A Cookie Before Dying (25 page)

“Not enough to convict,” Olivia said as she headed for the door leading to the back alley.

“Not yet.”

 

 

T
he Chatterley Heights Management and Rental Company turned out to be half of a renovated duplex. It had once been a Queen Anne summer house much like Olivia’s, but smaller and split in half rather than into two levels. The exterior was in the process of being restored and repainted. The right half of the building housed a chiropractor, while the left front door sported a sign that read M & R COMPANY. The crisp block letters felt efficient and cold.

Olivia hadn’t called ahead for an appointment. It had seemed like the best approach at the time. Now she wished she had at least some sense of how the adult Constance Overton might react to her. Olivia’s watch read nine fifteen a.m. No time to worry about high school trauma. Jason was in jail and likely to stay there if she couldn’t find the mysterious ballerina—a potential witness for the defense. Constance was her best shot.

A bell tinkled overhead as Olivia entered the front door of the M & R Company. She found herself in a narrow foyer containing an old-fashioned standing coat rack and a small table. The latter held a silver-footed tray. Olivia knew something about antiques, and this tray had once been used to deliver visiting cards to the lady of the house. Now it held business cards for
The Chatterley Heights Management and Rental Company, 19 Apple
Blossom Road, Chatterley Heights, Maryland
, followed by
Constance Overton, M.B.A., Owner and Manager
.

As Olivia slipped one of the cards into her pants pocket, a commanding voice called from a room somewhere down the hallway. “Second door on the right. Come on in.” The voice hadn’t changed much, though it had grown deeper and more powerful.
Well, so have I.
Olivia straightened her spine, the way her mother was always telling her to, and strode toward the disembodied voice.

Constance Overton hadn’t changed much, either, at least in looks. Her thick golden hair had darkened, and she now wore it short, layered, and blow-dried to create a sculpted wind-blown effect. Her face had filled out, but she still possessed a crystalline beauty. Olivia paused a moment and watched Constance’s face shift from professional welcome to recognition. She did not stand up.

“Olivia Greyson. Well, well. I heard you were back in town. You are looking . . . healthy. Sit down and tell me what I can do for you.” She waved toward three antique chairs arranged in a semicircle in front of her imposing desk.

Olivia chose the center chair, which offered a soft needlework seat. “Hello, Constance. You seem to have done well for yourself.” Her comment sounded banal. Wincing inwardly, Olivia said, “I think you might be able to help me with some information.”

Constance relaxed against the back of her chair, which seemed higher than the one Olivia had chosen. “Now you’ve made me curious,” Constance said. “I doubt you need rental property, since I heard you purchased the house with your little cookie store in it.”

“Actually, Maddie and I—you remember Maddie Briggs, don’t you? We co-manage The Gingerbread House, specializing in both modern and vintage cookie cutters.” When Constance drew in a breath, presumably to interrupt, Olivia said quickly, “I came to you because I’ve been told you manage the property on Willow Road where the Chatterley Heights Dance Studio is located. I need information about the renter. This isn’t idle curiosity on my part. You’ve probably heard about my brother, Jason?”

Constance cringed and said, “Sorry, my head is always thinking about business. I completely forgot that you were the one who found that man’s body . . . and that your brother was arrested for the murder. As I remember, Jason was a good kid. No genius, maybe, but well meaning. How does all that relate to the renter of the dance studio?”

“I’m searching for a potential witness to the murder.” Olivia felt relieved by the shift in Constance’s demeanor—still curt but with a hint of empathy. They’d both grown up since high school; perhaps Constance had let go of the boyfriend-stealing episode from their youth. Maybe she didn’t even remember it.

“And you think the dance instructor, Raoul, might be that witness?”

“In a sense.”

“In what sense? And why should I reveal private information about one of my renters?”

“I didn’t mean that you . . .” What was it her mother kept telling her about breathing? Oh yeah, keep doing it. “Do you know if Raoul lives in the property alone?” she asked.

Constance’s penciled eyebrows shot up. “He assured me he would be living alone. My rents include a portion of the cost of utilities. If someone else is living there with him, he should be paying higher rent, or the extra resident should be paying his or her own portion of the rent. I was specific about that. Do you have evidence someone is living with him full time?”

Olivia felt a strong need for a cookie. Then she remembered she had brought some. But where were they? “Hang on a sec, Constance. I left something on the table in the hallway.” Olivia had the impression that Constance’s eyelids had arched to her hairline, but she didn’t pause to confirm. She hurried out to the table in the hallway and found the bag on top of the silver card holder. Constance’s command to report to her office must have flustered her more than she’d realized. She resisted the urge to stuff a cookie in her mouth. With her luck, she’d wind up with crumbs on her chin.

When Olivia arrived back in the office, Constance was reading through some papers, her pen scratching notes on a pad. Olivia felt a compulsion to announce her presence. She resisted. Instead, she sat on her spindly chair, plunked the bag of cookies on Constance’s desk, and opened the top. The mingled scents of lemon zest and ginger wafted into the air. The pen slowed, then stopped. Constance’s eyes lifted from her work. She dropped her pen and reached for the bag. Olivia had to smile. A good cookie can tame the most aggressive of business school graduates.

Without comment, Constance reached into the bag and pulled out a frowning gingerbread boy dressed in purple and yellow stripes. The corner of Constance’s mouth twitched. “Reminds me of a high school boyfriend of mine, the one who dumped me for another girl. What was his name? Shane?”

“Shawn,” Olivia said.

“That’s the one.” Constance bit off the gingerbread boy’s head.

“As you know very well,” Olivia said, “the girl he began dating was me. You vowed eternal vengeance.”

“Eternity is a long time,” Constance mumbled, still chewing. She bit off a gingerbread arm and dragged the cookie bag out of Olivia’s reach. When she had swallowed the last of the gingerbread cookie, Constance said, “Excellent quality. I assume Maddie is the chief baker?” She brushed crumbs off her desk and into her wastebasket. Then she smiled. “Bribe accepted and eternal vengeance canceled. Tell me how I can help Jason.”

“Thank you.” Olivia moved her chair closer and leaned her elbows on the desk. “First, can you tell me what Raoul’s last name is? No one in town seems to have any idea, and I don’t see how he could sign rental papers without one.”

“Let me check,” Constance said, opening a file drawer on the right side of her desk. She extracted what looked like a contract. “Yes, here it is. His legal name is Raoul Larssen.”

“
Larssen?
Are you sure?”

“I remember now,” Constance said. “I had the same reaction, so Raoul showed me his driver’s license. He said he’d emigrated from Argentina as a young boy, accompanied by his widowed mother, who was a celebrated dancer. His mother managed to support them for a time by giving dance lessons, which is how he learned to dance. When Raoul was thirteen, his mother met and married a second-generation Swede named Sven Larssen, and mother and son took his name. Made sense to me.”

“Did he mention having any family still alive?”

Constance said, “I always ask a few questions about family members, even for a month-to-month lease like this one. You never know when some kid will move back in with the folks. Another resident means more use of utilities, maybe more damage, depending on whether the newcomer has come from, say, prison. Raoul said his mother and stepfather were deceased and his wife had died. I let it go at that. Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” Her hand slipped into the cookie bag and reappeared holding a pink rutabaga. “My kind of vegetable.”

Olivia pondered how much to reveal to Constance. “It’s important that Raoul not find out I’ve been asking about him,” she said. “I don’t have any reason to suspect him of anything, but I think he might know something or someone....  I don’t know, I might be grasping at straws, but right now that’s all I’ve got. Do you know what his wife’s name was?”

Constance clutched the cookie bag to her chest as if she thought Olivia might claim it back. “The topic never came up,” she said, “and I didn’t ask. Not my business.”

“I have a last request, and it’s an odd one. You’ll just have to trust me . . . despite my past alleged untrustworthiness.”

“Explain.”

“I have it on the best familial authority that Raoul leaves town every Thursday, and I need to get inside the dance studio. I know that borders on illegal, but—”

“You think someone else is living there, don’t you? I’m very good at math, I can add two and two. Assuming that’s your suspicion, I think we can do business. If Raoul has someone else living with him, I want to know. If I loan you the spare key, you are acting as my emissary, which isn’t illegal. In return, you must tell me if you find evidence of another resident. Otherwise, I turn you in. Deal?” Constance’s hand hovered near the file drawer.

“Deal. I might not be able to return it until tomorrow. My afternoon is jammed.”

“I’ll be looking over a new property tomorrow morning. Afternoon will be fine.” Constance swung open her file drawer and brought out a zippered bag of keys. She handed over a key labeled with a combination of letters and numbers, reminiscent of Olivia’s method for tracking cookie cutters. “A code, right?” Olivia asked.

“Of course. Wouldn’t want my keys wandering around with actual addresses on them.”

Olivia stood. “Thanks, Constance. I’m glad you haven’t been planning my painful demise all these years. Drop by The Gingerbread House sometime.”

As Olivia turned her back, Constance said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to order take-out cookies. I don’t get out much.” Olivia looked back to see Constance push back from her desk and wheel herself around it. “Unless The Gingerbread House is wheelchair accessible, that is.” Constance laughed at Olivia’s chagrined expression. “Car accident,” she said. Her wheelchair was custom-made. The part that showed above her desk looked like a well-preserved mahogany rocking chair with carved roses above an embroidered back. The bottom was a state-of-the-art motorized wheelchair. When Olivia saw the soft paisley blanket covering Constance’s lap, she realized that those lovely, long cheerleader legs were missing.

 

 

O
livia missed being with Maddie in The Gingerbread House. However, she had to work fast. Del might now believe that Jason was innocent of murder, but his confession—not to mention means, motive, and opportunity—could still send him to prison.

Olivia walked briskly, collecting a film of perspiration by the time she reached the dance studio. To divert attention, she passed the building, then doubled back through the alley to the rear entrance.

Constance had assured her the key opened both the front and back doors, and it did. Olivia slipped inside the building and locked the door behind her. She found herself in darkness. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out windowless walls, a counter, and a table with two chairs. She hadn’t thought to ask Constance for a floor plan. Some planner she turned out to be. It also never occurred to her to stop at home to pick up one of the new flashlights she had purchased after her dark and stormy night in the park. Olivia assumed she was in the small office that opened onto the dance floor. A ribbon of gray along the floor gave a clue to the location of the connecting door. Olivia headed toward the sliver of light, tripping over a chair leg on the way.

When she opened the door, Olivia saw daylight through the large front window and instinctively pulled back. She reminded herself that she would be invisible to someone looking into the dark studio. Probably. She wished Maddie were with her to lighten the mood. Breaking into homes, even with permission, wasn’t as relaxing as, say, baking cookies. If Raoul returned early for some reason, her plan would backfire. He would pack up and leave town, and she might never locate the dancer in the park.
Jason, remember Jason.
That dancer might be her brother’s only chance.

Olivia stepped out of the little office and scanned the dance floor. Aside from the front entrance, she didn’t see any other doors. She reentered the office and closed the door behind her. She felt along the wall for the light switch and, defying caution, switched it on. So what if a pedestrian glanced inside the studio and saw light under the door? Besides her mother, how many people even knew Raoul’s habit of leaving town on Thursdays?

The light revealed another closed door. It was unlocked, thank goodness. She opened it and found two light switches on a wall just inside. She flipped both. The office light turned off, and an overhead light came on, illuminating a narrow staircase. With a surge of hopeful energy, Olivia shut the door behind her and mounted the stairs.

The second floor reminded Olivia of her own apartment, with a central hallway and rooms on each side. She hurried past open doors leading into a living room, kitchen-dining room, bathroom, and a tiny room that looked like an office strewn with papers. At the end of the corridor, two bedrooms faced one another. At least, Olivia assumed they were both bedrooms. In the room to her left, she could see an unmade bed and two chairs strewn with various items of men’s clothing, including dancing costumes.