Cookie Dough or Die (28 page)

 

 

M
r. Willard’s law office occupied the top floor of a narrow, two-story Georgian-style building on the east side of the town square. The building’s ground floor housed Olivia’s second favorite store, after The Gingerbread House—the Book Chat bookstore. To reach the stairs leading up to Mr. Willard’s office, she had to walk through the cookbook section and then the mysteries. It took all her willpower not to slow down and skim the titles. One of the downsides to running a store of her own was that she couldn’t linger in other shops during normal working hours. She consoled herself by breathing in the crisp smell of new books.

Olivia rejected the new-looking elevator in favor of the wooden stairs, well worn in the middle. At the top, she came to Mr. Willard’s frosted glass door, left ajar. The hinges squeaked as she edged the door inward.

“Come on in,” Mr. Willard’s voice called from an inner office. The outer office must once have been for a secretary, but today no one occupied the chair behind a battered wooden desk. An old electric typewriter, unplugged and forlorn, hinted that the office hadn’t served its original purpose for many years.

Olivia made her way toward Mr. Willard’s voice, past floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with law books. Without thinking, she dragged a finger across several spines and collected a layer of dust, which triggered a sneeze.

The inner office door opened and Mr. Willard’s head appeared. “I am so sorry for the state of my office,” he said. “I’ve done all my own administrative work for years, so I haven’t needed staff. However, a regular housekeeper might not be a bad idea.” He gestured for Olivia to enter. She couldn’t help noticing his almost skeletal hands, with the joints protruding from long, thin fingers. He looked as if he could use a few decorated cookies.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” Olivia said, taking a seat across from Mr. Willard’s desk. A quick glance told her the real work was done in his office. A new model laptop sat on his desk, closed and pushed to one side, and neat piles of legal-size papers covered at least half of the work space. File cabinets lined three walls. A large laser printer stood at the ready on a side table.

“My time is my own, so I am really quite flexible.” Mr. Willard’s smile added a moment of fullness to his cavernous cheeks. “What can I do for you, Ms. Greyson?”

“Call me Livie, please.” She took a moment to gather her thoughts. She had thought through what she wanted to discuss with him, but she had to proceed with care. “I have one simple request, but there’s more, much more, that I’d like to discuss with you. Whether I can do that depends on . . . well, on a possible conflict of interest. I know I’m being vague, but . . .”

Mr. Willard sat up straight, his eyes bright. “In fact, I am intrigued,” he said. “Might my potential conflict of interest have to do with the Chamberlain family, by any chance?”

Olivia had been concentrating so hard on how to approach the topic, she’d been holding her breath. She released it so fast her cheeks puffed out. “Yes, it would, absolutely.”

“Then you may put your mind at rest. My long association with the Chamberlain family ended with Clarisse’s death. Hugh and Edward preferred to hire the services of a large law firm in DC, so I am not privy to any confidential legal information about them.”

“Good, then I want to hire you. Or put you on retainer, if that’s the right term.”

“It is. Consider yourself my client. What may I do for you? I hope Sheriff Del has not designated you a suspect in Clarisse’s death? I’m not a criminal attorney, of course, but I can certainly recommend an excellent one.”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Good.” Mr. Willard scraped back his chair. “May I offer you a cappuccino? I was about to make some when you arrived.”

“Cappuccino? I think I hired the right lawyer.”

Mr. Willard’s laugh was deeper than Olivia would have expected, given his thinness. “While the machine performs its magic,” he said, “why don’t you start with the simple request you mentioned?”

“All right, I need a list of the cookie cutters in Clarisse’s collection, and I need it right away.” When Mr. Willard’s eyebrows arched, she added, “I’m so glad you are my attorney because now I can explain.”

Mr. Willard held up one hand. “Let me froth the cappuccinos and we can discuss this in a comfortable fashion. Something tells me it will be complicated.”

Now that she knew she could talk over her plans with Mr. Willard, Olivia could hardly wait to start. Besides, she needed to get back to the store soon, or Maddie wouldn’t have time to visit the library.

Cups finally in hand, Olivia began. “I’ve been doing some digging into Clarisse’s death. Yes, I know it could be dangerous, but I don’t care. Clarisse was my dear friend. Besides, now someone is trying to implicate me. So if you’re going to try to talk me out of it, you can save your breath.”

“Then I shall save my breath. Please go on.”

“Maddie Briggs is the only one who knows what I’m doing. She has been helping. I don’t want to put her in danger, but if you knew Maddie . . . Anyway, I started with five suspects and have more or less eliminated two—Lucas Ashford and Bertha Binkman. Unless you know something about them that I don’t?”

Mr. Willard shook his head. “I’d be surprised if either of them was guilty of murder, especially Bertha.”

“So that leaves three suspects.”

“Let me guess,” Mr. Willard said. “The brothers Chamberlain and Hugh’s fiancée, Tammy Deacons.”

“Wow, you’re good.”

“It wasn’t that difficult. Why Ms. Deacons, if I may ask?”

Olivia sipped her cooling coffee. “Tammy is an old friend of mine; it isn’t easy for me to think of her killing someone. She has always been intense in her emotions. Also determined. She has been in love with Hugh Chamberlain since . . . Well, I don’t even know since when, but she has never wavered. She hated Clarisse for turning Hugh against her—at least, that’s how Tammy saw it. I don’t really know what happened.”

Mr. Willard cleared his throat. “I thought of Clarisse as an old friend as well as a client, and I believe it was in friendship that she discussed with me her problems with Ms. Deacons. In fact, Clarisse liked the young woman for her strength of will and her persistence. However, Hugh became intrigued by another woman, and, as I recall, Clarisse thought her more suitable.”

“Jasmine Dubois?”

“Precisely. When Ms. Dubois left town abruptly, Clarisse confronted Martin, thinking he had driven her away. He denied doing so, vehemently. Clarisse then became convinced that Ms. Deacons had somehow threatened or tricked Ms. Dubois into leaving. Another cappuccino?”

“What? Oh, no thanks, I need to get back to the store.” Olivia handed over her empty cup. “Did Clarisse ever find any evidence that Tammy was involved?”

“Not that I am aware of. Clarisse never spoke of it again.” Mr. Willard pulled open a packed file drawer and began shuffling through the hanging files. “Here it is,” he said as he lifted out one thin, buff folder. “This is the list of cookie cutters in Clarisse’s collection. We keep it updated for assessment and insurance purposes.” He placed the file on his desk, in front of Olivia. “You don’t have to tell me why you need this so urgently, of course. . . .”

Olivia slid the file closer. “Actually, I’m hoping for your help.” She outlined her plan to host a memorial on Sunday. “Clarisse was looking at some of her cookie cutters when she died. I think those cutters are clues to her murder.”

As Mr. Willard’s thin face tightened with growing concern, Olivia steeled herself for an argument.

“My dilemma,” she concluded, “is how to make sure all three suspects attend. I might be able to convince Tammy that she and Hugh should for appearance’s sake, but I doubt Edward would care. I wondered if you might have some ideas?”

Even Mr. Willard’s gray eyebrows were thin. When they shot up, they nearly disappeared into a fold of skin. He reached across his desk, retrieved the cookie-cutter file, and opened it. He turned the pages one by one, all the time tapping one long forefinger against his lips. He seemed to be thinking rather than reading.

Olivia was reminded of being sent to the principal’s office in the fourth grade. The experience of watching the principal read through a teacher’s report of her transgression, which Olivia now had forgotten, was more than enough to kick her back to the straight and narrow. Sort of. Anyway, she learned how not to get caught.

Mr. Willard closed the file and pushed it back across the desk. “I believe it would not be difficult for me to convince Hugh and Edward to attend your memorial,” he said. “I will do so on one condition.”

Olivia waited.

“My condition is that you involve the sheriff in this event. Hear me out,” Mr. Willard said as Olivia opened her mouth to object. “If you are successful in eliciting a reaction from the guilty party—or even worse, guilty parties—there is the possibility of violence on their part. At the very least, you will have put yourself and Maddie in danger.”

“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.”

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:

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.