by Ellery Adams
“Should I strap on my suit of armor?” Harris asked the other writers nervously and opened a notebook featuring UFOs on the cover.
As soon as Olivia set a platter of desserts on the coffee table, Harris lurched forward and loaded up on chocolate mousse served in white chocolate cups, miniature key lime pies, and homemade shortbread.
“I’ll go first,” Olivia began. “As you know, I am not a fan of science fiction. But it doesn’t matter that this story is set in the future. What matters is that I am invested in Zenobia. In the beginning of chapter one I found her a little cold—a sheltered and spoiled child. At this point in the narrative, however, I empathize with this young woman and hope she can find a way to grieve while having to represent the calm and controlled face of the nobility. I think you’ve done a good job illustrating the difficulty she’s having managing both her anger and her sorrow. Her loneliness is almost tangible and I think readers will root for her to find genuine companionship in the next few chapters.” She paused, scanning over her written comments. “I’m curious about the tattoo on her palm as well. I wonder if the Hunter is based on the Orion constellation.”
Harris grinned. “It is. There’s a connection to the Chosen Ones and Earth. Of course, Earth has been depleted of all it natural resources, but Zenobia’s people have the technology to completely restore the planet. But they won’t search for our galaxy in this book. This one concentrates on Zenobia coming into her own and figuring out how to make Zulton the new home of her people.”
Millay studied Harris. “I like that your heroine’s not some prissy princess type. The martial arts training scene was way cool.” Harris flushed a deeper shade of red at the praise. Olivia sensed the young man would do anything to gain the favor of the beautiful barkeep. “But you have got to change some of Zenobia’s dialogue.” Millay traced her hand down a page, looking for the right notation. “For example, Zenobia says she’s going to squash her simulation opponent ‘flat as a pancake.’ I don’t see pancakes as a futuristic food and it’s a total cliché anyway. You do it again later on. Zenobia’s ‘seeing red’ when she notices the Regent on her father’s throne and she tells her advisor not to ‘pull her leg.’ Those terms don’t mesh with your genre at all.”
Harris looked horrified. Sticking his hands into his wavy, ginger hair, he moaned. “Ugh, those clichés really stand out now that I’m hearing them aloud.”
Laurel gave Harris a kind smile. “You know what you do wonderfully in this chapter?” She held out his pages. “You make me view things through Zenobia’s eyes. That scene where she walks into the throne room and looks up at the seven moons and the starry sky through that enormous glass ceiling . . .” She glanced out the cottage window where daytime was fading into twilight. The horizon over the ocean was blurred by the humidity, and the sky was a nearly colorless yellow. “I could see those moons and the star clusters and the nebulae as if they were right out that window. Whenever you described the setting using terms I understood, I was able to get completely lost in the scene.” She hesitated. Laurel did her best to deliver criticism with a gentle touch. “But whenever you used too many futuristic terms, I couldn’t visualize what you were writing about any longer. For example, I got the description of the fighting simulator, but when you started talking about Zenobia’s weapons I was totally confused.”
“I thought everyone knew about photon laser pistols,” Harris answered in genuine surprise.
Rawlings laughed. “At least you’re crediting your readers with intelligence. I researched the pistol and the bolt staff on the computer and found a fascinating site on sci-fi weapons that are being developed as prototypes by the army. After looking at drawings, I was able to imagine exactly how Zenobia’s weapons operated, but you can’t expect that of all your readers. I just happen to be interested in that sort of thing.” He gestured around the room. “You’ve got to do the work for us. It would only take a sentence or two to describe the light and energy of the photon pistol or the burst of concentrated electricity from the bolt staff. Keep it short and simple.”
Harris nodded. “I can do that. Would you write down that website for me? It sounds awesome!”
Handing him a piece of paper, Rawlings grinned. “I figured you might ask.”
Finishing his beer, Harris sank back against the cushions with a sigh of relief. “That went better than the last chapter. I’ve really benefitted from our meetings. When I sit down to write, I’ve got you all in my head, acting like virtual editors. It’s exciting to know you’re going to help me shape my book into something decent. Before, I was anxious about letting you guys read it. Now, I can’t wait until it’s my turn again.” His eyes shone. “If we keep going like this, we might all be ready to submit to agents in a year’s time!”
Laurel clapped her hands and bounced up and down on the sofa. Olivia feared her friend would try to lead them in a spontaneous cheer. “Wouldn’t that be something? If one of us actually got a publishing contract? We could say, ‘I knew Harris way before he made the New York Times list.’”
“I don’t know about that.” Harris’s optimism deflated somewhat. “Sci-fi isn’t any easy genre to break into. Millay has a better chance with young adult fantasy or the chief here with his thriller.”
Rawlings laughed again. “You’re assuming my work is actually engaging.”
“We’ll find out this week, won’t we?” Olivia asked. She couldn’t wait to read the lawman’s chapter. She wondered if yet another side of his complex personality would be revealed in his writing and whether she’d find it as attractive as his paintings or as repellent as the orange Hawaiian shirt he was wearing.
As the other writers packed up and headed out into the warm night, Rawlings lingered. “How are you doing?”
Olivia knew what he meant by the question. “I think I’ll be haunted by that man’s ruined face for quite a while.” She poured them both another splash of scotch and led Rawlings out to the back deck. They settled on wooden rockers and watched Haviland sprint down the beach to the water line. The dunes were covered in shadow as the sky continued to darken. Olivia and Rawlings listened to the buzz of insects and the whisper of the waves. The chief’s ability to cherish the silence, to sit and open his senses to the world around him, was, in Olivia’s opinion, his finest quality. She knew very few people who didn’t feel the need to fill up the quiet with the sound of their own voice.
“I feel angry,” she spoke softly. “Over how the victim was turned from a man to a repulsive thing. Someone knew that would be the result. Only a person with a cold, deep rage could deliberately do that to another human being.”
Rawlings let her words settle around them before replying. “He was also buried in the nude, holding a plastic toy sand shovel. Another degrading act. We couldn’t get good prints either, as his fingertips were severely damaged. Too much skin had been sloughed off by the water and wet sand. We’ll try to work on dental records come Monday, but I don’t think he visited a dentist regularly.”
“How old was he?”
“Barely thirty, I’d say. I thought he was older at first, but that effect was created by his rapid decomposition.” Rawlings sipped from the tumbler. “I only have the ME’s initial report, but the victim seemed to be in good physical condition. Looks like he was drugged before he was buried, but it’s unsure at this point whether he became conscious after the killer was done . . . positioning him.”
Olivia looked at the chief in horror. “Do you mean he could have been paralyzed by the drugs or the weight of the sand but cognizant of what was happening?”
Rawlings nodded. “I don’t mean to upset you. In fact, I’m only talking to you about the case . . . well, because it helps me. I’m being selfish. You’re a smart woman, Olivia, and I trust your discretion. I used to tell my wife details about open investigations because she’d ask a question or make a comment and I was able to see things more clearly. The story would start to unfold, to reveal its beginning and middle. There’s always a story
behind every crime. And even though I’m there at the ending, it’s my job to discover the source. That’s how I catch the bad guys.”
Haviland bounded up the steps, pressed his wet nose against Olivia’s hand, and raised his ears. “You can play for a little longer,” she told him and the poodle dashed away again, his black coat blending into the darkness. “There’s another thing about this crime that strikes me as odd.” She gestured in the direction of the isolated stretch of beach. “Why here? Was the killer counting on a remote spot to avoid the chance of a passerby coming to his victim’s aid?”
Rawlings puckered his lips in thought. “I don’t believe he chose the Point for that reason. The murderer was very particular. He brought his victim to a place of few inhabitants, but where eventually, the body would be found. He wasn’t trying to hide what he’d done. In fact, he staged a scene. He also cleared any traces of his presence from that scene.”
“Did the neighbors hear anything? A car or boat motor?” Olivia asked.
“Nothing.”
Olivia listened to the ocean’s murmur against the shore. The steady rhythm raised another question in her mind. “If he wanted the tableau to be found intact, he took a big risk. The tide would have ruined it had I not set out on my morning walk when I did.”
Rawlings grunted and then eased himself out of the rocking chair. He walked to the railing and held on to the wood with both hands. It was the pose of a man searching for answers in the distance and Olivia imagined the chief spent less of his time looking at crime scenes, written reports, and photographs and more of it engaged in active thought. She also realized it was not a job for an impatient man. Like now, Rawlings was forced to wait for clues to come to light.
“The killer might not be a seaman, but I think he’s a local. He banked on someone living on the Point to take a walk over the holiday weekend and come across that body.” Rawlings turned and stared at Olivia. “I just hope he hasn’t been watching that beach, gathering info on who took their strolls and when. I don’t like the idea of him hiding somewhere nearby with a pair of binoculars.”
Olivia glanced past him to where her poodle was splashing in the shallows. “Me either.” She squared her shoulders and rubbed at the raised flesh on her arms. “But even if he did, I don’t mean anything to him. I discovered his find. I played my part. He’d have no more use for me.”
“We’re dealing with a clever and manipulative individual.”
“And a very angry one. The murderer hated the man he buried in the sand. He was disgusted with him.” She exhaled.
They fell silent after that, each reflecting, and not for the first time that day, on what had provoked the killer and how he had channeled his rage, shaping it into a ruthless and premeditated crime.
“Well, I’d best get going. I could sit here all night, but I’d like to review the few facts I’ve got in the case file before falling asleep in front of the television.” Rawlings smiled at her.
“Of course. I wish I could be of more help.” Olivia took his tumbler and walked him to the front door of the cottage, calling for Haviland as she did so.
After the chief had gone, she loaded the soiled plates and glasses into the tiny dishwasher in the cottage’s kitchen and turned out the lights. She locked up and then she and Haviland made their way up the sandy path through the dunes to her stone and wood Low Country-style home. Inside the living room, the most noticeable feature was the bank of windows facing the ocean. A few stars burned through the night haze but the moon wasn’t visible. Searching for it out the nearest window, Olivia was suddenly aware of being alone.
Usually, she cherished her solitude, but now she felt strangely vulnerable. She knew part of this unfamiliar feeling was a reaction to the murder, but there was something about seeing Chief Rawlings drive away that had her reluctant to face a Saturday evening at home.
Casting a gaze at the clock, she suspected that her lover, Flynn McNulty, would be closing his bookstore right about now. She could picture him counting the cash from the till, switching off the coffeepot, and turning out lights. He’d flip over the hand-painted sign on Through the Wardrobe’s front door from “Open” to “Closed” and, jiggling his keys as he hummed or whistled or gave some other evidence of how content he was with life, he would ride his mountain bike home.
Olivia was attracted to Flynn because he was everything she was not. A textbook extrovert, he relished the exchange of small talk and gossip with his customers. He played with their children in the store’s puppet theater and bantered with them in area bars and restaurants. He was lively and friendly and fun. Everyone liked him. Men wanted to befriend him, women of all ages flirted with him, and children idolized him.
Olivia rarely saw him in the act of charming members of the general public, as she preferred to call on him once darkness had fallen. They often shared a late meal together or, if it was past dinnertime, had a nightcap on Flynn’s patio. Sometimes, they’d dance on the flagstones and Flynn would croon silly songs in her ear.
Afterward, they’d have sex. Their bodies would intertwine as one day gave way to another and then, despite Flynn’s protests, Olivia would leave. She couldn’t wake up in his bed, the sun streaming through the slats of his blinds. She couldn’t begin a new day in his house. Somehow, that would mean too much of her belonged to him. And Olivia Limoges belonged to no man.
For months, Flynn had accepted what Olivia was willing to offer. He let her initiate contact, was always available when she called, and never pried into her past. They lived completely in the present, and even though Flynn was familiar with every curve of Olivia’s body, he knew very little about her as a person. In keeping with the parameters of their relationship, he limited communication to the sharing of amusing work anecdotes or the discussion of books. Literature provided the cement for their tenuous connection. They exchanged books, argued about books, and read books aloud to one another.
Without books, without the words penned by others, their relationship would have crumbled almost immediately. Instead, fictional narratives knit them together, loosely, like a mitten that could easily be unwound by tugging on a loose string.
Turning away from the window, the dark sea, and the missing moon, Olivia caught Flynn on his cell phone. He was heading out to pick up a small pizza for dinner and offered to share the pepperoni, sausage, and ham pie.
“I’ve already eaten,” she told him. “But I can bring an excellent Chianti to accompany your gourmet meal.”
Flynn loved to be teased. “You think that’s fancy? You should have seen what I had for lunch. I could have sailed a paper boat in the river of grease streaming from my hamburger.”
“At least you’ll give a local cardiologist business in the near future.”
Laughing, Flynn said, “I burn it all off when I run. For a middle-aged man-about-town, I’m the picture of health.”
Olivia couldn’t argue with that statement. “I hope you haven’t run too far today. You’ll need your strength for later tonight.”
“Why do you think I ordered all that extra protein on my pie?” Flynn answered huskily and hung up.
Chapter 4
When a man sends you an impudent letter, sit right down and give it back to him with interest ten times compounded, and then throw both letters in the wastebasket.
—ELBERT HUBBARD
The Boot Top Bistro was closed on Mondays, but Olivia often went in to catch up on paperwork. She loved to sit in her small office, which was located off the kitchen near the dry goods pantry, and complete a list of mundane tasks while listening to the radio. When Michel and his team were on the job, the kitchen was filled with noise. Raised voices, the gurgle of boiling water, a knife slapping against a carving board, and the hiss of the door leading to the walk-in refrigerator blended to form the melody of industry. Today, the kitchen was silent, its stainless steel surfaces, pots, and utensils gleaming under the overhead lights.
Olivia inhaled the odors still clinging to the air from last
night’s meal. She detected cilantro and garlic, rosemary and butter, ground mustard, fresh scallions, and a faint trace of warm apples and nutmeg. Haviland raised his snout high and sniffed eagerly, but the lingering scent of braised lamb chops refused to materialize into lunch.
“I’ll whip you up some meat and veggies in a bit, Captain. I’ve got the budget to balance and this week’s menu to review first.”
Haviland snorted, displeased to be at the mercy of the whims of his mistress. To illustrate his unhappiness, he refused to keep her company by curling up on the plush dog bed in her office. Instead, he trotted through the kitchen into the lounge and stretched out at the foot of the baby grand. The two companions ignored one another for the better part of an hour before a knock on the rear door startled Haviland into a frenzy of barking.
Assuming that a deliveryman had confused the days of the week, Olivia looked through the door’s peephole and then turned to the poodle. “It’s okay, Captain. It’s Laurel.”
Olivia opened the door and stepped aside to let Laurel in. “This is a surprise. How did you ever find me here?”
Laurel pushed a tendril of damp hair from her cheek and blushed prettily. “I’ve been stalking you since this morning. I drove to your house and then cruised through town, hoping to spot your Range Rover. When I couldn’t find your car anywhere, I decided I had nothing to lose by coming to the restaurant. Steve and the twins are at a Labor Day moon bounce party, so I have about twenty minutes left before I have to be back.”
“Has something happened?” Olivia led her friend through the kitchen and into the bar. “Do I need to start pouring?”
