“Yes, I realize that, but—”
“Let me finish.” Mr. Willard stood and began to pace slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. “You are an intelligent woman, Olivia. If I may call you Olivia?”
“Livie, please, I beg of you.”
“Livie, then. Your plan might work. I say this because I, too, am aware of Clarisse’s propensity for discussing problems with inanimate objects that had meaning for her. And I am sure you do realize the danger involved. I ask you to consider that you may be underestimating Sheriff Del. He might find your proposal worth considering, especially if you make it clear to him that you are aware of the dangers and wish to take precautions.”
Olivia doubted this, but it might be worth a try. Del had resources she didn’t, so he could dig up background information faster. The danger worried her, too, particularly since she’d be luring innocent others into it.
Olivia picked up the file and stood. “Thank you, Mr. Willard. I’m open to a compromise. If you can assure me within the next twenty-four hours that Hugh, Edward, and Tammy will attend the memorial, then I will tell Del what I’ve told you.” She didn’t add that she would host the memorial event with or without Del’s presence.
“Agreed. I will attend, as well, if I may.” He held out his hand, and Olivia shook it. “Perhaps I can be helpful, though I will be armed only with my wits.”
“And your powers of observation,” Olivia said. “Bring those along, too.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Thursday evening found Olivia sitting cross-legged on her living room sofa, hunched over her laptop, with Spunky snoring at her side and a turkey on stale rye within reach. And coffee, lots of coffee. Her eyes felt hot and gummy after two solid hours of staring at the little screen, trying to identify the cookie cutters on Clarisse’s desk. She closed her eyes to rehydrate them. Bed sounded lovely. Maybe she could get up an hour or two early and finish.
A light ding told her a new email had arrived, but she was too tired to care. She was reaching for the close button on her computer when the trumpet call of her cell phone startled her. She checked the number. Maddie. So much for bed.
“Hey, Maddie.”
“Hey back. Checked your email lately?”
“Must I? Oh, all right.”
“Stop grousing, Liv, and prepare to be amazed.”
Olivia reopened her email program and spotted Maddie’s address. The brief message, “I am a genius,” included an attachment.
“Well?”
“Hang on a minute.” Olivia put her cell phone on the coffee table and double-clicked on the attachment. A newspaper article appeared on the screen. The headline read, “Body Found in Patuxent Park.” Olivia skimmed the short article, dated March 2, 2004:
Early Thursday morning, a hiker contacted Park Police to report finding the body of a young woman at Patuxent River State Park. The remains have been sent to the Montgomery County Medical Examiner’s Office in Baltimore to determine cause of death. Montgomery County detectives have not yet identified the victim. Estimated to have been in her midtwenties, the victim is described as approximately five foot seven, slender build, with shoulder-length black hair.
Underneath the article, Maddie had pasted a brief update, dated a week later, titled, “Patuxent Park Death Ruled an Accident.” The victim still had not been identified, but the medical examiner’s office had concluded she died of exposure after sustaining serious injuries from a fall. The autopsy also revealed that she had recently given birth.
Olivia studied the sketch that accompanied the article, which looked like a reconstruction. Presumably the victim’s face had been damaged beyond recognition. However, the sketch showed a beautiful young woman.
“What makes you think this is Jasmine Dubois?”
“I’m not absolutely, positively certain,” Maddie said, sounding testy. “The description is right, she had given birth, plus the timing works—about ten months after she disappeared from Chatterley Heights. If no one has heard from her in over six years, it makes sense she died early on. As I recall, that was your idea.” Definitely testy.
“Okay, but what about obituaries? Did you search those?”
Huge sigh. “I have been hunkered over my computer all evening searching for any mention of Jasmine Dubois anywhere in the whole, entire country. It’s like she never existed. I found a couple references to other Jasmine Duboises—two, to be exact—but one is an eighty-year-old black woman living in Georgia, and the other died fourteen years ago in some little town in Ohio.”
“What was the name of the town?”
“Why on earth would that be—?”
“Please, Maddie, humor me, okay? Anything might be important.”
“Okay, give me a sec.”
Olivia heard a clunk, like the sound of Maddie’s cell phone hitting a hard surface, but the line remained open.
“I’m back,” Maddie said. “The town was McGonigle, in southwestern Ohio. Population miniscule. That Jasmine died in a car wreck. Sad, really. She was seventeen and driving under the influence. Anyway, unless we’ve uncovered an undead situation, this is not our Jasmine.”
“I’m amazed that you found an obituary fourteen years old from a tiny Ohio town.”
“I didn’t, exactly. The girl’s story turned up in newspapers off and on for years—sort of a cautionary tale for teens. Anyway, my guess is our Jasmine managed to slip through the Internet cracks, which was easier then. Maybe Jasmine isn’t her real name. Can I go home now?”
“Where are you?”
“Home. What I meant was, Lucas wants me to come over for a late, late dinner. He picked something up from Pete’s, and we haven’t had any time together for at least a century. Please?”
“I’m not actually your boss, you know. Only could you do one more thing for me? If you’d send me some guidelines for searching newspaper archives, I’ll keep looking. You know how backward I am when it comes to the Internet.”
“Enough with the buttering up, I see right through it. I’ll shoot you an email. Then I’m gone.”
“Thanks, Maddie,” Olivia said, even though the connection had broken halfway through her first word.
When her kitchen phone rang, Olivia glanced at the time on her laptop. Eleven p.m. She did not need another call from her ex-husband, and who else would call her so late? She really needed to order caller ID for her private line.
Spunky opened his eyes and sat up as Olivia grunted her way off the sofa. With muted enthusiasm, he yapped once and followed her to the kitchen. She took her time, hoping the ringing would end before she got there.
At the beginning of the seventh ring, she answered.
“I am so sorry, Olivia—Livie, I mean—”
“Mr. Willard? Don’t worry, I wasn’t even in bed yet.”
“Still, I apologize for the lateness of my call, but I’ve only now returned from dinner at the Chamberlain home. We spent much of the evening discussing details concerning Clarisse’s will and the family’s private service for her on Saturday, but I was able to convince Hugh and Edward, as well as Ms. Deacons, to attend the Sunday memorial event you are planning for all of Chatterley Heights.”
“I’m impressed. May I ask how you did it?”
“It was not too difficult,” Mr. Willard said with a hint of pride in his voice. “I merely reminded them of their mother’s lifelong involvement in the community, which benefited both the town and Chamberlain Enterprises. She and Martin served on local committees, contributed to local organizations—an example being the Food Shelf—and as a result, the town council was receptive to their requests for rezoning. And so on. I had a long history with Martin and Clarisse to draw upon.”