by Ellery Adams
Will’s next words were a surprise. “I’m actually calling you from the island. If the envelope is on its way then your father might actually be here. I thought I’d find out for myself, but the locals are a tight-lipped group. I’m going to pose as a vacationer and keep my ears open until the Ritaestelle returns.”
Olivia was pleased with Will’s doggedness and told him as much, but after she’d hung up the phone, anxiety began to surge through her body. As she stared at the skinny green smudge that was Okracoke on her map, she had a powerful feeling that her father was there, that he’d been there all along.
“So close,” she murmured, experiencing a fresh bout of grief and resentment. “If you’ve been this close all these years . . .” The possibility was too painful to acknowledge and Olivia slammed the book closed.
Haviland joined her in the living room, but he ignored his mistress and headed straight for the door leading to the deck. Olivia followed him outside. She sat in one of the deck chairs and let the burgeoning light wash over her, wishing that it held the power to burn all her memories away.
As she sat there, breathing in the salt-tinged oxygen and releasing her anger with every exhalation, her thoughts eventually turned to yesterday’s writers’ meeting. She went inside, poured herself some coffee, and returned to the deck chair.
“The dolls,” she said to the waves. “The thieves must have felt the dolls’ eyes on them. Why would they care? Do they feel guilty about stealing? Over having committed murder?”
The water rushed to the shore.
“No.” Olivia shook her head as though the ocean had disagreed with her. “They killed a man and buried him on the beach, leaving him naked to the elements. It’s not a moral dilemma, so why did the glass-eyed stares of the dolls bother them?”
As she ruminated, Haviland trotted up the dune path, his black fur covered in wet sand. He politely shook himself off at the bottom of the stairs, but his long nose and forehead were still caked with sand. Olivia grabbed a dishtowel from inside and brushed him off, smiling at how odd he looked with his mask of gritty white. The poodle stayed quite still until she was finished and then jerked away in order to take up an eager stance by his dinner dish.
When Olivia didn’t come back indoors, Haviland barked to signal that he was ready for breakfast, but his mistress was staring down the beach toward the area of the Point where they’d discovered the buried body.
“It’s something physical, I’m sure of it,” she said, rushing back into the house and picking up the phone. “They don’t like to be on the receiving end of stares, but why?”
Rawlings answered his cell phone immediately and listened as Olivia presented her theory. “Something like a birthmark or burn scars?” he asked rhetorically. “It might explain the connection between the victims. Perhaps the children ridiculed our thieves at an athletic event. I’ll have to find out if anyone who came in regular contact with the families had some kind of physical deformity.”
“Did Laurel bring you the lawn-service flyer from the Howard residence?”
“Yes, and we moved on the information immediately,” Rawlings assured her. “Each victim received a similar flyer over the course of the summer. However, the name of the lawn service and the overall appearance of the flyer were altered. Every family had been given a unique flyer.”
Olivia considered the implications of this statement as she put Haviland’s breakfast in the microwave. “The thieves put in some serious effort to get to these families. What were the other names of these lawn service companies?”
“Green Thumb Lawn Care, Down the Garden Path Landscaping Service, and Neat as a Pin Yard Care,” Rawlings said.
“Such obvious clichés! How did I miss them?” She tried to recall the names of the lawn services Harris had typed onto their spreadsheet.
“You didn’t.” Rawlings soothed. “In every case, the families took advantage of the free yard cleanup offered on the flyer, but none of the homeowners were impressed enough by the work to hire the men again. The Ridgemonts were the only ones who tried to call and set up another job, but after no one replied to their voice mail messages, they forgot all about the subject.”
Olivia chuckled. “That certainly sounds like Sue Ridgemont. Lovely, but a bit absentminded.” She grew serious again quickly. “So this was how the thieves were able to break into the homes in broad daylight. They posed as yard men and parked their truck in the driveway. One of them broke into the house while another crew member mowed the lawn. The neighbors wouldn’t hear a thing over the noise of a mower or weed whacker.”
“Precisely,” Rawlings agreed. “And the free service included a tune-up of the irrigation system. Therefore, in nearly every case, the homeowners willingly left their garage doors open. In these subdivisions, the sight of a landscaping truck and unfamiliar men testing the sprinklers would be totally commonplace. Though they were working in plain sight, they were nearly invisible.”
Olivia had to admire the forethought of the burglars. “They could carry stuff from the garage to their truck without anyone batting an eyelash. What a clever scam.”
Rawlings grunted. “They should have stuck with pilfering TVs. Killing Felix Howard has made them number one on the department’s hit list. We’re going to interview every existing lawn-care company in the county. Anyone who’s registered a trailer within fifty miles of Oyster Bay will be visited by a man or woman in blue.”
“I know you will. At least Laurel’s husband is in the clear. What was he like during questioning?”
“Um,” Rawlings stalled. “Let’s say that he was rather indignant over having to provide us with details about his comings and goings and leave it at that. I wish he’d never been on our radar in the first place. We’re going to get these guys, Olivia, I promise you that.”
“Make sure to give Laurel an exclusive on the story. She’s going to be a hell of a reporter.” Olivia removed the casserole dish from the microwave and gave its contents a stir while Haviland danced back and forth in anticipation. Waving a potholder over the steaming casserole made of lean ground lamb, brown rice, and cheese, Olivia shook her head at Haviland, indicating that he’d have to wait a minute for it to cool.
“And I hear you make a superb photographer. Perhaps you’ll have your own booth at the next Cardboard Regatta,” Rawlings quipped.
Horrified, Olivia realized that she had yet to thank the chief for the painting he’d made for her. She hurried to do so and then told him that it hung in a prominent place in her kitchen. “It’s on the wall behind the coffeemaker and is one of the first things I see every morning. Now I can actually crack a smile before I’ve had a single sip of coffee.”
“That is a compliment.” Rawlings paused. “Olivia, when this case is over, you and I . . .”
A silence followed and Olivia knew he was searching for the words to acknowledge the attraction between them. She too wanted to address the feelings he’d awakened in her, but not over the phone. She wanted to be alone with Rawlings, perhaps on a blanket on the beach with only the stars and the sea bearing witness as she made herself vulnerable to him. Most of all, she wanted Rawlings to be near enough to touch, and at the moment, he felt very far away.
Olivia broke the charged silence, changing the subject by telling the chief about Will Hamilton’s call.
“Don’t make a move until I wrap up this case,” Rawlings directed. “I don’t want to appear at our next writer’s meeting to find that you’ve driven off to catch the ferry to Okracoke. You shouldn’t go there alone, Olivia.”
“And miss the chance to finally critique your chapter?” she said. “Never. I’m switching to my red pen just for you.”
She heard the voice of another police officer in the background. Olivia caught the words “victims” and “Pampticoe High” and then Rawlings told her he had to go.
Olivia glanced at her watch. The chief was at work and probably had been for hours, but he had thieves and murderers to catch and it was probably too early
to call Laurel. She wondered if Laurel had managed to turn in her articles to the Gazette editor before having to attend to the needs of her family.
“I’ll call her later,” Olivia told Haviland as she served him breakfast.
Feeling restless, Olivia waited for Haviland to finish eating and then the pair set off for a walk. On this occasion, the metal detector was left at home and Olivia carried nothing in her arms. She walked to the end of the Point where a narrow and irregular spit of sand jutted out into the ocean like an arthritic finger. While the sea stirring on both sides and the wind whipped her hair off her face, Olivia stared east across the water. East toward Okracoke.
It wouldn’t take me long to get there, she thought, still a little surprised that she hadn’t jumped in the car the moment Will Hamilton had finished speaking. Yet there was something preventing her from acting, an irrational fear that she would once again become the frightened, reclusive girl of her childhood should she come face-toface with her father.
The morning sun soon gained in strength until Olivia had to turn away from its powerful rays. Back inside her cool house, she peeled a tangerine and sat at her desk, Rawlings’ chapter before her. She took a bite of the ripe fruit and closed her eyes, reveling in its sweetness. Uncapping a pen, she hesitated. What would the chief’s writing lay bare? Would his chapter reveal a flaw Olivia would be unable to accept or be filled with intimate memories of his late wife? Would there be a darkness she hadn’t sensed before or, even worse, a lack of substance?
Casting aside such ridiculous thoughts, she began to read.
Grandfather spoke of treasure until his dying day. It was what I remembered most about him. No matter how much he was told he was a foolish old man by his wife and, later, by his daughter and son-in-law, he believed in its existence. “Pirates!” my mother scoffed in exaggerated disgust the day they moved my grandfather into a nursing home. “He’s wasted half of his life on these damned pirates. He’s studied hundreds of books and letters and maps, and what’s he got to show for it? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!” I knew my mother wasn’t really angry about my grandfather’s obsession. She was upset because he’d taken early retirement to conduct research on two of North Carolina’s most infamous buccaneers and in doing so had squandered every cent of his savings buying rare books and documents from auction houses across the country. My parents were thus forced into inviting him to move into our small house. At first, they thought having Grandfather around could prove useful. He would be readily available to watch us kids while my folks worked extra shifts or went out on a rare dinner date, but after a few months it became clear that the old man couldn’t look after himself, let alone three hellions. Grandfather was eventually diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and my parents’ anger turned bitter. My father paid for my grandfather’s nursing home, complaining about the cost each and every time the bill was pushed through our brass mail slot. My mother stopped visiting him altogether. I was seventeen when he died. I was alone with him in his sad room with its gray carpeting and faded butterfly wallpaper. The smell of mold and rot clung to every surface. But I was there—the only one to hear his final words. I was seventeen and didn’t pay much attention to what he said. I was heading off to college in a few weeks where I’d study a little, party a lot, and decide that I didn’t want to be a doctor or a lawyer or any of the other respectable professions my parents hoped I’d pursue. I wanted to be a cop. And after that, I wanted to figure out what my grandfather had been talking about when he muttered, “Look in . . . Ruth’s . . . log . . .” and shuddered as though he felt a sudden chill. After that final quiver, he died. I sat there for a while, staring not at his slack face or the line of spittle near the corner of his mouth but at the hundreds of tiny butterflies on the wallpaper, forever trapped in a field of dirty white.
Olivia hadn’t expected to encounter Rawlings as a young man. She knew she was reading fiction, of course, but wondered which elements might have been pulled from the chief’s actual childhood. Perhaps an aging relative had moved in with the family or Alzheimer’s had afflicted one of his grandparents. Perhaps someone close to Rawlings had been consumed by an obsession. Olivia could easily picture him playing the role of confidante, even as a teenage boy. He was a gifted listener, patient and quiet, coaxing the speaker to continue with a soft word of encouragement.
With her green pen hovering over Rawlings’ pages, Olivia finished her read-through. Rawlings had named his character Easton Craig and had set the story in what was clearly a fictionalized version of Oyster Bay. Choosing his hometown made sense when penning a tale about pirates, for Blackbeard had made his home in the area. In fact, there had been long-standing rumors among the locals that Edward Thatch had hidden plunder along the banks of the Neuse River and hosted wild parties for other notorious buccaneers such as Charles Vane.
Blackbeard’s other refuge was Okracoke Island. Olivia sat back in her chair, considering the irony.
The infamous pirate met his death off the shores of Okracoke, run down by a lieutenant from the Royal Navy by order of Queen Anne. Blackbeard’s sloop, the Adventure, was anchored offshore the island. Cutting anchor, he tried to outrun his pursuers, but the wind, which had been his ally for hundreds of raids, betrayed the pirate when he needed it most. Blackbeard’s ship was boarded, and in a sword fight to the death, the pirate’s head was severed from his neck in an act of genuine barbarity.
Pushing herself away from her desk, Olivia was once again drawn to the map of North Carolina within her coffee table book. She stared at Okracoke, her thoughts fluctuating between a murdered pirate and a missing father.
In an effort to prevent herself from becoming maudlin, Olivia called Laurel.
“I did it!” Laurel shouted into the phone. “I submitted my articles this morning and I just got an e-mail from my editor. He’s putting them in tomorrow’s paper! I’m officially hired!”
“Wonderful news,” Olivia said with a proud smile. “And how did your conversation with Steve go? Do you have his support?”
Laurel hesitated. “I figured I would show him the articles first. You know, put the Gazette next to his bacon and eggs and let him see that someone is actually going to pay me to write.”
Olivia could imagine Laurel on the other end of the line, clasping her hands over her heart, her lovely face rosy as she indulged in a fantasy of her husband suddenly seeing her in a new light. Olivia hated to burst her bubble, but she wanted Laurel to be prepared for an unfavorable reaction. “What will you do if Steve’s unimpressed?”
“I’ll cry, I suppose,” Laurel answered honestly. “But I’m not going to back down. I’ve never felt so sure about myself as I did when I sent in that file. And I don’t think I’ve thanked you for helping me realize my potential. I wish there was some way to express my gratitude.”
“There is,” Olivia said. “Don’t give up. No matter what anyone says, don’t give this up.”
The next day, the lead-in to Laurel’s article was featured prominently on a right-hand column on the front page. Olivia read it eagerly and was impressed by how Laurel had managed to infuse the facts with compassion for the victims. There was also a short piece on the robbery in Beaufort County and a quote from Chief Rawlings about the department’s progress in the investigation. Laurel had indeed proved herself a capable reporter.
Over the course of the week the Gazette ran pieces on the burglaries. Laurel’s name appeared in the byline below each article and Olivia assumed that she hadn’t heard from her friend because she was too busy writing.
Olivia decided to be industrious as well. She and Michel designed an autumn menu featuring dishes like apple and Brie salad, veal cordon blue, chicken and pears in a gourmandise sauce, pork chops with roasted shallots and carrots, pumpkin bread pudding with candied ginger, and apple crisp with a dulce de leche drizzle. She also finished critiquing Rawlings’ chapter and added five thousand words to her own manuscript.
On Thursday morning, there was a knock on her door. Peering th
rough the kitchen window, Olivia recognized Will Hamilton’s face from the photograph on his website.
“I’m sorry to just show up like this, but my cell phone went for a swim in the Pamlico Sound and I knew you’d want this as soon as possible.” He handed her a padded mailing envelope.
At a loss for words, Olivia indicated the investigator should come inside. She stepped back to let him pass and then removed the contents of the envelope. It was a vial of blood.
“What the hell is this?” she asked, slightly repulsed.
Hamilton stood alongside the kitchen table and laced his fingers together. “It’s supposedly your father’s blood.” When Olivia didn’t respond, he gestured at the nearest chair. “Could we sit?”
Nodding, Olivia sank down a chair. She couldn’t take her eyes off the vial in her right hand. Was it possible? Had this blood recently flowed through her father’s veins? “Tell me how you got this.”
“I kept a constant eye out for the Ritaestelle. When it docked, I recognized the fisherman who’d taken possession of the pink mailer containing your cash. When he disembarked, the envelope was in his hand. It was still unopened too. Anyway, I followed him.”
Olivia leaned forward. “Where did he go?”
“To a café near the harbor. He ordered a big breakfast and chatted with just about everybody in the place. He was clearly a local. I sat at the booth behind him and could easily listen in. Once his food came, he gave the envelope to the waitress, a worn-out-looking woman in her thirties. She looked at the postmark suspiciously and said, ‘What’s he up to?’ I could tell she wasn’t happy. She tossed the envelope on the table and walked away.”
“And then?”
Hamilton sat back in his chair. “She disappeared into the kitchen and a man followed her back out to the fisherman’s booth. He wore a dirty apron and looked at the envelope as if there was a snake hiding inside it. Still, he sat in an empty corner booth and sliced the envelope open with a knife from his apron pocket. Looked like he was gutting a fish,” the PI added. “He peered inside, saw the cash, and stuffed it in his front pocket, like he wanted to hide it. Then the woman, who I discovered was his wife, demanded to know what was going on.”
