“I know what you mean,” Bertha said. “She always said she’d take care of me, but I never dreamed she meant she’d take care of everything for the rest of my life. Health expenses, even? I about fainted dead away.” She chuckled, ending in a cough. “Of course, if I’d died of shock, that would have left a lot more for the boys.”
Yes. It would. Olivia filled their cups as Bertha’s plump face puckered up, and she began to sniffle. She rifled through her huge pocketbook. “My mother used to carry a handkerchief in her sleeve.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “Seems like a good idea about now.”
Olivia never knew what to say when someone was crying. Phrases like “there, there” or “it’s all right” always sounded silly or insulting, and asking what was wrong felt like skipping through a minefield. So she opted for practical silence and hopped up to locate a box of tissues. She found one on the counter and delivered it to Bertha.
“Thank you, dear,” Bertha said. “I’m not usually this way, you know, but Ms. Clarisse was like a daughter to me.” She put three tissues to her nose and blew with enthusiasm. “I’m grateful she left me so well fixed, don’t think I’m not, but I’d rather have her back. The house isn’t the same anymore. It doesn’t feel right.” Bertha plucked another tissue from the box. “It’s mostly Ms. Clarisse being gone, but it’s more than that.” She spread her strong, wide hands on the table. The knuckles were red and thickened by arthritis.
“You know, I think it was those cookies,” Bertha said. “I felt better making those decorated cookies, using some of Ms. Clarisse’s favorite cookie cutters. It felt like she might walk in any moment and smile.” Bertha’s lips compressed. “But instead the boys and Ms. Tammy got all uncomfortable and started treating me differently after that night. I helped raise those boys, and I liked Ms. Tammy.” Bertha’s shoulders slumped, and her hands fell onto her lap. “But they’re not actin’ like the people I thought they were. None of this would be happening if my Clarisse was still alive.”
Hearing Bertha mourn her Clarisse convinced Olivia to take her off the suspects list—and add her to the informant list. But besides hurt feelings, would Bertha be willing to share anything really negative about the boys she mothered? Or anyone, for that matter? Olivia figured she’d never get a chance like this again. Maddie and her mother seemed to be handling the store without her help, so it was now or never.
Olivia emptied the remaining coffee into their cups. With a light laugh, she said, “You know what suddenly popped into my mind? I was imagining Clarisse arguing with that painting of Martin in the study. Remember you told me about that?”
Bertha brightened. “My goodness, yes. She’d be so wrapped up talking to that picture, you’d think it was answering her.”
“Is that how they argued when Martin was alive? I never knew him.”
“Oh my, yes. They were so close, those two, but when they disagreed about something, well, I’d stay in the kitchen and wait for the house to crumble around me.” Bertha looked like her cheery self again.
“What was their worst argument? Do you remember?”
Bertha clapped her hands together. “Do I! It was about a year before Mr. Martin died so sudden.” Her smile faded. “But he died of those cigarettes, not from arguing, not a chance,” she said, perking up again. “He loved to argue. They never fought about business, though. It was always about the boys.” With a sigh, Bertha lapsed into silence.
“Did they disagree about how to rear the boys?” Olivia prodded.
“When it came to those boys, they disagreed about everything . Should they be required to dress for dinner? When and how to punish them, how many rules to give them, who they could date . . .”
“Who they should marry?”
“You hit the nail on the noggin. The worst argument I ever heard between Ms. Clarisse and Mr. Martin was about a young woman both boys liked. Such a pretty girl, with that lovely black hair. Feisty, too. She had a flower name, now what was it? Violet? Camellia? No, I think it started with a ‘T’ or maybe a ‘J’ or . . . It certainly wasn’t Jewelweed,” Bertha said with a hoarse laugh. “I’m always trying to get that out of the garden.”
Olivia bit both lips and her tongue trying to avoid blurting out the name. She knew she’d sound too eager.
Bertha straightened so quickly her body jiggled. “Jasmine,” she said. “Her name was Jasmine Dubois. I got to know her because she waitressed at Pete’s Diner. I used to treat myself to dinner there sometimes when the family would be out. I liked that girl. She had a mind of her own. I wonder where she went.”
“What do you mean?” Olivia felt so keyed up she was having trouble remembering to breathe.
“Well, she was there one day and gone the next. That’s what they were arguing about, Ms. Clarisse and Mr. Martin. Ms. Clarisse liked Jasmine and thought it would be nice if she married Hugh or Edward. She was smart, that’s what Ms. Clarisse said about Jasmine. She was smart and honest, and she’d be an asset. Mr. Martin thought she wasn’t good enough for one of his sons. A menial laborer, he called her. Oh, that made Ms. Clarisse mad. She was poor growing up, you see. Worked two jobs to put herself through nursing school. Mr. Martin came from money; he didn’t understand.”
“Could Martin really stop Hugh and Edward from marrying anyone they wanted?”
Bertha pondered for a few moments before saying, “I don’t believe Mr. Martin would have cut off either of those boys, I really don’t. But when Jasmine disappeared, Ms. Clarisse accused him of getting rid of her.” With a little gasp, Bertha put her hand to her mouth. “I don’t mean Mr. Martin had her killed her or anything, Ms. Clarisse never said that, but maybe he bribed her to leave? Mr. Martin told her not to be ridiculous, he’d never waste money that way.”
“Martin said that?”
“I remember like it was yesterday,” Bertha said with an emphatic nod. “I think Ms. Clarisse believed him, too. That man never wasted a penny.”
Chapter Twenty
After Bertha left The Gingerbread House, Olivia and Maddie huddled together in the cookbook alcove to compare notes and plan their next moves. The alcove’s two small armchairs, placed so customers could glance through baking books, allowed Olivia and Maddie to keep an eye on the store. If Ellie needed help, one or both of them could spring into sales mode.
“So as I understand it,” Maddie said, consulting the notebook on her lap, “you want me to go to the library and find out from Heather how to search obituaries in Baltimore papers, right?”
“Or any mention of Jasmine Dubois. It’s a long shot, but everything we’ve learned so far—the private detective agency’s letter, the phone number on the note from Faith—it all makes me think Jasmine went to Baltimore after leaving Chatterley Heights.”
“I wish we had a last name for Faith,” Maddie said.
“I have a feeling we’ll find Faith when we figure out what happened to Jasmine.”
Olivia reached in the pocket of her linen slacks and pulled out her cell phone. “It’s eleven thirty. The noon crowd will be arriving soon. I have an appointment with Mr. Willard at one fifteen, his office, so I should be back by two thirty at the latest. Then you can split for the library, but be back by four. Mom has a yoga class.”
“Of course she does.”
Ellie Greyson-Meyers’s petite form appeared in the alcove entryway. “Customer alert,” she said. “A van pulled up out front, and five women are heading up the walk. They look like they mean business. Oh, and Sheriff Del called. He’s on his way over to talk to you, Livie.”
“Uh-oh,” Maddie said after Ellie left. “What did you do this time?”
“Smirking is not attractive.”
“But I do it so well.”
An errant wave fell over Olivia’s eye and she slid it behind her ear. “Stow my notes in the kitchen for me, would you?”