Cookie Dough or Die (27 page)

“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.”

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?”

“Sure.” Maddie took a moment to smooth the wrinkles out of her form-fitting black jeans. “You do realize that Del will find out you are asking questions. Chatterley Heights is a rumor mill, and a darned good one.”

“Your civic pride is duly noted.”

“I’m only saying, Del might not be in the best of pro-Livie moods.”

Olivia shrugged with a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “I never actually promised to stop asking questions. Del can be as mad as he wants; I don’t intend to stop until I know who killed Clarisse.”

S
heriff Del arrived in uniform, which put a damper on cookie-cutter commerce. Everyone in The Gingerbread House, including Maddie and Ellie, watched with open curiosity as Olivia led him into the cookbook alcove. He hung his hat on a display stand mixer, pursed his lips, and strode around the perimeter of the alcove.

“Del, please, stop pacing and sit down.” Olivia pointed to the chair Maddie had vacated. “A lot of our customers lately are overly curious right now, and I’d rather not invite more rumors.”

“I was hoping for more privacy,” Del said.

“I told you, I need to keep an eye on the store in case—”

“In case Maddie and Ellie need you, I know.”

Del paused in midpace and glared at a large rolling pin made of shiny marble with two-tone gray swirls. It was one of Olivia’s favorite pieces. She kept it on a low shelf near the cookbook browsing table. She didn’t take Del’s frown as disapproval of her pride and joy, since she doubted he even saw it.

“I’ll make it quick,” Del said, dropping into an armchair. “I just drove back from Howard County General.” He was speaking so quietly that Olivia had to lean toward him to hear. “Sam came out of his coma.”

“That’s great news. Will he be okay?”

“Looks like it.”

“Was he able to remember anything?”

Del shifted in his chair so he could face Olivia. “He remembers finding a bag of cookies on his front porch when he got home for lunch. The bag said The Gingerbread House—he remembers that, too. But nothing afterwards. I checked with Polly at the Food Shelf. She couldn’t tell if any of the cookies you delivered went missing, but the bag didn’t. She took that home.”

“Lots of folks keep those bags,” Olivia said. “My mother has piles of them.”

“I’m not accusing you, Livie. I have to ask, were you aware of Sam’s schedule?”

With an attempt at a smile, she said, “Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t?”

“I see your point. Maybe I’d want to, but as a sheriff I’d have to apply a grain or two of salt.”

“As it happens, I did know Sam’s schedule, more or less. I suspect everyone in town does. But I did not know about his diabetes.”

Del’s half smile lasted a picosecond. “That’s the problem. Sam lives on a dead-end street with only four houses. No one else was home all morning, so no witnesses.”

Olivia leaned her back against the velvet-covered back of her armchair. “I truly had nothing to do with this. I wish you could believe me.”

Del leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His goldflecked brown eyes had turned to granite. “I never believed that you attacked Sam,” he said. “But I think you had something to do with it.”

Olivia felt the heat of anger flush her face as she sprang from her chair. She towered over Del’s chair, arms crossed over tight fists.

Unmoved by her reaction, Del said, “You told me about the letter to Clarisse that Sam delivered, remember? From a private detective agency?” Del’s eyes narrowed. “What I suspect you did not tell me was that Sam knew something about what that letter contained.”

Olivia stiffened. “Sam Parnell likes to keep secrets, when it suits him.”

“On Monday morning, he was late with his route, and he hinted it was because he’d had a long talk with you. He also indicated that he had discussed the contents of an important letter with you, and you repaid him with cookies.”

Olivia’s legs went wobbly. She took a deep breath and released it slowly, as her mother was always telling her to do. “Did Sam actually tell you all of that or was it someone else? How do you know your informant was reliable?”

“My informant was your close friend, Tammy Deacons. Sam told her when he dropped off her mail.”

Olivia sank back in her seat. “Remember, you were called away while we were talking about the letter to Clarisse.”

“You could have called and told me later.”

“I’ve been a bit busy, in case you haven’t noticed.” Olivia knew she was being stubborn, but Del’s high-handed treatment made her seethe. It reminded her of her ex-husband.

Del stood up and reached for his hat. “I won’t keep you from your customers any longer,” he said. “I still don’t know you all that well, Livie, but I have a bad feeling right now. My instincts tell me you’re holding something back. I want you to promise me that if you find out anything relevant to Clarisse’s death—or the attack on Sam, for that matter—you’ll come straight to me.” Del stared hard at her. With mesmerizing precision, his right hand rotated the rim of his hat through the loose grip of his left thumb and forefinger.

“If I find anything solid,” Olivia said, “of course I’ll pass it on to you.” She meant it, too. She had suspicions, observations, and, okay, that note from a “Faith” and the letter from Clarisse, but nothing that qualified as solid. That little prick of guilt wasn’t strong enough to pierce her anger.

As Del headed toward the alcove entrance, Olivia said, “I do need something from you.”

Del turned and gave her a wary look. “And that would be?”

Olivia lowered her voice slightly, to ensure she would not be heard outside the alcove. “I need to know if you consider Lucas Ashford a suspect.”

“Livie—”

“Maddie and Lucas are dating. I need to know if my best friend and business partner is becoming serious about someone who might be a murderer. If I’m not convinced Maddie is safe, I’ll investigate him by myself, so you might as well tell me.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Del plopped his hat on his head. “All right, no, I do not consider Lucas a suspect in Clarisse’s death. He spent that afternoon and evening at a friend’s house, helping to fix a complicated plumbing problem. The friend and his wife confirmed this. The job wasn’t finished until past midnight, and the couple insisted Lucas sleep in their guest room. And before you ask, both witnesses got up in the night to visit the facilities, and each heard Lucas snoring. Are you satisfied, or should I insist on a lie detector test?”

“Not necessary,” Olivia said. “Those tests aren’t admissible in court, anyway. Thanks, Del.”

“Don’t mention it. Ever.”

Olivia watched Del’s back disappear into the main sales area of the store. Lucas’s alibi sounded solid enough, and she was inclined to drop him from her suspects list. However, there was still the question of why Hugh and Edward lowered the interest rate so significantly on Lucas’s loan from Clarisse. Even if he hadn’t murdered Clarisse, Lucas could be guilty of blackmail.