When the Cookie Crumbles (15 page)

“All right,” Olivia said, “I’ll call Del and—”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Livie.” Heather bolted from her chair and threw her arms around Olivia. “I knew I could count on you. I’ll stay right here to hear what the sheriff says.” She plunked back down and sipped her wine. “I don’t suppose you have a cookie?” she asked.

“Heather, you didn’t let me finish. I’ll call Del in the morning, but I can’t promise anything. I’ll just try to find out what I can.”

“No, you have to call
now
. Matthew can’t spend the whole night in jail. He’s so very—”

“Sensitive,” Maddie said. “Yes, we get that. But it’s past one in the morning, and poor Del is surely in bed. Give the guy a break; he has to keep the peace nonstop all weekend while the hordes descend. The Chatterley Heights jail doesn’t keep prisoners chained to the wall. Matthew will be fine for the night. It’ll give him a good chance to sober up and get through the nasty hangover coming his way.”

“But you don’t understand.…”

“I do understand,” Maddie said, slipping an arm around Heather’s plump shoulders. “If it were Lucas in jail, I’d be just as upset as you are, and yeah, I’d be beating down Livie’s apartment door to get her help. And she’d tell me exactly what I’m telling you. Do not roust Del from a good night’s sleep. A cranky sheriff is an uncooperative sheriff. Let Livie handle this in her own calm, collected way, and it will go better.” Maddie pushed Heather in the direction of the apartment door. “I’m off home myself. I’ll walk you to your truck.”

“My truck has a flat tire,” Heather said. “I didn’t want to take the time to change it, so I rode to town on Raven. He’s feeling himself again, and he needed the exercise.”

“Then I’ll walk you to your horse,” Maddie said, turning to roll her eyes at Olivia. “Lord save us,” she muttered. Or at least that’s what Olivia thought she heard.

The sky barely hinted at dawn when Olivia descended the stairs to The Gingerbread House, Spunky under her arm. The little Yorkie would find himself banished upstairs to her apartment before the store opened to the public, but for now he could have the run of the sales area. Spunky still had trouble with chaotic days, which this was destined to be. Maybe someday soon, he’d settle down. But not yet. When the Chatterley Heights High School marching band passed by the store, attempting “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” Spunky would make a run for the distant hills. Even hearing the band from the quieter safety of Olivia’s upstairs apartment might tempt the little guy to think more fondly of the puppy mill. Or not, Olivia thought as she watched Spunky whiz around the store, sniffing every corner for threats to his domain.

Olivia strolled around the dimly lit store, allowing the faint gingery scent to fill her with a warm sense of
pleasure. Cookie cutters hung from every available hook and wire. She reached up and tapped a mobile as she passed. The metal flower shapes rippled and shone as if ruffled by a breeze in the moonlight.

Olivia settled onto Spunky’s favorite chair, an antique with a carved straight back and a needlepoint padded seat. It was surprisingly comfortable and afforded her a view of the town square. Around the perimeter, old-fashioned lamps dotted the park with warm circles of light, revealing colorful banners swaying in the early morning breeze.

Spunky finished his rounds and clicked across the sales floor to Olivia. He jumped onto her lap and stared through the window, where dawn was announcing its imminent arrival. “Well, Spunks, this is going to be one heck of a weekend,” Olivia said as she massaged his ears. “Trust me, you’ll be happier out of it.” The Yorkie’s ears perked at the sound of Olivia’s voice, then relaxed for a moment. When his small body stiffened, Olivia followed his gaze. In the early dawn light, she could make out a figure in a raincoat walking north on Park Street. It wasn’t surprising, even at such an early hour. Shopkeepers would want to get an early start before the weekend celebration began.

As the figure neared, Olivia realized the walker was a woman. The woman most likely to be out patrolling on this particular morning was, of course, Karen Evanson. And she was heading right toward The Gingerbread House.

“I suspect we’re about to get a visit from our forceful mayor,” Olivia told Spunky. “Mind your manners.” She wrapped her arm around Spunky’s middle, in case he didn’t obey her order.

Sure enough, a few minutes later the outside doorbell rang with irritating insistence. Spunky yapped fiercely and squirmed to free himself of Olivia’s tight grip. “Hush,
Spunky. Be civil. If she doesn’t behave herself, I promise to let you chase her off. Deal?” The frustrated pup complied with a grumbling growl. Olivia rewarded him with a quick ear scratch.

Olivia unlocked the door to The Gingerbread House and reached for the dead bolt on the outside door just as the doorbell rang again…and kept ringing. She imagined Karen smashing the innocent button through the door. By the time she’d fumbled the lock open, holding her squirming dog, Olivia was not in the best of moods.

“It isn’t necessary to be so—” Olivia’s objection died on her lips, along with her anger. The woman in her doorway was not the demanding Karen Evanson. She was Rosemarie York, the normally easygoing administrator of the Chatterley Heights Community Center. Rosemarie’s red, swollen lids highlighted the green in her troubled hazel eyes.

“Livie, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to be strident, but I have to talk to you. I don’t know where else to turn.”

W
hile Olivia stocked and decorated The Gingerbread House before opening time, Rosemarie followed along, clutching a mug of coffee to her chest as if it were keeping her heart from leaping out. “I raised Matthew from the age of four,” she said. “He’s my sister’s child. Annmarie married the father but left him before Matthew was born. She divorced him, refused to let him see the baby. She wouldn’t even take money from him. I thought she made the right decision.”

Olivia hung a macramé banner from a wire above the front window and stepped back to make sure it was straight. Her mother had created the hanging using purple and silver
metallic yarn. She’d added silver beads knotted into the pattern to form the year Frederick P. Chatterley first wandered into what later became the town of Chatterley Heights. According to dubious yet persistent legend, Frederick P. had become lost on the way home from his newest mistress’s abode. He later dumped the mistress but claimed the unsettled land for himself and his future dynasty.

“Why did you think it was a good idea for your sister to raise Matthew alone without financial support from the father?” Olivia asked.

“That man was bad news,” Rosemarie said. “He hit Annmarie when she told him she was pregnant. He really wanted Annmarie to get rid of the baby, and she was afraid he’d hit her again to make her miscarry. When she divorced him, he didn’t fight for shared custody, just took off. Annmarie couldn’t go to our parents; they were very religious and would have criticized her endlessly for divorcing her child’s father, never mind how abusive he was. So she came to me for help. I was thirty-three and married at the time.”

“I didn’t realize you’d been married,” Olivia said as she selected a smaller purple and lavender macramé to hang from the sales counter. “But if you raised Matthew from age four, where was your sister?”

“She lived with us,” Rosemarie said. “Of course, our parents figured out what happened and wouldn’t speak to either of us, but at least Annmarie and the baby had a place to live that wasn’t with the father. My husband and I worked full-time, so we all lived fairly comfortably. Then my husband got sick. Matthew was about three, too young for Annmarie to go to work, and I had to quit my job to take care of my husband. For a while, we were all hopeful, but the cancer was aggressive and, well, my husband lived less
than a year.” Rosemarie ran her fingers through her short brown hair, drawing Olivia’s attention to gray roots. She knew Matthew was about twenty-five. If Rosemarie was thirty-three when her sister was pregnant with him, she would be about fifty-eight now. She’d never remarried, which meant she’d raised Matthew on her own.

“I know what that’s like,” Olivia said, touching Rosemarie lightly on the shoulder. “My dad died of pancreatic cancer when I was a teenager. It took him very fast.”

Rosemarie took a gulp of her coffee. “It got worse,” she said. “I was heartbroken, but with Annmarie and Matthew there, I had something to live for. I went back to work. When Matthew started preschool, Annmarie got a part-time job. We were doing okay.” Rosemarie’s voice trailed off. Olivia knew there was more, so she arranged a display of party-themed cookie cutters and waited. “One morning, Annmarie dropped Matthew off at preschool and headed for work. She never made it. Some kid out joyriding slammed into her car on the driver’s side. She was gone by the time the police arrived.”

Olivia tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “I can’t even imagine.…”

Rosemarie plunked her cup down on the sales counter and took a deep breath. “It was a long time ago,” she said. “I raised Matthew, of course. I couldn’t love him more if he were my own son. Maybe I spoiled him a bit, but…anyway, I know he’s high-strung and moody. I guess he inherited that much from his father. But he didn’t inherit his father’s meanness, I swear he didn’t. My sister was a good person, and so is Matthew. I know with absolute certainty that he didn’t kill Paine Chatterley. I just can’t prove it.”

Olivia felt a sinking feeling that stretched from her chest to her stomach. She knew what was coming.

“That’s why I’ve come to you, Livie.”

“Rosemarie, I can’t—”

“Now hear me out.” Rosemarie sounded commanding, more like the successful, middle-aged administrator she was. “You’re so smart, Livie, and you’ve done this sort of thing before—you know, helping an innocent person who is accused of a crime he could never, ever have committed.”

“But—”

“
Please
, Livie. I need your help. The sheriff won’t tell me anything, and you and he…well, maybe he’ll talk to you. Livie, I’m desperate. I have to help Matthew. He’ll clam up and get stubborn and make things worse.” Tears dripped off Rosemarie’s chin and plopped onto the collar of her raincoat.

“I suppose I could talk to Del,” Olivia said. “Only I can’t promise—”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Livie. I’d better run; there’s still so much to do to prepare for this dreadful weekend.” Rosemarie squinted up at the store’s Hansel and Gretel clock, a gift from Olivia’s mother. It was lovely but so intricate that even Ellie couldn’t read it accurately.

“It’s somewhere around seven to seven fifteen,” Olivia said. When she saw the mute plea in Rosemarie’s eyes, Olivia added, “I can’t force Del to share anything with me, but I will talk to him.”

O
nce Rosemarie had left, Olivia took Spunky on a quick outdoor bathroom break in the side yard. For once, the little guy was efficient. According to her watch, Olivia had thirty-nine minutes before opening time. The town square teamed with people, many of whom she did
not recognize. She hoped the visitors had come for the festivities and not merely to gossip about Chatterley Heights’s sensational murder and arrest.

As she and Spunky reentered the front yard, Olivia recognized the back of a distinctive wheelchair making its way up the newly finished ramp that skirted the steps leading to The Gingerbread House porch. The wheelchair—half state-of-the-art motorized vehicle and half antique rocking chair—as well as the dark blond hair showing above the backrest belonged to Constance Overton, owner of the Chatterley Heights Management and Rental Company. The two were becoming friends, despite their high school tussle over a boyfriend.

Spunky welcomed Constance with a friendly bark. Constance stopped her wheelchair and turned her head. “Is that you, Spunks, old buddy? I see you’ve been taking Livie for some much needed exercise. No offense, Livie.”

“Very little taken.” Olivia unlocked the front door and held it wide. “Does the ramp pass inspection?”

“It’s perfect,” Constance said as she guided her chair into the store. “I’m grateful.”

“Some of the other shopkeepers on the square are dragging their feet,” Olivia said. “I’m hoping the Victorian look will ease their concerns.”

Constance shrugged her slender shoulders. “Well, Lady Chatterley’s got their ramp set up in time for this weekend, so I’ve got cookies and clothes. My two highest priorities.” Her teal cashmere sweater and the matching blanket on her lap were undoubtedly special ordered by Lady Chatterley’s. “Matthew did a nice job with the Victorian gingerbread touches for both ramps,” Constance said. “He’s why I’m here.”

Olivia poured a cup of coffee from a large urn she’d set
up in the cookbook nook, near two easy chairs and a table supplied with cream, sugar, and a large tray piled with decorated cookies. “Does everyone in town know Matthew has been arrested, and will all of them be pumping me for details?” Olivia handed the coffee cup to Constance.

“The rumor is going around,” Constance said. “I guessed it was true because Matthew didn’t show up to work on my building at six thirty a.m., like he usually does. I wasn’t sure until I saw Rosemarie York leaving your store this morning. There’s only one reason she’d be here so early on such an important day: she wants you to rescue Matthew from the sheriff’s clutches.”