by Ellery Adams
Despite the seriousness of her errand, Olivia grinned upon reading this declaration. She pushed open the heavy wooden door to the sound of tinkling bells and was surprised to hear a woman’s voice call out, “Welcome to Through the Wardrobe!”
A woman in her early thirties in a form-fitting flowered sundress looked up from her task of gathering a long vacuum cord. From the manner in which the pretty brunette wrapped the cord from palm to elbow as a veteran sailor would coil a length of rope, Olivia wondered if the younger woman could move about a boat with the same show of grace and ease.
“Can I help you find something?” the brunette asked, using the gentle drawl indigenous to the Carolinas.
Olivia pasted on a friendly smile. “I was looking for Mr. McNulty, actually. There’s something I wanted to ask him. I’ll only take a few minutes of his time as I’ve left my dog in the car.” She gestured toward the front door while inhaling the pleasing aroma of orange-scented furniture wax. “I’m glad to see he’s found some help. This place needed a woman’s touch.”
The woman looped the cord neatly onto the hook on the vacuum cleaner’s body and held out her hand. “I’m Jenna Watts. I’ve seen you around town, of course, but it’s a pleasure to meet you in person. Flynn’s out back taking care of the garbage. Just go through the stockroom. I hope you don’t mind if I let you find your own way. I don’t like to leave the register unattended.” She glanced out the window. “And I’ll make sure to keep an eye on your beautiful dog.”
Upon first seeing her, Olivia had been fully prepared to dislike Flynn’s new employee, but instead found herself disarmed by Jenna’s pleasant, practical nature.
And why would I care that Flynn hired such a pretty woman? she asked herself. I have no claim on him.
The only customer in the store was a teenage boy enveloped in one of the upholstered chairs. His nose was buried in a graphic novel and he had a stack of similar works piled up on the coffee table in front of him. Olivia suspected Jenna would have to politely tell the absorbed reader the store was closing if she wanted to go home before midnight.
Olivia walked through the deserted children’s section and passed through a set of double doors leading to the stockroom. The space was dimly lit and contained a rolling cart, stacks of cardboard boxes from Ingram and other book distributors, and cardboard book displays sent by various publishing houses in order to highlight the works of some of their bestselling authors.
The sounds of Bob Seger’s “The Fire Inside” burst forth from the radio. The appliance was angled so the speakers faced the cement door leading outside. Olivia walked toward the open door but paused to examine Flynn’s CD collection first. She found people’s tastes in books and music to be very telling. Flynn’s selected artists included Bob Seger, Bruce Springsteen, the Eagles, Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Who, Bread, Creedance Clearwater Revival, Miles Davis, Ella Fitzgerald, and John Coltrane. When her eyes fell on the last pair of CDs in the small rack, she took an involuntary step backward. Flynn owned both of Blackwater’s albums, even though his musical taste didn’t seem to reflect an interest in Blake Talbot’s brand of punk rock.
Olivia opened each of the jewel cases and pulled out the CDs. No notes or scraps of paper bearing sinister instructions fluttered to the floor. She replaced the two CDs, feeling foolishly paranoid and acutely anxious all at once.
What do I really know about this man? she thought as she moved forward to find him.
Stepping over the threshold, Olivia saw him and abruptly stopped.
Flynn had stripped off his button-down shirt and hung it from the handle of a small moving dolly. Clad in a snug white T-shirt that accentuated his muscular arms and back, Flynn was engrossed in breaking down empty boxes. Wielding a box cutter, he sliced through packing tape using deft, deliberate movements. He then stomped heavily on each box, driving the heel of his foot against the cardboard so that it collapsed in a single, defeated motion.
Olivia focused her gaze on Flynn’s face, watching the tight clench of his jaw and the fixed determination in his eyes as he worked. After finishing another three boxes, he sheathed the box cutter, put it in his pocket, and reached for the bottle of beer he’d had sitting in the shade of the Dumpster. Looking up, he spotted Olivia in the doorway.
Time crawled as he stared at her without seeming to actually see her. It was as though his mind had been miles away and had been suddenly forced back to the here and now. Blinking, a hesitant smile appeared on Flynn’s face and he headed toward Olivia, signaling that he needed to turn down the radio’s volume. She stood aside as he came into the stockroom and switched off the music, perturbed by the vacant look she’d just seen in his eyes.
“Are you one of those people who don’t believe in the modern device known as the telephone?” His tone was playful, making Olivia doubt whether she was reading too much into the far-off thoughts of a man busy with menial labor.
“I prefer to speak to people in person,” Olivia replied. She glanced outside. “Are you almost finished?”
Flynn hesitated and then nodded. “I’ve done enough work for today. Have you had dinner yet?”
“Actually, that’s why I’m here,” she said. “Do you have plans for tonight?”
“Only to fire up the grill so that I can prove to my neighbors that I’m a real man even though I don’t own a pickup or a chain saw.” He gave her a pleading look. “Having a beautiful woman on my patio won’t hurt either, so if you like Italian sausages, corn on the cob, and watermelon, I’ve got enough for two.”
“Well, if your cooking abilities are anything like your decorating tastes ...” Olivia trailed off, recalling the interior of Flynn’s house.
Flynn’s laugh bounced off the cement walls “Let me just lock up back here and tell Jenna she can scoot. Did you get a chance to meet her on the way in?”
Olivia nodded. “Yes, she’s lovely. However, she might be too nice to kick out your last customer. He looks like he’d like to spend the night here.”
“The teenager reading graphic novels?” Flynn asked. “That’s Alan.” He flicked a life-sized cardboard cutout of Dan Brown on the nose. “Alan will leave when I start turning the lights off. Meet you out front.”
Olivia browsed the poetry section while Flynn finished with his closing tasks. Once she’d returned to the Rover and began following Flynn to his home, Haviland whined in protest.
“This is a fact-finding mission,” Olivia explained to the unhappy poodle. “And there will be sausages for dinner.”
As though he understood the word sausage, Haviland bounded out of the car and across Flynn’s lawn in a blur of black fur. He eagerly sniffed at all the shrubbery surrounding the front porch and then sat on his haunches on the welcome mat as though he couldn’t imagine what was taking the humans so long to open the door and begin the food preparations.
“Good evening, Haviland.” Flynn nodded at the poodle.
Olivia watched closely as her dog sniffed Flynn’s hand and then turned away, disinterested. Apparently, Haviland’s feelings hadn’t changed. The poodle still didn’t appear the slightest bit threatened by the man.
Relieved, Olivia walked into the living room and then laughed when the poodle began to bark at the three-dimensional tropical fish swimming across the kelly green wall. “Captain, it isn’t polite to criticize another’s person’s taste in, ah, artwork.”
Flynn looked appalled. “Hey, now! This isn’t my taste. Those heinous fish came with the house, along with the atrocious paint colors. Come on, do you think I’d have a silver and purple bathroom?” He put his hand over his heart and groaned as though he’d been wounded. “My goal was to get the store straight before turning my attention to this place. Believe me, if those Little Nemos weren’t fastened on there with industrial strength wall anchors, they’d have been at the curb from day one.”
He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “I’ve got soda, beer, tap water, or milk that’s probably well on its way to becoming sour cream.”<
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“A beer’s fine for me,” Olivia answered, thinking wistfully of the unopened bottle of Chivas Regal she had at home. “And a bowl of water for Haviland, please.”
“Bowls are in the cabinet to the right of the sink.” Flynn placed the beer on the counter and removed a package wrapped in brown butcher paper from the meat drawer. He loaded two ears of corn, unhusked, and several types of sausages onto a platter. As he walked through the living room, he suddenly stopped.
“I can’t believe you thought I deliberately hung those fish. What else do you think I’m capable of, I wonder?”
There was a hint of displeasure in Flynn’s voice. Olivia tried to lighten the mood by saying, “I’m hoping you’ll enlighten me during our meal. Last time I was here, you told me about working for a pharmaceutical company in Research Triangle Park. Now tell me how you became a runner. My friend Laurel sees you pounding the pavement on a regular basis.”
Out on the flagstone patio, Flynn lit the grill and a pair of tiki torches mounted to the backs of lawn chairs. “I know Laurel. She’s the one with the cute twins.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how women run with those monster strollers. I can barely propel my own body forward.” He put the sausages on the grill. “Truthfully, I love running. Not to be faster or stronger or for any of those health reasons. I just like to lose myself for an hour or so.”
“I understand that feeling. Haviland and I do that every morning on our walks on the beach. But after you run, do you get to relax in the pages of one of your thousands of books?” Olivia inquired.
Flynn moved the food around with a pair of tongs. “I don’t get much read at the store. We have a steady stream of customers most days and believe it or not, I do have to restock and ring people up and—”
“Brew that odious coffee,” Olivia teased. “Laurel said she notices the same people exercising in the downtown area. Apparently, there’s an entire group of running addicts. Have you noticed that too?”
“Sure. People like schedules. Runners in particular. Me? I’m a morning runner. Can’t do it at night and I’d melt if I went out midday.” He shrugged. “I guess we’re a particular lot, kind of like the folks who love my odious coffee.” He swatted the air near her leg with the hot tongs.
“Did you happen to notice a guy posting a piece of bright red paper on the bulletin board outside the town hall this weekend?” She watched Flynn carefully for a reaction. There was none.
“Nope.” He shook his head. “But I can be pretty clueless about things when I’m in the zone and I’ve got my music turned up loud. Is he important? This guy?”
“I’d just like to know the guy’s name, that’s all,” Olivia answered cryptically and changed the subject.
As Flynn had no patio furniture other than flimsy lawn chairs, they ate on a blanket on the grass. Without the presence of an ocean breeze, the air felt especially cloying. It stuck to Olivia’s arms and neck, inviting a host of bugs to circulate around her head as they searched out the source of her jasmine and gardenia perfume. Haviland didn’t seem to notice the pests as he wolfed down a bratwurst and then gave Flynn his most poignantly imploring look.
“Forget it, Haviland. You’re having vegetables when we get home,” Olivia scolded.
“You can’t stay?” Flynn asked casually, his eyes betraying his desire.
Though part of her wanted to linger, Olivia was too unsettled by the discovery of the haiku and the realization that Camden’s killer had an agenda that possibly included more murders. On another night, she might have wanted comfort, to lose herself with Flynn, but tonight she wanted to go home. It was her goal to make a list of all of the facts and theories she’d accumulated about the murders and try to discern what the killer was after.
She wanted to think and after that, she wanted to sleep, wake up early, and think some more.
“I’m sorry, but with all these reporters in town, we’re swamped at The Boot Top. I need to be up early tomorrow to lend a hand,” she explained softy, doing her best to sound disappointed.
Together, she and Flynn carried their plates to his kitchen. Olivia rinsed while Flynn loaded the dishwasher. When he excused himself to use the bathroom before walking her to the car, Olivia meandered back into the living room. She noticed a white hardback with a pear on the cover sitting on a side table. Curious, she bent down and glanced at the title.
“Haiku Mind: 108 Poems to Cultivate Awareness and Open Your Heart by Patricia Donegan,” Olivia read. She took a closer look at the page Flynn had marked with a Post-it note. It was a chapter beginning with what the author referred to as Allen Ginsberg’s death poem.
To see Void vast infinite look out the window into the blue sky.
Olivia flipped through the book, scanning every haiku for the familiar lines of the winter and spring poems she had now memorized. When she heard the water rush through the pipes, she slid the book back onto the table and moved toward the front door.
Sensing her sudden discomfort, Haviland whined.
Flynn appeared and patted the poodle’s head. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting, my man.” He held the door open for Haviland and then took Olivia’s hand. “I really wish you didn’t have to go.”
Giving his hand a quick squeeze, Olivia plastered on a smile. “We’ll get together again soon.”
Outside, Flynn leaned his back against the Range Rover, preventing Olivia from getting inside. He reached out and slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her against him. His voice grew hoarse with hunger. “If I promise to feed those plastic fish to the equally unattractive colony of yard gnomes down the street, will you stay over next time?”
Laughing, Olivia kissed him lightly on the lips and disengaged from his grasp. “Maybe. Thank you for dinner. If being adept with a grill makes you more macho in your neighbor’s eyes, then you are one hundred percent pure Grade-A male.”
“Me Flynn Man!” Flynn stepped away from the car, beating on his chest like an ape. “Me get to interrogate you on our next date.” He shuffled, primatelike, around the other side of the Rover and opened the passenger door for Haviland.
“Be safe!” he called out before closing the door and jumping nimbly onto the sidewalk.
Olivia pulled away from the curb and glanced at Haviland. “I find those parting words a bit unsettling, don’t you?”
Haviland barked.
At home, Olivia kicked off her shoes and poured herself a generous splash of Chivas Regal. She let Haviland out for his nightly roam and sank onto the sofa with her notebook. She reviewed every detail she’d previously recorded about the deaths of Camden Ford and Dean Talbot.
Ripping out the pages containing copies of the two haiku, Olivia stared at the lines. She drained her drink and jiggled the melting ice against the walls of the tumbler. “Do you have a victim in mind for your summer poem?”
Olivia went into the kitchen for a refill and to treat herself to a few squares of dark chocolate. Chewing on the smooth, slightly bitter Belgian sweet, she paced around the spacious living room. “Bottom line: Blake Talbot has benefited from both deaths.” She spoke to her reflection in the large windows facing the ocean. “Camden no longer has the power to write anything negative about Blake and the death of Blake’s father makes him one of the wealthiest and most powerful young men in the country.”
Returning to her notebook, she circled Max Warfield’s name. “Do you benefit as well? Has Blake promised you a bigger slice of the pie?” Sighing, she tossed down her pen. “But all the obvious villains have alibis!” Her thoughts strayed to Flynn and to the image of him wielding the box cutter. “No, he can’t be involved. He has no motive.”
She continued to debate a host of possibilities aloud until she felt frustrated and spent. Opening the French doors leading to the deck, she called for Haviland. A refreshing breeze sprang up from the ocean, and Olivia leaned against the railing, listening to the gentle rush of the waves onto the sand. Inhaling the salt-misted air calmed her thoughts, but eventually she grew im
patient for bed.
“Come on, Haviland!” Olivia called again.
When another five minutes passed, Olivia shouted again, an edge of irritation entering her voice. She listened for Haviland’s responding bark, but the only sounds were the water’s whispers.
Annoyed, Olivia grabbed a flashlight from the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink, stuck her feet into the well-worn sneakers reserved for morning walks, and stomped across the luminescent sand.
“HAVILAND!” she bellowed.
Slowly, her exasperation turned to concern. Haviland always reappeared within minutes of her first call. Even during daylight hours, when he was routinely distracted by gulls, crabs, and a host of interesting odors, he responded almost immediately to her commands.
Heading toward the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, Olivia felt a tightness in her chest. Something was wrong.
At the same moment she felt that sharp stab of fear, the beam of the flashlight sought out a darker patch of black in the shadow cast by the cottage.
Olivia’s heart nearly stopped. She broke into a run, her legs moving with agonizing slowness over the sand. She dropped to her knees next to her dog.
Haviland was lying on his side. He was utterly still and didn’t even flinch when Olivia put her hand on his chest, nearly crying in relief as it inflated, albeit shallowly, with oxygen.
“What is it? What is it?” she demanded frantically, her fingers exploring his coat for signs of injury. There was no blood. None of his bones felt broken. Nothing indicated why he now lay unconscious in the dark. His collar was also missing.
Having taking several courses on administering canine first aid, Olivia gently peeled open Haviland’s eye. She took in the glazed appearance as though from a great distance, and then parted the poodle’s lips and pulled his tongue free, allowing him to breathe with slightly more ease. It was at that moment she saw a flash of red sticking out beneath Haviland’s front paw.
Stomach churning out of fright and anger, she pulled the piece of paper loose and held it under the light.
