by Ellery Adams
“Howdy,” Millay murmured from the nearest sofa. She had a laptop resting on her knees and a thermos and package of Twinkies on the coffee table. The music abruptly ceased. “Figured I’d try to get my chapter done a week early and e-mail it to everyone, but it isn’t happening. My characters are being totally rebellious today and their dialogue sounds like crap. Too bad our master crime fighter couldn’t bother to send us the rest of his pages.”
“There’s been no word from Rawlings?” Olivia was surprised.
Millay unwrapped a Twinkie and studied it as though wondering what its ingredients were. “Maybe another body washed up on the beach,” she said. “Or someone got whacked in the grocery store. Jesus, you should see the old women scrambling over each other to buy bread and milk.”
Olivia opened the Yellow Pages and looked up the number for Neuse River Storage. “Senior citizens enjoy getting worked up over the weather. Besides, most of them have witnessed the damage these kinds of storms can produce. It can be pretty scary. Preparation helps dull the fear.” She glanced away from the phone book’s tiny print. “Is this your first hurricane?”
Millay snorted, ignoring the question. “All I know is that Fish Nets is going to be closed and that means I won’t be making any tips.” She sighed. “Guess I’ll be sitting around with Harris, tossing around ideas for the boat he’s going to build for the Cardboard Regatta. At least he’ll feed me. My pantry has one package of ramen noodles and ajar of mustard.”
Olivia found the business listing and circled it in pencil. “Harris really likes you.”
“I know.” Millay’s voice grew small. “I wish I felt the same. I’ve gone out with dozens of guys who aren’t half as cool as Harris, but I don’t want to get serious with anyone. I don’t think I’m wired to stick with just one guy.” She took a big bite of Twinkie and chewed. “I go out with some dude, we have fun for a while, and then I get out. I can’t stick with anyone, you know?”
Phone in hand, Olivia thought of Flynn and the many other men before him. “I understand, but Harris wouldn’t. You should be careful with him.”
Millay’s eyes fixed on her laptop, her face bathed by the screen’s soft glow. “There must be something wrong with me, something missing . . .” she mused almost inaudibly, but Olivia heard the words and glanced over at the lovely young woman. Millay came across as steely and unfeeling, but her characters were bursting with powerful emotion, revealing the true depth and complexity of their creator.
Olivia knew all too well about denying one’s own vulnerability. It had led her to a life of solitude. She sensed Millay wouldn’t flourish in a home of empty rooms, but her fellow writer hadn’t been looking for advice, so she turned her attention to the voice answering her call to Neuse River Storage.
“I’d like two rooms worth of furniture to be collected and stored until Ophelia is gone. Can you send men out by the end of the day?” Olivia waited while the manager coughed and spluttered a series of excuses. “I’ll double your regular fee,” she stated flatly and in a flash, arrangements were made.
Millay was watching her curiously. “You really think we’re going to get slammed by this thing, don’t you?”
“Yes. And since we don’t have any work to review tonight, we might as well make this a social occasion. A pre-storm party,” Olivia suggested.
“A drink-’em-while-you-got-’em theme?” Millay grinned.
Olivia smiled in return. “Exactly.”
After a lunch of turkey, brie, and apple slices on pumpernickel, Olivia dressed in tan slacks and a crisp white blouse. She tucked a notebook and Laurel’s new camera into a leather tote bag and headed to her friend’s house. Laurel’s subdivision, like so many of the new housing developments, had been given a ridiculous name. Olivia frowned as she passed the gold lettered sign for Blueberry Hill Estates.
“There may have been wild blueberry bushes here at one point, but there was never a hill,” she informed Haviland. Despite the silly name, the neighborhood was comprised of tasteful homes of brick or clapboard. Most were Georgian or American colonial, interspersed with a few Spanish villas and colorful Victorians.
Laurel’s house was situated on a small cul-de-sac off Elderberry Drive. It was a spacious, butter yellow Cape, with black shutters and a cheerful red door. Potted ferns flanked the entranceway, the flowerbeds were bursting with drought-resistant annuals, and an American flag flying from a bracket to the left of the door frame completed the charming picture. As Olivia pulled into the driveway, she could see that the family spent most of their time in the back of the house. With a fenced-in yard, the entire expanse of lawn was littered with toy trucks, a sandbox, a plastic swimming pool, playhouses, and a mammoth swing set.
Olivia left Haviland in the car, strode up a flagstone path, and reached out for the doorbell. Before her finger had the chance to make contact with the illuminated button, however, Laurel cracked opened the door, slipped outside, and hastily shut it behind her. She was wearing a pink short-sleeved sweater set, an apron covered with designs of cupcakes, and a look of panic.
“My in-laws came over to watch the twins,” she whispered in warning. Grabbing Olivia’s hand, she pulled her toward the Range Rover. “Just get us out of here as quickly as you can. I’ll give you directions once we’re clear.”
Obeying Laurel’s request with amusement, Olivia reversed the SUV. As she glanced in the rearview mirror, she noted that her friend was busy removing her apron. “You’re even wearing a disguise,” she teased. “Does this mean you need to be dropped off later on bearing a soufflé or beef Wellington?”
“Oh, I don’t think it needs to be anything that fancy,” Laurel answered seriously. “Maybe something left over from your lunch menu? I told them this was a course focusing on fundamentals. No one in the world will believe that I made a soufflé on my first day of cooking class. They’ll be impressed if I figure out how to cook scrambled eggs without adding little bits of shell!”
Olivia laughed. “I’ll see what I can do. Where to?”
Laurel fastened her honey blond hair into a neat French twist. “Turn right onto Mulberry Way.”
“Is every street named after a berry?” Olivia quickly made a mental list of how many berry plants she knew.
“Yes. Isn’t it quaint?” Laurel smiled with pride. “But I am so glad we don’t live on Gooseberry Way. Doesn’t that sound kind of goofy?”
Olivia declined to point out that Laurel’s street, Cranberry Court, was equally inane. Instead, she asked to be given a bit of background on the neighbor they were about to interview.
“Christina Quimby is a stay-at-home mom, president of the Oyster Bay Elementary PTA, and treasurer of our homeowner’s association. She plays tennis in a year-round league and always has perfect nails and makeup.” Laurel paused to consider what else she should add. “Her husband, Robert, is in sales and goes out of town all the time. They have two kids, Bobby Junior and Zoe. Bobby is ten and Zoe is eight.”
“Where was the family when the burglary occurred?”
“I asked her that question when we set up this interview.” Laurel consulted a notebook. “Let’s see. They went to a football game in Chapel Hill over the weekend and discovered they’d been robbed after returning home. That was the last Sunday in August.” She tapped on her window. “That’s their house up ahead on the right.”
Olivia parked in front of a spacious brick Georgian and told Haviland he’d have to wait in the Range Rover. The poodle began to whimper but perked up when his mistress poured a small pile of treats into the cup holder in the center console.
“Your water dish is in the back,” she told him, double-checking to ensure that all the windows were down. “Have plenty to drink. I don’t know how long we’ll be inside.”
Haviland grunted in assent.
Laurel checked her image in the side mirror and then squared her shoulders. “Here we go!”
Christina Quimby was a tall, athletic blond with the tan and premature wrinkles indica
tive of someone who either spent a great deal of time outdoors or paid regular visits to a tanning salon. She was dressed in a white tennis skirt, lime green shirt, and a matching visor embroidered with the Nike swoosh. After offering them iced coffee, she led them to a living room redolent with the scents of furniture polish and Windex.
Laurel politely declined refreshments and sat on the edge of a floral wing chair, her expression all business. “I know you’ve discussed the robbery at length with the police, but could you tell us what happened? Starting from the moment you and your family entered the house?”
Christina pointed toward the kitchen. “We came inside through the garage like we always do. No one noticed anything unusual right away, but as the kids headed to their rooms with their overnight bags, I saw the butter dish sitting out next to the kitchen sink.”
“And you’re certain someone in your family didn’t forget to put it back in the fridge before you left?” Laurel asked, clearly surprised by how Christina was starting her narrative.
“Absolutely sure. I was the last one out the door and I always leave everything in order. Plants watered, bills paid, everything,” Christina stated firmly and Olivia didn’t doubt it for a moment. Every object within sight had been arranged with scientific precision. None of the many glass-topped tables bore a single smudge, and the brass picture frames were polished to a high luster. “The butter had melted all over and there were ants everywhere!” Christina continued, shuddering slightly in distaste. “Besides, no one in my family would use a carving knife to cut butter. Can you imagine?”
Laurel and Olivia exchanged glances and then the new reporter focused on the questions written in her notebook. “What missing possessions did you notice first?”
“The television in our bedroom.” Christina rose, walked across the room, and opened a pair of cabinet doors in the center of the built-in bookcases, revealing an enormous flat-screen TV. “This one was more expensive, but we always close these doors after we’re done watching a show, so we didn’t realize this TV was gone until later. We haven’t received the insurance check yet, but my husband couldn’t wait to replace the set. It’s football season and if he’s actually around on a Saturday, he plants himself on the sofa from noon ’til midnight. Go Heels!”
Her cheer was less than enthusiastic, but Laurel let the comment slide. She asked her neighbor for a complete inventory of stolen items and Christina easily ticked the items off from memory. Olivia listened with interest, noting that the thieves had been very discriminating. The only jewelry they took was genuine gold or bore real gemstones.
Olivia couldn’t help but inquire. “Where did you keep your jewelry?”
“In a wooden jewelry box. It had a lock, but the thieves just stuck a screwdriver under the lid and snapped the whole mechanism off.” Christina’s lips tightened into a thin line. “I hardly expected to need a wall safe in this neighborhood.”
“So they didn’t just dump the contents into a sack?” Olivia continued.
“No, they were quite neat. The jewelry they didn’t want was placed back into the box. It makes me think they had plenty of time to sit here and calmly sift through our stuff.” Christina was growing angrier as the interview progressed. “I can replace the things they took, except for the artwork, so it’s not the financial loss that upsets me. It’s the thought of someone touching my things.” She looked away. “At night, I swear I can feel their presence. It’s as if they were still here. Having strangers in my house, picking and choosing, sitting on my bed, going through my closet . . . It’s hard not to feel like my entire home has been tainted.”
Laurel put her notebook aside and took Christina’s hand. “How awful! Did you install a security system afterward?”
Christina nodded. “Top of the line. I would have gotten a pack of pit bulls if my children didn’t have pet allergies.” She smiled wryly. “Between you and me though, I don’t believe lightning will strike twice. Those guys are long gone and our stuff is in some dingy pawnshop somewhere. End of story.”
Sensing the interview was drawing to a close, Laurel made a few more queries about the stolen art and then gestured around the room. “Your home is spotless! Do you use a cleaning service?”
“We have a woman who comes in once a week.” Christina’s look of pride turned to an affronted frown. “But she had nothing to do with this. She’s been with us for years and is absolutely trustworthy.”
Laurel held up her hands, palms facing out. “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that she wasn’t. I’m just trying to establish a connection between the two area robberies. From what I read in the paper, similar items were taken from their home, so I was wondering if your two families shared a cleaning or lawn service or whether you’d recently hired the same electrician or plumber or another type of workman.”
Olivia felt like giving her friend a thumbs-up. Laurel was digging deeper by searching for a common denominator. At that moment, she seemed every inch the investigative reporter.
Christina was impressed by the question as well. “I can e-mail you a list,” she said. “There has to be some way the thieves knew the house would be empty that weekend. It’s worth a look. Thank you, Laurel.” She rose and began to walk toward the front door.
“I’d like to photograph that carving knife, if you don’t mind.” Olivia did her best to sound subservient. She knew that the Gazette readers would be interested in the description of the melted butter but suspected Christina wasn’t keen on having that detail publicized. Quickly, she added, “And a shot of you too. I want to capture your resilience and show people how this episode made you angry, but not fearful.”
Nodding, Christina led her guests to the kitchen and removed the knife from a drawer. She took the covered glass butter dish from the refrigerator and set it on the counter. Removing the lid, she eased the knife into the middle of the stick of butter. “I figure they set it up like this and then when the butter melted the knife fell to the side.” She turned to Laurel as Olivia focused her camera on the tableau. “They were so tidy elsewhere. They even cleaned up the glass from where they broke the pane in the back door.”
“Fastidious and particular,” Olivia mumbled.
Laurel walked to the picture window and peered out. “Were your neighbors home that weekend?”
Christina shrugged. “Yes, on both sides, but no one saw anything unusual.”
The women fell silent. The pewter-hued sky hung low, creating a sense that it was much later in the day. The mood had shifted and it was apparent each of the women longed to be alone with her thoughts.
Laurel wisely thanked Christina for her time, assuring her neighbor that she’d be in touch and to trust in the doggedness of the Oyster Bay Police Department’s chief.
Back in the Range Rover, Haviland carried on as though Olivia had been gone for hours. Once he finally settled down and Olivia was able to speak over his petulant yipping, she eyed Laurel keenly.
“You seem to have a plan.”
“I do. I’m going to interview the other robbery victims and look for connections. If I help solve the case, the Gazette will take me on as a staff writer for sure!”
Olivia considered the possibility of the former cheerleader cracking the investigation wide open and tried not to grin. After all, she could be witnessing the birth of a gritty and determined Laurel, and Olivia would do anything in her power to help her friend emerge from her suburban cocoon and soar into the open sky.
Driving to The Boot Top, the women exchanged thoughts and theories about the robbery. Olivia raised the possibility of comparing their findings with those in the Oyster Bay police file. “After we interview the other victim that is,” she added.
Laurel raised her brows. “I thought this was a one-time deal.”
Olivia shrugged. “I’ve decided to extend my offer.” Pulling into the restaurant’s parking lot, she reached across the passenger seat and grabbed the gift bag from the floor. “But you’re going to need this for when you truly strike out o
n your own.”
Her light blue eyes sparkling with delight, Laurel peeled back layers of tissue paper, exposing the digital camera Olivia had purchased from Best Buy.
“Oh! This makes me feel so official!” She sniffed and Olivia gave her a suspicious glance. She hated it when Laurel got overly physical. “You are a treasure! I really mean that!” Laurel cried. “Your joining the Bayside Book Writers has changed my life.”
Embarrassed by the compliment, Olivia slid out of the car. “You haven’t achieved job security yet, remember? Let’s save the toasts of gratitude for that moment.”
“I’m not talking about some silly job, Olivia. I’m talking about our friendship.” Laurel followed Olivia, smiling warmly. “It’s not easy to become friends with another woman who honestly wants the best for you. Usually, we women can’t escape our need to compete with each other. To fight about who’s prettier, richer, smarter. Who has cuter kids, a more devoted husband, the lower golf score . . .”
Olivia chuckled. “I’m disqualified from most of those categories, so don’t give me too much credit.”
Laurel put her hand on Olivia’s arm. “No, you’re not. You’re the smartest, most beautiful, most interesting woman I’ve ever met and yet, you see something in me. Me. Stay-at-home mom, former cheerleader, and romance reader. You believe that I can be whatever I choose to be.”
“I do,” Olivia answered and then tugged her friend forward. “Now that we’ve exchanged vows, let’s pick up a few apple sausage pies for you to take home. They heat up nicely and your husband will be delighted with the results of your first cooking class.”
