A Deadly Cliche

Chapter 1

There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm.

—WILLA CATHER

“Storm’s comin’,” the fisherman said, stroking the pewter whiskers of his beard. He glanced at the small television mounted above the espresso machine, squinting at the green radar image of circulating clouds.

Olivia Limoges followed his gaze. She looked at the irregular shape of the low-pressure system forming in the Caribbean, listening closely as the meteorologist showed the storm’s projected path should it gather strength and become more than a tropical disturbance. The slick-haired weatherman assured his viewing audience that although the storm was likely to organize and grow in force, it would remain out at sea, allowing for a perfect Labor Day weekend for those heading to the beach.

“Jackass,” the fisherman’s voice rumbled like distant thunder. He rubbed a calloused, leathery hand over his lined face as though he could wipe away the other man’s erroneous words. “Don’t matter how much fancy equipment these boys get. They don’t understand a damned thing’bout balance. We’re due for a big one and we’re witnessin’ her beginnin’ right here and now on that TV screen. I feel it in my bones. It’s a comin’.”

Olivia nodded in agreement, for she and the man beside her shared an understanding. The ocean lived inside them. Like the merfolk of legend, their blood seemed to be mixed with salt water and their hearts filled with cresting waves. There was a rhythm, like the pull of a tide, within their souls. Since birth, they’d been schooled to respect the currents and the shallows and the cold depths where no light penetrated. As adults, they were still awed by each powerful swell and surge.

In return for their reverence, the sea offered them gifts. The fisherman, whose name was Fergusson, had been granted three decades of nets brimming over with brown, white, and pink shrimp. With every haul, the captain counted his blessings. The ocean fed his family and gave him purpose. He was a man satisfied with his lot in life. Olivia had been given trinkets, pushed onto shore by frothy wavelets, and a fresh start, white and gleaming as a strip of sand in the moonlight.

She and the taciturn shrimp boat captain had been the first customers in the casual eatery. At six thirty in the morning, they’d taken black coffees and bagels with cream cheese to a café table to talk business over breakfast. Olivia had met Captain Fergusson over the summer, and after serving his shrimp to the patrons of her five-star restaurant, The Boot Top Bistro, she would order from no other shrimper. Not only did his catches taste as fresh as the moment they’d been lifted from the ocean, but the captain was also a sharp businessman who treated both his crew and his customers with equal fairness.

The grizzly fisherman and the tall, elegant restaurateur launched into a round of pleasant haggling. Olivia’s standard poodle, Captain Haviland, slept at their feet, his belly replete with a breakfast of eggs and bacon made especially for him by the doting coffeehouse proprietor.

An hour later, their business complete, the two residents of Oyster Bay, North Carolina, sat together in comfortable silence. Slowly, other residents of the small coastal town trickled in, followed by a few bleary-eyed tourists who’d just discovered that the kitchen in their costly vacation rental home lacked a working coffeemaker.

A man sporting a Yankees cap and a fresh sunburn complained to Wheeler, the octogenarian owner of Bagels’n’ Beans, as he ordered several complicated espresso creations. “I’m shelling out five grand a week for that freaking house! Do they expect me to drink that instant crap they left in the pantry?”

Wheeler issued a noncommittal grunt, scowling slightly as he skimmed the foam from the surface of the pitcher of steamed milk. Olivia knew the old man resented having to make what he referred to as “girly drinks” for his customers, but he knew enough about profit margins to realize he couldn’t have turned the slab of concrete behind the store into a cozy eating area without the revenue generated by tourists such as this one.

“I know better than to order bagels this far away from New York, so I hope you’ve got something else I like.” The man scrutinized the selection of baked goods and then pointed at his hat. “You guys just don’t have the right water. That’s the real difference.” Adopting a splayed-leg stance, he pointed at the pastry display. “I’ll take those caramel apple turnovers off your hands. They don’t look too bad.” His eyes gleamed as he watched Wheeler slip the sweets into a brown bag. Unconsciously rubbing his formidable paunch, he told Wheeler to add a few chocolate chip cookies as well.

“He ain’t gonna live to see seventy,” Captain Fergusson muttered as the tourist stuffed one of the cookies in his mouth. While the vacationer chewed greedily, he stirred six sugar packets into his mocha latte.

“Might not see tomorrow,” Olivia agreed. “If he comes to The Boot Top tonight, it will seal the deal. Michel’s specials for this evening include lobster-stuffed ravioli in a vodka cream sauce and an almond and Parmesan crusted salmon steak in a lemon-thyme sauce. Most of my patrons will need to be rolled out the door on dollies.”

The pair smiled at one another, picturing bloated tourists being wheeled down the restaurant’s handicapped ramp.

As they cleared the dishes from their table and brought them to the counter, the tourist turned to them. “You were brave enough to eat the bagels, huh?”

Fergusson barely held his sneer in check. “Everythin’ Wheeler sells is good.”

The man snorted and brushed away the cookie crumbs clinging to his chin. “You gotta be a local. Everybody knows you can’t eat bagels, pizza, or cold cuts this far south.” He scrutinized the seaman, his red, fleshy face dismissive as he peered at Olivia over the shrimper’s shoulder.

“You don’t look like you’re from around here,” he told her, his gaze traveling down her body, examining her black sundress and silver sandals. “You look like a city girl.”

Olivia narrowed her eyes at the man. “I grew up in Oyster Bay. I left for a time, but I came back. This is my home.”

He gaped at her over his coffee cup. “Why the hell would you come back? Woman with your looks? You could have snagged yourself a rich husband and been set up in style in New York or Palm Beach. Anywhere but here! This place is okay for a week, but that is it.” He sidestepped the fisherman. “If you were my gal, you wouldn’t have to lift a finger. You could sit around all day watching soap operas.”

Olivia gave him a frosty smile. “What a tempting offer.” She then gestured at his wedding ring. “Your wife is a such a lucky woman.” Her smile became genuine as she said good-bye to Fergusson. At the snap of his mistress’s fingers, the sleeping poodle detached himself from the shadows beneath the table and leapt to his feet, barking once to illustrate that he was fully awake.

“What the—” the tourist spluttered and coffee dribbled onto his shirt.

Fergusson grinned, displaying a mouthful of tobaccostained teeth. “Look out, mister. That dog’s a black devil. He’ll bite your hand off if you take another step closer to Olivia. You’d best keep your distance.”

Olivia smiled, pausing at the fixings bar near the front door. The tourist turned to Fergusson, mistakenly assuming that Olivia had left the café when, in fact, she had decided to add another splash of cream to her to-go cup.

“What does she do in this podunk town?” the tourist asked, his back to the door. “A fine woman like that?”

“Owns most of it,” Fergusson replied, knowing full well that Olivia was listening. He then pivoted away from the man and began to converse with Wheeler about the storm.

However, the tourist refused to be ignored. “That harmless front isn’t heading in this direction at all. Why worry about it? Didn’t you guys listen to the weather report?”

Fergusson put a lid on his takeout cup. “Oh, it’s comin’ all right. Too bad you’ll be gone.”

Wheeler tried not to smile as the seaman headed for the restroom. The tourist stared after him in befuddlement and the slightest tinge of anxiety. “Pffah! He’s nuts. What are they going to do? Run out and buy batteries and bottled water?”

“Not Fergusson,” Wheeler answered as though the question hadn’t been laced with sarcasm. “But Miss Olivia will prepare.” He winked at Olivia over the tourist’s head. “Chances are she’ll be good and ready for any storm. Wouldn’t be like her not to have a plan.”

Again, the dismissive snort. “Come on! What would a woman like that know about weathering a major storm?”

Pausing in the act of drying a mug with his dishtowel, Wheeler gestured at the television. Once again, the channel featured a radar image of the tropical disturbance. “She knows plenty, my friend. A hurricane is gonna form while you’re lyin’ on the beach this weekend. I know of one that started just like this one.” He lowered his voice, but the words seemed to burn their way into Olivia’s ears.

“It came through Oyster Bay when Miss Olivia was a little girl. That storm was a monster.” Wheeler was lost in the memory. “It kicked and screamed and howled and when all was said and done, a child had lost her mama. A few other folks got killed too. Most of ’em died ’cause they didn’t respect the storm.” He finished drying the cup and picked up another. “I s’pect this one’ll claim her share of lives too. That’s the way of things ’round these parts. You either bend to nature’s power or she’ll force you to your knees.”

Mumbling under his breath that the local population was made up of inbred lunatics, the tourist gathered his pastries, his coffees, and his impenetrable arrogance and left.

He walked right past Olivia without realizing she was still standing there, trying to fit the lid on her cup with trembling fingers.

Olivia and Haviland walked three blocks south to the hardware store. The streets were crowded now. Female vacationers in swim suits and sheer cover-ups shopped for sunscreen and folding beach chairs while their husbands hunted for newspapers and ice for their coolers.

Hampton’s Hardware had occupied a prime spot on Main Street since Olivia was a toddler. Back then, when there were no parking meters and a horse-drawn trolley shuttled people from the two downtown churches to a parking and picnic area near the docks, Hampton’s also housed the town’s only post office. With the recent influx of cash into Oyster Bay’s municipal coffers, however, a new post office had been built at the end of the block and Hampton’s began stocking souvenirs instead of stamps. Cheap T-shirts, plastic sand toys, tacky postcards, salt-water taffy, and plaster replicas of the local lighthouse filled the large front window and the area surrounding the checkout.

At first, the townsfolk regarded Hampton’s new wares with a critical eye, but he displayed the brightly colored trinkets so creatively that they’d not only grown used to his Made in Taiwan section, but had even come to anticipate what he’d do next to sell his cornucopia of mass-produced items.

In celebration of the new school year, Hampton had built a trio of giant, wooden apples and had rigged the tops with mechanical pulleys so that they opened like treasure chest lids, revealing the rotund faces of Cabbage Patch dolls. Each doll brandished a souvenir perfect for stuffing a child’s new backpack. From rulers and lunchboxes decorated with beach scenes to pencil cases and hemp purses stamped with the slogan, “I got an A+ in Beach Bumming,” the plump dolls seemed to be daring each shopper to grab a school-related item from an apple.

Hampton’s Labor Day weekend display had certainly caught the interest of a pair of toddler boys. One had a pudgy fist clamped onto the arm of a Cabbage Patch girl with auburn pigtails as he attempted to wrestle an iridescent pencil from her grasp. The second boy, a mirror reflection of the first, was doing his best to climb into the apple already occupied by a Cabbage Patch boy dressed in denim overalls and a red baseball cap. The wooden lid on the apple was just about to clamp down on the toddler’s head of wild brown curls when his mother rescued him.

“Oh, Olivia!” The young woman smiled as she pulled her son out of the apple. “Hi, there!”

Her lovely face flushed with exertion of having to hold one wriggling child while yanking his brother away from the apple filled with thousands of colorful pencils, Laurel Hobbs shot Olivia a look of apology. “Let me just buckle them into the stroller, then I might actually be able to speak in complete sentences to you.”

“By all means, strap away.” Olivia eyed the three-point canvas belt system that seemed similar to a parachute harness. Haviland gave an impatient whine and sniffed the nearest Cabbage Patch Kid. He issued a disdainful grunt.

“They have the look of mutated mushrooms about them, don’t they?” Olivia stroked the poodle’s head. She watched in amazement as her petite friend wrestled her twins into the double stroller, handed them each a snack bag of cheese crackers, and then fastened her long, wheat-blond hair into a perfectly smooth ponytail. Sighing with relief, she put her hands on her narrow hips, looking exactly like the high school cheerleader she once was, and waved for Olivia to follow her down the tool aisle.

“I am so behind in critiquing Harris’s chapter!” she exclaimed and then dropped her voice. “One of my neighbors was robbed and I’ve been a mess ever since! I feel like I need to buy a big knife and keep it under my mattress.” She touched one of the teeth on a shiny handsaw and then hastily withdrew her fingers.

Not so long ago, Olivia wouldn’t have been the slightest bit interested in Laurel’s trials and tribulations, but over the past few months, the oak-barrel heiress and the stay-at-home mom had become friends. In fact, Olivia counted all four of the Bayside Book Writers as friends. She was still trying to get used to the experience.

“Was anyone hurt?” she inquired as they walked deeper into the store.

Laurel pried a hammer out of Dermot’s hand. Or was it Dallas? Olivia couldn’t tell the two boys apart and she’d forgotten which child tended to wear shades of green and which one favored blue. “No, thank heavens, but they took everything of value. Jewelry, silver, art, electronics.”

Olivia placed several battery-powered lanterns in her cart. “Do your neighbors have a burglar alarm?”

Laurel nodded. “Yes. Most of the people in my neighborhood do.” She chewed her lip for a moment. “It might not have been turned on though. I mean, this happened in the middle of the day! I don’t put mine on to run out to the grocery store. And these guys must have been real professionals. There was no sign of a break-in and they didn’t even make a mess. Left some food on the kitchen counter but that’s it.” She glanced at Olivia with admiration. “I bet you never get scared, even though you live out on the Point all by yourself.”

Haviland whined petulantly.

“Oh! I wasn’t even thinking!” Laurel’s hands fluttered over her mouth as she received a withering stare from Olivia’s poodle. “Of course you don’t need to worry with such a magnificent guard dog watching over you!”

Appeased, Haviland resumed his thorough examination of the scents lingering around the battery and flashlight end cap.

“It’s just that Steve goes out of town all the time for dental conferences and seminars and I keep thinking about being alone in the house. The only weapon I know how to wield is a nail file.”

“Do your sons have wooden blocks? I bet they’d make excellent projectiles.” Olivia selected several packages of batteries. “Seriously, though. If you’ll feel better about having company, ask your in-laws to stay over. I’m sure they’d be delighted.”

Laurel rolled her eyes. “I’d rather be attacked by burglars.” Her pale blue eyes gleamed. “Actually, this topic gives me an idea for my next chapter.”

Olivia arched her brows. “Your duchess is going to be ravished by a handsome highwaymen?”

“No. I’m trying to avoid clichés, remember? But what if she’s captured by someone of the wrong class and grows to love him? A rogue with a Robin Hood complex. Things could get very complicated and very steamy.”

It was always a delight to see how animated Laurel became when she spoke of her writing. Olivia smiled. “And what of the poor, cuckolded duke?”

“He shouldn’t have taken his wife for granted!” Laurel declared heatedly and Olivia couldn’t help but wonder if they were still discussing a fictional couple or if the conversation had suddenly entered the realm of autobiography.

One of the twins crushed a cracker in his fist and scattered orange crumbs across the floor. “Now we won’t get lost,” he told his brother, who immediately followed suit.

“Boys!” Laurel balled her fists in frustration. “Mommy has told you not to leave trails when we’re inside.”

Olivia could see how the little boys might view their surroundings as being similar to an enchanted forest. They were in an aisle at the back of the store where the overhead lights failed to successfully illuminate the space. As a result, shadows hid in the crevices between lines of lawn rakes, brooms, shovels, and mops. From the perspective of the small boys, looking up into the steel and plastic rake tines and the bushy mop heads must have been akin to glancing up through the branches of a strange, magical wood.

Grabbing two glow sticks from her cart, Olivia cracked them until they radiated a phosphorescent yellow light and handed one to each twin. “These work better than breadcrumbs,” she whispered conspiratorially. The boys accepted the gift and stared at her in awe.

“You are so good with children,” Laurel gushed. “I can’t see why you don’t want any of your own.”

Olivia laughed, a sound rich and deep as the tolling of a bell in the distant sea. “I’m good with yours for about thirty seconds, but that’s only because they’re yours. Besides, one doesn’t have to know much about children to recognize intelligence. Your boys are smart and imaginative and I must admit, I enjoy the glint of mischief in their eyes.”

“It’s more than a glint,” Laurel murmured, but she was clearly pleased by the compliment. “Why are you filling your cart with emergency supplies?” she asked as they headed toward the checkout.

“I like to be prepared,” Olivia answered cryptically. Laurel had enough on her mind without having to worry about an impending storm. As Laurel tried to maneuver her stroller through the narrow checkout space, she looked very young and vulnerable to Olivia.

Unaware of their mother’s struggle, the twins giggled, sticking their glow sticks under their shirts and watching in scientific delight as the material in the center of their chests changed hue. It was as if their hearts had turned into little moons. Olivia reached out toward their firefly glow and tickled their chubby legs.

“Laurel,” she said, ignoring the cashier who waited for her to sign her credit card receipt. “When you get home, call a locksmith and find out if there’s anything you can do to make your home safer. Don’t take any chances.”

Clearly surprised by Olivia’s serious tone, Laurel hesitated, but she must have recognized the concern on her friend’s face, because she nodded and then pushed the stroller out the door.

“She’d be better off buyin’ a gun,” the man in line behind Olivia remarked. “Doesn’t her man have one?” he queried, making it apparent that any man who did not possess a firearm wasn’t a genuine male.

“Her husband’s a dentist. I believe he prefers other weapons.” Olivia accepted her bags from the cashier and flashed a wry grin at the man behind her. “But don’t worry. I could always loan her my rifle. I’ve got a Browning and she’s a beauty.”

As Olivia stepped outside, she heard the man murmur, “Damn, now that’s my kind of lady.”

As the sun hit her face, Olivia gave a slight smile. Some men loved a woman with her own weapon.

Chapter 2

If you must speak ill of another, do not speak it, write it in the sand near the water’s edge.

—NAPOLEON HILL

The Saturday before Labor Day promised to be sultry with a scattering of feathery clouds in a denim blue sky. The beaches of Oyster Bay would be packed with children and sun-worshippers, the harbor would be crammed with boats heading out for fishing trips or pleasure cruises, and every space in The Boot Top’s reservation log would be full.

Olivia was grateful to have the beach to herself this morning. She lived north of town and there was nothing but the lighthouse to capture the interest of vacationers. Even then, they had to be willing to traverse the gravel road leading to the landmark and pay a small fee for the privilege of being able to climb up the winding stairs to the main gallery.

From here, the view was spectacular. The ocean stretched endlessly into the distance until it blurred into a thin, blue line where it kissed the horizon. Ships of all sizes passed slowly across the water, and dark shadows indicative of large schools of fish provided contrast to the glittering surface waves.

This was the beauty of the lighthouse in the daytime, but only a select number of locals knew that its true magnificence was revealed when a storm front moved in or when the sun set and night fell over the ocean.

As a child, Olivia had often nicked the key from the absentminded keeper and had climbed the stairs to the watch. She would bring a book and an old towel to sit on and read as a million stars were born in the inky blackness overhead. When the sea had turned as dark as the sky, the water seemed to be pushing stars in Olivia’s direction and she felt cherished by the offering.

On other days, she’d crouch on the balcony, her blue eyes wide as heavy thunderclouds bore down upon the Point. She had traveled across the world, but never had she seen a sight more electrifying than forks of lightning bursting across the sky, endeavoring, or so it seemed, to pierce the very heart of the ocean.

Now, at a quarter past eight in the morning, the beach was deserted. The lighthouse didn’t open until ten and Olivia’s closest neighbors lived two miles up the beach and rarely ventured outside.

“What do you think we’ll find today, Captain?” she asked Haviland and lowered the Bounty Hunter Discovery 3300 metal detector to the ground.

The poodle shook his black ears and shot forward, unwilling to wait as his mistress fiddled with her noisy machine. There were gulls and sandpipers to chase and crabs that needed to be sent scuttling back into their sandy burrows.

Olivia adjusted the metal detector’s volume and began to walk, sweeping the disc in a slow and constant arc as she moved forward. After years of hunting for assorted treasures deposited onto the shore by generous waves, Olivia knew how to differentiate between the high bleeps signaling useless items like nails or bottle caps and the higher-pitched sounds indicating the presence of jewelry or coins.

She paused after half a mile and removed a bottle of water and a folding trench shovel from her backpack. After taking several swallows of water, she dug through the moist sand and uncovered two tokens for a children’s arcade located several towns away.

“Nothing exciting,” she told Haviland as he trotted over to examine her find. Still, she pocketed the tokens. Later, she would clean them with the same precision she’d apply to a priceless coin.

Olivia kept all her finds in jumbo pickle jars. Each one was labeled with the season and the year. During the winter months, she liked to sit on the floor of her cavernous living room and spill the contents onto her Aubusson rug. In front of a crackling fire in the wide stone hearth, Olivia would run her fingers over shotgun shells, rings, coins, and belt buckles, wondering about the lives of the owners as the salty smell of the sea drifted over the carpet.

Since childhood, Olivia had received gifts from the ocean. These days she had to search for them, but the long, quiet walks gave Olivia’s restless soul a measure of peace, and the steady whisper of the waves kept her company. The sea had taken her father from her, but that was the only time it had claimed anything belonging to her. Last summer, the currents had even delivered several clues that allowed her to assist the local police in solving a murder case.

As Olivia thought back on the violent death of her friend and fellow writer, she rounded a bend at the tip of the Point and hesitated. Normally, she’d turn back after this distance, driven by hunger and a desire for a second cup of coffee, but something urged her onward. The waves near her feet abruptly retreated, as though the tide had yanked them backward in order to let her pass. Up ahead, Olivia saw the glint of sunlight on metal.

“Haviland!” Olivia called and the poodle raced toward the twinkle, barking happily. “That dog loves a mystery,” she muttered to herself with a smile.

Her expression changed as Haviland’s bark became agitated. The poodle darted toward what appeared to be a child’s plastic bucket and then rapidly jumped away again. The large green bucket was planted in the sand as though someone was preparing to build the first of several castle turrets but had suddenly been called away.

“What is it, Captain?” Olivia watched her dog carefully. He was clearly repelled by the scent emanating from beneath the bucket, and as Olivia drew closer, the breeze shifted and she was nearly flattened by the stench.

“Holy Hell!” she covered her mouth and nose with her hand and winced. “What’s in there?”

Setting the metal detector on the ground, she approached the bucket warily.

“Did some kid trap a horseshoe crab?” She looked at Haviland, but he answered with an urgent bark. It was not a horseshoe crab.

Olivia searched for a stick. There were none by the water’s edge, so she climbed up the dunes and came back with a dried reed stalk. She paused to tie a bandana around the bottom half of her face, her breathing becoming shallower out of trepidation. The smell spoke of death and rot and things not meant to be exposed to the harsh light of the morning sun.

As she eased the reed under the lip of the bucket, it snapped in two. Olivia cursed, wanting to jump away from the odor and the scent of her own fear. Haviland was barking frantically now, driving Olivia to react quickly and decisively. She put a hand on each side of the bucket and whipped it off, releasing a fresh burst of putrid air.

Gagging, she stumbled backward, losing her footing and falling onto the sand with a soft thud. Haviland whined and rushed to her, his snout exploring her partially hidden face.

“I’m not hurt, Captain,” she said, turning away from the horrible thing on the beach. She lowered her mouth to the sand and breathed deeply. Once she had a lungful of air, she had to look back, to try to comprehend the atrocity she’d uncovered.

For surely that’s what it was. No other word could adequately describe the loose, waxy flesh, the torn pieces of skin, the drooping eyes, or the presence of half a dozen crabs, creeping over what was once a nose, a mouth, a cheek.

Fighting back the nausea rising in her throat, Olivia fixed her gaze at the ocean. It was there, pulsing and swelling, a symbol of constancy and saneness. The gurgle of the waves eventually gave her the strength to take a step closer.

The sight was just as gruesome as it had been at first glance. It was not a Halloween prop or a practical joke. It was a human head. Male, from what Olivia could tell, and it was rapidly decomposing in the heat and with assistance from the crabs.

“We need to get help,” Olivia told Haviland in a hoarse croak, her eyes flicking toward the incoming tide.

After a moment’s pause, she put the bucket back where she’d found it. There, in the middle of the pristine beach, it was almost possible to believe she’d imagined the horror it disguised. Yet the odor was not, could not, be concealed.

Death saturated the air, tainting the salt-laden wind. The decay was incongruent with the cloudless blue sky and sparkling sea and yet it was almost possible to imagine tendrils of stench, gray and puckered as octopus tentacles, creeping out from beneath the bucket.

Knowing time was against her, Olivia left her metal detector and backpack on the baking sand and began to run.

Chief Rawlings stared down at the distorted head with pity.

Olivia was certain that the sight and the smell of the thing repulsed him, but she knew that he was able to look beyond the horror and recall that what had been revealed after the removal of the green bucket was a human being. Was he thinking of the people who cared about this person, this misshapen memory of a man? A mother, a sister, a wife, or even a child. She wondered if Rawlings prayed that the victim was not anyone’s father. She could picture the chief walking slowly up a front path and stepping gingerly over a skateboard or a jump rope to knock on the door, his fist heavy on the wood. How much must it hurt him each time he was forced to crush a family under the weight of his news.

From her vantage point in the lee of a dune, Olivia noticed Rawlings stood back a ways from the team assisting the medical examiner, watching as they painstakingly removed the sand from the head, exposing a neck and finally, a set of shoulders.

“We got a whole body in here, Chief!” one of his officers shouted in excitement, as though Rawlings hadn’t reached the same conclusion. But the chief nodded in encouragement. He ruled the Oyster Bay Police Department with a mixture of gentleness and an unyielding demand for excellence. The men and women working under him stood up a fraction straighter and vowed to work a little harder whenever they were in his presence. In his late forties, Rawlings had a pleasant face and a bit of a paunch, which he tried to disguise under Hawaiian shirts when he wasn’t on the job.

Rawlings put his hand on his hips as his officers continued to scoop sand away from the body and then he turned and walked toward the dunes where Olivia and her black poodle sat waiting and watching.

“I’m sorry you had to be the one to find him,” Rawlings said.

Olivia put a hand on Haviland’s back. “Better me than some tourist,” she answered, her eyes searching the chief’s face. “Are there any clues as to why he was buried here?”

“We haven’t found anything around the body yet,” Rawlings admitted. “Why don’t you go on home? You’ve seen enough.”

He smiled warmly at her, but Olivia knew she was being given an order. “I’ll be at Grumpy’s critiquing Harris’s chapter in case you need me.” She stood, her body throwing a long, lean shadow over the hot sand.

Rawlings nodded. “I hope I have the opportunity to read his chapter before our meeting. Enjoy your late breakfast.” He paused and then added, “One of these days, I’d like to share a meal with you, Miss Limoges.” He looked at Haviland and dipped his chin. “And you too, Haviland. But for now, I’ll wish you both good morning.”

As the chief walked back to his men, Olivia saw him pull a handkerchief from his pocket and dab the perspiration from his forehead. She liked that Sawyer Rawlings was the type of man who would carry a handkerchief. He was old fashioned and believed strongly in traditions, but he was also a man of contradictions. He created beautiful paintings and read poetry, yet wore those dreadful Hawaiian shirts and ate junk food, letting his middle-aged body turn soft about the waist and hips. Olivia studied him for another minute, wondering exactly what it was about the man she found so intriguing.

“He is not as he appears. There are many layers to Chief Rawlings,” she explained defensively to Haviland, but the poodle didn’t share her interest in the lawman. Haviland growled and jerked his snout toward the road. He was hungry and had grown tired of breathing in the rank smell adrift on the air.

Olivia gave him a sympathetic pat on the head. “It is awful, Captain. We can go.”

The closest police cruiser was parked with its windows open and a sun protector stretched across the windshield. A young officer leaned against the driver’s side door and read a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. He looked up as Olivia approached.

“Chief said you should stop by the station to give your official statement.” He tapped on the clipboard and then cast a sideways glance at Olivia. “You sure you’ve never seen that guy before? He’s not someone from your workplace or maybe a neighbor?”

“I don’t recognize him,” she answered. “I’ve only met my closest neighbors, the Eflands, twice. They’re an older couple and don’t spend much time outside and certainly not when it’s this hot. From what I could see, the victim’s at least twenty years younger than Mr. Efland.”

A predatory glint appeared in the officer’s eyes. “Why are you calling him a victim?”

Olivia frowned. Was this cop some recent hire looking to impress the chief? He was as fresh of face and as awkward of body as a preadolescent boy, but his speech was clipped and laced with arrogance. “I chose that term because unless that man buried himself up to the neck and then somehow found a way to cover his head with a bucket, someone else performed those actions for him.”

Reddening, the eager policeman tried to regain his composure. He studied the sheet on the clipboard again. “You stated that you were out on a walk with your dog and a metal detector,” he said as though she had been doing something indecent. “Find anything of interest near the crime scene?”

Olivia narrowed her eyes. She was quickly losing patience. “I didn’t waste time combing the surrounding area for jewelry or rare coins once I’d lifted up that bucket. However, your department is more than welcome to borrow my Bounty Hunter if you think it would be of use to the investigation.”

Like a child being offered a sweet, the young cop brightened. “Really? That would be great!” He immediately suppressed his exuberance. “We’ll return it to you as soon as we’re done here.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Olivia assured him tersely. “I’ll collect it when I come to the station to sign my statement.” Without waiting to be dismissed, she opened the passenger door of her Range Rover to let Haviland hop inside. As she walked around the rear of her vehicle, the medical examiner’s female assistant came scampering over the dunes.

“You won’t believe this, Bobby!” She pulled on the officer’s sleeve in a familiar gesture. The two uniformed twenty-somethings looked alike and were probably cousins to some degree. Most of the older Oyster Bay families were related in one way or another. The ME’s assistant used her free hand to brush a lock of dark hair from her heart-shaped face while giving Bobby’s shirt another excited tug. “The vic was buried holding a little plastic sand shovel. A green one, just like the bucket that covered his head. He’s got nothing else on him and I mean nothing!”

“No wallet? No ID?”

“Don’t you get what I’m saying? There’d be no place to hide personal effects!” she exclaimed and waved for him to follow her. “The guy was buried buck-ass naked!”

Olivia was met at the front door of Grumpy’s Diner by a roller-skating dwarf. Dixie Weaver was the manager, bookkeeper, hostess, and head waitress of the eatery bearing the same name as her husband. Grumpy, the gifted fry cook, was actually quite pleasant, but he was a man of so few words that people assumed he was unfriendly. He’d earned the moniker early in life, and when it came time to choose a name for the diner, Dixie assured him that “Grumpy’s” would soon become a household word in Oyster Bay. As usual, she was right.

“You’re late this mornin’!” The diminutive proprietor put her hands on her hips and glared at Olivia. “I can’t hold your table on a Labor Day weekend,”

“Believe me, I hadn’t expected to be delayed by the police . . .” Olivia trailed off. Rawlings wouldn’t be pleased if the news that a body was found on the Point traveled around town before he even made it back to the station.

Unfortunately, Olivia could see that she had said too much. Dixie’s eyes lit up and she practically forced the customer seated at the end of counter to topple from his stool. Scooping up his check and his money without a thought to providing change, she pushed him toward the front door and called out, “Have a nice day now, ya hear!”

Flying back to the counter to wipe the area clean, Dixie stood as tall as she could on her white roller skates and patted the stool. “I’m gonna get you some fresh coffee, but if you expect to taste a single drop, you’d best be prepared to finish that sentence.”

She returned with a bowl of water for Haviland and a clean coffee cup for Olivia. Dangling a steaming carafe from her free hand, Dixie batted her false eyelashes. “Come on, lady. I don’t have all day. Those folks in the Evita booth want a refill.”

“Blackmailing me with java.” Olivia scowled in disapproval. “That is low, even for you.”

Dixie dumped the coffeepot on the counter and tugged at a pair of Hello Kitty arm warmers. “Is that a height joke?”

“Of course not.” Olivia wiggled her index finger so that Dixie would skate closer. “You have to swear on all twelve of your children not to breathe a word of this until it’s become a matter of public record.”

Dixie smirked. “My kids ain’t eggs. I don’t have a dozen. Last count it was five. Six at the most.” She poured the coffee. “But you have my word.”

“I found a body on the beach this morning. About a mile and a half north of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage,” Olivia whispered. She watched Dixie absorb the startling information.

Oddly, Dixie’s expression was not of curiosity, but of concern. “Are you okay?”

“I am, thank you. I didn’t know the man, but I pity him. His death was no accident.” Olivia clammed up. “Have you heard of any locals that have gone missing? A wife complaining about a wayward husband for example?”

Ignoring the waving hands coming from the Evita booth, Dixie thought about the question. “I haven’t, but I’ll keep my ears open and my mouth shut. Can I at least tell Grumpy? I’ll explode like an overstuffed turkey if I can’t share this with somebody!”

Olivia nodded. She knew Grumpy was no gossip. “Ask him the same question. He might hear talk among his friends about someone not turning up at home or at work. Maybe we can help the police identify the dead man.”

“We aren’t gonna be able to help unless he’s in the damned restaurant business.” Dixie plastered on her best waitress smile and signaled to the man holding his coffee cup in the air. “Most folks have three whole days off,’Livia. The dead guy probably didn’t have to be anywhere’til Tuesday, the lucky bastard.”

Recalling the grotesque visage and foul odor of the corpse, Olivia frowned. “Trust me, he was not lucky.” She reached into her purse for the chapter she needed to critique by that evening. “And if ever he was, then every ounce of that ran out.” She uncapped her pen to signal that the subject was now closed.

While Dixie skated from the kitchen to tables with platters of three-egg omelets, cinnamon French toast, or double bacon cheeseburgers for those ordering an early lunch, the hum of conversation brought Olivia a sense of calm. She didn’t come to Grumpy’s for the atmosphere, nor did she share Dixie’s deep admiration for Andrew Lloyd Webber. Every booth paid homage to one of his musicals, and though Olivia was amused by the displays showcasing Starlight Express, Cats, or Phantom of the Opera, she preferred to sit at the sole window booth and work on her writing projects.

Olivia ate at the diner at least once a week. Upon returning to Oyster Bay, Dixie had become her first true friend. Olivia was fond of the smaller woman’s feisty personality and sharp wit. Dixie also adored Haviland and had Grumpy prepare special meals for the coddled poodle while requesting items not found on the regular menu for Olivia. This morning, she skated to the counter with a frittata made of fresh spinach and shredded provolone and a bowl of honeydew melon squares.

“Those folks at the Jesus Christ Superstar table are drivin’ me hog wild!” Dixie said through gritted teeth. “They wanna know if our bacon is local. Shoot, I told them we’ve got more pig farms in this state than gas stations.” She whipped a compact from her apron pocket and applied a fresh coat of pink frosted lip gloss. “Don’t think they cared for that answer, but I reckon they’re lousy tippers anyhow. All those yoga-twistin’, garbage-recyclin’ tree huggers are tightwads.”

“It’s the booth decor, Dixie,” Olivia said after swallowing a bite of frittata. “It makes some people uncomfortable. Maybe you should replace Jesus with a poster of Glenn Close from Sunset Boulevard.”

“That right there is blasphemy!” Dixie presented Haviland with a plate of gently cooked ground beef mixed with rice and greens. He gave her his most sincere canine smile and then turned his attention to his second meal of the morning. “Maybe Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat would make people more at ease. I’ll have a look-see on eBay tonight.”

Using the green pen Harris had given to his fellow writers, Olivia circled a typo in the first line of the second chapter of his work in progress, a science fiction novel entitled, The Chosen One.

Having critiqued the first chapter, Olivia knew that the story’s heroine, Zenobia, had been safely evacuated from her dying planet, Zulton. However, upon arriving at her new home on the Planet Remus, Zenobia discovered that the ship carrying her parents and most of the other government officials was destroyed in an inexplicable collision with a floating prison colony.

Olivia didn’t care for science fiction as a rule, but she was interested in Zenobia’s fate, proving that Harris knew how to create a strong, complicated female character. However, his writing was often bogged down by too many details concerning space travel or the complicated names and nuances of alien races. His minor characters also spoke in dialogue riddled with clichés.

“Let’s see what will happen to Zenobia now,” Olivia murmured, took a sip of coffee, and began to read.

Zenobia stepped out of the healing bath, her aching muscles and sore joints restored to normal. If only she could dip her feelings in the warm, medicinal waters and resurface without the knife twists of grief. Practicing her fighting technique in the simulation room allowed her to concentrate on something else for a little while, but when it was over and her score flashed on the wall screen, she was still filled with rage. She’d punched the bare wall with her fists until her knuckles were shredded and dripping blood. Now, looking down at them, they were merely a little redder than the rest of her skin. She turned her hand over and touched the tattoo on her palm. It was only a few pinpricks of blue, creating a constellation known as the Hunter. The very first Chosen Ones hailed from a galaxy where the Hunter was one of the most prominent constellations in the sky. For the past one thousand years, all Chosen Ones were tattooed with this star formation at birth as a sign of their superior physical and mental prowess. The children of Chosen Ones entered into marriage contracts by the time they were five years old, but Zenobia’s betrothed, a man named Halydyn, was dead, killed in a devastating space collision with a drifting prison colony. “Everyone’s dead!” Her words echoed like a rushing river in the close chamber. She put her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the strangeness of her own voice. A message appeared on the wall screen by the door. The Regent was summoning her. There were decisions to be made, a memorial service to plan, judicial cases to be heard. He expected her to sit beside him in one of the crystal thrones beneath the Sky Dome within the hour. “I didn’t ask for this,” Zenobia muttered at the silent screen as she dressed in loose pants and a blue tunic. She fastened her weapon belt, holstered her photon pistol, and twisted her fiery red hair into a Samurai’s knot. “Damn it all! Why did this have to happen?” She traced the stars of her tattoo again, as if they could somehow take her through a wormhole, to another time before the tragedy. She was sixteen years old and all alone. Her parents, her closest friends, and the man she was meant to marry were gone. Chosen Ones were not supposed to cry. Zenobia’s pride stopped the tears from coming, but there was a yawning emptiness in her chest, like a part of her had been carved out and jettisoned into deep space. She felt lost in the sparkling new palace and she wanted to run, but there was nowhere for her to go. The deaths of the other Chosen Ones would follow her like a thousand shadows.

Olivia stopped reading, pausing to write comments here and there on Harris’s word choice. The book’s tone seemed to grow heavier with each sentence, but Olivia was unsure if it was the content or her experience earlier that morning that made her reticent to read any more.

“I know that look,” Dixie said, appearing at her side. “You need somethin’ sweet.”

Save for two tables of tourists struggling to finish every morsel of their copious brunches, the diner had cleared out. Dixie laid checks down at both booths and then slid a plate containing a slice of warm apple bread in front of Olivia. She performed an ungainly climb onto the next stool and sighed. “This is the only time I feel like I’m the same size as everybody else, but it’s a right pain to get up here.”

“Your brain makes up for your lack of height,” Olivia replied with a smile. “And you have an uncanny gift for knowing exactly what I need to eat. My mother used to make bread like this for my first day of school and she always packed an extra slice for my teacher.”

Dixie twirled a strand of her feathered hair around her finger. “I should do that. Might save me a few trips to the principal’s office. I was there so much last year that I got to know all about his secretary’s love life. Lord, but that woman is a tramp!”

Olivia laughed. “Thanks, Dixie. I’m going to finish this life-affirming treat and then head to the restaurant. Maybe if I watch over Michel’s shoulder while he cooks I can take my mind off what I saw on the beach.”

“He’s a chef, ’Livia. You hang over his shoulder and you’re liable to get a cleaver in the face. Go see that man of yours. If those eyes and that bod don’t make you think of somethin’ else besides a dead stranger, then nothin’ will.”

After placing a twenty on the counter, Olivia stepped out into the sunlight. Instead of walking to her car or in the direction of her lover’s bookstore, she and Haviland headed for the docks. There was a decrepit building on the waterfront she’d had her eye on for some time. It was a mess, requiring months of work at enormous expense, but it was for sale. Only someone with very deep pockets and a love of old buildings would consider purchasing the dilapidated warehouse.

It was perfect for Olivia

“I couldn’t do anything to help the man on the beach,” she said to Haviland. She shielded her eyes against the sun’s glare and studied the building. “But I can rescue this place. Restore a piece of Oyster Bay’s history and create some new jobs. I’m in the mood for a new project. Don’t you think The Bayside Crab House has a nice ring to it?”

The poodle barked his assent.

Chapter 3

We were put here as witnesses to the miracle of life. We see the stars, and we want them. We are beholden to give back to the universe . . . If we make landfall on another star system, we become immortal.

—RAY BRADBURY

Olivia wondered if Chief Rawlings would be able to push away the images of the crime scene photos and the scant facts written on the whiteboard in the station’s conference room before knocking on the door of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage. But it took only a glance for her to see that the details of the investigation clung to him like cigarette smoke. His hazel eyes, which were tinged with green and gold in direct sunlight, were murky as shallows in the marshes, and the skin of his face was pinched.

Rawlings stepped forward to greet the other writers, but Olivia blocked his path and placed a tumbler of scotch whiskey in his hand.

The chief was surprised by the act. Olivia had generously refurbished the neglected building for the use of their writers’ club and other community organizations, but her charitable gestures did not typically include the sharing of her twenty-five-year-old Chivas Regal. True, the cottage refrigerator was regularly stocked with beer and white wine and Olivia supplied her friends with the same bottles of fine merlot and cabernet blends featured on The Boot Top’s wine list, but everyone knew better than to reach for her scotch.

“Thank you.” Rawlings took a grateful sip. The night was warm, but the amber liquid felt good sliding down his throat. It settled in the pit of his empty stomach, blended with his blood, and eased the tension from his knotted neck and shoulder muscles. “A few more swallows and I might actually make some intelligent comments this evening.”

Before Olivia could reply, Laurel took the chief by the arm and pulled him over to the sofa. “Are you having any luck cracking the robbery case? It happened in my neighborhood, you know.”

Rawlings looked stunned for a moment, as though the loss of a well-to-do suburbanite’s material possessions was the furthest thing from his mind.

“I know you’re out of uniform during these meetings, but I can’t stop thinking about guys in ski masks creeping around my subdivision. I haven’t slept well since it happened.” Laurel’s anxiety was obvious.

The chief had only made it to two critique nights thus far. His schedule was unpredictable and demanding and he’d been late on both occasions. At first, the other writers had peppered him with questions concerning his whereabouts until he’d chided them for acting like a suspicious wife. He had insisted upon being allowed to leave his job behind when he stepped over the threshold into the cottage’s cozy living room.

Olivia watched the lawman with interest. She knew Rawlings was a voracious reader, but he had turned out to be a skilled critic as well. Most of his comments were phrased as questions, and she wondered if he interrogated suspects with the same gentleness he’d displayed when pointing out flaws in the other writers’ work. She sensed he was eager to turn his attention to Harris’s chapter but was too much of a gentleman to leave Laurel’s question unanswered.

“I can’t say that I am aware of any updates regarding the burglaries,” Rawlings finally replied.

“Burglaries?” Laurel’s eyes went wide. “There’s been more than one?”

“We have two open cases. One in your neighborhood and another that occurred in Sandpiper Shores several weeks ago. Similar items were taken and there was no sign of forced entry.” He gave Laurel’s hand a paternal pat. “We’ll apprehend the thieves, don’t you worry. Just keep your doors locked and your eyes open.”

“The chief’s got more serious bad guys to chase than a few TV-swiping cat burglars, right, Chief?” This from Millay, the Asian American bartender who wrote young adult fantasy. Millay was an exotic beauty, with full lips, dark brown eyes, and tea-hued skin. The girl seemed to deliberately mar her loveliness with brow piercings, hair tint, and heavy makeup. Tonight, for example, she wore her customary knee-length leather boots, thigh-high striped socks, a metallic miniskirt, and a T-shirt bearing a “Little Miss Sunshine” iron-on. Her hair was gelled into sharp points that hovered over her shoulder, and each tip had been dyed an electric plum. Her eyes were rimmed with black eyeliner and she wore a thick coating of lipstick in a dark cherry shade. Examining her chipped nail polish, she gave the chief a falsely nonchalant glance. “Heard something pretty nasty washed up on the Point today.”

Rawlings clearly knew that he was being baited but couldn’t prevent the corners of his mouth from pulling down in irritation. “Has one of my men been tweeting about life on the Oyster Bay police force again?”

He tried to keep his voice light, but Millay shook her head. “Nah. I heard it standing in line behind some grandma in Stop ’n’ Shop. She was whispering about it to one of her bingo buddies. It’s gotta be all over town by now. Those biddies don’t have anything better to do with their time.” She tossed her skull-covered messenger bag onto the sofa. “She also told me I looked like a child of Satan and asked me if my mom knew I dressed like this.”

Instead of claiming the gossip to be false, Rawlings fixed Millay with a soft gaze. “We haven’t been able to ID the man. Will you keep an ear open to the talk circulating in Fish Nets over the next few days and let me know if anyone mentions a local having gone missing?” He leaned forward slightly, as though he and Millay were the only people in the room. “That woman may not understand your fashion sense, but I know you’re bright and observant no matter what you wear. I could use your help. Unofficially, of course.”

“Yeah, sure. No sweat.” Millay’s eyes twinkled. She was clearly pleased to be given the chief’s trust but didn’t want to let it show. The patrons of her smoke-filled drinking den weren’t as loose-tongued as the senior citizens shopping at Stop ’n’ Shop, but they often shared confidences with Millay. The young woman pretended she was uncomfortable with her role as confidante and chalked it up as an occupational hazard. “Goes with the territory,” she’d told them months ago. “I hear stuff their wives, best buddies, and ministers don’t even know. You give a man enough to drink and suddenly he’s your best friend.”

Olivia supposed there was some truth to that, but she also imagined that Millay’s beauty had more than a little to do with the number of secrets she became privy to over her eight P.M. to two A.M. shift.

“Did I miss anything?” Harris asked as he walked in and helped himself to a beer.

Olivia pointed at the pages she held in her hand and shot Laurel a warning look. It was time to get down to business. “We were just jawing a bit, but now that you’re here we can begin. Grab some food and settle in.”

Harris took an unusually large slug of beer and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The science fiction writer was thirty but didn’t look a day over twenty-one. Boyishly handsome, he had ginger hair, an angular chin, rose red lips, and a playful laugh. He reminded Olivia of Peter Pan. Harris was more bashful than the leader of the Lost Boys, however, due to a chronic case of rosacea. As a result, he spent too much time alone with only cyber friends as company.

Over the summer Olivia had convinced Harris to try a new laser treatment offered by her aesthetician, with excellent results. The skin on Harris’s face now resembled a blush instead of an angry crimson. He’d already attended a few social functions with coworkers from the computer software company where he worked developing background graphics for video games. Harris had another treatment scheduled in two weeks and Olivia hoped he’d continue to fall for the aesthetician’s assurances that his treatments were free because she was conducting a clinical trial.

“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?”

Laurel waved off the suggestion. “No, it’s nothing like that! I wouldn’t have bothered you at all, but you’re the only woman I’m close to who actually enjoys her work. My other friends prefer to shop, and cook, and do crafty stuff at home . . .” She sighed and pointed at one of the leather club chairs. “Can we sit down?”

Unaccustomed to social visits at the restaurant, Olivia recovered her manners and offered Laurel her pick of refreshments, but the younger woman was only interested in capturing Olivia’s full attention. “I woke up this morning and realized I don’t like being at home all the time anymore. Actually, I feel a little trapped, and what I want, well . . . I want a job!”

“Here?” Olivia was dumbfounded.

“No!” Laurel hastily replied. “No offense, but I’m done with waitressing! I worked at a Mulligans to help pay for college. I will never wear suspenders again!” She covered her collarbone with her hands as though to assure herself that the offensive accessory was no longer present.

Olivia gave a soft laugh. “What job would you like?”

“I want to apply for the part-time writer position advertised in yesterday’s paper.” Laurel’s light blue eyes twinkled. “I saw the ad and figured, why wait to become a published writer? I can start small, gain experience, and build a writing résumé. I used to write for my high school paper and I loved it!”

Olivia was impressed. “Sounds like a good opportunity. So what’s the quandary?”

Turning pink with embarrassment, Laurel fiddled with the ends of her ponytail. “Steve doesn’t support my decision to work part-time and frankly, neither do my in-laws.”

“I thought they moved to Oyster Bay to help you with the twins. Let them watch the boys while you work.”

Laurel smirked. “If you count buying the most expensive and noisy toys known to man, feeding them junk food, and keeping them up past their bedtime ‘helping,’ then they’re doing more than enough, thank you very much!” She shook her head, ashamed of her outburst. “Oh my, that sounds so ungrateful, but whenever I want to do something for myself, they get really busy all of a sudden. If Steve wants to go out, then they’re over in a flash, hands filled with choking hazard toys and snacks made of twelve different kinds of sugar. But they never want to babysit if it means I get to do something just for me.”

Olivia was at a loss. She’d never had problems like Laurel’s. She didn’t have children, a husband, or in-laws. Still, her employees often came to her seeking advice concerning personal problems and she always listened intently and gave them honest counsel. Though she was unskilled at delivering her recommendations with gentleness, she made up for her directness with sincerity. In Laurel’s case, Olivia decided to be as forthright as always.

“If you want this job, then you should apply for it. This is the modern era, Laurel! You don’t need your husband’s permission, though it would be nice to have his support.” She tried to ease off the judgmental tone. “Aren’t the twins doing some preschool kind of thing starting tomorrow?”

“It’s just a mom’s morning out provided by the church. The boys will go twice a week for two hours and I don’t think that would give me enough time to research and write more than one article for the Oyster Bay Gazette.”

Olivia considered this. “No, you’ll certainly need more free time than that.” A mischievous glint entered her eyes. “What if you told the in-laws that you needed their babysitting services twice a week so that you could do an activity that would meet with their approval?”

Laurel frowned. “Like what?”

“I remember you telling the Bayside Writers that Steve’s mother has always been critical of your culinary skills. Tell her that in order for Steve and the boys to dine on the best possible meals you need to enroll in a cooking class. I bet she’ll offer to babysit in a flash.” Olivia sat back, feeling smug.

“You think I should lie?” Laurel looked aghast.

Olivia shrugged. “If you truly want this job, then you tell your family that you’re applying for it and that’s that or you’re going to have to bend the truth until you’re ready to stand up for yourself. They obviously see nothing wrong with you dancing like a puppet on strings. You’re late nearly every Saturday because you feel guilty leaving your family. Don’t be ashamed because you’re pursuing a dream, Laurel!” Olivia knew she was being deliberately harsh, but she wanted her friend to gain a measure of freedom. “Are you a puppet or are you a writer?”

Laurel pressed her lips together and then yelled, “I’m a writer! They think they can control everything I do, but I’m my own person. I’m not just a mother and a wife! I’m me too! Laurel! There are things I’m good at, even though I can’t smock or cook coq au vin.” She nibbled a fingernail. “Um, where would I be taking this fictional cooking class?”

Wordlessly, Olivia gestured around the empty restaurant.

“Oh, you’re the best!” Laurel did one of her trademark happy hand claps coupled with a great deal of bouncing up and down on the chair. “But what happens when I burn the Thanksgiving turkey again?”

“Leave the culinary dilemmas to me. You march right down to that newspaper and apply for that job.” She eyed Laurel’s outfit. “But go home and put something else on first. I think you’ve got maple syrup on your shirt and a piece of pancake mashed into your necklace.”

“That would be Dermot.” Laurel examined the stains with pride and then rose slowly to her feet. “I’ve never done anything like this before. I’m about to deceive my family and I know it should feel wrong, but it doesn’t. I want this job and I deserve a chance to do something more fulfilling than laundry and grocery shopping!”

Olivia wished her friend good luck and tried not to stiffen when Laurel suddenly embraced her. The younger woman then jogged out to her car, her ponytail swinging like a golden scythe.

Haviland cocked his head and stared at his mistress.

“What are you looking at?” Olivia demanded and the poodle flashed her a toothy smile. “You’d better not give me that ‘you’re a softie’ look if you want lamb with rice and peas! After all, this is how normal people are supposed to act. They’re supposed to listen to one another and accept hugs without turning to stone and—”

Haviland cut her off with a quick howl that sounded much like laughter.

“You’re right, I’ll never be quite like that, but I am trying to cast off my Ice Queen image.” She opened the walk-in refrigerator and Haviland’s ears perked up. “Maybe ‘cast off’ isn’t the best word choice. Perhaps ‘defrost’ is a better way of putting it. Ah, here’s the lamb!”

Pressing his snout against Olivia’s palm, Haviland searched for bite-sized cubes of juicy lamb and, sensing they were close at hand, began to shift his front paws in anticipation.

Once Olivia had satisfied her poodle’s hunger, she satiated her own by fixing a spinach salad with lamb, feta cheese, and pecan crumbles accompanied by a side of pita wedges toasted with a sprinkling of Parmesan and fresh basil. She never prepared meals like this in her own home, but there was something about the spacious, gleaming kitchen that made her want to cook.

Later, once the budget had been balanced and she’d placed phone orders to the distributors still open for business on Labor Day, she reviewed Michel’s menu for the upcoming week. Making a note in the margins that her chef needed to add two more vegetarian selections (Michel, like Haviland, loved his meat), Olivia began to go through Saturday’s mail.

She sorted through two pounds of junk mail, including catalogs from restaurant supply companies, credit card and refinancing offers, form letters from big-name banks and insurance companies entreating Olivia to give them her business, and the weekly flyer from Pizza Bay.

Olivia examined the flimsy yellow and red paper featuring the graphic of a smiling fisherman holding a slice of pizza with one hand as he manned the helm with the other. “Best in the Bay!” the ad proclaimed and provided a coupon for two free toppings or a free side of garlic bread sticks. “Why send coupons to a five-star restaurant week after week after week? Do they enjoy wasting paper?” she asked Haviland.

Too full to muster up the strength required to even open an eye, Haviland remained unresponsive. “What would the Pizza Bay delivery boy do if I actually placed an order during business hours? Come right to the hostess podium wearing that hideous electric yellow T-shirt and holding a warming box?” She grinned. “I might have to try that sometime. Teach those Pizza Bay owners a lesson about mass mailing.”

The local printing and copy center had obviously not produced the last letter in the pile. Olivia’s name and the restaurant’s address had been handwritten in black ink on a plain white envelope. The penmanship was childlike and the letters seemed to have been driven into the paper as though a great deal of force had been applied. There was no return address and the post office stamp showed that the letter had originated in Wilmington, which was roughly one hundred and fifty miles south of Oyster Bay.

Her curiosity aroused, Olivia ripped open the letter and pulled out a single sheaf of lined three-hole paper. Picturing the sticker-covered binder of a grade school student, she briefly wondered why some child would be communicating with her.

Then she read the message.

YOUR FATHER IS NOT DEAD. HE HAS BEEN WITH US FOR THIRTY YEARS, BUT NOW HES REAL SICK. IF YOU WANT TO SEE HIM WHILE HES STILL BREETHING, SEND $1000 CASH TO THIS ADRESS. IF YOU TELL ANYONE THE DEALS OFF.

Following these astonishing lines was a street address in Wilmington. Apparently, the cash was to be sent in care of a man named RB.

Olivia hurled the paper onto her desk and shoved her wheeled chair backward so violently that she nearly tipped over. Haviland, jolted out of his full-belly slumber, jumped onto his feet with an alarmed snarl, his brown eyes darting about the room, searching for the source of danger. Anxiously, he sniffed Olivia’s hands, but she made no move to comfort him. Her eyes burned as they stared fixedly at the paper on her desk.

“It cannot be true,” she whispered. Haviland grew more and more disconcerted by her immobility. He sniffed her again and placed his left front paw on her lap. Absently, she touched the fur on his neck, but her gaze remained on the letter. “It isn’t possible.”

Olivia never drank alcohol until five thirty in the afternoon, but today she didn’t think twice about breaking this custom. She marched out of her office and straight to the bar. Taking down a clean tumbler from Gabe the bartender’s neat row of polished glasses, she poured out two fingers of Chivas Regal, drank it in a single gulp, and refilled. This time, she added a splash of water and carried the tumbler back to her office.

Keeping her distance from the letter, she rummaged in a desk drawer until she found a magnifying glass. She then examined every inch of the notebook paper and the envelope from which it came, but found nothing of significance. Next, she turned to the Internet, calling up a map of the North Carolina coast.

Her father had disappeared on his boat after leaving the mouth of Oyster Bay Harbor and entering Pamlico Sound. He could certainly have motored close enough to Wrightsville Beach or the port area of Wilmington, abandoned the boat, and swum ashore. He could have also hopped aboard another fishing vessel and headed out for a long journey in deep waters, but Olivia had always dismissed that theory because it meant that he didn’t want to be found, that he deliberately let his daughter believe that it was the fog and the whiskey and the angry seas that had claimed his life.

She traced the bumpy coastline on the computer screen. Was it possible? Could her father be alive? Could he be as close as Wilmington?

“How do you know who I am?” she asked the anonymous writer angrily, jabbing at the paper with her letter opener. The blade landed near one of the holes, slicing it neatly all the way to the edge. It was satisfying, and for a moment, Olivia was tempted to cut the entire letter to shreds, to stab and slice it until she could convince herself that it had never existed.

“But it does exist and I need to decide what to do about it.” She put the opener away in the drawer and held the letter under the light. “No Harvard graduate here. Either that, or this writer doesn’t proofread.” Missing apostrophes, spelling errors, and the use of capital letters throughout seemed to emphasize her initial reaction about the author; that he or she didn’t put pen to paper very often.

“ ‘He’s been with us for thirty years,’ ” she repeated the line aloud. “Who is ‘us’?” She took a drink. “Who the hell is ‘us’!”

Anger swelled inside her, but she held it in check. She needed to think straight. Why would this person approach her after all this time? Either the letter writer needed money or her father did. When Olivia’s grandmother died, leaving the Limoges oak-barrel fortune to her only relative, Olivia, news of the young woman’s incredible wealth had been in all the papers.

For years, paparazzi kept tabs on her every move, but she had eventually escaped to the one place they wouldn’t bother to track her. She returned home and became a businesswoman, homeowner, and solid member of the community. She no longer jetted around the world, dated famous bachelors, or dressed in haute couture. Therefore, she was no longer interesting to the press, but her name was still well known. People could find Olivia Limoges if they looked hard enough.

“I could risk the money,” she said to Haviland, who was giving her his full attention. “That’s not a problem. I just don’t want to be made a fool of.”

Once again, she turned back to the computer. She did a Google search for RB of Wilmington, North Carolina, but found nothing. However, when she typed the address into the search box, she was directed to a Yellow Page listing. RB’s address was actually a mailbox located in a UPS store.

“That tells me nothing!” she banged on the keyboard in frustration. Downing the rest of her drink, she stood behind her desk chair and grabbed the cushion until her knuckles turned white. “What can I do?”

The poodle grunted and turned in circles by the door. He was ready to leave and his mistress’s edginess was wearing on him.

Noting Haviland’s discomfort, Olivia grabbed the letter, shoved it back into the envelope, and turned off the office lights. “There’s only one person who can advise me about this enigma. Come along, Captain. Off to the police station.”

When they pulled into the police station parking lot, Haviland yipped in excitement. He was very fond of Greta, Oyster Bay’s attractive canine officer. The two dogs had met on several occasions and had always exchanged dignified but affectionate sniffs, nose rubs, and tail wags. Olivia sensed that Haviland had been gravely disappointed when they didn’t run into Greta on Saturday, as she and her fellow officer were out on patrol.

There was no sign of Greta in the police department’s lobby and the female officer manning the reception desk had her hands full with a truculent tourist. The furious man waved a parking ticket while releasing a torrent of insults. Though the officer did her best to remain composed, it was clear that she wouldn’t stay calm much longer.

Suddenly, the red-faced man tore the ticket into tiny pieces and threw them on the counter, jabbing his index finger inches away from the woman’s face. The officer’s eyes blazed with indignation. She picked up her phone and requested backup. Taking advantage of the distraction, Olivia opened the door to a hallway. She and Haviland slipped inside and hurried past office doors until they reached the one bearing Sawyer Rawlings’ name in brass.

Olivia knocked and waited.

“This had better be good,” Rawlings growled from within. When he saw Olivia and Haviland, a mixture of surprise and delight replaced his sullen expression.

“Don’t get up,” Olivia said as Rawlings moved to stand. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I know the local press has gotten wind of your case and you must be very busy.”

“I wish there was something for me to be busy doing.” Rawlings was obviously irked. “We still have no ID for our victim and no matching dental records either. I’m going to have to ask for the public’s help and I can’t tell you how many fruitcakes will call or drop by the second the television announcement runs.” He waved at the window. “Everyone with a Superman complex will line up in the lobby.”

Without waiting to be asked, Olivia sat in one of the two chairs facing the chief’s tidy desk. “I take it the medical examiner’s report provided no additional clues.”

“Only that our victim wasn’t drugged.” Rawlings picked up a rubber band and wound it around his thumb and index finger. “There was duct tape residue on his neck, implying that a bag was taped over his head long enough to cause him to lose consciousness. Before burying the victim in the sand, the killer tried to remove all signs of the tape but missed a few pieces.”

Olivia tried to push away the picture forming in her mind of a man fighting desperately to breathe, his lips drawing in plastic while his frantic exhalations fogged up the bag, blurring the movements of his attacker. “Run-of-the-mill silver duct tape?”

Rawlings nodded. “Yes. Even if I got a record of every duct tape sale over the last thirty days from Hampton’s Hardware, there are still dozens of places across the county to buy the stuff. Grocery stores, auto parts centers, gas stations.” He ran a hand over his cheek, pausing to rub an area of stubble he’d missed while shaving that morning.

“I wish I could tell you that I was here because I had useful information, but I don’t.” Olivia withdrew the envelope from her purse. “My visit is purely selfish. I’d like your opinion on this if you can spare the time.”

The lines on Rawlings’ forehead deepened as he accepted the letter. He paused, and Olivia knew he was seeing something in her face he’d never seen there before. Sorrow, carefully tucked away for many years, surfaced in her dark blue eyes.

She could feel him nearly reach for her hand, but when she gazed at the lined paper in his grasp, he turned his attention to the words written in bold black ink.

When he was finished, he didn’t speak right away but turned to the window and stared out at the purple crape myrtle trees lining the parking lot.

“The author of this letter is interested in money,” he said eventually. “If you give him the initial payment, he will ask for more.” He laced his fingers together and looked at Olivia. “Do you think there’s a possibility that this claim is true? That your father is alive and possibly unwell?”

Hesitating, Olivia smoothed out the letter’s envelope in her lap. She didn’t answer for a long time. “I do. I think someone recently discovered that he and I are related and decided to profit from that knowledge. For example, my father could be in a hospital where one of his nurses figured out our connection.” She pointed at the letter. “This person wrote me because my father is sick. That strikes me as being the truth.”

Rawlings considered this theory. “Not a nurse. Someone with less education.” he said. “So we’re assuming that your father has been lying low for thirty years?”

“Yes,” Olivia answered through tight lips.

“Without filing for taxes or leaving a paper trail of any kind.” The chief appeared impressed. “Your grandmother hired a private investigator to search for him, didn’t she?”

“Several. They all came up empty-handed. My father’s boat was found adrift with all his gear aboard. I don’t see how he could make a living without that trawler.” Her memory strayed back to the night she’d pushed the little dingy away from the hull of her father’s boat, away from his rage and his raised fist, the hate in his black eyes and the stink of whiskey on his breath. “They found several empty liquor bottles on board. Everyone came to the conclusion he’d drowned. He was an alcoholic. He was depressed. And that night, he was raving. I could see him—have often imagined him—losing his balance and pitching backward into the ocean.”

Rawlings sat very still. “Thereby acquiring peace.”

Olivia nodded, her throat tight with emotion. “I know he felt responsible for my mother’s death. I did too. He couldn’t run away from the guilt, but he tried. He took long fishing trips, leaving me alone at home. I preferred to have him at sea, because when he was around, our little house was too small for his grief, the whiskey, and my mother’s ghost.”

Now Rawlings did come around his desk. He sat down in the chair next to Olivia, his knees touching hers. He put a large, warm hand over her thinner, colder one. “I can see that you want to answer this letter, but as your friend, I have to warn you against doing so. Let’s say that your father is alive and you pay thousands of dollars to discover his whereabouts. You rush to his bedside and then what? What are you hoping for?”

“I don’t know!” Olivia’s reply held anger, but it was not directed at Rawlings. “Maybe I want to have a copy of his medical history so I can see what I’ve got in store! Maybe I want the chance to call him a bastard to his face before he dies. Maybe I want to spit in his face and ask him what kind of man leaves a little girl all alone day after day and then, one day, abandons her forever!”

Horrified to notice that tears wet her cheeks, Olivia pulled her hand out from under the chief’s and turned away.

“You want the truth,” he finished her thought, his tone quiet and soothing. “Even if it opens old wounds or causes fresh ones. You want the truth, no matter what the cost.”

Her eyes met his. Olivia nodded, grateful for both his words and his gentleness. He understood. He understood everything. “Just promise me one thing,” he said. “If this turns out to be a hoax and we’re able to track down the letter writer, then you hand him or her over to me. If there ends up being no truth, then I will give you something else. Justice.”

She could have kissed him then. His entire body was radiating a righteous authority and his eyes gleamed with conviction, the muddy brown alive with glints of gold. And she knew at that moment that he would do a great deal to defend and to protect her and that something had changed between them on this day.

She had laid herself bare to Rawlings and he had treated her naked emotions with care.

Reclaiming the letter from his desk, Olivia was afraid to look at him again for fear he’d see that she was, at that moment in time, completely in awe of him. Instead, she put her palm on his forearm and let it linger there for a brief second, before rising and pulling open his office door. “I’ll see you Saturday, Chief. Thank you for your time.”

As she walked away Olivia sensed that she had stirred something inside Rawlings, something that might have been lying dormant in the depths of his heart for a long time.

She wondered, glancing at the purple crape myrtle blooms beneath his window, what would become of this newfound longing between them.

Chapter 5

There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something. You certainly usually find something, if you look, but it is not always quite the something you were after.

—J. R. R. TOLKIEN

Olivia told no one else about the letter. She put it away in a desk drawer at home, beneath a utility bill. Even though it was out of sight, the letter called to her. Whenever she sat down at the desk to work on her manuscript, her concentration was completely ruined by the knowledge of what sat in her bill drawer.

Until she had found the body on the beach, Olivia had been making steady progress on her novel, becoming fully immersed in her fictionalized version of Egypt during the reign of Ramses the Second. But neither her character, a concubine named Kamila, nor the charisma of the famous Nineteenth Dynasty pharaoh could draw Olivia’s attention from the letter.

Finally, on Friday, she took the envelope from the drawer, yanked out the single piece of paper, and read the scant lines though she already knew every word by heart. Her computer screen was covered by images of the clothing and jewelry worn by the nobility of Ancient Egypt, but Olivia closed every website window and began a new search. She knew the pull of her novel wasn’t strong enough to distract her from the letter and that she needed to take action. In this case, Olivia required the services of the sharpest private investigator in Wilmington.

After researching several firms, she made a decision, picked up the phone, and asked to speak to the agency’s owner. Coming right to the point, Olivia explained that she wanted eyes on a particular mailbox housed in The UPS Store.

“I want photographs of this RB person. I want a background check. I want to know where he lives, the details of his family life, his profession, and what he does in his spare time. I want a week’s worth of information on this man so that by the time you’ve cashed my sizable check, I’ll feel like I’ve known him my whole life,” Olivia directed.

When the investigator probed her for more explanation, the only response Olivia gave was, “Let’s just say that he’s invited me to make an investment, and before I send him money, I need to learn what kind of man I’d be dealing with.”

Olivia could tell the PI wasn’t convinced, but he was wise enough not to push the matter. It was an easy, low-risk assignment and would bring in much-needed revenue.

“I’ll pay you half of your fee up front,” Olivia offered quickly. “But I want your promise that you’ll handle this job yourself. I read about the profiling classes you took and I want your take on this man. No one else’s will suffice.”

Assurances were given and she was transferred to a secretary who took her credit card number and billing information. Olivia hung up the phone in higher spirits. Hiring the detective had allowed her to regain a sense of control. She folded the letter, tucked it back into its envelope, and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves flanking the stone fireplace.

After studying the books for several moments, she took down a hardcover called Snow Flower and the Secret Fan and slipped the letter between its pages. Since the novel centered on a series of secret letters written in code on a Japanese fan, Olivia found the book an appropriate hiding place for her troublesome missive.

She then replenished her empty coffee cup and gave Haviland a kiss on his cool black nose, feeling ready to devote her complete attention to her character’s dilemma. Kamila’s sycophantic aunt had given the young concubine to the pharaoh’s sandal bearer as though she were chattel, when in truth she was an intelligent young woman and a skilled dancer. Told by the other concubines that her only chance to secure a future in the palace was to bear Pharaoh a child, Kamila waited to be called to the king’s bed.

Olivia had written to the scene where the Living God finally requested Kamila’s presence. She now needed to describe the young woman’s failure to seduce mighty Ramses.

Kamila had been meticulously prepared for a night of lovemaking with the king. Servants had washed and waxed her, rubbed and oiled her, perfumed her wig, and clothed her in a linen shift so fine that it appeared to have been spun out of filaments of mist. One of Pharaoh’s eunuchs came to collect Kamila. The other concubines and lesser wives tittered excitedly as she was led away, but Kamila trembled behind the giant mute as he led her through the cool passageways. Their shadows rippled on the walls and a thousand fears coursed through Kamila’s mind. Would the Living God be gentle or would he pin her down on the sleeping couch, his regal hands encircling her wrists and squeezing, tighter and tighter, as his desire grew? Would her inexperience repulse or delight him? The other girls spoke boldly of Ramses’ skill as an adept lover. Surely the act could not be painful if they wanted to repeat it even after bearing the king a son. Ramses was seated on a gilded stool examining a papyrus drawing when Kamila entered the chamber. She prostrated herself before the Lord of the Two Lands but he quickly bade her rise, dismissed the eunuch, and gestured for her to approach his royal person. He was tall and muscular with a firm jaw and a strong nose. His eyes were dark as night in the dim chamber, but he smiled at her kindly and she was finally able to breathe. “I have been anxiously awaiting these plans. This is how I shall improve upon the temple of Amun-Re,” he told her, gesturing at the scroll. “Would you like to see?” Kamila crept closer to the man, curiosity overwhelming her unease. She forced her gaze from his noble profile to the drawing laid out before him. “It is magnificent! The gods will be very pleased!” she declared a trifle too loudly, but Ramses laughed. “I have lost much sleep over this project.” He stared at the plans again. “And because of other cares as well.” His eyes slid to her face. “Tell me. How do you find sleep when you are troubled?” Kamila flushed. She hadn’t expected the king to ask her such an intimate question, but she answered truthfully. “I sing to myself, Great One. Always the same tune. It was my mother’s favorite song. My voice is not as lovely as hers, but as I grow older I sound more and more like her.” Ramses turned from her and stretched out on the sleeping couch. Folding his arms over his chest, he closed his eyes and commanded, “Sing it for me.” For a moment, Kamila didn’t move. This was not what she had expected, but a command was a command. Softly, she began to sing. “The lotus petals come floating past/ carried in the river’s arms/ the reeds whisper a tale to me/ and the ibis flies where I cannot go/ but I have fields to tend and oxen to lead/ the soil is more precious than lapis stones . . .” Kamila trailed off, her mind skipping to the next stanza in which the farmer touches the freshly turned earth and knows he is blessed to be an Egyptian. Omitting the words, she softly hummed the melody instead, seeing that the king had fallen asleep. She hummed until the candle burned low. Silently, the eunuch reappeared and beckoned for her to exit the chamber. He led her to her own pallet in a room filled with the sighs and stirrings of sleeping women and then left, noiseless as a breath of air. Kamila’s friend, Mery, was a very light sleeper. The moment Kamila curled up on her pallet, Mery sat up on an elbow and whispered, “Well? Did you please him?” Kamila closed her heavy eyes. “I do not know.” Mery reached over and touched Kamila’s hand. “There will be another time. You’re one of the most beautiful women in the entire palace.” “I need to be more than that. The king is surrounded by beauty. I must offer him something he does not have in excess, but what do I give that would please one who owns everything?” Kamila asked miserably and then, hearing no reply from her perplexed friend, fell into a troubled sleep.

Olivia’s fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard. Ramses sent for Kamila twice more and each night she sang him to sleep, acting the part of nursemaid instead of lover. One day, the king and his retinue abruptly left the palace to meet with a team of architects and stonemasons at Karnak. Unsure of what Kamila would do in the pharaoh’s absence, Olivia saved what she’d written and closed the file.

Stretching her arms over her head, she wondered if there was enough time to read the chief’s chapter before heading out to her lunch date. She had requested a meeting with an agent from Coastal Realty. The Realtor, a polished, seventy-year-old matron named Millicent Banks, promised to bring Olivia a file folder stuffed with documents pertaining to the crumbling warehouse on the waterfront.

“I could probably critique two pages before I have to go,” Olivia said, removing the stapled packet Rawlings had distributed to the Bayside Book Writers last Saturday. The chief had already confessed that his book was yet untitled so she searched for the beginning of chapter one. However, the first two pages were stuck together and as Olivia peeled them apart, she realized they were identical. Flipping through the packet, she noted that every page was a copy of page one.

Pulling up her online address book, she called Harris at work.

“You got fifteen copies of the same page too, huh?” Harris laughed. “I guess we’re all busted for putting off our critique homework ’til this late in the week. Millay called me at two in the morning to tell me about the duplicate pages. I figured she’d get a hold of Rawlings and set him straight. Personally, I don’t have the guts to dial the chief of police’s number just to point out that he screwed up.”

“Not phoning a policeman in the middle of the night sounds less like courage and more like self-preservation to me,” Olivia remarked.

“I think Millay likes to talk a big game, but I bet she’d do it if someone dared her.” Harris was quick to defend the attractive bartender.

Olivia decided to change the subject. “Did Millay happen to mention whether she’d heard about any missing persons? The chief still hasn’t been able to identify the body I found on the Point.”

Harris yawned loudly. “Sorry. I’m trying to remember what else she said. I was in the middle of this crazy dream where trolls were tearing apart my high school when she called. That’s what happens when you create fantasy settings all day long. You start seeing the images in your sleep.” He paused. “But no, she hasn’t had word from her regulars about anyone having gone AWOL. There’s been plenty of talk about the murder though. Even here at work, where most of us are total ostriches and have no idea what’s going on in the outside world, people are coming up with all kinds of crazy theories.”

“At least the story didn’t break until Monday. Most of the tourists were packing up by the time they saw the headlines in the Gazette,” Olivia said, recalling the media coverage of the past week. The local news channels had done their best to spin the story into as many segments as they could, but by Thursday night, it was clear there was no fresh information to convey.

There was also a hotter news topic to cover, being that Tropical Storm Ophelia was now speeding northeast toward the North Carolina coast. The meteorologists called for rain beginning on Saturday with high wind gusts due in by Sunday morning. A team of experts, all of whom had come up with a bevy of scientific-sounding excuses as to why they’d called for the storm to move northwest into the Atlantic, was now falling all over themselves to predict the height of the storm surge and total amount of rainfall Ophelia would produce.

Despite her own interest in the storm, as she’d have to determine whether to close The Boot Top and plan what she and Havilland would eat once they lost power, Olivia had been wondering if the police department’s appeal for help had garnered anything useful. Now, Rawlings’ incomplete chapter gave her the perfect excuse to contact the chief.

Olivia realized she hadn’t been paying attention to Harris, who was prattling on about his latest software development. She tuned in just in time to hear his description of how the trees he created could come to life and grab video game warriors in their clawlike branches. “Oh! Oh crap!” He sounded alarmed. “I’ve gotta run! There’s a major bug in this code! My tree just ripped an elf in half. Elves are supposed to be immune to nature attacks!”

“Sounds serious,” Olivia sympathized and, after wishing Harris good luck, tried to reach the chief. Unfortunately, Rawlings was unavailable and Olivia didn’t feel like leaving a message. She sent him a quick e-mail instead, requesting that he send an attachment containing his chapter in its entirety. Otherwise, tomorrow’s meeting will be extremely brief, she added. She cc’d the rest of the Bayside Book Writers so no one else harassed Rawlings over his missing pages.

As she drove into town for her lunch meeting, Olivia wondered how Laurel’s interview had gone. Olivia was surprised by her own interest in the subject. She wasn’t used to being intimately involved in other people’s personal lives, but she felt protective of Laurel and wanted the younger woman to succeed.

“I guess she didn’t get the job or we would have heard from her by now,” Olivia said to Haviland.

The poodle glanced at her and then stuck his head back out the open passenger window, his tongue unrolling from between his lips like a length of pink carpet. The humidity had dropped, the powerful September sun was obscured by a thick cloud cover, and the salt-tinged air clearly appealed to Haviland.

“Don’t worry, Captain, your day is only going to get better from here on out.” Olivia parked in the loading zone in front of Beach Burgers. “Guess where we’re having lunch.”

Haviland pawed his seat belt and barked. The moment Olivia released the belt, he leapt through the open car window and waited impatiently on the sidewalk for Olivia to collect her purse and briefcase. Prancing beside her, Haviland displayed his best grin to all the passersby, receiving dozens of compliments from the townsfolk. The only person who seemed displeased to see him was Millicent Banks, the Realtor.

“I’d heard that your pooch accompanies you everywhere, but I put that down as rumor,” Millicent said as she plastered on her professional smile.

“He goes where I go. Think of him as my benevolent shadow. At least no one will try to steal your purse while he’s around.” The Realtor unconsciously held on to her Chanel clutch a little tighter as Olivia turned away to tell the café’s hostess they’d like a patio table.

Millicent blanched. “Are you sure? It’s still rather hot, even though that nice wind from the incoming storm has chased away the humidity.”

“Trust me, it’s much hotter inside. The kitchen’s open and the heat from the fryers has no place else to go but into the dining room,” Olivia assured her. “In any case, I try to dine al fresco whenever Haviland is with me. People find it less offensive to eat near an animal when he’s outside,” she explained. “Haviland probably has better table manners than most of their children, but I try to be discreet about serving him his meal around two-legged patrons.”

Millicent curled her lip in distaste but quickly tried to hide her face with her menu before her client noticed. Olivia knew the Realtor tried to please all prospective clients. Millicent’s motto wasn’t “You can bank on Millicent!” for nothing. Olivia could only assume Millicent had heard of Olivia’s fondness for historic properties and planned to milk that angle for all it was worth. If Olivia wanted to buy a dilapidated warehouse so be it. “I brought all the documents you requested,” Millicent said after they’d ordered. She then casually passed Olivia a legal-sized manila folder. “This building has quite a colorful past.”

“As do all interesting ladies,” Olivia said with a wry grin.

Millicent squeezed lemon into her iced tea. “During the late eighteen hundreds, it was a turpentine warehouse. Things were chugging merrily along until a careless foreman started a fire that destroyed half the place and both of the neighboring structures. I read an old newspaper clipping stating that five men died in the blaze.”

“Must have been a difficult conflagration to handle with a bucket brigade,” Olivia commented while accepting her pepper jack and barbeque bacon burger from the waitress.

Millicent wasn’t going to be sidetracked by Victorian methods of fire fighting. She continued with her history lesson. “The building was repaired and became a cotton mill. It was well maintained right into the next century.” She consulted her notes. “In the mid-1950s it housed a plumbing supply business and in the seventies, was sold and divided into various retail spaces. One business bought out most of the leases and didn’t close its doors until the year two thousand.”

Olivia was hooked. Setting aside her food, she flipped through pages in the folder and felt the excitement of a new project beginning to rise. “I wasn’t living in Oyster Bay at that time. What did the most recent retailer sell?”

Blushing, Millicent fiddled with her iced tea spoon. “The products? Well, they were, ah, goodness!” She clasped her hands primly on the table. “I believe they sold lingerie and, ah, adult toys and things of that nature.”

“My, my.” Olivia was amused. She held up a photograph of the building. “This old lady does have a colorful past.”

Ignoring the remark, Millicent pushed her fork around her Cobb salad. “The town wanted to convert the structure into a small performing arts center, but in the end, it proved to be less expensive to build something from the ground up.” She frowned. “It’s a shame the Historic Society couldn’t act, but they just don’t have much of a budget and there are so many buildings in need of preservation.”

Olivia’s gaze returned to the photograph of the wood and brick building. The basic shape was perfect—a long rectangle with a giant bank of windows facing the water. She could easily envision an expansive second-story deck filled with wrought-iron tables, potted plants, and fairy lights. A live band could play inside on weekends with acoustic ensembles entertaining patrons during lunch and weekday meals. Before she got too occupied by images of checkered tablecloths and disposable lobster bibs, however, she needed to know whether the building was truly salvageable.

“What happened to the last deal?” she asked Millicent. “When I first examined the building, there was a ‘Sold’ sign out front. And please be straightforward. The absolute truth is important to me.”

Millicent looked affronted. “I wouldn’t dream of sugarcoating my reply, Ms. Limoges.” She immediately softened her tone. “The warehouse was to be turned into luxury loft apartments, but when the investors saw what it would cost to make the transformation, they backed out. No one felt the permanent residents of Oyster Bay would be willing to spend that kind of money on a monthly lease. They also agreed that the average tourist preferred to rent a vacation home or condo within walking distance to the beach.”

The explanation sounded plausible. “So it had nothing to do with the integrity of the building? Did they plan to renovate the original structure or tear it down and start from scratch?”

“As far as I know, they were going to work with what they had.” Millicent dabbed her lips with her napkin and pushed her nearly untouched salad bowl away. “But the total estimate was no small sum. Revitalizing this building is not a project for the faint of heart,” she said, showing Olivia that she was on her side. “Of course, this isn’t your first time handling a major project such as this. Look at how you transformed so many of our empty storefronts. Thanks to you, I now have a new favorite dress shop.”

Though the Realtor was laying it on a bit thick, Olivia didn’t mind feeling a little pleased when it came to the part she played in reshaping the town. “We’ve got to collect every hard-earned tourist dollar we can. Something’s got to tide us over during the winter months.” She removed the bun from a plain hamburger, cut the meat into bite-sized pieces, and set the plate on the ground near her left foot. Haviland, who had been pretending to doze in the shade of Olivia’s chair, crept up to the dish and daintily wolfed down his lunch.

“Yes, indeed,” Millicent agreed. “At least we have the Cardboard Regatta coming up. Used to be the town was empty from Labor Day to May Day, but I cannot believe how many people will fill up the hotels again just for the chance to race their little handmade boats. I do hope Ophelia has come and gone in time.”

Olivia closed the folder and stuffed it in her purse. She took out her wallet and signaled for the waitress. “I’m going to have my contractor go over every inch of this property as soon as the storm passes. Assuming he gives me a good report and the warehouse manages to survive Ophelia, I’ll stop by your office and we can draw up an offer.” Olivia reached across the table and shook Millicent’s hand. “Thank you for joining me for lunch. If I’d known you weren’t fond of burgers I would have chosen another venue. This place isn’t exactly known for their salads.”

“Oh, my salad was perfectly fine. I’m just trying to watch my figure,” Millicent lied grandly. “I look forward to hearing from you when we’re done being battered about by Ophelia.”

The Realtor walked away and Olivia imagined the older woman was already dreaming of how she’d spend the sizable commission she’d make off the deal. Olivia didn’t mind. In fact, she admired Millicent’s ambition and hoped to have the same amount of pluck in thirty years’ time.

Olivia decided to let Haviland chase pigeons in the park before hitting the grocery store followed by a latte at Bagels ’n’ Beans. She settled on a bench in the shelter of a mammoth magnolia tree and took out her latest purchase from Flynn’s bookstore, Sharon Kay Penman’s The Reckoning. As Haviland explored the fascinating scents at the base of every shrub, tree, and light post, Olivia quickly lost herself in the story of Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, the thirteenth-century Welsh prince.

She was so immersed in the novel that the ringing of her cell phone seemed incongruent with Penman’s descriptions of stone castle walls and heavy bed hangings.

“I could chose to ignore you,” she warned the phone before checking the caller ID, but seeing that the number belonged to Laurel, Olivia answered. “Do you have news?” she asked her friend.

“Yes!” Laurel managed to encapsulate fear, joy, and exhilaration into a single word. “It’s wonderful! And it’s horrible! I’m a mess!”

Olivia grinned. “You got the job.”

“I got the job,” Laurel squeaked in excitement. “They just told me. But it’s only on a provisional basis. I need to prove myself over the next few weeks. How am I going to do that? My silly articles on how to get stains out of your clothes or the best play areas for toddlers will hardly dazzle the editor and they’ve already got three reporters covering the storm!”

“Why don’t you interview your neighbor?” Olivia suggested. “The one who was robbed? Everyone likes to read about local crimes. But you should do it soon. Everyone will be busy preparing for the storm before long.”

Laurel gasped. “You’re so brilliant! They say that crime pays. Let’s see if it can get me paid too!” She hesitated. “Listen, Olivia, I know it’s a lot to ask, but I haven’t interviewed anyone since high school and the articles I wrote back then focused on the captains of the sports teams and the homecoming queens. This is so much more serious. Will you come with me?”

Normally, Olivia would have turned Laurel down flat without the slightest tinge of regret, but she was curious about the burglary and wanted to hear the victim’s account firsthand. “I’ll pretend to be your cameraman. Just this once. And, Laurel, we’d better go tomorrow before the rain moves in.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Laurel squealed. “I’ll call my friend and set it up.” Another pause. “Um, do you have a decent digital camera?”

Olivia let loose a wry chuckle before agreeing to bring a camera with her as well. Laurel obviously recognized she’d pushed her friend far enough and quickly hung up.

Whistling for Haviland, Olivia led him back to the car. “Change of plan, Captain. We’re driving to New Bern to buy a congratulations-on-maybe-getting-a-job gift for Laurel, that sweet nitwit.”

Haviland panted and rolled his eyes.

Olivia removed a water jug from the back of the Range Rover and filled the poodle’s travel dish while Haviland cast a longing glance in the direction of the park. “The squirrels will still be there when we return, Captain. They have an uncanny ability to make it through the worst weather conditions.” She gazed at the mothers pushing strollers, the elderly couples reading newspapers on the wooden benches, and the occasional jogger sailing beneath the green canopy of the park’s mature trees, and frowned in concern. “I can only hope the people of Oyster Bay are as fortunate.”

Chapter 6

But what is the difference between literature and journalism? Journalism is unreadable and literature is not read.

—OSCAR WILDE

No one heard back from Rawlings that Friday, but Olivia and the Bayside Book Writers nearly forgot about their next meeting in light of new concerns regarding the impending storm. Over the course of the night, Ophelia shrugged off her title of tropical storm. Now a category two hurricane, she gained the undivided attention of the residents living on the coasts of North Carolina and Virginia.

Upon waking Saturday morning, Olivia switched on the television and listened to three different updates on Ophelia. She ate breakfast during the hurricane expert’s report, fed Haviland while glancing at the amateur footage taken by a resident of the Bahamas, and sank back down in the chair to listen to the Air Force Reserve pilot’s exciting narrative as he steered a Lockheed Martin WC-130J into the hurricane’s eye.

By nine, Olivia was still unable to tear her gaze away from the slow, spinning wheel of green on the television screen. She sipped her coffee and watched the meteorologist point to the projected path, which was highlighted in red. The crimson hue reminded Olivia of a biblical plague. It seemed that every inch of the state’s coastline had been marked by the ominous dye.

The local meteorologists predicted landfall would occur in Oyster Bay late Monday night, depending on whether the hurricane maintained its current velocity. With wind gusts already measuring close to one hundred miles per hour, any nonresidents would soon evacuate and many of the locals would flee too, relocating to the homes of family and friends farther inland.

“We’re staying right here,” Olivia told Haviland. After all, her girlhood had been punctuated by season after season of tropical storms, hurricanes, and nor’easters. She’d clear out if the hurricane increased to a category four or five, but she wouldn’t budge for anything less. Her decision would come across as strange or downright foolish to some, seeing as her own mother was killed in the midst of a hurricane, but Olivia believed hers was a tragedy resulting from a lack of judgment. Her mother had taken an unnecessary risk by driving into town to fetch the puppy she’d gotten her daughter for her birthday and had paid the ultimate price. Olivia would never disrespect the destructive power of a storm by leaving the shelter of her home. Then again, Olivia had no one for whom she would demonstrate such an enormous act of devotion, except perhaps Haviland.

As though summoned by her thoughts, the poodle came to Olivia’s side and nudged her leg. He was ready for their morning walk.

She leaned over to kiss him on the bridge of his nose. “Have you forgotten what we found last Saturday?”

Clearly unconcerned by recollections of the fetid odor, Haviland rushed to the sliding glass door leading to the back deck and to the path through the dunes. Olivia let him out and then collected her Bounty Hunter and knapsack from an unlocked outdoor storage closet. She examined her metal detector absently for a moment, recalling how relieved she was when one of Rawlings’ officers returned it to her. The tool provided her with a mindless hobby, allowing her to collect many years’ worth of interesting trinkets. Very few were valuable, but every one was precious to Olivia.

“I wonder what new treasures the storm will unearth?” she asked the poodle.

Olivia’s home was built on a bluff and had been designed to withstand the variety of tempests pushed onshore by the Atlantic Ocean. The raised deck jutted out over a lawn of sharp grass and sand and was supported by reinforced wooden pylons. From roof to floor, the entire structure was anchored into the foundation and the mammoth windows were made of impact glass. The best builders in the region had fitted it with hurricane shutters, exterior doors that opened outward, and a detached garage.

“The only thing that’s going to bother us will be cabin fever,” Olivia predicted as she and Haviland set out on their stroll.

The morning air felt oddly still. There were no gulls or sandpipers haunting the shore, and the crabs had scuttled back to their burrows hours ago. By this time on a September morning, Olivia was usually in town or working on her novel, but on this Saturday, she meandered up the beach, barely paying attention to the metal detector’s chirps and bleeps. Eventually, she discarded the machine altogether, leaving it and her backpack in the lee of a dune.

Haviland spent a great deal of time sniffing the air and Olivia knew he sensed a shift in the weather. Even the waves were strangely subdued, curling gently onto the shore, as though to apologize for the relentless aggressors they were soon to become.

Olivia’s cell phone rang from the pocket of her sweatpants. It wasn’t her habit to bring it along on walks, but after the discovery of the buried corpse last week, she decided to keep it close.

“Ms. Limoges? Will Hamilton here. I’ve got some preliminary information for you.”

Olivia was impressed. The private investigator worked fast. “My reception isn’t great, but please go on.”

“The mailbox in question belongs to a Mr. Rodney Burkhart. He has a home T-shirt printing business called Big Rod’s Tees and uses The UPS Store mailbox as his company address. I’ve seen his shirts around town. They all feature fishermen surrounded by busty girls and make a play on the phrase ‘big rod.’ Word is they’re selling like hot cakes all over the country. Burkhart’s had to hire a pair of students from UNC Wilmington just to keep up with the orders.”

“So it would appear that he’s financially secure?” Olivia asked, befuddled. Rodney Burkhart didn’t seem like a man in desperate need of cash.

Hamilton said, “I need to do some more digging, ma’am. I haven’t gotten a look at our guy’s personal life yet, but I’m heading over to his place now. I should have more for you by Monday. I’ll do as much recon as I can before Ophelia shuts us down. I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you.” Olivia put the phone back into her pocket and continued to amble, her mind churning. What connection could a T-shirt printer have to her father? Perhaps Rodney’s wife worked in a nursing home or hospital. Maybe she was the mastermind behind the blackmail and her husband was merely the messenger.

Her languid mood spoiled by unanswered questions, Olivia abruptly stopped, turned around, and whistled for Haviland to follow her back to where she’d left the Bounty Hunter.

By the time she reached the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, she was ready for a midmorning snack but decided to delay satisfying her hunger in order to assess what kind of storm damage the older building might incur when Ophelia got closer.

Unlike Olivia’s house, the cottage was built on a rise much closer to the ocean and faced potential flooding if the wind pushed the waves far enough up the beach. Olivia’s girlhood home had been completely overhauled last summer and the four-room, shotgun-style structure was now a community meeting place. From Alcoholics Anonymous to the Girl Scouts, all sorts of groups made use of the comfortable living room, kitchen, and conference room. Once a member signed up for a time slot on the town’s website, they were told that the key to the front door was kept in the mouth of a ceramic frog near the welcome mat. Truthfully, the place could have remained unlocked. There was nothing to steal except for some kitchenware and a few small appliances, but Olivia didn’t want to run the risk of having it vandalized by inebriated teenagers.

Still, she was surprised to find the front door wide open. Someone had raised the living room windows and the sound of muffled music drifted through the holes in the screens. Olivia assumed a member of the Bayside Book Writers was in the cottage, for Saturdays were reserved exclusively for their use. Though their group didn’t meet until late afternoon or evening, Olivia found that the cottage provided the perfect blend of industry and tranquility and had therefore opened the space for her writer friends’ use.

“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 indicative 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.