by Ellery Adams
Without bothering to alert Officer Cook that she was deviating from the current course, Olivia stepped into the office, waited for Haviland to pass across the threshold, and closed the door.
“Yes, sir,” Chief Rawlings spoke solemnly into the receiver. “I’ll send an officer to collect you at the airport. He’ll be there by the time you land. Again, I am truly sorry to be the bearer of such news. Yes. Good-bye.”
Replacing the receiver, the chief pressed his hands over his eyes and sighed. “I haven’t had to make too many of those phone calls during my tenure in this office, thank the Lord, but they are the greatest challenge of this job.”
Olivia examined the lawman’s stained and wrinkled uniform shirt, the shadow of an auburn beard darkening his chin, and the discoloration under his eyes. As he sipped from an oversized coffee cup, his head fell into a strip of sunlight pouring in through the window blinds. For the first time, Olivia noticed that the chief’s hair was tinged with hints of red and that his hazel eyes resembled the muddy green of a deep woods pond.
“Were you speaking with a family member? A relative of Camden’s?” she inquired respectfully.
Rawlings shook his head. “Mr. Ford’s wallet held no clues in that area, but there was a business card for a publicist based in LA. I called her last night and she informed me that Camden’s emergency contact was his, ah, partner. Mr. Cosmo Volakis is already en route here. Of course, it will take him most of the day, seeing as he’s coming from the west coast, but I got the sense he caught the first flight out. Poor guy. It’ll be the longest plane ride of his life, I’d imagine.”
There was an impatient tap on the office door. Rawlings shot Officer Cook a questioning glance.
“I was supposed to take this woman’s statement, sir. Then, she just up and disappeared on me.” The young man gave Olivia an accusatory stare.
Frowning, Rawlings said, “I’d like to speak to Ms. Limoges personally, Cook. I’ll return her to you when I’m through. In the meantime, I’d like you to get an update from the coroner.”
“Yes, sir!” Cook immediately brightened and Olivia was reminded of the policeman’s youth. He probably hated dealing with paperwork and had joined the force in search of action and excitement.
“Were you able to question Blake Talbot?” Olivia asked once they were alone again.
“Mr. Talbot had little to tell,” Rawlings grudgingly admitted. “He provided us with an alibi and then gave me his lawyer’s number in case I should have anything further to discuss.” His face darkened. “I can tolerate the Talbots’ money, their attempts to buy up every spare acre in Oyster Bay, and even the lack of imagination of that new condo development, but I cannot stand rudeness. And that boy! Well, let’s just say I’d have loved to put him over my knee and teach him some manners.”
Olivia smiled. “Some discipline would probably do him good.” She reached down and stroked Haviland’s curls. “Did you find any helpful witnesses? Did Camden actually go into the bar? What business did Blake have there?”
Rawlings drew in an impatient breath. “Ms. Limoges, this is an open case and I’m not at liberty to discuss it with a civilian. I shouldn’t even have said what I just said.” He sank back in his chair, as though his spine was too tired to support the weight of his torso.
The chief’s words settled for a moment. Rawlings looked out the window at the park and Olivia looked at him. There was something appealing about his gentleness and intelligence.
“It doesn’t sound as though you’ve got any solid leads,” Olivia remarked dejectedly. “Yet this crime is so unlike our town. The gruesomeness, the poem, the risk of being seen in the alleyway. It’s as though the killer wanted publicity.”
Rawlings raised his hand to stop her from continuing, but Olivia plowed on. “I really liked Camden Ford, Chief. I liked his energy, his ability to bring people together, his verve. All I want is to assist in any way I can. Our writer’s group ...” She paused, noting how good it felt to use such a pronoun. “We can work on unraveling the mystery of the haiku. Who better to help with a literary conundrum? Officer Cook?” Her tone was derisive. “Or us?”
“I’m no novice when it comes to poetry, Ms. Limoges,” Rawlings reminded her of his propensity for reading verse for pleasure.
“And I wouldn’t doubt you could solve a poetic riddle during normal circumstances,” Olivia conceded. “But you’ll soon have the media to face, evidence to examine, and hopefully, witnesses to question. Surely it is not outside the bounds of the law to allow well-meaning civilians to put forth a few theories about this particular clue.”
She could see Rawlings relenting. “I suppose there’s no harm in that.” He handed her a business card. “My cell phone number is listed here. Feel free to call me anytime.”
Olivia rose. “I can find my way back to Officer Cook.” Haviland got to his feet and leisurely joined her in the doorway. As Olivia reached out to grab the handle, something prompted her to turn back to Rawlings. He was regarding her with his kind smile. “And if you need to talk to someone about the case, when you’re off-duty of course, stop by The Boot Top. I’ll buy you a drink.”
His smile grew warmer. “Thank you, Ms. Limoges. Before this is all said and done, I may just take you up on that offer.”
Olivia found Officer Cook at a cluster of desks in a large room at the end of the hall. Harris was seated across from him.
“Hello!” Harris beamed, clearly welcoming the sight of a friendly face.
“I’m glad to see you,” Oliva said and sat down next to Harris. She noticed that the red flush across her friend’s cheeks, nose, and forehead was exacerbated. It looked raw and irritated. No doubt stress caused Harris’s skin condition to become more pronounced.
It’s such a shame, Olivia thought. He’d be quite handsome without that red face. She made a mental note to ask the aesthetician at the spa she frequented in New Bern if there were treatments available to alleviate the symptoms of rosacea.
“Sign here. We’ll call you if we need more information.” Officer Cook slapped a piece of paper on his desk. After Harris signed, Cook dismissed him without so much as a thank-you.
“May I speak to my friend for a moment?” Olivia inquired and then, without waiting for Cook’s permission, took Harris by the elbow and led him several steps away from the desk. “Do you have all of Camden’s chapters?”
Harris shook his head. “No, we just have the one. I know he wrote more, but I’ve never seen the rest of his work. Why?”
“Because if Blake Talbot has anything to do with Camden’s death, the reason might be hidden in Camden’s writing.” Olivia cast a glance over her shoulder. Cook was scowling at her while tapping a ballpoint pen impatiently against his computer keyboard. “Perhaps by getting to know Bradley Talcott more intimately, we might discover what recent scandal Camden was investigating regarding the Talbots.”
Harris turned the idea over for a long second. “That seems like a real possibility. Are you going to tell the cops?”
“Yes, but I also think we could assist the authorities by reviewing the manuscript ourselves. Where was Camden staying?”
“At The Yellow Lady.” Harris touched Olivia’s arm. “But we’re not going to be allowed in his room, are we? Isn’t that room and all Camden’s stuff, you know, off limits now?”
“Not to Mr. Cosmo Volakis. He was Camden’s partner and he’s on his way here from LA.” Olivia’s eyes narrowed with determination. She leaned toward Harris and whispered, “Set up an emergency meeting of the Bayside Book Writers. Anytime is good for me, but make sure everyone can attend. I’m going to offer my chauffeuring services to the good officer here, and, come hell or high water, I intend to get ahold of a copy of Camden’s work-in-progress for us to review.”
“How can you be so confident?” Harris’s tone was a mixture of admiration and doubt.
“Because Camden’s lover is going to want justice, even more than we do. And I cannot go on living my everyday life knowing
that someone is out there, walking the streets of Oyster Bay, breathing the sea air and letting the sun fall on his face, when Camden isn’t. Camden’s life has been stolen from him, in our town, and we have to do everything in our power to see that the killer pays for what he did.”
Harris clenched his jaw and nodded, his eyes filled with resolve. Olivia caught a glimpse of the mettle coexisting with the young man’s kindness. Turning toward Cook, Olivia pasted on the most winsome smile she could muster.
“I am so sorry to keep you waiting, Officer,” she gushed. “I know you must have a dozen tasks of real significance to complete today. Please. Tell me what you need me to do.”
Looking quite satisfied, the officer leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers together, and tried his best to exude power and authority. “I just need you to review and sign your statement, Ms. Limoges. I doubt there’s anything else you could do to help us.”
Nodding humbly, Olivia said, “There may be one little errand I could run on behalf of the Oyster Bay Police Department, ensuring your talents or those of another valuable officer aren’t wasted providing limo service for the victim’s boyfriend. I hear he’s on his way as we speak.”
Cook looked torn, but clearly he wanted to see some real action and he didn’t feel like acting as a chauffeur would qualify.
He took a manly swig of soda. “All right, Ms. Limoges. You can pick him up, but I’m gonna tell you how it’s gonna play out and you’re gonna follow my exact directions. Understand?”
“Of course.” Olivia smiled demurely and gave Officer Cook her undivided attention.
Chapter 6
Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need to know of hell.
—EMILY DICKINSON
Upon leaving the station, Olivia found she didn’t feel like going home. She was restless, but most of Oyster Bay’s businesses were closed on Sunday, so there was little to do but attend church services or go out to eat. Olivia didn’t want to do either, so she decided to stop by her restaurant and busy herself with mindless paperwork.
The Boot Top Bistro had recently added a Sunday brunch to its list of offerings and the churchgoers were streaming into the restaurant as Olivia and Haviland pulled into the parking lot. Plump matrons in pastel skirt suits led their pressed and polished families like clucking hens gathering chicks to the feed pile. Glowering teenagers, pained over being separated from cell phones, iPods, and handheld video games, trailed after the rest of their kin as though hoping to appear unrelated to those who caused them such acute embarrassment merely by existing.
Normally, the sight of so many patrons filing into The Boot Top would have put Olivia in an agreeable mood, but she felt completely out of sorts. It wasn’t only Camden’s tragic death that bothered her, but the feelings of powerlessness that accompanied his murder.
Bursting into the kitchen through the back door, Olivia was greeted by her staff, but she merely waved them off and headed for her office, a tiny, windowless room next to the dry goods pantry. Michel followed her, Haviland right on the chef’s heels, clearly hoping to receive a savory treat.
“I do have something for you, my friend. Une moment.” Michel smiled at the poodle but wouldn’t pet him while he was in the midst of food preparation. “Olivia, I heard what happened to your writer friend.” Michel worriedly studied his employer. “Are you sure you want to be here? Georges has things well under control.”
Georges served as both maître d’ and general manager.
“Last time I checked, this was my restaurant and I could come and go as I pleased!” Olivia snapped and then immediately relented. “My apologies, Michel. I shouldn’t be directing my ire at you. I simply cannot stand to sit around, idle, and hope for things to turn out as they ought.”
Michel nodded. Another type A personality, he understood her need to take action. “The police don’t know your friend, do they? He’s an outsider?”
“Camden? He was a gossip columnist from Los Angeles.” She pictured Camden’s silk shirts and flawlessly creased trousers. “Though I’m sure most of them noticed him. He was rather flamboyant for our conservative little town.” Absently, Olivia pressed several pencils into an automatic sharpener and then, satisfied with their sharpness, lined them up neatly on her desk calendar. “But I see what you’re saying—that it would be easier to find his killer if we really knew Camden Ford. Unfortunately, I consider myself his most recent acquaintance, so I need to squeeze as much information as I can out of the person who knew him best.”
Michel looked intrigued. “Who would that be? His mother?”
“His lover. I’m picking him up at the Raleigh-Durham airport early this evening,” Olivia answered and then grinned slyly as an idea struck. “Michel, darling, how would you like to assign one of your assistants a small task? As a personal favor to me?”
Bowing from the waist, Michel said, “Anything for you. You need only ask.”
“I’d like a picnic dinner of sorts. A basket brimming with the type of delicacies to loosen the tongue of a stranger.” She looked up at the chef in appeal. “Can you make it fancy yet comforting?”
Her unusual request seemed to please Michel to no end. He stood a fraction taller and straightened his pristine, white hat. “I’ll see to it myself. Robbie and Jeremy are perfectly capable of making omelets Florentine and crab Benedict. This requires a delicate hand.” He displayed the briefest of sulks. “I know these brunches are profitable, but they’re rather unadventurous for someone of my talents.”
Olivia glanced at him with a trace of amusement. “You don’t have to work Sundays, Michel. I already told you that. You work too much as is.”
“It beats being at home,” he murmured, and Olivia knew he was referring to his recent breakup with his girlfriend. Personally, she felt the end of his affair with a married woman was a good thing. Besides, Michel was a born optimist, and despite the lovers’ drama-rich parting, he wouldn’t be down for long. Even now, he quickly shook off his melancholy and turned his thoughts to what he knew best: food. “Let’s see. I think I’ll pack some crisp herb crostini with goat cheese, avocado stuffed with chicken salad and dill, cubed watermelon and mango with a lime drizzle, and perhaps a few macaroons dipped in dark chocolate. Linen napkins, small bottles of Perrier—all gracefully arranged in a deep, wicker basket. We have one around here somewhere.”
Rising, Olivia placed her hand on Michel’s arm. “You’re worth every cent of the exorbitant salary I pay you. Make sure you pack enough for three.”
Michel shook his head. “I’ll wrap up something else for the Captain. Neither fruit nor macaroons are to his taste.”
Olivia laughed. “Of course not. Now get back in that kitchen or I’ll make you operate an omelet station out in the dining room.”
Flipping a dish towel over his shoulder, Michel blew air noisily through pursed lips. “You wouldn’t dare. The first sign of a rolling cart with fixings for Belgian waffles and I’ll walk right out the door.”
“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of insulting the staff in such a way. Food preparation belongs in the kitchen. Still, the restaurant does seem rather full. Perhaps I should raise the brunch prices? I don’t want to take any business away from Grumpy’s.”
Michel left Olivia to her musings. As soon as she was alone, she logged on to her computer and typed the first line of the haiku written over Camden’s body into Google’s search box.
“ ‘His words are silenced,’ ” she mumbled to herself as an assortment of results appeared on the screen. “No matches. How about the second line? ‘An orchard in winter.’ ”
She studied the links to photographs of orchards in winter and selected a page of color shots showing an apple orchard covered in snow. One of the images, called “First Frost,” depicted the trees’ barren branches encased in a layer of ice. The snow around the trunks was at least a foot deep and was unmarred by a single blemish. No footprints, animal tracks, or shovel cuts spoiled the pristine, blinding white surface. Olivia en
larged the picture and sat staring at it for several moments. The absolute silence of the scene was almost palpable. She could feel herself there—in the cold, beneath the gray sky. The more her eyes fixed on the image, the more clearly she could sense the stark loneliness of being the only human being around for miles.
Someone dropped a metal bowl in the kitchen and the clanging brought Olivia out of her reverie. She rubbed her arms, wondering if the air-conditioning was set too low or if the pictures of snow and ice had made her feel cold.
“ ‘Apple seeds slumber,’” she whispered and clicked on the next image, which captured the twisted, sharp branches of a single tree. In fact, the limbs looked as though they’d been whipped so harshly by a persistent wind that they’d bent back upon themselves. The photo created feelings of anxiety, as though the tree was in agony. Olivia had never realized that an apple tree could appear frightening, almost violent, but this one did. She exited the website and returned to the original search results.
Her quest for apple seed references led her to pages of recipe listings and advertisements for preschools, eateries, and gardening supply companies. At the bottom of the third page, there was a link to an article on the hazardous nature of cyanide. Olivia read, fascinated, about the dangers of ingesting the poison. When Haviland entered the room, licking his chops with the utmost satisfaction, she pointed at the screen.
“Listen to this, Captain. Cyanide works by preventing the blood from carrying oxygen, so a person dies quickly from asphyxiation. And even though mystery writers often describe it as having an almondlike scent, cyanide can also be completely colorless and odorless.” She sighed. “It also requires a huge amount of pulverized seeds to poison someone, so I don’t see any connection between cyanide and Camden’s death. The apple seeds must mean something else.”
Olivia absently stroked her canine companion. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking? That the haiku wasn’t just about Camden? Perhaps it was a warning to others.
