A Cookie Before Dying (16 page)

“You’ve got her all wrong, Livie. Charlene is sensitive. She’s been through a lot; she told me all about Geoff King and what he did to her.”

“So she killed him and is letting you take the rap for it? How sensitive is that?”

“
No
. It’s just . . .” Jason circled the jail cell like a newly captured tiger. When he bumped the occupied cot, the snoozing drunk stirred and muttered, “Drinks on the house.”

“If I may . . . ?” Mr. Willard tapped one bony finger on his lips. “Jason, your sister has engaged my services because she is fully aware of the dangerous situation in which you have landed yourself. I feel I need to warn you at once that if you persist in your murder confession, the police will interview you and ask for a statement. The police are overworked. They will stop looking for other suspects once you have given them a signed confession. At each step, it becomes more difficult for you to extricate yourself.”

Jason said nothing, but he seemed to be listening.

“I am not myself a defense attorney, but I will find one for you, if necessary. First, though, I need to ask you a question. Since I am currently acting as your attorney, I will not reveal your answer to the police. Do you have a strong reason to believe that Charlene Critch killed her ex-husband?”

“I . . . well . . .” Jason flung out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. Olivia wanted to protect him and slap him.

Olivia realized that Mr. Willard was trying to find out, indirectly, if Jason really had stabbed Geoffrey King. When Jason sent a pleading look in her direction, Olivia asked, “Do you want me to leave so you can talk to Mr. Willard in private?”

Jason’s hands dropped back to his sides. “No, you can stay, Liv. The answer to your question, Mr. Willard, is no. I don’t really know if Charlene killed Geoff. I just assumed because . . . well, Charlie wouldn’t walk through the park to go home, so it couldn’t have been him.”

And it wasn’t you, either, you complete and utter nincompoop.
Olivia kept this observation to herself.

Dropping down on his cot, Jason looked up at Olivia and said, “I really care about her, Liv. I know she can come across as . . . But underneath she’s still the same girl I knew in high school. You know, kind of shy and easy to talk to.”

Olivia didn’t know how much more of her tongue was left to bite. On the other hand, maybe Charlene had become herself again with Jason. And maybe she killed her abusive ex-husband and was allowing Jason to take the blame. “Jason,” she said, “tell me something. Did you take the Duesenberg cookie cutter from the store when you didn’t win it?”

“What? Of course not,” Jason said. “Why would I do that?”

Olivia said nothing.

“Look,” Jason said, “I know I’ve made a mess for everyone, and I’m really sorry you and Mom are so upset, but here’s the thing . . . I don’t have any
evidence
that Charlene didn’t . . . you know, but I’m positive she didn’t. I can’t let her . . .” Jason paused, frowning. “I couldn’t let Charlene get hurt anymore. So that’s why I killed Geoffrey King. I saw him in the park, and I knew what he was there for. I’m sorry, Livie, but that’s all there is to it.”

Olivia fixed him with a sisterly glare. “How did you kill him?”

His chin lifted in defiance, Jason turned his back on Olivia and said, “Thanks for your concern, Mr. Willard, but my mind is made up. I’d like you both to leave now.” He withdrew again to his cot, back pressed against the wall, arms around his knees.

Mr. Willard rang the bell, and Del came to unlock the door. Before leaving the cell, Olivia turned to face her brother. “Jason, you really are being an idiot. You know that, right?”

Jason gave her a sad smile. “I love you, too, Olive Oyl.”

Olivia cringed as she approached The Gingerbread House and saw the gathering crowd. Several small groups milled around on the lawn, while a steady stream of customers passed in and out of the front door. Through the large front window, she could see the store was packed. She stopped to check her watch under the Parisian-striped awning that shaded Lady Chatterley’s Clothing Boutique for Elegant Ladies. Twelve thirty, halfway through the lunch hour. Her mother would be frantic for news about Jason, so Olivia gave her a quick call to let her know that he was okay and she’d be back at the store soon with more details.

Also, Olivia was starving. The Chatterley Café was nearby, but the line went out the door and trailed all the way across the sidewalk to the curb. Pete’s Diner, on the other hand, looked like it could use a customer. The diner was across the town square from Lady Chatterley’s, near the statue of Frederick P. Chatterley. In the park, a cluster of curious townspeople were kicking the grass around the area where Olivia had found Geoffrey King’s body. She decided to take the long way to Pete’s Diner, around the square, rather than brave a bunch of avid clue seekers.

Having reached Joe’s Diner unaccosted, Olivia relaxed at a secluded table and glanced through the short, grease-stained sheet of paper referred to as the “old” menu. Meatloaf sandwich with a side of mashed potatoes jumped off the page and begged to be ordered. The “new” laminated menu offered such items as scallops in garlic sauce, which she loved, but it was more of a meatloaf-and-potatoes kind of day. Olivia felt the need for substantive fuel with the calming qualities of tomato sauce.

“Olivia Greyson. Thought you’d deserted us for that fancy place on the edge of town.” Ida, who had waitressed at Pete’s off and on for much of her adult life, greeted everyone with tired sarcasm. Olivia found it oddly comforting. “So what’ll it be?” Ida eyed the menu in Olivia’s hand. “Must be tired of all that radicchio and pomegranate juice or whatever it is they concoct over there at Bone Vittles, huh?”

Olivia giggled and relaxed a bit more. She realized she was one of only three customers in the diner. By the front window, two retired men lingered over coffee while they watched the clue-hunting action in the park. “Well, Ida, Bon Vivant is a nice place, but they don’t offer meatloaf sandwiches with mashed potatoes, and that’s what I’m in the mood for. And coffee.”

“Lots of cream, sugar’s on the table, and extra tomato sauce.” It wasn’t a question; Ida knew her too well.

As soon as Ida left her table, Olivia speed-dialed Del. He answered on the second ring. “Don’t tell me you’ve found another body.”

“I haven’t. Hope I never do. But I have an idea that didn’t occur to me until I left the station. It’s a long shot, but there might be a witness.”

“You think someone saw the murder? Hang on, let me grab a pen. We buy them by the box, but there’s never one . . . Okay, I found one. Now, who’s this long-shot witness?”

“That’s the problem, I don’t know who she is, but . . . Wait a sec, my meal is arriving.”

“Where are you?”

“Pete’s.”

“I’m on my way. But keep talking.”

“Thanks, Ida,” Olivia said as the waitress placed a bowl of extra tomato topping next to her sandwich plate. “Okay, Del, I can talk again. All I can tell you is that late Monday night—or maybe early Tuesday morning, Maddie would remember better—there was a woman dancing in the town square.”

“Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”

“I told you, Maddie saw her, too. She came back to the store late to do some baking, and I’d fallen asleep on the couch. Well, never mind all that. Maddie called my cell, I looked out the window and saw the woman, and then Maddie—”

“Hang on, I’m at Pete’s.” Del came through the diner door, still holding his cell to his ear. When Ida saw him, he made a cup-sipping gesture to request coffee. Ida scowled at him but began to fill a cup. She delivered it a moment after he sat down across from Olivia.

“You ordering anything except your free coffee?” Ida asked.

“Ida, I’ve told you to charge me for coffee,” Del said.

“If it was up to me, I’d charge you double, but Pete won’t let me. He likes cops and firefighters. Don’t ask me why.” Shaking her head, she turned away.

“Wow, that sandwich looks great,” Del said.

“Get your own, this baby is mine.” Olivia curved a protective arm around her plate.

“Okay, about this woman you and Maddie saw. What did she look like?”

“Well . . .” Olivia was beginning to regret volunteering her information, such as it was. “I was in my living room, so I couldn’t see anything except this diaphanous white blur sort of leaping and twirling near the band shell. She was dancing beautifully. Maddie said she might be a ballerina, but what do I know? She danced away from the light, and I never saw her again. But Maddie sneaked around in back of the stores east of the square to get a closer look, and she described what she saw to me. She said the woman was slender and had white hair.”

“So she was older?” Del asked. Ida clattered a plate down in front of him. “A meatloaf sandwich? But I didn’t order—”

“Pete said to bring you one. On the house. Of course. When Pete goes broke, I’ll lose my job. You just think about that.” Ida shuffled off, muttering to herself.

Del grinned. “That was code for ‘leave a big tip.’ I always leave a tip worth the cost of the meal plus twenty percent, and Ida knows it. She loves to bully me. Now, did Maddie assess this dancer’s age?”

“No, she said the woman was wearing some sort of veil over her head, but her hair still looked white. I have a hard time imagining an older woman executing those leaps.” Olivia took a bite of her meatloaf sandwich and sighed in appreciation.

“A dance teacher, maybe?” Del bit into his sandwich, squirting tomato sauce on his cheek. He swiped at it with his napkin.

Olivia shrugged. “As far as I know, Raoul is the only professional dance teacher in town.”

“Raoul . . . Is he the Latin dancer all the women in town are swooning over?” There was a snide edge to Del’s voice.

“Now, now,” Olivia said. “Just because he is tall, lean, and exotically handsome is no reason to take a disliking to him. My mom likes him, and she’s a good judge of character. Although Allan despises him.”

“Well, there you are then.” Dell dipped a corner of his sandwich in extra sauce and stuffed it into his mouth while he jotted in a small notebook. Olivia noticed a bit of tomato sauce dotting his chin. She used her napkin to wipe it away. Del gave her a lopsided grin, and she felt her stomach flip. “So, this Raoul guy, has he got a last name?”

Olivia wrote off her stomach flip to an excess of spicy meatloaf topping. “Probably, but no one seems to know it. You’re the cop, you find out.”

“Have you spoken to anyone else about this woman? Do you have reason to believe she was in the park at the time of the murder? Does she dance every night, or at least on a regular basis?”

“No . . . not really . . . and I haven’t a clue. You might ask Maddie. She seems to be out wandering the streets at night more than the average human being. Or for that matter, ask Charlene and Charlie. Or Jason. All I know is she was there the night before the murder at about the right time and in about the right place. If she was there at the same time Tuesday morning, she might have seen something. And if she saw something, she might be in danger.”

Del pushed aside his empty plate and took out his wallet. “If this dancer witnessed a murder and the killer saw her, she might already be dead.”

 

 

“
H
ey, wait up.” The insistent voice came from behind Olivia as she passed in front of Frederick’s, the men’s clothing store. She spun around to find Ida, the waitress from Joe’s Diner, hustling toward her. “You left so fast, I didn’t get a chance to tell you something,” Ida said. Years of toting heavy trays had kept her in good shape; her breathing was normal. “Joe said I could take my break early. There’s something I want to tell you, and I don’t want anyone listening in. Most people would think I’m crazy—maybe you will, too—but I know your mom, and she’d take me seriously.”

At the mention of her mother as an understanding listener, Olivia mentally prepared for a story involving chakras and sit-ins. Ida, however, was well into her seventies, so Olivia told herself not to jump to conclusions. “Let’s get out of the sun,” she said.

Ida cast a nervous glance toward the town square, where the clue collectors had multiplied, divided into several groups, and spread across the length of the park. “Too crowded around here,” she said. “Let’s go to the playground. I like it there.”

Not the suggestion Olivia expected, but it was close by and had a bench under an ancient oak tree. With Ida about three steps ahead, they walked to the old playground that had entertained schoolchildren up until a few years earlier, when the new Chatterley Heights Elementary School was built at the edge of town. Chatterley Heights lacked the resources to renovate the old brick school building, so it stood empty, its front door padlocked and windows boarded over.

Ida settled on an old wooden bench dotted with bird droppings. A few remaining strips of paint revealed the bench had once been red. With a repressed cringe, Olivia sat next to her. What the heck, she could wash up and change clothes before returning to the store. Ida’s obvious anxiety had piqued her curiosity.