A Deadly Cliche

“No, they were quite neat. The jewelry they didn’t want was placed back into the box. It makes me think they had plenty of time to sit here and calmly sift through our stuff.” Christina was growing angrier as the interview progressed. “I can replace the things they took, except for the artwork, so it’s not the financial loss that upsets me. It’s the thought of someone touching my things.” She looked away. “At night, I swear I can feel their presence. It’s as if they were still here. Having strangers in my house, picking and choosing, sitting on my bed, going through my closet . . . It’s hard not to feel like my entire home has been tainted.”

Laurel put her notebook aside and took Christina’s hand. “How awful! Did you install a security system afterward?”

Christina nodded. “Top of the line. I would have gotten a pack of pit bulls if my children didn’t have pet allergies.” She smiled wryly. “Between you and me though, I don’t believe lightning will strike twice. Those guys are long gone and our stuff is in some dingy pawnshop somewhere. End of story.”

Sensing the interview was drawing to a close, Laurel made a few more queries about the stolen art and then gestured around the room. “Your home is spotless! Do you use a cleaning service?”

“We have a woman who comes in once a week.” Christina’s look of pride turned to an affronted frown. “But she had nothing to do with this. She’s been with us for years and is absolutely trustworthy.”

Laurel held up her hands, palms facing out. “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that she wasn’t. I’m just trying to establish a connection between the two area robberies. From what I read in the paper, similar items were taken from their home, so I was wondering if your two families shared a cleaning or lawn service or whether you’d recently hired the same electrician or plumber or another type of workman.”

Olivia felt like giving her friend a thumbs-up. Laurel was digging deeper by searching for a common denominator. At that moment, she seemed every inch the investigative reporter.

Christina was impressed by the question as well. “I can e-mail you a list,” she said. “There has to be some way the thieves knew the house would be empty that weekend. It’s worth a look. Thank you, Laurel.” She rose and began to walk toward the front door.

“I’d like to photograph that carving knife, if you don’t mind.” Olivia did her best to sound subservient. She knew that the Gazette readers would be interested in the description of the melted butter but suspected Christina wasn’t keen on having that detail publicized. Quickly, she added, “And a shot of you too. I want to capture your resilience and show people how this episode made you angry, but not fearful.”

Nodding, Christina led her guests to the kitchen and removed the knife from a drawer. She took the covered glass butter dish from the refrigerator and set it on the counter. Removing the lid, she eased the knife into the middle of the stick of butter. “I figure they set it up like this and then when the butter melted the knife fell to the side.” She turned to Laurel as Olivia focused her camera on the tableau. “They were so tidy elsewhere. They even cleaned up the glass from where they broke the pane in the back door.”

“Fastidious and particular,” Olivia mumbled.

Laurel walked to the picture window and peered out. “Were your neighbors home that weekend?”

Christina shrugged. “Yes, on both sides, but no one saw anything unusual.”

The women fell silent. The pewter-hued sky hung low, creating a sense that it was much later in the day. The mood had shifted and it was apparent each of the women longed to be alone with her thoughts.

Laurel wisely thanked Christina for her time, assuring her neighbor that she’d be in touch and to trust in the doggedness of the Oyster Bay Police Department’s chief.

Back in the Range Rover, Haviland carried on as though Olivia had been gone for hours. Once he finally settled down and Olivia was able to speak over his petulant yipping, she eyed Laurel keenly.

“You seem to have a plan.”

“I do. I’m going to interview the other robbery victims and look for connections. If I help solve the case, the Gazette will take me on as a staff writer for sure!”

Olivia considered the possibility of the former cheerleader cracking the investigation wide open and tried not to grin. After all, she could be witnessing the birth of a gritty and determined Laurel, and Olivia would do anything in her power to help her friend emerge from her suburban cocoon and soar into the open sky.

Driving to The Boot Top, the women exchanged thoughts and theories about the robbery. Olivia raised the possibility of comparing their findings with those in the Oyster Bay police file. “After we interview the other victim that is,” she added.

Laurel raised her brows. “I thought this was a one-time deal.”

Olivia shrugged. “I’ve decided to extend my offer.” Pulling into the restaurant’s parking lot, she reached across the passenger seat and grabbed the gift bag from the floor. “But you’re going to need this for when you truly strike out on your own.”

Her light blue eyes sparkling with delight, Laurel peeled back layers of tissue paper, exposing the digital camera Olivia had purchased from Best Buy.

“Oh! This makes me feel so official!” She sniffed and Olivia gave her a suspicious glance. She hated it when Laurel got overly physical. “You are a treasure! I really mean that!” Laurel cried. “Your joining the Bayside Book Writers has changed my life.”

Embarrassed by the compliment, Olivia slid out of the car. “You haven’t achieved job security yet, remember? Let’s save the toasts of gratitude for that moment.”

“I’m not talking about some silly job, Olivia. I’m talking about our friendship.” Laurel followed Olivia, smiling warmly. “It’s not easy to become friends with another woman who honestly wants the best for you. Usually, we women can’t escape our need to compete with each other. To fight about who’s prettier, richer, smarter. Who has cuter kids, a more devoted husband, the lower golf score . . .”

Olivia chuckled. “I’m disqualified from most of those categories, so don’t give me too much credit.”

Laurel put her hand on Olivia’s arm. “No, you’re not. You’re the smartest, most beautiful, most interesting woman I’ve ever met and yet, you see something in me. Me. Stay-at-home mom, former cheerleader, and romance reader. You believe that I can be whatever I choose to be.”

“I do,” Olivia answered and then tugged her friend forward. “Now that we’ve exchanged vows, let’s pick up a few apple sausage pies for you to take home. They heat up nicely and your husband will be delighted with the results of your first cooking class.”

Looking doubtful, Laurel paused to scratch Haviland’s neck. The poodle gave her a toothy grin in gratitude. “Apples and meat together? In a pie?”

Olivia sighed. “Oh dear, you do have lots to learn about food. Come into the kitchen. I think Michel will enjoy giving you a tutorial.”

Leaving Laurel in her chef’s capable hands, Olivia went through to her office and immediately checked her e-mail. There were no messages from Chief Rawlings. Her voice mail was also empty.

“Where the hell are you?” Olivia paced back and forth, trying to suppress her urge to call the station. Finally, she grabbed her cell phone and punched in the main number. When the switchboard operator told Olivia that the chief was off duty, Olivia pressed her for his whereabouts. “It’s important. I have information about one of his open robbery cases,” she said, stretching the truth.

The operator offered to take her number. “This is Olivia Limoges. I’m actually a friend of the chief’s. He’s got my number, but he’s not returning my calls.”

Hesitating, the woman lowered her voice. “Honey, he won’t be talkin’ to anybody today ’cause it’s the anniversary of his wife’s death. He’ll visit her grave and then sit for a long spell in the church. Oyster Bay could be attacked by aliens and the chief isn’t gonna notice. He’s in his own world right now.”

Olivia thanked her and hung up, her mood sour. She tried to tell herself that she was cross because the evening writer’s meeting would now be purely social because they were without Rawlings’ chapter and that it was rude of him not to at least call to say that he wouldn’t attend, but an inner voice said something different. You’re jealous of his dead wife. Sawyer Rawlings may drive a station wagon, wear tacky shirts, and be thick around the middle, but you feel something for him. You feel something and yet he still grieves the loss of his wife—enough to spend an entire day lost in the memories he shared with her.

“No,” she said aloud. “It would be too complicated. I can’t . . .”

Rushing from the office, she strode through the kitchen, told one of the sous-chefs to drive Laurel home, and left through the back door, a befuddled poodle on her heels.

She sped home, stopped the Range Rover in a cloud of sand and dust, and rushed down to the beach. Kicking off her shoes, she ran to the water and waded in to her shins. The wind whipped her short hair and sprayed her limbs with sharp droplets of saltwater.

Olivia had successfully returned to a place of complete solitude, but neither the increasing wind, nor the darkening sky, nor the swelling of an ocean stirred by an offshore hurricane could silence the voice in her head.

You feel something for Sawyer Rawlings.

As the first raindrops began to fall, she lifted her face skyward and surrendered to the truth.

Chapter 7

Why, now blow wind, swell billow, and swim bark! The storm is up, and all is on the hazard.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE’S Julius Caesar

The meeting of the Bayside Book Writers never occurred. Laurel was the first to telephone and give her excuses. With the storm making its presence known in the form of rain and a persistent wind, the young mother felt she’d better say at home and tend to her children and nervous in-laws.

“I’ll be honest with you,” she said in a hushed tone. “Steve also gave me a major guilt-trip over leaving the twins with him and his folks twice in one day.”

Olivia couldn’t suppress a harrumph. “Oh, please. You brought home a gourmet meal, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but I haven’t served it yet.” Laurel sounded much meeker than she had during the interview with Christina Quimby. “Maybe after they taste Michel’s food they’ll start pushing me out the door in the future.”

“Don’t count on it,” Olivia grumbled. “And what about your interview with the other robbery victim? Are you still going to pursue that or are you going to wait for your husband’s permission?”

Stung, Laurel became defensive. “Actually, I’m going next Thursday, once Ophelia’s moved through. It isn’t easy, you know. Lying to my husband.” She paused. “Or trying to keep everyone happy. It’s really very hard.”

Olivia was in no mood to enter into a conversation concerning the problems faced by today’s mothers, so she promised to join her friend on Thursday’s interview and then got off the phone. She knew she had treated Laurel callously, but couldn’t help feeling annoyed by her friend’s vacillating will. Now thoroughly out of sorts, Olivia was relieved when Millay was the next to call and cancel.

“I need to make some money before the bar blows away, so I’m not going to waste time eating mini quiches and sipping vino with you all,” she stated with her usual frankness. “I’d come if there was work to be done, but the chief dropped the ball big-time this week.”

For a moment, Olivia almost explained why the chief had failed to send the group his chapter, but then thought better of it. Let Rawlings keep the anniversary of his wife’s death to himself. He would have to explain his involuntary sabotage of tonight’s meeting to the writer’s group in person. “May your tip jar overflow,” Olivia told Millay.

It didn’t take long for Harris to call and bow out too.

“You don’t need to explain,” Olivia said as soon as she heard his voice. “Everyone else is jumping ship. Honestly, I doubt Rawlings will be ready for next week’s meeting either. With the storm’s arrival and the clean up afterward, he won’t have a second to catch a breath, so we’re going to skip his turn and let Millay go next. She assured me her chapter was almost ready and she’d e-mail an attachment to the group late Sunday evening.”

Harris grunted. “She’d better send it in the morning. I’ve got a Facebook friend who works for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration and he says that Ophelia’s going to double in width over the next twenty-four hours. We’ll lose power by dinnertime.” Pleased to share the insider information, Harris went on to tell Olivia the other natural disasters his cyber-friend had accurately predicted. “I’m glad I live in an apartment away from the water. No need to worry about flooding or downed trees. The power outages will be a drag, but I’m charging two laptops in preparation. After they die, it’ll just be me, a case of Slim Jims, some not-so-cold brewskies, and a fierce game of Risk between me and the guys in 4C.”

It was impossible to be gruff in the face of Harris’s boyish enthusiasm. “Good luck in your pursuit of world domination,” Olivia said. “And don’t underestimate the value of Australia.”

“Never!” Harris agreed. “I will capture the continent in your honor, fair maiden.” He paused. “On a serious note, be careful. If the road from the Point to town floods, you could be stranded for days.”

Touched by his concern, Olivia resisted the urge to lecture him on her high level of self-sufficiency. “Never fear, my friend. I have food, a generator, excellent company, and a five-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle of the Sistine Chapel to work. If Michelangelo hid any codes on that ceiling,” she joked, “I’ll have plenty of time to find them.”

“Man, you are so cool,” Harris declared before hanging up.

Olivia wasn’t ready to hunker down until conditions notably worsened, so she and Haviland drove to The Boot Top. Normally, she’d mill about the restaurant greeting diners and offering wine recommendations. Tonight, however, the hostess had called in sick and Olivia didn’t have enough wait staff to spare.

“I’ll have to be Madeleine for tonight,” she told Haviland apologetically. “And no getting underfoot in the kitchen. Health code violations and all that. You stay in the office if you want to be fed.”

Haviland seemed to focus on the latter phrase. Licking his lips, he trotted into the office and sat on his haunches, gazing with expectant adoration at Michel.

“Madeleine isn’t ill,” Gabe, the barkeep, said to Olivia as he stepped out of the walk-in fridge carrying a tray of lemons, limes, and oranges. “But she’s scared. She has family in Wilson and wanted to drive west before the rain got heavier.”

“It’s a reasonable excuse, but an irritation all the same,” Olivia answered, following Gabe to the bar. “Now I’ll have to man the podium and I don’t possess an ounce of Madeleine’s charm.”

Gabe slid a tumbler filled with Chivas Regal across the polished wood bar. “This might help.” He smiled and Olivia accepted the glass with gratitude. Gabe, who was in his late twenties and looked every inch the sandy-haired surfer that he was, had attracted a loyal following the moment The Boot Top opened its doors. At first, the area’s well-to-do women filled all the barstools, eager to flirt with the hunky barkeep. But soon enough their husbands came too, enjoying Gabe’s affability as much as their wives.

Because much of the restaurant’s profits were dependent on the sale of liquor and wine, Olivia paid Gabe well above the going rate. As a result, he took great pride in his job, viewing the bar area with its leather chairs, padded barstools, and tasteful nautical décor as his treasured domain. No one’s snack mix bowl ever stayed empty and no one’s drinks ever ran dry. And though Gabe could have his pick of the majority of The Boot Top’s female staff and clientele, he never allowed the line between his professional and personal life to blur.

Of all Olivia’s employees, Michel was the most likely to get entangled in an ill-fated romance. He’d been involved with a married woman before, and though it had wreaked havoc on his emotions, it seemed as though he was ready to repeat the agonizing experience.

“I think I have a serious crush on your Laurel,” he confessed, his face flushed from the heat of the kitchen.

One of the sous-chefs stopped chopping mushrooms and gestured at Michel with the tip of his knife. “His accent got much thicker when she was here. He actually sounded like a real Frenchman. Très debonair.”

Michel glowered at his subordinate. His Parisian accent was nearly undetectable and only surfaced when he was angry, drunk, or flirting with a pretty woman.

Olivia put her hands on her hips. “Do you have amnesia? Your last affair with a married woman was ruinous! You went on a champagne bender and your cooking was way off. You used far too much salt and your meat was overdone. I don’t think any of our customers will stand for that again.”

Shaking a raw shrimp at her, Michel smiled. “But ah, the passion! It is worth all the pain.”

“Forget about Laurel.” Olivia’s eyes flashed a darker blue. “She has enough to juggle without adding a crush to the mix. Set your sights on someone else. Join a gym. I’m sure you could cajole someone into committing adultery between spin and yoga classes.”

Michel tossed the shrimp into a frying pan coated with sizzling butter and browned garlic. “Laurel is special. She has a pure heart and believes that love can overcome all things. She is a rare flower, an orchid in a greenhouse of daffodils.”

“Spare me.” Olivia crossed her arms. “I don’t see how you arrived at this conclusion after spending thirty minutes with her.”

“She was here longer than that, chérie. You’re the one who flew from here as though your tail had just been seared.” He tossed half a dozen sautéing shrimp into the air. Once, twice, three times. They landed neatly back into the frying pan. He gave the pan a final shake and then scooped the shrimp onto a small bed of linguine. Handing the plate to a waiter, Michel glanced at Olivia. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were having man trouble. I can’t imagine any friction arising between you and your debonair bookstore owner. Actually, I can imagine friction, but the good kind. The kind two people produce on a summer night when they—”

“That’s enough, Michel,” Olivia retorted. “Why don’t you focus your energy on cooking? I believe that is what I hired you to do.”

Michel gave her a dreamy smile. “Tonight, my food will taste like nectar and ambrosia. Every drop will be filled with visions of Laurel, my muse. Beware, those who are brave enough to order my chocolate torte. It will be such exquisite torture!”

Olivia shook her head. “You’re hopeless. I’m going out to seat our patrons. Try not to burn the place down while you wallow in inappropriate fantasies.”

A party of four awaited her at the hostess podium and Olivia smiled at the mayor, his wife, and two children. “Sorry to keep you,” she said and led them back to the mayor’s favorite table.

The mayor glanced around the nearly empty dining room and frowned. “Do you think the out-of-towners are all gone?”

Olivia nodded. “They’ll be back for the Cardboard Regatta. I’m booked for three nights from five until eleven at night.” She swept an arm around the dining room. The flickering candlelight, the bud vases filled with sprays of wild chrysanthemum, and the pumpkin-colored napkin fans created an atmosphere of sophistication and warmth. “Your family and the couple enjoying the shrimp scampi linguini won’t be dining alone this evening. We’re expecting a decent crowd tonight, though some may cancel due to the inclement weather.”

The mayor’s wife laughed. “You’re the only person in Oyster Bay who’d call a category three hurricane ‘inclement weather.’ ”

“Ophelia’s been upgraded?” Olivia tried to recall the wind gusts of a category three. She didn’t need to tax her brain, however, as the mayor’s son looked up from his menu, rubbed at his glasses with his napkin, and spoke in the fluctuating voice of one on the cusp of puberty.

“Wind gusts of one hundred eleven to one hundred thirty miles per hour,” he recited with a distant look on his young face. “Likelihood of structural damage to wooden structures, loss of immature trees and a few big ones too, flooding to structures along the coast, and damage from floating debris to structures near storm surge or flooded rivers. Power outages are definite, lasting from three to nine days depending on level of isolation. Estimated total cost is four hundred million. Expect a tax hike this year.” Upon finishing, he returned his gaze to the menu.

“You are such a dork,” his sister said with a sneer. “Can I order my Coke now?”

While his wife argued with their daughter over the perils of caffeinated beverages on the developing teenage body, the mayor begged Olivia to get him a dirty martini. Relieved to escape the argument brewing between the females at the table, Olivia sent a waitress to collect the rest of the family’s orders.

At the bar, Olivia asked Gabe for the mayor’s drink. “He’ll be wanting several of those by this time Monday night,” a familiar voice said. Olivia turned and smiled at Flynn, remarkably pleased to see him. She knew that Flynn’s charm could help her set aside all thoughts of Rawlings and the man’s continued silence.

Flynn regularly stopped by The Boot Top for a drink after work and managed to visit Olivia’s restaurant without ever behaving as though his presence bore the slightest connection to her. Olivia liked that about him. He could sit and chat with Gabe and the other patrons and then casually ask her to join him for a round. When she was too busy or not in the mood to comply, he was neither offended nor ruffled by the rejection. Yet he never failed to request her company and Olivia was flattered by his persistence.

Flynn took in her form-fitting black sheath dress and necklace made of amber and turquoise and toasted her with a frosted beer mug. “You’re looking lovely this evening.”

Olivia perched on the stool next to him. “Have your customers fled for the hills too?”

“I could only be so lucky.” He took a sip of beer. “I had a hell of a time dealing with a woman channeling Mary Poppins today. She came into the shop with one of those frilly umbrellas and started singing. At first, the moms and kids loved it, but then it quickly became clear that this lady was no Julie Andrews. In fact, she was more like Cruella De Vil.”

Olivia laughed. “You mean she didn’t fly or dance around with a pair of cartoon penguins?”

Flynn shook his head. “Oh, she danced all right. If you can imagine a fisherman in foul weather gear with his shoelaces tied together, then you can picture this lady’s moves.” He pushed his hand through his wavy hair. “I think she did at least two hundred bucks of damage.”

“Not to books, I hope.” Olivia hated the thought of broken leather spines or rent pages.

Etching designs into the icy film on his glass, Flynn said, “Luckily, no. But I have some furniture to replace. I’m heading into Raleigh tomorrow to visit with an old friend, so I’ll wait out the storm for a couple of days, pick up some new children’s chairs, and hang my ‘Open’ sign again first thing Wednesday morning.”

“She broke wooden chairs?” Olivia visualized a madwoman slamming pint-sized rockers against the floor like some frenzied heavy-metal rocker destroying his guitar.

Flynn nodded. “Yeah, she tried to mimic that Flashdance move in which the dancer drapes herself over the chair, pulls a chain, and is drenched with water. In this case, the chair broke with her imaginary chain pull and instead of water, she squirted herself with a sports bottle filled with I believe to be lemon-lime Gatorade.” He grimaced. “At least, I’m really hoping it was Gatorade.”

He chuckled and Olivia joined in.

The murmur in the dining room had increased, indicating that another party or two had been seated by a member of Olivia’s selfless waitstaff while she lingered at the bar. “Duty calls,” she told Flynn and then, while Gabe was occupied recommending cocktails to a pair of stylish young women at the other end of the bar, she added, “Maybe we could get together before Ophelia chases you out of town.”

Grinning, Flynn saluted her with his glass. “You know where I live, darling. I’ll leave the light on for you.”

Olivia collected the mayor’s drink and walked away.

The Boot Top stayed open late that night. The locals tarried at the bar until Gabe submitted to peer pressure and turned on the small television hung above a row of liquor bottles.

Men and women loitered over their whiskey and recalled other storms such as Donna, Hugo, Fran, Hazel, and Floyd. Olivia’s customers were reluctant to go home, knowing that after tomorrow morning’s church services, the town would shut down. Oyster Bay still honored the traditional blue laws and only a few eateries remained open on Sunday. The Boot Top served a weekly brunch, Grumpy’s provided breakfast and lunch, and Bagels ’n’ Beans operated until noon, at which time Wheeler promptly turned off the lights, locked the door, and spent the remainder of the day fishing.

The hurricane specialist on The Weather Channel was in his element, gesticulating at the blue screen as he pointed at rain bands, the enlarged eye, and the overall width of the circulating mass. The other reporters shared his ecstasy, their faces gleaming like polished apples as they reviewed Ophelia’s wind gusts, path, and predicted landfall.

Olivia and her Oyster Bay neighbors were hypnotized by the graphics and the commentary, but when the program switched gears and began to display footage from Floyd, Olivia told Gabe to lock up. Gathering Haviland from her office, she prepared to exit through the kitchen door.

“Do you think there’s any point in coming in Tuesday?” Michel asked. Over steaming pots, cutting boards, and sinks of dirty dishes, the kitchen staff looked at Olivia expectantly.

“No,” she answered without hesitation. “We won’t reopen until the power is restored. When the lights come on in town, The Boot Top needs to be ready to serve dinner the same night. Tomorrow we’ll offer brunch to the soggy church goers and then lock up until Ophelia’s gone.” Shouldering her purse, she gazed around the kitchen. “Be careful everyone. I don’t want the inconvenience of having to hire a new staff because you surfer types were lost to a riptide or those of you with jacked-up pickups trucks decided it would be fun to drive through flooded streets.”

One of the sous-chefs sniggered, but Michel silenced him with a glare.

“We will take care, Ms. Limoges,” he said, issuing a formal bow. “Remember, if the waves get too high, you should climb to the top of the lighthouse.”

More sniggering. “The generator will keep the freezer and walk-in fridge running, but if there’s any perishable food beyond what’s needed for tomorrow’s brunch, feel free to take it home to your families.”

The dishwasher thanked her in Spanish and then rushed forward to open the door for her. The floodlight above the door illuminated the persistent rainfall beyond the restaurant’s walls.

Olivia and Haviland scurried to the Range Rover. The rain was deceptively gentle, like a steady and nourishing springtime drizzle. The only indication that the fury of nature was about to rend the town apart was the sickly yellow and puce tinge to the edge of the clouds.

The drive to Flynn’s bungalow was eerie. The streets were nearly deserted and the wet pavement shimmered in the otherworldly light. Olivia passed only one car on Main Street and she could see that many of the shops had closed early. Even the streetlights lining the sidewalk seemed forlorn.

Flynn’s Caribbean-style bungalow was a welcome sight. Every light was on and the house glowed with misty warmth, like a roaring fire viewed through an ice-crusted windowpane. Unfamiliar music drifted from the open front door. Olivia cocked her head. It sounded like Cuban jazz—a perfect mixture of vibrant rhythms blending with a seductive and smooth melody.

“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.” Flynn rose from his painted wooden rocking chair to greet her with a kiss.

Olivia returned the kiss with unusual tenderness. “It was sweet of you to wait up for me. Your place looks like a beacon in the night.”

“I could hardly watch mindless television knowing you were on the way, so I decided to make it clear that I was anxiously awaiting your arrival.” He dipped a widemouthed glass in salt and poured her a margarita from a nearby pitcher. Adding a lime wedge, he placed the glass on a rattan coaster and gestured at the other rocker.

Settling into the cobalt-colored chair, Olivia signaled for Haviland to find a discreet place behind the house to take care of business. Delighted to finally be allowed a measure of freedom after being cooped up in Olivia’s office all evening, the poodle darted off the porch and disappeared into the rainy night.

Olivia and Flynn made predictions about the storm and listened to the rainfall. Haviland returned, detaching himself from the shadows, and sat on the front mat, clearly asking to be let inside. He was ready for bed, but Olivia was reticent to break the spell being woven out of night rain, tequila, and Flynn’s jazz record.

“So who’s this old friend you’re going to visit?” Olivia asked, wanting to linger on the porch a little longer.

Flynn didn’t answer. Instead, he got up, walked to her, and gently pulled her out of her chair. Pressing her against him, thigh against thigh and hip against hip, he cupped her face in his hands and whispered, “Hmm, a personal question. Are we taking our relationship to the next level?”

Olivia stiffened in his arms. “What does that mean?”

There was a smile in Flynn’s voice as he murmured his reply in her ear. “It means that you’ll stay for breakfast. Try it just once and see how it feels.”

Relaxing, Olivia sought his lips. They were warm and inviting. “All right,” she agreed, her voice low and deep with need. “But no stacks of pancakes or three-egg omelets. I prefer lighter fare.”

“The best I could scrounge up would be bread and jelly,” he said with a low laugh as he led Olivia inside.

The next morning, Olivia and Flynn ate toast with strawberry jam and drank coffee in front of the television. Ophelia had picked up speed overnight and was likely to make landfall just after dawn on Monday. As they watched, the program was interrupted by an emergency announcement. The screen turned cardinal red, and white letters appeared, alerting those throughout the county that the mayor was calling for voluntary evacuations.

“Wow,” Flynn breathed, his coffee cup frozen midair. “This is serious.”

Olivia carried her dishes to the kitchen. “You should get going. The roads will get crowded quickly.”

Seeing that his mistress had no leftovers for him, Haviland moved to the door and waved his tail, obviously eager to leave.

“I need to go home and feed the Captain anyway. He’s too much of a food snob to settle for toast.” Olivia gave Flynn a little smile.

He put his mug down and walked her to the door. Taking her hand he said, “Are you sure it’s safe to stay out on the Point?”

“Why? Do you want me to evacuate with you?” It had meant to be a jest, but Olivia saw a look of alarm dart across her lover’s gray eyes. Fiddling with Haviland’s collar, she turned away and gave Flynn time to decide whether he wanted to open up about his destination or keep the identity of his ‘old friend’ private.

Several seconds passed and she could sense a gulf widening between them. In that stretch of silence, they’d each taken a step away from one another.

Olivia was ready to go. She pasted on a carefree smile and said, “I’ll be fine. See you soon.” She watched Flynn relax and reach for an umbrella.

“Let me accompany you to your car. It’s raining buckets. Geysers. Veritable tsunamis.”

Waving off the umbrella, Olivia gave Flynn a peck on the cheek and left without looking back. Pulling the hood of her raincoat over her hair, she tried to avoid the deeper puddles polka-dotting the road, poignantly aware that whatever progress she and Flynn had made last night had been lost. The look on his face when she mentioned accompanying him to Raleigh told of secrets Flynn wanted to preserve. If he had truly wanted to let her in, he would have spoken up, but the moment had passed and he’d been returned to bearing the label of casual lover.

“It’s better this way. Less complicated,” Olivia told her rain-speckled reflection in the rearview mirror.

She vowed to never wake up in Flynn’s bed again.

At home, Olivia fed Haviland and printed out Millay’s chapter, intending to save the critique work as a means of entertainment during the inevitable power outage.

The rain had increased in tempo since Olivia’s return. No longer the gentle and steady precipitation of last night, it fell in a disharmonious staccato. By early afternoon, the wind gained a voice, fluttering like heavy curtains in accompaniment to the rain. By four o’clock, however, it dominated the noise of the ocean and begun to rush around the sides of the house and over the roof like a low-flying airplane, growling and hissing. Soon, Olivia knew, it would sound less like an angry witch outsmarted by a fairy book child and more like the enraged howl of Jack’s giant.

As the afternoon waned, Olivia’s lights flickered several times but did not go out. She kept near the television, watching in awestruck fascination as the storm hurtled toward the North Carolina coast. The recommendation to evacuate continued throughout the day and Olivia received several calls from her staff at The Boot Top as well as from members of the Bayside Book Writers asking after her welfare. The person she wanted to hear from most, however, did not call.

For dinner, Olivia ate beef stew and fresh bread slathered with butter, then returned to the sofa with a glass of red wine. She had to turn the volume of the television higher in order to compete with the clamor of the rain-laden wind. A sodden journalist reported live from the Outer Banks where widespread power outages had occurred minutes before their broadcast. Hearing the news, Olivia checked the placement of her battery-powered lamps.

“It won’t be long now,” she told an anxious Haviland.

She also had her raincoat, hat, and waders waiting by the front door in preparation to start the small generator hidden behind a wooden screen on the side of the house. It could only power the refrigerator and the kitchen lights, but Olivia planned to run an extension cord from the outlet behind the fridge to the countertop, ensuring the continued use of her coffee machine.

“Ophelia may huff and puff and try to blow the house down, but nothing will stop me from having coffee,” Olivia had declared to Haviland earlier that weekend.

She also had a waterproof radio and TV unit to switch on once her main set went dark, but the little emergency television had a tiny screen and a flimsy antenna and Olivia doubted it would be of much good. Still, she turned it on and flipped between the three available stations until she was able to get a grainy picture of an anchorwoman’s face. Shortly afterward, a powerful burst of wind shook the walls from roof to foundation and the house fell into a state of semi-darkness.

“I’ll be right back,” Olivia spoke soothingly to her agitated poodle. “I need to start the generator.”

Outside, the sky had a surreal, white gray glow, as though Ophelia were exhaling wet smoke. Even dressed in her foul-weather gear, rain pelted Olivia’s face and crept under her collar. The wind was nearly strong enough to knock her flat, and when she had to use both hands to grab the wooden screen surrounding the generator to regain her balance, a strong gust snatched her hat away.

“Damn!” Olivia tried to shout as she yanked on the generator’s pull start, but her words were stolen before they could even leave her mouth. The generator roared into life and Olivia felt an exaggerated sense of triumph.

Her smugness was short-lived, however, for when she climbed into bed, she found it impossible to sleep. Ophelia pounded on every surface with fists of wind and water. It didn’t help that the last report Olivia had seen on her tiny television in the kitchen had been of a missing fishing boat and the plight of its five-man crew.

Lying in the dark with Haviland burrowed under the covers at her feet, Olivia couldn’t push away the memories of her final night with her father. She was tired of remembering his wild eyes and raised fist, of imagining him falling overboard and his body sinking to the cold depths where no sunlight penetrated, of wondering if the fog and sea had ruined her or rescued her. But the memories wouldn’t leave her room.

Shortly after midnight, she decided that the only way she’d sleep was by downing a few fingers of Chivas Regal. She’d just poured a glass when someone knocked hard on the front door.

Olivia blinked but didn’t move, a shiver rippling up the skin of her back.

“Who’s there?” she shouted a challenge and was stunned when Chief Rawlings bellowed in reply, “It’s Sawyer! Open the door, Olivia!”

She immediately complied. “What are you—”

“Pack a bag,” he ordered, stepping in out of the rain. Turning, he used both arms, locked at the elbows, to close the door behind him. “You can’t stay here. The worst is yet to come.”

Water dripped from the chief’s regulation rain cape and boots. His face was pinched with anxiety and exhaustion and his presence filled up Olivia’s spacious kitchen as though he were ten men, not one.

“But I’m fine,” Olivia managed to protest. “Aren’t there people who need you more than me? Those living near the shore or in trailers by the river? This house was built to withstand this type of storm. I’ve got—”

Rawlings reached her in two strides. Grabbing her arm, he gave her a rough shake. “Don’t be a fool! I know you’re capable and tough and independent, but this”—he pointed out the kitchen window—“is more than even you can handle! Now go upstairs and pack a bag. I’m taking you with me if I have to cuff your hand to my own wrist!”

Sawyer’s eyes were blazing with filaments of jade green. He smelled of mud and coffee and wet rubber. Olivia raised her arm and touched the end of a soaked lock of his salt-and-pepper hair, catching a fresh drip between her fingertips. The chief’s face softened instantly. Seizing her hand, she thought he might pin it behind her back and make good on his threat to place her in handcuffs. Instead, he lowered his chin and kissed her palm, like a knight receiving his lady’s favor. “Please come with me. I can’t do my job when half of my mind’s on you.”

Inexplicably, Olivia now remembered that she was angry at the chief. “And where would I stay?” she asked. “With you?”

“If you’d like. I have a guest room. It’s nothing fancy, but I’ve got a generator.”

She shook her head. “I bet your place is still filled with your wife’s things. I . . . couldn’t stay there.”

Pain flashed into Rawlings’ eyes. She’d hurt him by assuming that he surrounded himself with the relics of the past.

“Then go back to Flynn’s,” the chief said through gritted teeth. “You should have stayed put at his place a little longer.”

Olivia drew back. “Have you been following me?”

Rawlings picked up his saturated cap from the counter. He wouldn’t look at her. “Last chance. Are you coming with me?”

Even though every cell in her body crackled with desire and the soft flesh on the center of her palm where Rawlings had kissed her felt molten, Olivia knew she had ruined the opportunity to reach for the man she truly wanted.

Sawyer Rawlings had driven all the way to the Point to carry her to safety. He’d interrupted the haunted musings of her past to stand drenched and weary in her kitchen and she had responded by irrevocably spoiling his noble gesture.

Not knowing how to make amends, Olivia said nothing.

By the time she realized that an apology would have been a good place to begin, Rawlings had walked out the door and into Ophelia’s aqueous embrace.

Chapter 8

The little reed, bending to the force of the wind, soon stood upright again when the storm had passed over.

—AESOP

By Monday night, Ophelia had spent her wrath. Her winds were no longer roars, but whispers. The raindrops no longer slammed sideways against windows and rooftops, but dropped reluctantly from the sky, as though exhausted from the effort of having to detach from clouds impatient to be on their way.

It was dark by the time the world finally fell silent. Olivia stepped out onto the deck, feeling like she was in the middle of starless space. The only illumination within miles came from the lighthouse, whose beacon swept the ocean and provided an illusion of normalcy.

She couldn’t see how far up the beach the water had come, but the hiss of incoming waves sounded closer than usual. The sea was still swollen, and though it no longer seemed boiling with violent surges, it was not yet at rest.

Olivia’s house had weathered the storm, but she couldn’t stop wondering how others had fared. How were the rest of the Bayside Book Writers? And what of Dixie, who lived in a pair of doublewides haphazardly attached by a covered breezeway? She refused to think how Rawlings had spent the past twenty-four hours, pushing away the image of him standing in her kitchen like a big, wet bear.

The night passed slowly. Olivia let Haviland out to stretch his legs, but she knew the terrain had become altered in the storm and it would be unwise for her to venture forth in the dark. She continued to work the mammoth jigsaw puzzle of the Sistine Chapel, the radio her only companion.

Ophelia still held the media captive. Reports were given every fifteen minutes on the effects the weakening hurricane was having over central North Carolina and southern Virginia. Around ten P.M., a sound bite provided by a representative from the Coast Guard told of their failure to locate the fishing trawler missing since Sunday morning. “At this point, it is unlikely that any of the five men aboard were able to survive,” the man stated grimly.

Olivia looked down at the puzzle section she’d just completed. It was Michelangelo’s rendition of God dividing the waters. She stared at it a long time, her thoughts fixed on the missing fishermen. She imagined the crew members being hurled into the water, fighting for air until their lungs burned and they surrendered their last breath to the ocean. She pictured their souls being pulled from their lifeless bodies by a pair of powerful yet tender hands, lifted up, up out of the cold and the wet, beyond the rain bands and the noise of the wind.

Running her fingers over the surface of the puzzle, Olivia touched the fine cracks where the pieces met and then switched the radio to a smooth jazz station, hoping to turn her thoughts to other things. But she found the music too upbeat, almost mocking in its vivaciousness, so she turned the radio off. She completed the section showing a portrait of Daniel and decided to call for Haviland and go to bed.

“Captain!” she shouted into the night air and waited for him on the deck. The poodle loped up the stairs, his fur slick with moisture and his tongue lolling in happiness. Envying him his freedom, Olivia took him into the kitchen, dried his coat with a towel, and kissed his damp nose.

“I’ll have a major case of cabin fever if I spend another day inside,” she told him later as she folded back the duvet cover on her bed. “Tomorrow we’ll check out the cottage and then take a drive to see what’s happened to our town.”

Lying down, she curled around a spare pillow and looked out the window at the fathomless sky. “And to our friends.”

Olivia was awake at first light. She dressed quickly, brewed coffee, and ate a cereal bar and banana for breakfast.

“One of Grumpy’s Florentine omelets would sure hit the spot,” she said, feeling energized by the rays of sun tentatively lighting the horizon. Pulling on her rain boots, Olivia and Haviland walked down a soggy path through the dunes. The tide was out and the ocean was a stretched canvas of Fourth of July sparklers.

“Glad to see you back, old friend.” Olivia strode to the water’s edge and inhaled a lungful of crisp air. When she entered the cottage, her delight quickly turned to dismay as she saw the brown stains around the baseboards. In every room, water had crept in and made itself at home. The carpet in the conference room and the hardwood flooring in the remaining three rooms were ruined. It was fixable, she knew, but there was something about the possibility of rot growing on the very bones of her childhood home that brought Olivia unhappiness. She’d hardly lived a Norman Rockwell life in her sad, little room facing the sea, but it was hers all the same.

Haviland sniffed every room and retreated outside in search of less distasteful smells, for the entire structure reeked of seaweed and brackish water. “We won’t be meeting here this Saturday,” Olivia said and left the front door wide open.

After leaving the cottage, Olivia drove straight to The Boot Top. She had to park in the street, for an enormous pine tree had fallen in a diagonal across the restaurant’s paved lot.

“Could have been worse,” she murmured with relief as she walked the perimeter of the building. Other than a few missing shingles on the roof and a pair of broken hurricane shutters, the eatery was unscathed. Olivia got back in the Range Rover and turned down Main Street. It was too early in the day to need air-conditioning, so she rode with all the windows down and raised a hand in greeting to the other residents and business owners who’d made their way into town at daybreak.

The most noticeable difference between the business district before and after the storm was the sheer amount of debris covering the streets and sidewalks. Branches, leaves, pieces of wood, cardboard, and paper were strewn about in clumps. The debris, the lack of electricity, and the shell-shocked looks on the faces of the few pedestrians she passed gave the town a foreign air, as though it belonged in a Third World country.

Slowing her pace even further, Olivia could see that dozens of storefront windows had been shattered, including the ones belonging to her favorite boutique, Palmetto’s. Rain had drenched the display featuring a rainbow of knit shirts and had knocked the mannequins flat. Olivia glanced at the neighboring retailers and saw that many of their signs were crooked or had fallen to the sidewalk, splintering into nonsensical words.

It was apparent that several cars had been parked on Main Street during the storm and most had fresh spiderweb cracks in the windshields or dents that still bore the imprint of a heavy bough. The morning’s radio report included the news that federal aid for storm cleanup had been promised, but Olivia knew that Ophelia was going to empty the town’s coffers. Oyster Bay had less than a week to reinstate itself as the picture of a seaside utopia in time for the kickoff of the Cardboard Regatta.

After making cursory inspections of her other properties, Olivia continued past the town limits and pulled in front of Dixie’s trailer complex. She found her friend barking orders at a good-looking boy of about ten and a sullen teenage girl.

“Yours?” Olivia asked with a smile when the children stomped off.

Dixie nodded. “Yep. Those are two of the tall ones. There’s two little ones ’round here somewhere, but Grumpy’s probably got them doin’ somethin’ unpleasant. He’s pretty ticked ’cause they snuck out to ride on a friend’s ATV when the eye was passin’ over and had us worried half to death.” She put her hands on her hips and surveyed the wrecked laundry lines and dog kennel. “Thor’s pooped in the house three times since the damned storm began. That dog is a wimp.” Dixie reached out and touched Haviland’s flank. “He doesn’t have your fine manners either, Captain.”

Haviland flashed her a toothy smile.

“Well, it looks like you and your clan are okay,” Olivia said. “I’m sending Michel on a road trip to Costco. I thought I’d see if you were in need of supplies.”

“Filet mignon, lobster tail, Vicodin,” Dixie joked. “Actually, we’re good. We had to bring home a ton of food from the diner ’cause it was gonna go bad.” She raised an eyebrow. “My stars, you have gotten soft, ’Livia. I’ve known you for years, but you’ve never been to my place. Now, ten minutes after a hurricane’s passed through, here you are.” She dusted off her shirt. “You’d best say somethin’ nasty or I’m gonna have to tell folks that you do have a heart.”

Olivia scowled. “I’ll just tell Michel to pick up some staples. Milk, eggs, bread, some birth control pills.”

Dixie laughed until she sank down on the stoop. “I really don’t have twelve kids, you know!” she shouted as Olivia drove off.

On the way to Michel’s, Olivia was surprised to see several power trucks heading into town. When she passed a trio of tree-removal trucks, she suddenly realized that without power, none of the eateries or grocery stores would be open. Where were these workers going to get food? And there wouldn’t be much of a community cleanup effort if those volunteering were distracted by hunger. Yet who could make hundreds of meals without electricity?

“Michel,” she said aloud.

Her chef’s ruddy features paled when she outlined her idea. “You’re insane! I’ve always thought you might be, but now I’m certain of it!”

Olivia ignored his protests. “Call the rest of the staff. Two men can take care of the tree in our parking lot and you can organize the shopping trip. I’ll round up some warm bodies to assemble sandwiches. Imagine being able to boss around all the people you’ve cooked for in the past. It’s your fantasy come true. They’ll finally see how hard you work and learn to appreciate your skill.” She could see the idea appealed to her chef. “We can do this.”

“For free?” Michel was astounded.

“Yes, for free. If you want to cook for a full house of paying customers this weekend, then we need to pitch in now.” Seeing that Michel wasn’t convinced, she added, “Maybe Laurel will be available to help in the kitchen. I’m sure she could use a lesson in the fine art of sandwich construction.”

Michel looked offended. “You jest, but there is an art to making sandwiches. One must begin with the right bread. A croissant or a crisp baguette—”

“Save it for Laurel,” Olivia interrupted and handed Michel her corporate credit card. “Call me if you have any trouble.”

Leaving Michel spluttering on his doorstep, Olivia headed to Blueberry Hill Estates next. Even though she knew that visiting Laurel meant having to apologize for her recent rudeness, Olivia suspected her harried friend might be in need of a few groceries.

Laurel’s husband, Steve, answered Olivia’s knock. They’d met before, but he didn’t act as though he recognized her or the large black poodle nearly glued to her thigh. When Olivia explained that she’d come to see Laurel, Steve bellowed his wife’s name and then removed a pair of work gloves from his jeans pocket.

“Excuse me.” He brushed by Olivia, eyeing Haviland nervously. “I’ve got a hot date with a chainsaw.”

Olivia stiffened as she heard her friend’s light footsteps approach, but if she had expected Laurel to give her a cool reception, she was mistaken. Instead, the younger woman threw her arms around Olivia’s neck.

“I am so glad you’re okay!” she gushed. “I kept thinking about you—all alone in your house with the ocean lapping at your door. I must have dialed your cell phone number two hundred times!”

Olivia felt her face grow warm in the face of such caring. She studied Laurel’s red nose and puffy eyes. Had Laurel been crying from worry for her friends? It was possible, but Olivia sensed something more serious had pinched the skin around Laurel’s mouth. She touched her friend’s elbow. “What’s wrong?”

Sniffing, Laurel shook her head, as though frightened to give voice to what had upset her so. “I keep trying to pretend that if I don’t talk about it, I might wake up tomorrow and find out that nothing happened. That it was all just a bad dream.”

Leading Laurel into the kitchen, Olivia sat her down at the breakfast table and began to open cupboards in search of coffee.

“Please let me do that,” Laurel begged. “It’ll be easier to talk if my hands are busy.” She began to fill the coffeemaker with water. “There’s a woman I know from Dermot and Dallas’s playgroup. Her daughter, Hannah, was born a few hours after my boys.” She drew in a deep breath. “We met in the hospital and have traveled in the same circles ever since. She has two older children and is always on the move.” Pausing to count out coffee scoops, Laurel set the machine to brew and then grabbed the edge of the sink, her shoulders hunched up to her ears.

“This woman, April, took her kids to a soccer tournament in Myrtle Beach over the weekend. She stayed there Monday night to avoid the storm, and when she came home this morning she found her husband . . .” She covered her eyes with her hands and Olivia waited to hear a sordid tale of infidelity. “He’s in a coma,” Laurel surprised her by saying.

Olivia watched as Laurel turned toward the coffeepot and struggled to collect herself. “Was he injured during the storm?”

“Yes, but the hurricane didn’t club Felix on the back of the head with a seven iron.” Laurel’s eyes flashed with anger. “The person robbing his house did.”

Stunned, it took Olivia a couple of minutes to notice that Laurel served her coffee in a mug emblazoned with red hearts and a “World’s Best Mom” slogan. Laurel drank from a white mug bearing the text, “I Perform Cavity Searches.” When she put the cup down on the counter in order to add another splash of milk, Olivia could read the script on the backside of the mug. It said, “Don’t Worry, I’m a Dentist.”

Olivia was momentarily distracted from the subject at hand. Not for the first time, she wondered what kind of man Laurel’s husband was. Did that mug reflect his sense of humor? He wasn’t especially friendly when he’d opened the door. Olivia recognized that he was clearly busy, but she detected a lack of interest as well, as though anything to do with Laurel was likely to be insignificant. Stirring a bit of milk into her own coffee, Olivia vowed to do everything in her power to help Laurel become a household name in Oyster Bay. In time, Steve would view his wife with new eyes, but for now, Olivia’s role was to listen.

“If this just happened this morning, how did you find out so quickly?” she asked her friend gently.

Laurel shrugged. “Female phone tree. Christina Quimby, the woman we interviewed last week, heard the news from a woman on her tennis team. That woman, Tina, is April’s neighbor. Tina saw the ambulance and the cop cars arrive and ran next door. I bet she had the story out to twenty people before April’s husband, Felix, made it to the hospital.” Laurel gave Olivia a sad grin. “Tina might be a gossip, but at least she rushed April’s kids over to her house so they didn’t have to see their daddy being wheeled out on a stretcher or watch their mama fall apart.”

“Another robbery,” was all Olivia could think to say.

Joining her at the table, Laurel let out a long sigh. “I guess this is when I figure out if I’ve got what it takes to be a real reporter.”

“What are you planning to do?”

“Drop the kids off at my in-laws and then go to the hospital,” Laurel answered resolutely. “I’ll say the boys have been worried sick about Grandpa and Grandma and wanted to see them as soon as it was safe. My mother-in-law will just eat that up. I’ll pretend to drive off in search of diapers, even if it means I have to sit through one of her lectures on how I need to learn to plan ahead.” She reached for Olivia’s hand. “I don’t know how much we can find out, but I’d love to have you with me.”

Olivia gave Laurel’s hand a maternal pat. “Not only will I go with you, but I’ll make sure you have a giant box of diapers so you can keep your cover intact.”

For the first time since Olivia had walked through the door, Laurel smiled. “Just once, I’d like to be around when you wave your magic wand. I’ve never actually seen one before.”

Standing, Olivia pulled her wallet from her purse and waved it in the air. “Sure you have. It’s called a Visa card. Bibbidi, bobbidi, boo!”

It took thirty minutes to get Dallas and Dermot dressed for the short drive to their grandparents’ condo. Befuddled by how complicated the act of leaving the house was for Laurel, Olivia watched as her friend loaded Cheerios into small baggies, filled sippy cups with organic apple juice, and stuffed spare outfits, bibs, and diapers into an oversized sack.

“Is this your typical exit routine?” Olivia asked, aghast.

Laurel scooped one of the boys onto her left hip and held on to the second with her right hand. “Are you kidding? This was fast! Look, I’ll meet you at the hospital. Maybe you’ll bump into Rawlings. He’s sure to know something by now.”

Olivia was torn over the idea. She would like to worm information out of Rawlings, but she was uncertain whether he’d be willing to speak with her about an ongoing case or anything else for that matter.

Back in the Range Rover, Olivia checked her cell phone and was pleased to note that her service had been restored. She put the phone on speaker mode and called Michel with an additional grocery list. He let loose several expletives in French, causing Haviland to bark excitedly in reply. She’d just pulled into the hospital parking garage when she received a call from Will Hamilton, the private investigator.

“Did Ophelia put you folks through the wringer?” he inquired. “We barely had a twig down in these parts, but the news footage has shown pictures of your area since daybreak and things look messy.”

“We don’t have power, but Oyster Bay will be up and running in no time,” Olivia replied breezily. “What do you have for me?”

Hamilton cleared his throat. “Ms. Limoges, I have been watching Rod Burkhart ’round the clock. From what I’ve seen, he lives a pretty straightforward life. He works, tosses around a football with his two sons, mows the lawn, goes to church, and runs errands.”

“And he seems financially secure?”

“Yes, ma’am. He drives a late-model truck, and his wife’s minivan is only a year old. The house is tidy and well maintained. The Burkharts aren’t rich, but they’re solid. An average, upper-middle-class family. The guy’s got a nice-looking wife and kids, a yellow Lab, and a dozen fishing poles. He went lake fishing Monday afternoon with another buddy. They drank a few beers and picked up Chinese takeout on the way home.” He paused. “I could keep on him and you could go on paying me to look for dirt on Burkhart, but I don’t feel right taking more of your money. This guy is a regular Joe. He’s got no record and the worst he’s done is get a moving violation for a case of lead foot a few months back. No bodies in the basement or mistresses on the side. That’s my professional opinion, ma’am.”

Olivia let Haviland out so he could sniff the bushes lining the parking lot. “Okay, drop the tail for now, but we’re not done yet. I’m going to send Mr. Burkhart one thousand dollars in cash. It will be in a neon pink mailer and will go to his box at The UPS Store. If I mail it today, it should be there on Thursday. I want you to follow that mailer. See what Burkhart does with it.”

“Will do,” Hamilton said.

“You don’t need to contact me until Burkhart opens that envelope. When he does, I want to know everything that follows. Who he talks to, if he goes to the bank, if he buys a big-ticket item, et cetera. Every detail.”

The investigator promised to be on alert for the arrival of the colorful package. Olivia got out of the Range Rover and looked around for Haviland. She found him sitting on the grass next to a wooden bench. A broad, masculine hand stroked the fur on the poodle’s head and neck, and Haviland winked his caramel brown eyes in happiness.

“Hello.” Olivia approached the pair with stealth. She didn’t want to disturb Rawlings’ train of thought, knowing that he often searched for a quiet place in order to reflect on the details of a case while they were still fresh.

The chief removed his cap and rose to his feet. “Hello, Ms. Limoges. I’m relieved to see you in one piece.”

“We’re fine, but the lighthouse keeper’s cottage has suffered some flood damage,” she said, feeling oddly shy. “We’ll have to relocate for our next Bayside Book Writers meeting. Do you think you can make this one?”

He studied her face and, finding no judgment there, shook his head. “I don’t know. The department will be tied up with the town’s cleanup detail for weeks and now we’ve got another robbery case to run down.” He looked away. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have approached you about joining the group in the first place. My work isn’t ready and my time is rarely my own.”

Panic welled in Olivia. She didn’t want Rawlings to quit the Bayside Book Writers. She wanted the chance to read his work in hopes of discovering more about him. Most importantly, she wanted to be able to respond differently should he ever cross a room and pull her to him again.

“We would have understood why you didn’t send us your chapter if you’d explained your reasons,” she said softly and sat down on the bench alongside him. “We’re a fairly easygoing group. Well, most of us are anyway.” She tried to smile, but her mouth wouldn’t respond. “And I’d like to believe even I have enough sensitivity to give you a pass because it was the anniversary of your wife’s death.”

Rawlings gave her a sharp glance. “That would be a handy excuse, but it wouldn’t be the truth. What would you think if I told you that I brought my laptop to the cemetery? That I’d been trying to fix the damned chapter since Friday night, but every time I’d read it over, I knew what I’d written was crap. It’s still crap. And then the day was gone and I had nothing to share with you all. I’m sorry.”

Olivia was silent for a moment. “What’s your book about, Sawyer?”

“Pirates.”

She couldn’t help it. She laughed. “I’m not making fun of you, I swear! I just had this image of you as Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean. Not that you wouldn’t make a dashing buccaneer, but picturing you with dreadlocks and a sword threw me off guard.”

The chief’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Dashing, huh?” His amusement faded almost as quickly as it had surfaced. “I imagined writing a thriller in which a retired police chief hunts down a bunch of villainous treasure hunters. In the end, he finds Blackbeard’s secret stash and turns it over to a museum.”

“Sounds like a decent plotline,” Olivia said.

Rawlings snorted. “It wasn’t honest though. I created such a two-dimensional character that I could have slipped him through a mail slot. I need to start over.”

Olivia pivoted her shoulders. Her fingertips reached for his, sliding over the cool metal of the bench. “I don’t think it’s ever too late to fix a mistake. To begin again.”

Her heart was tripping over itself. For once in her life, she wanted nothing more than to make a connection with the man beside her, but the moment she made contact with the rough skin of his hand, her fingers caressing the ridges and valleys of his knuckles, the radio clipped to his shirt pocket crackled. She jumped back involuntarily.

Rawlings answered the call while trying to convey an apology with his eyes. He and an officer exchanged information in a series of terse codes. The chief’s final words were that he’d meet his subordinate in the hospital lobby. As he stood and smoothed the wrinkles in his uniform pants, he gave Haviland one last pat. “Are you visiting someone here? Is everything all right?” he asked, gesturing at the boxlike building across the parking lot.

“Laurel is friends with April, the wife of the man assaulted during the latest robbery. She wanted me to come along for moral support though she should know by now that that’s not one of my strong points.” Seeing the chief doubted her explanation, Olivia hurriedly continued. “What is Felix’s condition?”

Rawlings pulled his belt upward and made a slight adjustment to his holster. “I’m afraid it’s quite grave. He has brain injuries, and from what I’ve been told, a dangerous amount of intracranial swelling. I don’t know what hope his wife can hold out for, but for her sake, and the sake of that man’s children, I truly pray there is hope to be had.” He began to walk and Olivia fell into step beside him.

She peppered him with questions about the robbery, but his information was limited. The officers at the crime scene hadn’t finished investigating and Rawlings had gotten all he could from April. In the end, he had ceased trying to get answers from the woman and, instead, held her while she cried. In the stiff, plastic chairs of the hospital waiting room, he had put aside his title as police chief and took on the role of big brother. He had handed April tissues and got her coffee and slowly, she told him what she could about what she’d found upon returning home from Myrtle Beach.

“Originally, Felix was supposed to go with them to the soccer tournament, but he had some presentation to do for work,” Rawlings said to Olivia. “April told me her husband is an ad man and that his company threatened to let him go if he didn’t come up with a dazzling campaign for a prospective client. Felix stayed home, fearing he could lose everything if he didn’t.”

Olivia glanced at Rawlings. “And now his family stands to lose more than they ever imagined.” She grabbed his arm. “Will you promise me something?”

Startled, Rawlings stopped walking. “Go on.”

“If this robbery bears similarities to the Quimby case and your department doesn’t have the culprits behind bars by Thursday night, will you come to the restaurant and talk things over with me? Laurel and I might be able to help, but we haven’t finished gathering information yet.”

A glint entered Rawlings’ eyes. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Olivia Limoges, but I’m willing to find out.” Sensing movement to his right, the chief put more distance between himself and Olivia. “Here comes Laurel now.”

Laurel ran toward them, but as she grew nearer, she seemed to lose steam and almost tripped over the curb. Her face was ashen.

Rawlings reached for her and she sagged against his chest. Olivia put her hand under her friend’s elbow, steadying her.

“I can’t handle this, Olivia!” she cried, her fingers clawing at Rawlings’ shirt, roughly creasing the blue material on either side of the buttons. Looking up she fixed an agonized gaze on Olivia. “This isn’t a story about theft anymore. Now it’s about murder! Oh, poor April! And those poor children! Felix Howard . . . husband, father . . . dead. Dead!”

Chapter 9

We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men.

—HERMAN MELVILLE

Laurel was too upset to pick up the twins, so Olivia convinced her to drive home and calm down before venturing out again. Rawlings went back inside the hospital, promising to call Olivia that evening.

Not knowing what else to do, Olivia took Haviland to The Boot Top and was pleased to discover several members of her staff stacking pieces of the pine tree that had fallen across the parking lot onto the bed of a pickup. When she thanked them, one of the dishwashers replied, “We gotta get ready to open. None of us can afford to go without a paycheck.”

“Your weekly check will look exactly the same,” Olivia assured her employees. “I’m hardly going to dock your wages because an act of nature shut us down.” She gestured at the building. “And you will work this week, even without power. We’re going to make box lunches and deliver them to anyone who’s out there trying to restore electricity, clearing away debris, or performing any other task that will help us return to business as usual.”

Another member of the kitchen staff tossed a limb into the truck and then dusted off his hands. “We have a lot of fruit in the big fridge. I can start cutting that up. Maybe make a fruit salad.”

“Too messy,” one of the waiters argued. “These guys need sandwiches with a lot of meat, chips, and Gatorade.”

“That’s precisely what we’re giving them,” Olivia said. “Michel will be here shortly so let’s get this parking lot cleared, and be ready to unload the van. I have a feeling he bought a few pallet’s worth of supplies.”

Olivia told Haviland he’d have to wait for his lunch and then joined in the cleanup effort around the restaurant. Once the tree had been removed, one of her waiters cleared the asphalt with a leaf blower and the crew set about picking up branches and litter from the flowerbeds surrounding the building. By the time they’d finished, Michel had arrived and thrown open the rear doors of the van with a flourish, revealing cases of bottled water, Gatorade, cold cuts, bread, condiments, fruit, nuts, granola bars, milk, ground coffee, and two jumbo-sized boxes of diapers.

Olivia was proud of her employees. Without hesitating, they immediately surged forward to unload the van. There was enough daylight in the kitchen to create a functional assembly line and Michel barked orders until the room hummed with the same brisk efficiency it did during the preparation of five-star meals. Everyone seemed happy to have something useful to do and it warmed Olivia’s heart to see that her staff made sandwiches and arranged apple slices and pretzels into cardboard lunch boxes with the same measure of pride with which they created rose blossoms out of strawberries or drizzled remoulade over a shrimp and avocado salad.

Well before noon, the owner and employees of The Boot Top donned white aprons and piled into Michel’s white van. By now, the streets were stirring to life. Industrious business owners and locals looking to help with Oyster Bay’s restoration had replaced the curiosity-seekers of early morning. The town was suddenly alive, like a hermit crab creeping out from the safety of its shell. And like a colony of busy ants, people scattered over the sidewalks and streets bagging trash, picking up sticks, sweeping, and chatting.

The presence of the utility trucks seemed to add an extra dose of energy to the mix. People knew, despite the damage Oyster Bay had received, that they would recover from the storm. Lights would go back on, shattered windows would be replaced, roofs would be patched. There would be an endless string of phone calls to insurance companies and repairmen, but Olivia was confident that the town would sparkle by the Cardboard Regatta’s opening day.

She and her staff wasted no time in handing out lunches. From anxious shopkeepers to sanitation workers, the simple meal was received with sincere gratitude. Olivia began to feel like Ebenezer Scrooge delivering a fat goose to Tiny Tim’s family on Christmas Day. Her heart was swollen with affection for the town of her childhood and she felt drunk on the grateful smiles of her neighbors.

Her exultation ebbed when she noticed Flynn perched on the top of a ladder at the end of the block. He held a crooked street sign straight while a second man drilled the green- and white-lettered rectangle back into place.

Olivia paused for a moment, realizing that she hadn’t thought of Flynn once during the storm. Had he wondered about her? The fact that he hadn’t called to ascertain how she had weathered the tempest reinforced her conviction that the bookstore owner harbored no deep feelings for her.

“Not that I care,” she muttered to herself. Still, it took no small effort to paste on a smile and airily called out, “Top of the morning to you, gentlemen! Care for a roast beef and Swiss or a ham and cheddar sandwich?”

Flynn glanced down from the ladder and grinned. “Are you the new president of the Red Cross?” Waiting for the other man to give him a thumbs-up, Flynn nimbly climbed to the ground and accepted two box lunches. “You’re better looking than Clara Burton.”

“And my purse is deeper,” was her breezy reply. “How’s your store?”

“Untouched.” Flynn made a wide gesture, encompassing all of Main Street. “I could probably open for business today. The windows of that old fish warehouse are huge and the shop has plenty of light, but I couldn’t run my credit card machine and people carry around less cash then they used to.” He shrugged. “So I thought I’d take the day off and lend a hand. I’m not much of a handyman, but I take orders well.”

“Folks won’t be lookin’ to buy books today anyhow, more like milk and bread,” the other man said. He scratched his graying beard pensively. “It’s the same after every storm. People focus on the simple things. Me, I think it’s a blessing when all our gadgets and computers get shut down against our will. Folks gotta play cards and tell stories like they did in the old days. It slows us down, reminds us who our neighbors are and how damned fine it feels to take a hot shower.”

Olivia had to agree. Somehow, the lack of noise from car engines and booming radios allowed people to converse with greater ease. The town was filled with a different form of music; voices wove into a melody and the sound of people at work formed a steady rhythm. Every now and then, the high pitch of a gull’s hungry cries overshadowed the human symphony.

Wishing the two men luck with their task, Olivia spent another hour distributing food. She then waited for one of the men from the power company to take a much-needed break. Sitting alongside him on the curb, she asked how widespread the outages were.

“I need to get something in the mail today,” she added, keeping an eye on Haviland, who had wandered off to sniff the base of a streetlamp. “So if you could point me to the nearest functioning township, I’d be grateful.”

“Cedar Point,” the man answered promptly while unwrapping his sandwich. “My cousin lives there. Only part of the town has power, but the business district is movin’ along steady as a freight train.”

Olivia thanked him. She and Haviland trotted back to the Range Rover and made their way to Cedar Point. There weren’t many people on the road and the landscape was littered with hundreds of downed trees. It was as if one of the Titans of Greek mythology had swept a colossal arm across the entire region, flattening pines, oaks, and magnolias in a fit of rage.

The UPS Store was open, but hardly doing a brisk business. A bored clerk reluctantly shoved aside her Star magazine and examined Olivia’s neon pink parcel. “You just missed the truck. We can send this overnight but it won’t get there ’til Thursday morning at the earliest.”

“Perfect,” Olivia answered and paid for the service. In the Rover, she sagged against the leather seat. “Now there’s nothing to do but wait,” she told Haviland, picturing Rodney Burkhart retrieving the pink package from his mailbox while Will Hamilton followed his every move through a camera lens.

Haviland nudged her elbow, indicating he was ready for her to begin driving so he could stick his head out the window and partake of an hour of ecstasy delivered by the rush of wind through his nostrils.

As the afternoon passed into evening Oyster Bay remained dark. Olivia sat at The Boot Top’s bar, surveying the mast lights on the boats in the harbor as she sipped a glass of Chivas Regal.

“Nothing to do but wait,” she said to the empty restaurant.

By Thursday, people spoke of Ophelia as though she were a distant relative who’d come in for a holiday weekend, behaved poorly, and then mercifully departed, leaving the house in disarray.

When power was restored to the business district Thursday morning, the townsfolk milled about the shops and eateries comparing their hurricane woes. Many were still without electricity but had gratefully returned to their jobs and daily routines.

Hoping Steve was busy filling a cavity, Olivia called Laurel at home.

“Are we on for today?” she asked her friend and then realized she shouldn’t have opened the conversation with that line. If she’d been more sensitive, she would have asked if Laurel had recovered from the shock she’d received over being present when a woman of similar age and circumstance suddenly, tragically, became a widow.

Laurel didn’t answer immediately. “I’ve been thinking about the whole reporter thing, Olivia. I’ve been acting like my life is missing something, but I have this beautiful house and a husband who provides for me. Seeing April at that hospital . . .” She struggled to find the right words. “I should learn to count my blessings, not complain about them.”

“Who says those should be limited?” Olivia demanded. “I understand your being upset. Afraid even. But, Laurel, do you want other women to go through this or do you want to help the police catch these bastards and put a stop to future murders?”

One of the twins whined in the background. “I’m sorry, but I need to take care of Dermot.” Laurel clearly wanted to get off the phone. “You do the interview if you want. I’ll e-mail you the address. Meanwhile, I am going to cook a delicious dinner for my family, even if it takes me all day to do it!” The sound of whining escalated into a full-blown howl and a second high-pitched voice joined in.

Haviland’s ears lifted in alert.

“I gotta go!” Laurel shouted and hung up.

Olivia scowled at the phone. “Well, how do you like that?” She drummed her long fingers on the kitchen counter and recalled the chief’s promise to compare notes with her that evening. If she didn’t interview the other burglary victim, she might not have any useful information to impart and she very much wanted to be able to provide Sawyer Rawlings with a solid lead at the most and a few possible theories or relevant clues at the very least.

Picking up the phone, Olivia made another call. “Did I wake you?” she inquired genially when a very groggy Millay grunted out a hello. It didn’t take long to fill the young woman in on the role Olivia wanted her to play. “You’re sharp and you can read people, which is a surprising attribute for someone in their mid-twenties.”

“I’m a bartender,” Millay reminded her irritably, still half asleep. “If I didn’t have that skill, I couldn’t pay my rent.”

“So you’ll come with me?”

Millay produced a muffled grunt. “It’s either that or do laundry. I’ll be your wing man.”

Pleased, Olivia had a final thought. “And I hate to say this, being that I admire most expressions of individuality, but could you strive to dress more conservatively for today’s interview?”

Snorting, Millay replied, “Just for you, I’ll take out one or two eyebrow rings.”

“That would be a start,” Olivia answered and rang off.

An hour later, Olivia pulled in front of Millay’s apartment complex. When her young friend waved in greeting, Olivia almost failed to recognize her. Millay was wearing a simple black skirt, sandals with a wedge heel, and a short-sleeved white blouse beneath an argyle vest. Her hair was pulled under a beige cap and, instead of her customary black eyeliner, deep purple eye shadow, and crimson lipstick, she wore very little makeup. Olivia was struck afresh by the girl’s beauty.

“Not bad,” she said as Millay hopped into the car and reached around to pet Haviland.

“I only do this in the name of Truth and Justice,” Millay answered. “And I’m not going anywhere without coffee, so swing into the Exxon on our way out of town.”

Olivia was horrified. “You’re going to drink gas station coffee?”

“Yeah, and I might eat a pink hot dog and a bag of pork rinds too,” Millay taunted.

“Cover your ears with your paws, Captain,” Olivia suggested. “This girl speaks of food whose existence is best forgotten.”

Haviland spent most of the ride to Beaufort County sniffing the air in the Range Rover’s cabin. True to her word, Millay had bought a large coffee at the Exxon station, but in lieu of a chemically enhanced hot dog, she’d purchased a custard-filled donut. She polished off the pastry before Haviland could even beg for a bite.

“No sugar for you, Captain,” Olivia remonstrated. “You can have a nice organic Buffalo knuckle bone while we’re inside the . . .” She gestured for Millay to read the paper resting on the dash. “What’s Sue’s last name?”

Licking the fingers of her right hand, Millay examined the sheet. “Ridgemont.” She read the address aloud. “Sandpiper Shores. Jesus, who names these developments? The same people who write Hallmark cards and listen to Christmas music all year long?”

Olivia laughed. “Everything has to have a theme. Her house is on Blue Heron Circle, right? So, in this case, we have a shorebird theme. How original.”

“Hey, not everyone has our vivid imaginations,” Millay replied. “Personally, I’d like to see a bunch of streets named after food. I could live on Steak Street, you’d be on Pickle Place, and all the people we didn’t get along with would be stuck on Cauliflower Court.”

“I take it you don’t enjoy the nutty flavor of the cruciferous vegetable,” Olivia remarked. “Do you like other members of the cabbage family? Broccoli or Brussels sprouts.”

“Ick, ick, and ick,” was Millay’s only response as they pulled into the driveway of a Dutch colonial.

“You’re missing out,” Olivia said, turning off the engine. “Michel makes the most unbelievable broccoli dish. He tosses market-fresh broccoli with olive oil, garlic, and pine nuts. Adds a little salt and viola! Perfection.”

Millay frowned. “I get my fiber by eating edamame. Enough about food. I can only stand this preppy girl outfit for so long.”

The Ridgemonts obviously had children, for their pricey SUVs were plastered with gold bear paw-print decals, the mascot of one of the area’s prestigious and very expensive private schools. In addition, decals in support of various sports’ teams, from lacrosse to swimming to tennis, declared that athletics played a major role in the Ridgemonts’ lives.

Unlike Christina Quimby’s house, this home lacked curb appeal. The lawn had been mowed and the bushes trimmed, but there wasn’t a flower in sight and the potted ferns on the stoop were brown and wilted. Several newspapers littered the welcome mat, and the door’s brass kick plate and knocker were being eaten away by rust.

Sue Ridgemont answered the bell wearing paint-splattered jeans and an equally colorful T-shirt.

“Oh, dear! I forgot you all were coming today. Sorry! Come on in.” She gestured at her clothes. “I’m in the middle of a do-it-yourself project in the guest room.” Leading them into the kitchen, she pushed a pile of books, newspapers, unread mail, two pairs of balled-up socks, and a Nerf football to the other end of the table.

“Thank you for agreeing to see us,” Olivia said, trying not to frown at the dirty dishes in the sink or the brown bananas on the countertop. “I’m sure you’re busy.”

Sue blinked. “You mean because of the hurricane?” She laughed merrily. “I have two teenage boys. My whole life is a hurricane!”

Olivia smiled, quickly warming to Sue Ridgemont.

“So tell us about the robbery. Just start at the beginning and try to give us as much detail as possible.” Olivia waved a hand at Millay. “My assistant will take notes as we talk.”

Millay did better than that. She produced a mini recorder from her bag, pressed a few buttons, and placed it on the table near the pile of unopened mail. She then settled a notebook on her lap and grinned at Sue. “Just pretend the recorder’s not there. I only brought it to ensure accuracy on our part.” She then uncapped a pen and looked at Sue expectantly.

Sue’s story was remarkably similar to Christina’s except the Ridgemont family hadn’t gone out of town. They’d spent the better part of a Saturday at a Little League All-Star game in Fayetteville.

“When we got home, we didn’t think anything was wrong.” She gestured at the kitchen. “It’s pretty tough to tell if something’s missing in this chaos, but it didn’t take long for the boys to notice the big holes where their TVs, computers, and stereos had been. The thieves took my good jewelry, my husband’s Rolex, and our emergency cash. We kept it in a lockbox under the bed. I guess we should have been more creative, but there you have it.”

Olivia was struck by the fact that both the Quimbys and the Ridgemonts had been attending athletic events during the robberies. She asked Sue if they knew the Quimbys.

“Afraid not,” she said. “I wondered about that when I read about their robbery case in the paper, but I think her kids go to Neuse River Academy. We’re at The Bellhaven School. Goooo Bears!”

As Millay took down a list of stolen items, Olivia tried to deduce who would have knowledge of the family’s weekend schedule. She waited for Sue to finish speaking and then asked, “How did the thieves get in?”

Sue got up and pointed at the cat door carved into the wall next to the door leading to the garage. “We have two cats and an aversion to litter boxes. When we’re going to be out all day we leave the garage door cracked a bit. That way Lucifer and Beelzebub can come and go as they please.”

Millay giggled. “Nice names. Very Old Testament.”

“Like I said, I’ve got two teenage boys. God forbid they call our cats something sweet like Checkers or Mittens. The cats were strays three years ago but now they totally rule our lives. You’d of thought they were honorary members of the royal family the way they’re treated around here.” Sue walked over to the door leading to the garage. “We usually lock this, but I think we were in such a hurry to get to the game on time that we forgot. I guess we made it easy for the bad guys. They just slipped in under the crack in the garage door—we hadn’t made it small enough—and walked into the house. I doubt they spent more than thirty minutes taking what they wanted.”

Olivia nodded. “I’m sorry. It’s a shame someone took advantage of you when you were merely trying to be considerate of your pets.” She rubbed her chin. “Can you think of anything else we should know? Did the thieves leave anything odd around the house?”

Sue picked up a slingshot from the next chair and brandished the weapon. “You’ll have to be more specific!”

In response, Olivia told Sue about the melted butter and knife left on the Quimby’s countertop.

“Actually, I would have never thought about this if you hadn’t asked, but there was a deck of cards on this table. Two hands had been dealt, like the boys had just finished playing a game of poker or something.” She shrugged. “The weird thing was I hadn’t seen them get the cards out before we left. I never thought to ask them either. I just shoved them into a stack and put a rubber band around them.” Picking up the crumpled newspaper, she began to search for the cards.

“Can you ask your sons about the cards?” Olivia asked. “If the deck doesn’t belong to them, it might have been placed there by the thieves. They may have even left their prints on them.”

Her eyes widening, Sue nodded. “They’re at a friend’s house clearing downed trees, but I can send them a text.” She felt her pockets. “Now where did I leave my phone?”

The three women began a fruitless search for Sue’s cell phone until Millay had the smarts to suggest Sue simply dial the number and listen for its ring.

“Before I do, I want you to know that my sons programmed the phone to play the song ‘Bootylicious’ whenever someone calls me. It’s completely embarrassing but I don’t know how to change it.” She picked up the kitchen phone and dialed. Millay followed the sounds of Destiny’s Child into the front hall and pulled a phone in a magenta case from the soil of a fake potted Ficus tree.

“How on earth?” Sue shook her head in wonderment. She fumbled over the keys, trying to recall how to send a text message until Millay offered to complete the task for her. That being done, she also changed the ringtone so that Sue would now hear Handel’s “Water Music” instead of “Bootylicious.” “Thanks. That reminds me of my wedding, before my life wasn’t in a complete state of chaos!” She sighed happily. “But I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“You don’t seem to be too upset over the robbery,” Millay remarked. “I’d be furious.”

Sue put a hand over Millay’s. “My family was unharmed. What was taken can be replaced. They can’t. Let those guys have our stuff, as long as they never return. That’s why I agreed to talk to you. Anything I can do to help catch them means that they won’t come back.”

Her phone blipped and she examined the screen. “The cards are theirs, but they haven’t played with them since the vacation we took in June.” She glanced at Olivia with excitement. “Wouldn’t it be something if the thieves get caught over a deck of cards?” She put a finger on her lips and tapped. “The question is . . . where did I put them?”

“Did you return them to one of your son’s bedrooms?” Olivia hazarded a guess.

Sue smirked. “That would be the logical place to start, but I’m easily distracted, so even if I meant to put them away, it doesn’t mean I succeeded. Let’s see. I put a rubber band around them and stuck them in a pocket while I was still standing in the kitchen.” She touched her pants. “But it was a deep pocket, like you’d find on a coat.”

“It’s too hot for a coat, unless it was a rain jacket,” Olivia pointed out.

Throwing open a hall closet, Sue shoved coats around but came up empty-handed.

“An apron?” Millay asked.

“I don’t cook. I heat things up or order takeout.” Sue began tapping her lips again. “Oh! I remember! I was painting the day after we’d been robbed. I was hoping it would settle me down, but I ended up covering up the whole thing with primer and starting all over again. Didn’t like the color. Still, the cards must be in my smock.”

She dashed from the room and quickly returned, holding the cards by the edge. They were loosely wrapped in a tissue. “Let me stick these in a plastic bag.”

Once the cards were safely sealed in plastic, Olivia reached out for them. “I’m meeting with the chief of police in about two hours. I’ll see that he gets these.” When Sue looked perplexed by the declaration, Olivia colored. “It’s okay. He’s a friend of mine.” With the deck of cards safely in her purse, Olivia shook hands with Sue and thanked her effusively for an interesting afternoon.

Back in the Range Rover, Haviland looked up from his bone and sniffed the air, his warm brown eyes alight with curiosity.

“Dirty socks and rotten bananas. That’s all, Captain,” Olivia told him.

Millay scratched the poodle behind the ears and then chucked Olivia on the arm. “Smooth move back there, by the way.”

“Which one?” Olivia asked in jest.

“You told Sue you’d deliver the cards to the chief of police, but you neglected to mention that the chief you’d be seeing rules over the Oyster Bay fuzz, not Beaufort’s men in blue.”

Olivia’s laughter filled the car’s cabin and then floated out Haviland’s open window. “I didn’t want to burden Sue with such a trivial detail. She’s got enough going on, wouldn’t you agree?”

Millay shrugged. “I am so not doing the married with kids thing.” She paused. “At least not until I’m forty. By then, I’ll be too old to care.”

“Watch it,” Olivia growled. “I’m forty.”

“I’m just kidding. I really want to be you when I grow up,” Millay continued wryly. “I’d especially like to have your bank account.” She sighed. “I’m going to have to dress in a very provocative way tonight to make up for two nights of lost tips. We’re talking hoochie mama gear. Like Old Mother Hubbard, my cupboard is freaking bare!”

Later, Olivia pulled up in front of Millay’s apartment complex and wagged a finger in mock warning. “You’ve been compensated for this afternoon’s work, so there’s no need to dress like a prostitute. I appreciated having you along today.”

Millay frowned in confusion.

“Check your bag,” Olivia directed with a smile. “See you Saturday.”

She was pleased to see Millay’s mouth drop open in surprise as she removed a gift card to the Piggly Wiggly from her bag. She flipped it over, noted the amount of the card, and widened her eyes in delighted surprise.

“Haviland.” Olivia ruffled the black curls on her poodle’s head. “Our work here is done.”

Chapter 10

Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity.

—VOLTAIRE

Olivia’s laptop was open on one of the small café tables at Bagels ’n’ Beans. Aside from her coffee mug, every inch of the table’s worn, wooden surface was covered with her copies of Laurel’s notes from the interview with Christina Quimby and Millay’s from their meeting with Sue Ridgemont earlier that day. Olivia piled newspaper clippings on area robberies on the spare chair under which Haviland dozed.

The laptop was less than a month old and Olivia wasn’t familiar with the nuances of the new program bundle. She’d bought the lightweight machine online and had had no problem figuring out how to write and save documents, send and receive e-mails, or print, but she didn’t know how to create a chart showing comparisons between the robberies. If she weren’t so impatient, she would have invested time in reading the program’s Help section. Instead, she called Harris.

“Where are you, my resident IT genius?” she asked.

Harris shouted over the loud hip-hop music playing in the background. “In the car! I just got off work! I’m rolling with the windows down and, uh, hold on a sec . . .” Abruptly, the music ceased. “Sorry, I can hear you now.”

“Can you change into your superhero costume, come down to Bagels ’n’ Beans, and rescue me? I need to make a spreadsheet on my computer.”

Clearing his throat, Harris responded in a lower octave. “I won’t let you down, ma’am. Let me pick up my cape and Lycra tights and I’ll be right there. But I will exact a price for my services. The Firewall Avenger only operates after an eight-hour day when fueled by an Asiago bagel with cream cheese and a large mocha latte.”

“A small sacrifice in exchange for wearing tights. Your request shall be granted.”

Once Harris had polished off his snack and was busy creating Olivia’s chart, she pivoted in her seat and sent several withering looks in the direction of a group of high school girls at the other end of the narrow room. Within seconds of Harris’s arrival, they’d been attempting to gain his attention by giggling, shrieking, and taking photos of him with their cell phones.

“Harris. Would it bother you if I scattered that collective of hormone-crazed Hannah Montanas over there? I’m sure it’s nice to have a throng of pretty admirers, but I cannot concentrate in the face of all that hair flipping and squealing. It would be quieter in a slaughterhouse.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Harris met the laughing gazes of four pairs of eyes and immediately turned back to Olivia. “They’re probably just making jokes about my skin. I’m used to it. I ignored girls like them all through high school. It really doesn’t bother me anymore.”

Touching his hand, Olivia forced him to look up from the screen. “Harris, your rosacea has gotten remarkably less noticeable. A few more treatments and you’ll be as unblemished as a Hollywood starlet. Those girls are staring at you because they think you’re cute. Fine. Hot. I’m not familiar with teenage lingo. Most of them speak Text Message—all abbreviations and code. LOL, BFF, WTF.”

Smiling, Harris ventured another glance at the girls, causing them to redouble their giggling. “How are you going to get rid of them?”

“I’ll pretend we’re an item,” Olivia said with a wry grin. “Just act like you’re attracted to older women.”

Harris produced a feline growl, causing Haviland to jerk his head off the floor. “Oh, I do like the cougars.” He put a placating hand on the poodle’s neck. “I am totally kidding, my friend. Please don’t bite any digits off. I need every one of my lightning-fast keyboard fingers.”

Once Olivia had shooed away the gaggle of girls, the two friends concentrated on their task. Harris created a spreadsheet that included the thieves’ method of entry, the items taken from each house, the day of the week in which the robbery occurred, and a complete list of services each family used.

“The houses were entered through the garage or the back door,” Olivia noted when he was done. “And in each case, the thieves were neat and particular about what they wanted.”

“They prefer jewelry and electronics,” Harris agreed. “But I’d imagine bling and hi-tech toys are easiest to unload to a pawn broker or some other shady third party.” He pointed at the screen. “I’d try to track the art. Those paintings are unique, and if these guys are looking for quick, fast cash, then they’re not traveling too far to sell the pilfered stuff.”

Olivia was impressed. “That’ll be the first point I raise to the chief, if he hasn’t thought of it already.” She searched the chart eagerly for connections. “I really thought we’d plug in all the data and voila! There’d be a cleaning service or a housepainter or a pet walker they all had in common. Instead, the only dots connecting these families is that they have kids and those kids play sports, taking the families away from home for a large chunk of time during the weekend.”

“And then there’s the whole weird butter-dish thing.” He eyed Olivia’s purse. “Do you have the cards with you?”

Nodding, she produced the deck in its protective plastic bag.

Sue Ridgemont had removed the tissue encasing the deck after dropping it into the bag. Harris peered through the plastic and then, without asking permission, used his long, agile fingers to push the rubber band off the deck without opening the bag.

“Whoa,” Harris murmured in admiration over the illustrations of scantily clad warrior women. “These are all Boris Vallejo images. His fantasy art is amazing. I’ve got one of his Conan the Barbarian prints. When you look at it, you feel like you could bounce a quarter off the guy’s pecs.” He fanned the cards out as much as he could without removing them from the bag. “Cool. The centaurs are the jacks and these mermaids are the queens. Man, they are smoking hot.” Blushing, he continued to inch the cards apart. “Ah, here’s a quartet of barbarian kings.” He frowned. “Wait a sec. Did I miss one?”

Olivia, who wasn’t as fascinated by the artistry of the cards as Harris, picked up their cups, walked to the counter, and handed them to Wheeler. “Two refills please.” She paid for the espresso drinks and then returned to the table, eager to study their chart in search of inspiration before heading to The Boot Top to meet Chief Rawlings.

“There’s a queen missing,” Harris pointed out as she sat down. “Not that I’d blame one of the robbers for taking one of these gorgeous matriarchs, but now the Ridgemont boys have no hopes of ever playing with a full deck.”

He handed the cards to Olivia, but she didn’t move a muscle. “Not playing with a full deck.” Her blood quickened. Words clicked into place in her mind and she tapped excitedly on the computer screen. “Like a knife through butter!”

Harris followed her train of thought. “Clichés? The thieves are leaving behind clichés?”

“Two might not be enough to prove a theory, but if the third robbery—the one that turned violent—had some bizarre tableau in the kitchen, then these guys have a signature.”

Harris dropped the cards on the table. “Even if they do, would that help the cops catch them?”

Olivia shrugged. “I think Rawlings apprehends guilty parties by getting to know them, by discovering their story, so to speak. This modus operandi of the robbers is a message. It’s part of their story.”

“Whatever you say.” Harris looked doubtful. “I just hope theirs has an unhappy ending.”

Rawlings was comfortably established at The Boot Top’s bar by the time Olivia arrived. He and Gabe chatted amicably despite the din created by a party of four devouring a bowl of snack mix at one of the nearby tables. Olivia led Haviland into her office, said hello to the kitchen staff, and hurried to the restroom before Rawlings could spot her.

Olivia checked her reflection in the mirror, smoothing tiny wrinkles from her belted scoop-neck dress. The garment’s simple cut and deep blue shade was accentuated by a triple-strand necklace of red coral beads. In the low light of the ladies’ room, she brushed her hair until it shone like moonlight and then spritzed the skin of her neck and wrists with Shalimar.

As though the perfume announced her presence, Rawlings raised his chin and pivoted in his seat, watching intently as she closed the distance between them.

He rose, and though his face remained stiff and formal, his eyes smiled. “When I was a boy, I was fascinated by mythology, yet I never understood why a sailor would willingly jump into the ocean because he heard a woman’s song. But I believe that if saw a siren looking like you do tonight, I would leap overboard at the sound of her first note.”

Rawlings may have delivered the words in a breezy voice, but Olivia had never been given such a unique and lovely compliment. Suddenly, she felt as though everyone in the bar could tell that the air around their bodies was electrically charged, like lightning before the strike.

Gesturing at an open table, Olivia led the chief to one of the leather club chairs and made eye contact with Gabe. Though he was busy mixing a martini, he glanced over at her and nodded. Within minutes, he was at their table with a tumbler of Chivas Regal and one of the restaurant’s microbrews in a frosted glass.

Rawlings and Olivia clinked glasses, sipped from their drinks, and then the chief arched his brows in curiosity as Olivia placed her laptop on the table.

“Did you bring your file on the latest robbery?” she asked.

Glancing at the images surfacing on Olivia’s computer screen, Rawlings patted a worn leather-handled satchel at his feet. The bag called to mind an aging professor or laboratory scientist, but somehow suited the police chief as well. “This is a murder case now, Olivia. I’m not going to simply hand it over for your perusal.”

She bristled. “I hadn’t expected that, but could you take a look at the chart Harris created? It shows a thorough comparison of the other robberies, including the one that occurred in Beaufort County.”

The chief’s brow rose higher. “This is Laurel’s work?”

“In part,” Olivia answered cryptically and pointed out the athleticism of all the victim’s children. “None of them play the same sport or belong to the same country clubs, but these families send their kids to private schools. What of the third?”

Now Rawlings removed the case file from his satchel. “Let’s see. The Howard children attend The Neuse River Academy.” He examined the computer screen. “As do the Quimby children, I see.”

Olivia fell silent and let Rawlings think. His gaze grew distant as he turned his face toward the window and fixed his eyes on the twinkling lights out in the harbor. She followed suit, wondering if a tutor or teacher or bus driver linked the families, but dismissed each possibility as it surfaced in her mind.

“Is it plausible that there’s some sort of coach working at both schools?” she ruminated aloud. “Perhaps an assistant coach? Or a referee? Someone knew exactly when these families would be away from their homes.”

Rawlings removed a sheet of paper from his file. “These are the names of all the teachers, coaches, close friends, and carpool drivers who come into regular contact with the children.” He placed another piece of paper on top of the first. “Here are the cleaning, garbage, and lawn services used by each family as well as doctors, beauticians, barbers, dentists, veterinarians, accountants, et cetera. Notice anything interesting?”

He waited for Olivia to read through the names. When she came across the one he’d also recognized, she jabbed at the paper with her finger. “Steve Hobbs! These families all go to Laurel’s husband to have their teeth cleaned?” She released the paper as though it had singed her fingertips. “Pure coincidence.”

“I’m certain it is as well, but nonetheless, I’ll have to establish his whereabouts on the days the robberies occurred.” Rawlings looked miserable over the prospect.

Olivia took a generous swallow from her glass. “Can you talk to him during office hours? I’d rather Laurel not have to worry when this turns out to be nothing.”

Rawlings smiled. “Of course.” He looked up as a waiter hovered over them, clearly unsure how to ask his boss to move her laptop to make room for the hors d’oeuvres Michel had prepared especially for Olivia and her guest. “Allow me,” the chief told the waiter and put the computer on a nearby chair.

“Chef Michel sends his compliments,” the waiter said to Rawlings. “He’s made several items not listed on this evening’s menu in your honor. First, we have Boursin and spinach bouchée. Next, duck canapés and beef teriyaki brochette. And finally, crab cakes with a Cajun remoulade and mushroom crescents drizzled with a creamed sherry sauce. Enjoy.”

Rawlings rubbed his chin and stared at the gourmet fare. “Boursin? Bouchée? Brochette? What are we eating?”

Olivia smiled. “Boursin is a cheese that comes from Normandy. Bouchée is a pastry. Brochette simply means food cooked and oftentimes served on skewers.” She served him a sample from each of the dishes.

“Do all of your patrons speak gastronomy?”

“Hardly. That’s one of The Boot Top’s charms. We sound fancy, but the trick is blending the correct fresh ingredients together. We awaken the senses through a single mouthful of tender duck or a sip of fine burgundy.” She gestured at the food on their table. “None of this would be possible without Michel. He could work anywhere, but he chose to be here.”

Rawlings tasted a crab cake and moaned. “Mother of God! There are so many flavors in this one bite! Sweet and salty, creamy and crispy—all going off like a perfectly timed fireworks display. Michel is a maestro.”

Pleased, Olivia enjoyed some of her meal before Gabe appeared with two glasses of pinot noir. “While the food has you in such an agreeable state, would you tell me whether any unusual objects were left in the kitchen of the Howard household after the robbery?”

The chief finished chewing and took a swallow of wine. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and then slowly sipped from his wineglass a second time, obviously appreciating the Pinot’s cherry bouquet. “How on earth did you know that?”

She took the deck of playing cards out of her purse. “These were left on the Ridgemonts’ kitchen table, set up as though two people had been playing poker.” After describing the butter dish and knife found on the Quimby’s countertop, she explained how she and Harris had both recognized that the tableaus represented well-known clichés.

Rawlings didn’t need to check the Howard file. He leaned forward, the sumptuous fare on his plate forgotten. “The culprits set out three wooden blocks—taken from a old set that Mrs. Howard’s had since childhood. She kept them in a box in her bedroom closet. The thieves picked out three blocks and turned them so that the numbers faced outward. The numbers were one, two, and three.”

Olivia ran her fingertip along the base of her wineglass. “As easy as one, two, three?”

“That’d be my guess.” Rawlings agreed. “But why? What are they trying to say? Who is their audience? The victims? Law enforcement?”

“It implies a level of intelligence.” Olivia said, knowing Rawlings wasn’t directing his questions at her. “I doubt your average thief could define ‘cliché,’ let alone create scenes using such a specific literary device.”

The pair fell silent. Olivia leaned back in her chair, listening to the familiar sounds of subdued laughter from the patrons at the bar and the rise and fall of quiet conversation from the diners in the next room. The noises floated around her and she found comfort in the blend of murmurs, of cutlery being laid against an empty plate, of the tinkle of crystal as a couple toasted one another with flutes of champagne.

“Perhaps there are only two of them,” she said after a few minutes. “That’s why two hands were dealt in their mock poker game.”

Rawlings nodded. “It would certainly take two strong individuals to tote some of those flat-screen televisions. I know they’re not as heavy as they once were, but they’re still unwieldy. And it would be extremely time consuming to maneuver the goods without a partner, so yes, I believe we’re talking about a pair or a team working together.”

A waiter materialized behind Olivia’s shoulder. Seeing that his boss and her guest were no longer eating, he asked for permission and then, after receiving an absent nod from Olivia, removed their plates. He returned shortly to serve them a platter of bite-sized pastries and then poured steaming cups of coffee for the pair. When he started to walk off, Rawlings reached out a hand to stop him.

“Excuse me, good sir,” the chief halted his retreat. “Could you rustle up a glass of chocolate milk for me?”

If the waiter was surprised by the request, he didn’t show it. “Certainly. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Olivia waved at the selection of éclairs, Napoleons, cappuccino mousse, and hazelnut dacquoise cakes. “Not enough sugar for you here?”

“It’s how I get my daily supply of dairy,” Rawlings answered, unruffled by Olivia’s teasing.

Lacking a taste for sweets, Olivia sat back and enjoyed her coffee. She was eager for the waiter to clear away the food so she could input the information from Rawlings’ file onto her spreadsheet. She knew he wouldn’t reveal the entirety of its contents and she didn’t want to see the medical examiner’s report or catch a glimpse of the crime scene photos in any case. What she hungered for were the facts. Indisputable, concise, comprehensible data. She didn’t want to think about the grief-stricken, shell-shocked family or wonder how April Howard would survive without her husband’s income.

Olivia Limoges had always run from loss. Now was no different. She sought to escape from focusing on another woman’s terrible sorrow by training every thought on times and dates, school names and sports teams.

The chief’s chocolate milk was delivered and he drank it pensively, his eyes locked on the dessert platter, unseeing. Finally, Olivia raised her hand and the waiter materialized as silently as a specter and removed their dishes. The noise from the bar area increased as more patrons arrived well ahead of their reservations in order to socialize before enjoying a delicious meal.

Olivia and Rawlings remained wrapped in their cocoon of silence. As always, they were able to enjoy one another’s company without filling the space between them with unnecessary prattle.

When Rawlings spoke, his eyes reflecting the light from the votive on their table, it was apparent that he’d decided to put aside the topic of burglaries for the moment. “I like being here with you, Olivia. It seems like a contradiction, but you are the only person who can infuriate me beyond rational thought and yet are also able to bring me the deepest sense of calm. You are much like the ocean.” He indicated the harbor beyond the window, which was just a dark smudge beneath an indigo sky. “It must be why your eyes remind me of the open sea.”

Olivia smiled at him. The smile was so wide and warm that it felt unfamiliar to the muscles of her mouth. “Sawyer—” she began.

“Hello!” The chipper visage of Flynn McNulty abruptly appeared before them. “Is this a meeting of future Hemingways and Dickensons, or might a simple shopkeeper pull up a chair?”

Rawlings stood and shook Flynn’s hand. “I think you’re giving us too much credit. At least in regards to my writing. Ms. Limoges possesses the only genuine talent at this table.”

Flynn set his tumbler of whiskey down and settled into a chair, crossing an ankle over the opposite knee in a posture of utter relaxation. For the first time, Olivia was irritated by Flynn’s easy confidence. Rawlings queried the bookstore owner about new fiction arrivals and the two men began to toss about author names as though they were playing a game of catch. Olivia heard Michael Connelly, Nick Hornby, Stieg Larsson, and Daniel Silva before she tuned out.

Eventually, Flynn needed a refill and, wanting to chat with Gabe, went up to the bar instead of signaling a waiter. Rawlings had drained his drink and had a speck of chocolate milk on his chin. Olivia reached over with her napkin to wipe it away, but Rawlings caught her by the wrist before she had the chance and placed her palm flat against his chest. She could feel his heart beating as though she held it in her hand.

“I’d better be going,” he said, his voice heavy with regret. He gently released her and swiped at his chin with his napkin. “I have two unsolved murder cases now, and though I doubt they’re related—” He stopped abruptly and his mouth went slack. His gaze was fixed on the framed reproduction of Vincent Van Gogh’s Beach at Scheveningen in Stormy Weather, that hung on the wood-paneled wall behind their table. “But they are related,” he breathed into Van Gogh’s muted browns and grays and the small splotches of black that formed the villagers waiting at the water’s edge as a lone fishing boat returned to shore.

Olivia rose and moved to the chief’s side, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him.

Rawlings raised one of his large hands, uncurled a finger, and pointed it at a solitary male figure on the right side of the painting. With a few simple brushstrokes, Van Gogh had managed to convey a sense of urgency as the man hurried across the sand. His featureless face betrayed no emotion, but his body pressed forward, legs bent, shoulders lurching forward, hands raised above the waist. Even the wind seemed to be against him, blowing the grass growing over the dunes nearly flat.

“John Doe’s death scene is a cliché,” Rawlings whispered and then gathered his satchel. “Thank you, Olivia. For the meal, the company, and your ability to help me see clearly. I—”

Again, they were interrupted by Flynn who had returned to the table with two tumblers of whiskey. He gave Rawlings a look of apology. “I didn’t know whether you’d be interested in chasing your milk with whiskey.”

Mumbling a hasty good-bye, Rawlings departed.

Olivia took the whiskey from Flynn’s hand with a brief thank-you and drank it down, her eyes never leaving the painting on the wall. “What cliché? What did you see?”

“Olivia.” Flynn waved his hands in an attempt to gain her attention. “Are you free to stay awhile?”

She turned to him, her deep blue eyes nearly black in the dim light. “Not tonight. I need to go home and think.”

And with that, she strolled out of the bar and through the swinging door into the kitchen. The door had a small, rounded window and was marked by a sign that said “Staff Only, Please.” Olivia knew Flynn wouldn’t follow her into the restaurant’s inner sanctum.

It would be like chasing a dragon into its cave.

Chapter 11

On life’s vast ocean diversely we sail,

Reason the card, but passion is the gale.

—ALEXANDER POPE

Olivia carried the Bounty Hunter on her shoulder as though she were a lumberjack heading into the forest for a day’s work. Haviland bounded out in front, splashing in the surf, his brown eyes burnished gold by the earlymorning light.

It wasn’t difficult to find the spot where the body had been buried in the sand. There were still multiple sets of tracks leading up to the dunes left by either the police or, judging from a scattering of empty beer cans, curious locals. Olivia switched on the metal detector and frowned.

“I know it’s pure hubris to believe I could find a buried clue when a dozen cops, not to mention one of the area’s finest K-9 units, could not,” she confessed to Haviland. “But I hate standing idly by.”

Slowly, deliberately, she began to sway the metal detector’s disc over the sand. She started where she believed the body had been and moved up the beach toward the dunes. Her machine was unusually silent and failed to signal the presence of useless pieces of metal like soda can tabs or bottle caps. The display screen was also lifeless.

Olivia completed a wide semicircle and began to repeat the process in the opposite direction, heading toward the water’s edge. Again, the Bounty Hunter had nothing to offer and she set it aside, keenly disappointed. Kicking off her shoes, she sat down, curling her toes in the moist sand just shy of the ocean’s watery fingers.

“You sent me signs last time someone I cared for was hurt,” she whispered, reaching out to touch the frothy ridge of a wave. “This man was a stranger to me, but someone must be missing him. Someone will want him to be at peace. You were the only witness. What secrets do you carry?”