfit.”
Olivia ended the call and checked the time on her computer. Eight fifteen. She still hadn’t showered, and the store opened at nine. Maddie was probably there already. Olivia reset her cell to her favorite ring tone—Maynard Ferguson’s trumpet caressing a lyrical phrase from “An Offering of Love,” Part 1 —and placed it on the coffee table, next to her laptop. Leaving Spunky to snooze and snore on the sofa, she headed for the shower.
By opening time, cars and vans had already begun to arrive from DC. Thursday was beginning to look like a repeat of Tuesday, which would be fine if it brought in anything close to Tuesday’s profit. Some out-of-town customers asked about the Chamberlain cookie-cutter collection, but apparently Maddie’s email announcement had done its job.
Around ten thirty, a customer who was leaving held the door open and in walked Bertha, wheezing heavily. Olivia rushed over to her.
“Ms. Olivia, now . . . wheeze . . . don’t you worry . . . wheeze . . . about me. I’m . . . wheeze —”
“Bertha, don’t try to talk. Would a glass of water help? Nod or shake your head.”
“Wheeze.” Bertha shook her head and handed Olivia her large pocketbook. Olivia thought about patting Bertha’s back, but she couldn’t remember if that would help or hurt. She’d been married to a surgeon, for goodness’ sake, shouldn’t she know what to do?
“Wheeze. ” Bertha’s face was reddening at an alarming pace.
Ellie materialized at Olivia’s elbow. “Livie dear, I think Bertha has an inhaler in her pocketbook. Why don’t I look for it?”
When her mother tried to take the pocketbook from her, Olivia realized she was clutching it to her so tightly her hands stuck to the stiff patent leather. With calm focus, Ellie located the inhaler within seconds and folded Bertha’s fingers around it. Olivia made a silent vow to find a first-aid class and take it until she passed.
“Thanks, Mom,” she said. “You were amazingly calm. How did you do that?”
“Meditation, dear. Three classes a week and practice every day.”
Olivia added a meditation class to her mental list.
“Oh, Ms. Olivia, your store is so lovely,” Bertha gushed as her eyes roamed around the table displays and across to the baking area. She gave a small gasp of appreciation when her gaze lifted to the cookie-cutter mobiles. “My goodness,” she said, “look at that one. Those are all different baby carriage cookie cutters.”
Olivia gazed up at the strings of cookie cutters jangling lightly in the circulating air. The baby carriages were similar in design, but some were antiques with wooden handles, some with metal or no handles, and others were plastic. One shiny tin cutter sparkled in the light, and Olivia remembered Clarisse’s sadness as she looked at the cutter display of baby items. That gave Olivia an idea. Bertha might know about Jasmine Dubois.
Olivia stretched her arm around Bertha’s shoulders. “You’ve never been here before, have you? I’d love to show you our little kitchen at the back of the store. Would you have time for a cup of coffee?”
“Now, Ms. Olivia,” Bertha said, “I can see how busy you are, but I would love a cup of coffee, if you can really spare the time. I’ve been feeling terrible ever since that dinner on Monday evening. About those cookies, I mean.”
“Cookies?” Olivia cupped Bertha’s plump elbow with a guiding hand and steered her toward the kitchen.
“I honestly didn’t know about what happened to Sam.”
Ah. Those cookies. Olivia was amazed she’d forgotten that episode even for a moment. “Bertha, believe me, it never occurred to me you’d done that on purpose. You aren’t like that.” She closed the door to ensure some privacy.
“Have a seat,” Olivia said. “I’ll start some fresh coffee for us.” She filled a glass with water and gave it to Bertha. Over the clatter of cups and spoons, she said, “I’m glad you dropped by. I’ve been hoping to have a chance to talk with you.”
While Mr. Coffee dripped the last of its brew, Olivia delivered cream and sugar to the table. “You know, Clarisse never once hinted about leaving me anything in her will. When I heard how much, not to mention her entire cutter collection, I couldn’t believe it. I thought Mr. Willard must have read it wrong.”