A Deadly Cliche

The water gently bubbled and hissed and then Haviland was at her side, nudging Olivia with his nose before racing off again to chase a gull. Though the poodle was a threat, the bird flew just out of Haviland’s reach, as if enjoying a game with the canine.

When Olivia looked back down at the sand, she noticed that it was pocked with fiddler crab holes. Recalling a trick from childhood, Olivia pierced the sand next to one of the holes with a twig and the crab darted out of the burrow. Olivia followed the creature’s progress, which was made slightly awkward due to the one large and fiddle-shaped claw. The crab scuttled several yards away from the water line and immediately began to dig a new hole. Olivia had watched the crabs do this hundreds of times before, but she still loved to sit and wait as the tireless creatures produced a tidy ball of sand in the process of creating a new home.

“Not a very exciting existence,” she mused aloud. “You dig yourself a hole—” She stopped and glanced up the beach. “Dig yourself into a hole. That’s the cliché Rawlings figured out at The Boot Top.” She stood, brushed sand from her pants, and whistled for Haviland. “Felix Howard wasn’t the first person to suffer violence at the robbers’ hands. They’ve killed before. They committed premeditated murder right here!”

Reclaiming the metal detector, Olivia switched it on, ignoring Haviland’s plaintive look. “I know you’ve had enough, but I can’t quit yet. Just pick a spot and start digging. I’m going to sweep this entire perimeter once again. There must be something here.”

There wasn’t.

Tired, hot, and frustrated, the pair set off for home.

Olivia spent the afternoon critiquing Millay’s chapter. Her phone rang once, but she was so engrossed in Millay’s fantastical world that she allowed the answering machine to pick up. It was Flynn, asking that she return his call as soon as possible. “Otherwise I’m going to have to turn to another smart, no-nonsense woman to help me out,” he teased. “She’s not quite as attractive, but I’m out of my league here. Call me, please?”

The sound of Flynn’s voice seemed incongruent with Millay’s narrative. Her heroine, Tessa, was about to embark on her first battle, and Olivia felt anxious for the fictional girl. In the previous chapter, the Bayside Book Writers had learned that Tessa could not learn the secret name of her Gryphon until they were victorious in three battles against terrifying foes. Only by calling the Gryphon by his true name would the young warrior girl and her mount be truly united. This union would awaken Tessa’s magical abilities, giving her the necessary prowess to face the enemy of her people: the Dark Witches and their mounts, the Wyverns.

Taking a sip of iced tea flavored with lime, Olivia returned her attention to Tessa.

Learning to fly had been hard enough. Tessa had to sit at the base of the Gryphon’s neck, her legs folded and her hands buried in the thick, downy feathers behind his head. Her thighs ached from having to squeeze the Gryphon’s shoulders where his feathers gave way to fur. In the beginning, she had fallen again and again, but now that she was more skilled, the Gryphon soared higher into the sky, above the shimmering green seas and lush fields of her homeland. On the morrow, they would leave the secluded valley behind and travel to the edge of the Sea of Bones. Three girls had gone before her. Three Gryphons had returned without their riders. Tessa spent the night in her Gryphon’s cave. The other girls chose to sleep in the communal lodge. Though the lodge’s linen covered pallets were far more comfortable than as pile of straw, Tessa found she could not wander too far from her beast without feeling an ache to be near him again. At dawn, one of the priests blew a shell horn into the mist. The deep, lonely call resonated inside the cave, waking Tessa immediately. She dressed in her warrior’s garb of deer hide breeches and a flowing white tunic and shouldered a quiver made of dark green leather. The image of a Gryphon’s haughty profile had been stitched on both sides in white thread. Tessa’s arrows also had white shafts with moss green fletches. The weight of the quiver on her back was a comfort, and she prayed her aim would be true. As they flew toward the Sea of Bones, she feared that her prayers would not be enough. Before saying good-bye to the other girls, Tessa had strapped a lance to each leg, and now, as the Gryphon stretched out his neck and cried with the voice of one thousand eagles, she untied a lance and gripped it tightly in her fist. She’d heard tales of the monsters living in the black water of the Sea of Bones since she could walk. With the face and torso of a giantess, two pairs of finlike arms as pliable and slithery as eels, and a dozen coiled tails like those of a sea serpent, this breed of water witch was especially feared. For years, the Gryphon warriors had whittled down their numbers, but the water witches were far from extinct, and those that survived had become very strong. They fought with their arms and tails, spewed mouthfuls of seawater powerful enough to knock their enemies off their mounts, and wielded serrated swords fashioned from the spines of sea dragons. The Gryphon released a second battle cry and the head of a sea witch burst through the surface of the water directly beneath them. Tessa nearly lost her seat as her mount abruptly pivoted to the left to avoid the sweep of a barbed serpent’s tail. Aiming at the witch’s eye, Tessa released her lance. The witch batted it aside with a slick arm and laughed. It was a horrible sound, a wet gurgle of insatiable hunger and timeless evil. Most warriors would have been filled with dread, but the noise only served to anger Tessa. She hadn’t worn herself out with training for the past few weeks to fail here. She threw her second lance, again aiming for an eye. The witch lifted her chin and Tessa’s weapon cut her lower lip. Howling, the monster wiped at a trail of black blood and snarled. Suddenly, four bone swords sliced through the air. The Gryphon dove out of reach, but Tessa was unable to fire any arrows because she was forced to cling to her mount’s neck or be flung into the churning waves below.

Olivia finished reading the chapter without pausing to make notes. She needed to know that Tessa had succeeded in vanquishing the sea witch before jotting comments on word choice or passages in which she wanted more detail. At times, Olivia felt that Millay’s writing was too fast paced and wished her friend would learn to ease back on the narrative throttle. Tessa was a fascinating character, but it was difficult to get to know her because she was always on the move.

Let us in, Olivia wrote at the end of the chapter. What is Tessa feeling? Even when she defeats the sea witch, she just flies off into the sunset. I know she’s exhausted from the experience, but you’re keeping the reader at a distance by not sharing what’s going on in Tessa’s mind.

The phone rang again, but by this time Olivia was ready for a break. When she saw Will Hamilton’s number on her caller ID box, she snatched the receiver from the cradle.

“I hope you have news for me, Mr. Hamilton,” she said.

The private investigator cleared his throat, which Olivia sensed was a sign that he was about to impart bad news.

“Mr. Burkhart picked up the package in question at quarter past eleven on Thursday morning. While still inside The UPS Store, he examined your return address carefully, and then tossed the envelope on the passenger seat of his truck. It’s been there ever since.”

“That’s it?” Olivia didn’t bother to hide her irritation.

“He made a phone call as soon as he got in the truck but the package has remained unopened.”

This surprised Olivia. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Hamilton paused. “And seeing as that envelope contains a thousand bucks in cash, I’d say Mr. Burkhart isn’t exactly hurting for money. Either that or he’s holding the envelope for a third party.”

Olivia considered the latter theory. “You may be on to something there.” She sighed. “I haven’t been completely forthcoming with you, Mr. Hamilton, but it’s high time I was. When I first hired you, I was afraid that I was being made a fool of, but now I’m so confused that I don’t know what to think. I have no interest in entering into a business arrangement with Rodney Burkhart. That was an untruth.” Having confessed as much, she told the private investigator about the letter she’d received concerning her father.

“I’ve handled dozens of missing persons cases, ma’am,” Will answered solemnly when she was done. “They rarely have happy endings.”

“I want to know who sent me this damned letter! And I want to know why! Is this only about money or is there some possibility that my father is alive?” Olivia felt her cheeks flush in indignation. “After all this time, to have this wound reopened . . .” She struggled to steady her voice. “Mr. Hamilton, I need closure. Once and for all. Keep watching Mr. Burkhart. I can wait a little longer to see where that envelope ends up and it’s well worth the cost of your services if you can identify the bastard who’s ruined any chance I have of a sound night’s sleep!”

The private investigator heard her anguish. “I won’t let you down, ma’am. On my honor, I’ll find out who’s behind this.”

Satisfied, Olivia hung up and went upstairs to change into a silver-hued sheath dress and a necklace of large turquoise stones. The Boot Top would soon be packed with tourists in town for the Cardboard Regatta and she wanted to be present to ensure that her restaurant sparkled like Oyster Bay’s crown jewel.

She’d barely had time to settle Haviland in her office before patrons began streaming into the bar. Most of the Cardboard Regatta participants attended the race year after year and had come to know one another on a first-name basis. In general, they were an extremely friendly and funloving group and the locals were glad to have them.

Gabe was hugged and kissed like a long-lost relative and Olivia received her fair share of hearty handshakes and embraces as well. Wine, beer, and cocktails were consumed in hedonistic amounts and the noise in The Boot Top’s dining room escalated beyond its traditional murmurs and soft laughter. As the evening progressed, the competitors exchanged boisterous boasts and taunts while the wait staff scurried about, frantically trying to keep glasses filled and to set course after course of Michel’s exquisite fare in front of the diners.

Saturday promised to be even more hectic. The Bayside Book Writers were planning to watch the races and then gather for a midafternoon critique session. Millay had to be at Fish Nets earlier than usual and Olivia wanted to be at The Boot Top by six, so their time together was limited.

The regatta was Oyster Bay’s last tourist-driven revenue generator until spring returned, and by nine o’clock Saturday morning, there wasn’t a parking space to be found within miles of the harbor.

The downtown merchants had dressed their store windows with the deft touch of Fifth Avenue designers. The flower planters lining the streets were bursting with a vibrant mix of gold lantana and red geranium, and canvas flags celebrating the Cardboard Regatta hung from every signpost. The streets closest to the docks had been closed to automobile traffic and local vendors were selling a variety of wares, from beaded necklaces to handmade ceramics to funnel cakes, at a rapid rate.

Olivia and Haviland strolled among the tourists, enjoying the September sunshine and a strong sense of community pride. One would never know that Ophelia had done her best to cripple the town. Every piece of broken glass or tattered shingle had been replaced. New coats of paint freshened front doors and shutters, and the sidewalks had been swept until they glimmered in the late morning light.

Unable to resist buying roasted corn on a stick, Olivia chewed on the salty, buttery snack until her attention was caught by a display of oil paintings. She recognized Sawyer’s work immediately.

“Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” a woman asked, looking up from a book of crossword puzzles. Her gaze was friendly and warm, but sharpened slightly as she recognized the tall woman with the white blond hair. “Ms. Limoges. I don’t believe we’ve ever met. I’m Jeannie, Sawyer’s sister.”

Olivia reached out to shake Jeannie’s hand. She was a handsome woman closing in on fifty, with a trim figure and soft waves of auburn hair.

“I was hoping you’d stop by,” Jeannie said. “Sawyer put me in charge of giving something to you.” She lifted the skirt of the cobalt tablecloth and peered around. “Now where did I put that thing?”

While she hunted, Olivia examined the paintings. Much smaller than the chief’s usual works, they were all simplistic beach scenes. Though skillfully executed, they lacked the central object or figure Sawyer traditionally placed in his large-scale paintings. However, the tourists thronged around the booth, looking over this work with keen interest. A husband and wife grabbed a painting each and entered into a good-natured debate over whether to purchase a landscape of the beach at sunset or a painting of three children flying kites along the water’s edge.

“What the hell, let’s get them both!” the man declared and was rewarded with a kiss from his spouse.

Meanwhile, Jeannie had found what she’d been looking for. “Give me a sec to take care of these lovebirds first. I don’t want to miss your reaction to this,” she added with a wink.

Turning away to toss out her corncob, Olivia felt an inexplicable impulse to walk away. She could disappear within seconds and simply allow the throng to carry her off like a powerful current. What had Sawyer entrusted to his sister? Olivia doubted he wanted to pass along information regarding the robbery cases and it was unlikely that his chapter had been rewritten and was now ready for her perusal, so what was Jeannie about to deliver? Olivia thought of how Sawyer had placed her hand on his chest and her face grew warm. If only she could be alone with him again, to figure out why he possessed the ability to stir her feelings as no one else had before.

“Here we are!” She carefully reached over a group of paintings displayed on wooden easels in order to place a rectangular package in Olivia’s hands. “Go on, open it, honey.”

Olivia obeyed, peeling away the brown butcher paper enveloping a canvas. When she saw the image, she cried out in surprised delight. “Haviland!” She put her fingertips on the layers of dried paint Rawlings had used to form her poodle’s black curls. There were Haviland’s intelligent, smiling eyes, the color of golden caramel, and his toothy grin. His seated posture was somehow as dignified as a king’s and as jaunty as a rogue’s.

“It’s amazing!” Olivia exclaimed, her throat tight with emotion. When she spoke again, her voice was a mere breath, barely audible above the multitude of tourists. “It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen, let alone been given.”

Jeannie’s eyes, which were the same shape as her brother’s but more green than hazel, sparkled with pleasure. “He’ll be glad to hear that.”

Tenderly rewrapping the small painting in its protective layer of butcher paper, Olivia moved closer to Jeannie. “Why didn’t he give this to me himself?”

“Oh, some stuff and nonsense over having to be on duty right up until the start of your writer’s meeting and that wasn’t the time or the place to give it to you anyhow and blah, blah, blah.” Jeannie shook her head in exasperation. “The man cares for you. It’s plain as day, but he’s afraid of having feelings for anyone after what he went through with his wife.”

“If he doesn’t feel, he won’t get hurt.” Olivia understood his rationale.

Jeannie nodded. “I suspect you know a bit about that fool notion.”

She began to tape the corners of the butcher paper together and then slid the painting into a grocery bag. She set the bag gently on the table and smoothed the paper as though she were petting a cat.

“I was a teenager when your daddy went missing. I remember seeing your grandmother’s fancy car motoring through town. I figured she must be a movie star to have her own driver.” Jeannie smiled at the memory. “Do you know what? I was actually jealous of you. You rode off in that big, black car and it seemed so glamorous to me, like you were going to live a real life while the rest of us stayed here and rotted.” She reached out and touched Olivia’s arm. “I was a silly girl then. But after you came back, I wish I’d had the guts to walk up and tell you that I’d wondered about you over the years, that I’d always prayed you were okay.”

Embarrassed by the other woman’s sincerity, Olivia looked away. “I did lead a glamorous existence to some extent. I ate croissants at a sidewalk café near the Eiffel Tower, climbed on the pyramids at Giza, felt the spray of Victoria Falls on my face . . .” She trailed off. “But I would have traded it all for another day with my mother or to have had a brother or sister. Someone to share a bedroom with, to whisper to when we were supposed to be asleep.”

The loneliness of her childhood—all those years spent with only imaginary playmates as she drifted from room to room or wandered the grounds of one of her grandmother’s several mansions—came back in force. Jeannie must have recognized the sadness flit over Olivia’s features and immediately sought to dispel the gloom.

“Well, you’re back where you belong now,” she declared brightly. “And I hear you bought the old cotton mill.” Jeannie gestured vaguely in the direction of Olivia’s new property.

Grateful for the change of subject, Olivia nodded. “Yes. My offer was accepted yesterday. I plan to open a crab house this spring.”

“That’s good. More jobs for the locals and another of the town’s landmarks that won’t slide into the sea.” Jeannie’s attention was caught by a girl dancing to a bluegrass tune coming from the radio at the next booth. “Are you going to have music?”

Olivia smiled. “Oh, yes! Live bands, a cappella groups, jazz ensembles, all kinds of music.”

Jeannie scrawled something on a piece of scrap paper. “You call me when you’re ready to book bands. My son’s been doing church gigs for the past two years and he’s pretty good. His band can play anything from The Rolling Stones to Jimmy Buffet to Dave Matthews. Cody’s a high school sophomore but has been putting away money for college since he was in the third grade.” Her eyes shone with pride. “Me and his father had two years of junior college and that was enough for us, but Cody wants to be like his uncle Sawyer.”

“Not a bad role model,” Olivia answered and then stepped away to allow a new wave of customers to view the chief’s paintings. “It’ll take months to get the place ready, but I promise to put your son’s name on the top of the audition list. What’s his band called?”

“Excelsior,” Jeannie said and then shrugged. “Whatever that is.”

A man in overalls seemed frightened to approach the table where Haviland stood so Olivia put a hand on the poodle’s collar, drawing him closer to her side. “Excelsior means ‘ever higher.’ I wonder if Cody’s read the Longfellow poem with that title.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. My brother is always buying that boy books and CDs and sports gear. Spoils him rotten.” Olivia wasn’t fooled by Jeannie’s pretense of disapproval. “Sawyer would have made a fine daddy, but I guess that just wasn’t part of the Lord’s plan.” She met Olivia’s eyes. “But I hope you are.” And with that, she turned to assist an eager customer.

Clutching her painting, Olivia wandered toward the harbor and the launching area of the cardboard boats. Her mind was full of thoughts of Sawyer. What did she really know of his private life? Of his childhood? Had he lain in his bed reading Longfellow? Somehow, she could picture him doing just that, for the poem was a tribute to the courage and perseverance of a young man. Did Rawlings see himself as that boy, trudging onward and upward through the frigid night, his throbbing arms refusing to lay down the banner of Excelsior?

Before her grandmother shipped her off to an exclusive all-girl boarding school, Olivia had had to memorize the poem for one of her many tutors. The words tiptoed back into her memory.

The shades of night were falling fast,

As through an Alpine village passed,

A youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice,

A banner with the strange device,

Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath,

Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,

And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue,

Excelsior!

Haviland barked, drawing Olivia back to the present and the thick knot of people gathered to witness the start of the first race.

“You’re right, Captain. That’s a poem for a cold winter’s day.” Seeing Laurel waving to her from the dock while keeping a tight hold on her double stroller, the lighthearted mood Olivia had felt when she first arrived downtown returned.

Laurel gave Olivia a shy smile. “You seemed kind of lost in thought.”

“I was mumbling poetry. Haviland is particularly fond of verse,” Olivia answered and rubbed the fur on the poodle’s neck. She then apologized to Laurel for being so abrupt the last time’s they’d spoken.

“Sure. It’s already forgotten,” Laurel said as she handed each of the twins a soft pretzel. “Harris told me about the cliché clues. Do you have any idea what they mean?”

Olivia shook her head and wondered whether Steve had told his wife about being questioned by the police. From the serene look of Laurel’s face, she doubted it. “So far, the only common denominator is that all the families have kids that play sports and attend area private schools.”

“And the messages the thieves leave behind. What are they trying to tell the people they’ve stolen from?” Laurel asked and then sighed. “I miss the feeling that I had something to contribute to the Gazette, to this town.” She gave a self-effacing laugh. “My cooking attempts have certainly been a disaster! Steve has begged me to go back to culinary school more than once. If only he realized there isn’t one!”

“Is he working today?” Olivia looked around for Laurel’s spouse.

“No. He’s racing.” She pointed at a small motorboat anchored off to the right of the end of the dock. “That’s his team from the office. Their boat is that giant toothbrush.”

Shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun, Olivia watched as Steve and two other men eased their cardboard boat into the water. Carefully, a man wearing a baseball hat climbed into the bow while Steve took up the captain’s position in the stern. “They’ve entered the Oars Only category, I see. Harris is in the Sail-Powered Race, but I have yet to spot his boat. I figured he’d have made a Star Trek ship or a floating robot.”

Laurel also began scanning the harbor. “He’d better get here soon. The judges need to examine his boat before the race. Poor Millay’s been pacing the docks since I got here, sending Harris text after text. I’ve never seen her this anxious.”

The two women secured a place to watch the first race. The twins, whose bellies were full of soft pretzels, apple juice, and cheese crackers, had fallen asleep in the stroller.

Olivia dug a pair of binoculars out of her purse and watched the contestants line up the bows of their boats until they touched a rope slung between two buoys. She’d never seen such an assortment of cardboard vessels. There were pirate ships, canoes, catamarans, and submarines, but there were also floating hot dogs, crocodiles, smoking cigars, sea serpents, sharks, dolphins, and rubber ducks.

A horn blasted and the contestants surged forward, their oars creating swirls and white froth in the water. Steve’s toothbrush boat took an early lead, but it became clear that the vessel was too long to make quick turns around the course’s buoys and they began to lose their advantage.

“Oh, dear.” Laurel watched her husband through a pair of hot pink binoculars. “His partner said they should have made the boat shorter, but Steve insisted on adding more bristles to the brush.”

A bright blue boat resembling a congenial killer whale passed by Steve’s toothbrush and a snarling shark to capture first place. Steve’s boat came in third, but he and his first mate were too busy shouting at one another to notice. Watching Laurel’s red-faced spouse, Olivia wondered if he had serious anger issues.

As though reading her thoughts, Laurel spoke hastily. “He’ll shake it off. This is supposed to be just for fun, right?”

Olivia ignored the question. “Laurel, what did you tell the editor of the Gazette?”

“That I needed more time to finish a major story,” Laurel answered after a long pause. Lowering her binoculars, she met Olivia’s stare. “I said that I had to interview April Howard before I could write a complete piece about the robberies.” She looked back out at the harbor. “Several papers have sent crime reporters to speak to April, but she’s refused to talk. I’ve been thinking about calling her. I feel like it’s my duty to do what I can to stop these crimes, that it’s my responsibility, just like caring for my kids or keeping the house clean. Does that sound ridiculously self-inflated?”

Shaking her head, Olivia said, “No, it doesn’t. You’d like to wear more than one hat. You want a rich home life and a fulfilling career too. That doesn’t make you a self-centered person. It simply means you wish to share your gifts with a wider audience.”

Laurel blinked away tears. “Why do you have so much faith in me? No one else does. I told Steve that I wanted his parents to watch the twins so I could be a reporter and not Paula Deen and he just laughed.”

“Look at those boats,” Olivia replied soothingly. “They’re made of cardboard, tape, and glue. They don’t look like they’d float, let alone speed through the water, but with a little ingenuity and determination, there they are.”

“Who would have thought being compared to a piece of corrugated cardboard could be so flattering?” Laurel managed a grin.

At that moment, Millay dashed through the crowd toward Olivia and Laurel, her face glowing with excitement. “Harris is here! And you will not believe his boat! It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!”

“Where is it?” Olivia asked, raising her binoculars.

“I see him! He’s tacking toward the starting line!” Laurel shouted. “Oh, Millay! It’s breathtaking!”

Irritated to be the last to know what her friends found so amazing, Olivia took a step forward and adjusted the focus on her binoculars. She found Harris’s glimmering boat.

The bow was a gracefully curved griffin’s head with a sunflower yellow beak and shining black eyes. A pair of lion’s legs formed the stern and the vessel’s rudder was in the shape of a tail. The entire boat had been painted gold, and Harris had added rhinestones to the griffin’s feathered neck and had made a set of sails out of an iridescent fabric.

“I sewed the wings,” Millay whispered. “I didn’t even know what I was making. Harris gave me the material and a bunch of instructions. I thought he’d totally lost it using that filmy-looking stuff, but now . . .”

“He painted Tessa on the stern!” Laurel bounced up and down on the dock. “What a lovely tribute to your character.”

Grinning, Olivia watched the wind catch the griffin’s sails. The golden boat soared through the water as if it could truly take flight. “I know I’ve said this before, Millay, but I’m going to say it again. That boy has got it bad.”

Millay rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. But guess what? If he was trying to get my attention, then he’s got it. For once in my life, I am seriously impressed by a man.”

Chapter 12

Widow: that great, vacant estate!

The voice of God is full of draftiness,

Promising simply the hard stars, the space

Of immortal blankness between stars

And no bodies, singing like arrows up to heaven.

—SYLVIA PLATH

Millay sulked through the length of their Bayside Book Writers’ meeting, and Olivia sensed her foul mood had less to do with the minor criticisms she received and more to with her response to seeing Harris receive the adulation of his pretty coworker.

Harris’s griffin boat had crossed the finish line yards ahead of the competition. During the awards ceremony, he was handed not one, but two cash prizes. He’d won the Sail-Powered Race and had secured a runner-up position in the Most Beautiful Boat category. Ironically, it was another bird that beat his craft: a peacock. The colorful vessel hadn’t been designed for speed, but its graceful lines and showy tail had earned its builders a tidy sum. Still, Harris was the event’s cash king. Olivia figured he’d earned several thousand dollars that morning.

Olivia, Millay, and Laurel had watched in surprise as Harris accepted his winnings and then was promptly mauled by a young woman wearing a Harry Potter Team Gryffindor T-shirt and a pair of denim cut-offs. She pushed her way through the crowd and threw her arms around Harris. Her display of affection nearly knocked him right off his feet, but he reacted with a look of amused bewilderment.

“This is Estelle. We work together,” Harris told the other writers and stood by uneasily as Millay and Estelle sized one another up.

“I don’t think Harris has ever mentioned you,” Millay said coldly, veiling her dislike with a plastic smile.

Estelle was unfazed by the cool reception. “That’s probably because I haven’t been at the company too long and Harris and I aren’t in the same division. See, he’s an artist!” She stared at Harris as though he might walk on water at any moment. “I’m just a receptionist. I got hired because of my phone voice and because I can stay calm no matter how upset others might get. I help keep our customers happy.”

“What an exceptional talent,” Millay remarked but Laurel quickly stepped in and began to chat with Estelle about her favorite Harry Potter characters.

Harris thanked Estelle for being such an exuberant cheerleader and then made his excuses to his coworker explaining that he needed to get going to his book writer’s meeting.

“Oh, Harris!” Estelle clung to his arm. “You’re a writer too? There are so many sides to you! What else are you good at, I wonder?”

Harris blushed and gently disentangled himself from the pretty woman’s grasp. “See you Monday, Estelle.”

“Not if I see you first!” she shouted after him.

Millay remained silent about Estelle until the other writers had finished critiquing her chapter. Olivia shared her observations first and then listened intently as Rawlings pointed out examples of well-crafted prose followed by two sections of writing requiring further work.

“The battle scene was very well done,” he told Millay. “I had no difficulty imagining the sea witch rising out of the black waters. I agree with Olivia about closing the distance between reader and character. Tessa is fascinating but often strikes me as too collected for someone of her age and situation.” He studied his notes. “I realize the traditions of her culture prepared her to be a warrior, but I wonder if it’s wise to keep her so solitary. She has no confidante, no one to show her affection or even share a joke with. The loneliness must be affecting her, but I’m not sensing any desire to make a connection on Tessa’s part.”

Millay sent a withering glare in Harris’s direction. “Not everybody needs to be fawned over.”

Rawlings, who hadn’t been present for the Regatta’s awards ceremony, sent Olivia a questioning look. She gave a little shake of the head as if to say, “Leave it be.”

“Enough of Tessa,” Millay declared regally. “I need something to eat. Harris, you got anything in that bachelor fridge of yours?”

Harris sprang up from the plaid sofa in his living room and crossed the industrial beige carpet to the laminate floor of his kitchen. The entire apartment had been decorated in shades of light brown. Whether khaki or tan or an unattractive taupe, the walls, floors, and furniture was utterly lackluster. As though he were still living in a college dorm room, Harris had tacked a variety of posters to the walls. Most were of science-fiction movies and had seen better days. Water stains and small tears gave them a bedraggled appearance, making them the perfect accompaniment to the mismatched chairs in his kitchen, the sagging sofa in the living room, and the tattered shades on every lamp.

“What are you going to do with your winnings?” Olivia asked Harris as he dug around inside his refrigerator.

He emerged, examined the expiration date on a hunk of cheese, and tossed it in the trash. “I’m going to buy a house.” He picked up the phone. “But first I’m going to order pizza. Anyone object to mushroom and pepperoni?”

No one did. While they waited, Laurel peppered Harris with questions about where he planned to look for houses and what style he favored. As Harris didn’t know the difference between a Cape and a ranch, Laurel used the homes featured in television shows as examples.

“I think the house from The Brady Bunch is the most famous ranch-style house in the world,” she said.

“Okay!” Harris understood immediately. “So the house from Six Feet Under is Victorian, right?”

The two continued to name famous television houses until the pizza arrived.

The delivery boy from Pizza Bay had barely left when Rawlings’ cell phone rang. Excusing himself, he took the call on the tiny balcony overlooking the apartment’s parking lot.

Olivia accepted a slice of pizza, informed Haviland that under no circumstances was he allowed to partake of the junk food, and watched Rawlings through the glass of the sliding door.

Initially, the chief’s face registered surprise, but the wide-eyed expression was quickly replaced by one of consternation. Millay, who had raised her slice toward her mouth, was observing the chief as well. With remarkable stealth, she stuck out her bare foot and used her toes to pry the door open by several inches.

Rawlings’ voice floated inside. “. . . Yes, it sounds like the same perps. I hadn’t expected them to strike again. It seems they’re willing to take more risks. Did this family have kids?” He listened to the answer and nodded. “Same as the Howards. But the homeowners were away, right? No one was hurt?” His mouth turned down in a deep frown. “Dolls?” A shake of the head. “This is the first time they’ve deliberately destroyed the homeowner’s belongings. Up to this point, they’ve taken what they wanted and cleared out. With the exception of the assault on Felix Howard, which I certainly don’t mean to belittle by what I’m about to say, these have been the most respectful and delicate thieves I’ve ever seen.”

Millay and Olivia exchanged curious glances. By the time they turned their focus back to Rawlings, he was staring directly at them. “See you in twenty minutes.” He studied the phone for a moment and then released a heavy sigh. Olivia wondered what emotion had been released into the air through the chief’s exhalation.

“There’s been another robbery,” he announced as he stepped back into the room. “I’ve got to drive to Beaufort County and meet their officers at the scene.”

Laurel swallowed and covered her mouth with her hand. “There wasn’t another—”

“No. The family entered a boat in the Cardboard Regatta so they were here in town all day. They only returned home about forty-five minutes ago.”

Millay picked a piece of pepperoni from her pizza and folded it in half between her fingers. “What’s with the dolls?”

Collecting his car keys and a can of Coke from the kitchen table, Rawlings paused. “This isn’t to be discussed beyond this room, but this family had an antique doll collection. The thieves smashed in the faces, probably using a hammer. One was left intact, but the mouth was drilled wider and a silver spoon was inserted into the opening.”

Everyone immediately fixated on the reference to the silver spoon. Millay and Olivia began to speak, but Harris shouted louder than both women. “Born with a silver spoon in one’s mouth!” He grimaced. “Man, that is a creepy thing to do. To the dolls, I mean. Leaving clichés are one thing, but the dolls are like little people.”

“They killed a person,” Laurel reminded Harris in a small voice. “They obviously don’t place much value on a human life.”

The chief put his hands on his hips and stared down at the writers. “I’m only mentioning this detail because I want you to think about the significance of these messages. My men and I have been researching the clichés and what connections are shared among the families, but nothing these folks have in common has led us to a suspect yet.”

Millay responded quickly. “We’ll do what we can, Chief. I’ll introduce the subject of the thefts at work and listen as the gossip spreads around the bar. If the Fish Nets crew repeats anything useful, I’ll let you know.”

“Can the rest of us do anything specific?” Harris inquired.

Rawlings shrugged and reached out for the doorknob. “I really don’t know. I’ve had men calling pawnshops and auction galleries up and down the East Coast looking for the missing artwork and we’ve had no luck. Unless you know of a black market for electronics, I’m not sure what you can do.”

“We can focus on the clichés,” Olivia answered. “These families have been chosen for a reason. They’re well off so they’re profitable targets, but I think there’s something personal about these crimes too.”

Laurel cocked her head and considered what Olivia had said. “I agree, but I’m not sure why. I think what they did to the dolls shows that they’re angry.”

“Perhaps the four of you could write down some theories. I value your opinions. I need to go.” Rawlings gestured at a manila folder on the table. “That’s my first chapter, not just ten copies of page one. If you’re willing to give me another chance, I’d welcome your critiques at our next meeting.”

“Of course we are!” Laurel smiled at him tenderly. “Chief, I’m going to interview April Howard tomorrow. If she thinks of anything she forgot to mention, I’ll be sure to pass it along to you.”

Rawlings thanked her and then left. Millay followed shortly afterward, saying that she had a few errands to run before her shift. Laurel and Olivia congratulated Harris again on his victory and headed out as well, both more somber than they had been upon first entering the apartment. Even Haviland exited the apartment without a spring to his step.

“I’m coming with you tomorrow,” Olivia told Laurel as she let Haviland into the Range Rover.

“Good,” Laurel answered and drove away.

Olivia felt restless, but didn’t want to spend the afternoon wandering up and down the beach near her house. She felt compelled to sit amid a group of strangers, to listen to their murmurs without being a part of the conversation and to silently observe their mannerisms as if the smallest action or expression might reveal the motives of the thieves.

Without thinking much about it, Olivia found herself searching for a parking spot in front of Through the Wardrobe. The store was packed. Flynn was working the floor while Jenna, his attractive assistant, rang up a line of patient customers with a warm smile.

Flynn kept a close eye on the comings and goings of his customers and it wasn’t long before he appeared at Olivia’s side. “Can I tell you how much I love the Cardboard Regatta?” He spoke in a hushed voice. “I was all ready to settle down for months of tedium and an empty bank account. I had visions of six months of meals consisting of raw spaghetti and water.”

Laughing, Olivia gestured at the dozen people waiting to pay for books. “You could probably treat yourself to at least one steak this winter.” She led him to a relatively private nook between two massive wardrobes.

Flynn took her elbow and growled. “What are we doing back here? Something naughty, I hope.”

Olivia scowled. “You called and asked for my help. Here I am.”

“I managed on my own, thank you very much, but I would like to show you what all the fuss was about.” He glanced behind him. “Where’s Haviland?”

“In the car. I decided there’d be too many tourists with little kids in here. Haviland doesn’t appreciate too much uninvited petting.”

Flynn pretended to be appalled. “Well, who would? Come into the storeroom. I can attempt some uninvited touching with you in private.”

Ignoring his playful leer, Olivia followed Flynn through the noisy children’s section and into the back room where extra books were stored. Flynn opened the door with caution, hurried Olivia through, and then shut it quickly behind him.

“Let’s see if they’re in bed,” he said sotto voce.

Olivia immediately detected an animal scent. There was a faint odor of urine and canned food that hadn’t been present in the storeroom before.

Flynn took her hand and tiptoed to a small basket filled with shredded newspaper and a cotton dishtowel. Two kittens were arranged in a tight circle of fur inside the basket. Both were sleeping soundly.

“Where did they come from?” Olivia whispered.

Flynn touched the orange kitten gently, caressing the soft fur behind the ears. The kitten shifted in its sleep and began to purr but did not open its eyes. “They showed up at my house after the hurricane, wet, shivering, and starving. I had no idea what to do. I tried giving them milk from a bowl and finally from an eyedropper. Nothing worked. I thought they were goners.”

“Did you call the vet?”

Flynn nodded. “In the middle of the damned night! I told myself that these little guys were just worn out and would eat when they felt like it, but they became listless as the hours passed. I didn’t want to wake you, so I called the emergency number and Diane got right back to me.”

“She’s an excellent veterinarian,” Olivia said, feeling a pang of guilt that she hadn’t responded to Flynn’s call.

“I have no experience with animals and I had no idea vets made house calls. Diane came to my place after midnight, examined the kittens, and took them to her office. She said they were severely dehydrated.” He rubbed his brow, his anxiety over the tiny animals evident in his eyes. “I picked them up the next day. I checked on them every five minutes like some crazed new mother and even fed them organic baby food. Do you have any idea how foul lamb is when rendered into a gray, pudding-like substance?”

Olivia laughed. “No, thank God. So now two cats own you. And what are their names?”

“They have none as of this point. I thought I’d run a contest for my younger customers. Let them come up with a pair of creative names.”

“Just don’t pick something too cutesy. Eventually these two will grow into dignified felines and their names need to mature along with them,” Olivia stated seriously.

Flynn feigned offense. “I wasn’t going to call them Mopsy and Wubzy. Give me a little credit, lady.” He placed a proprietary hand on the gray kitten’s back. “I invited Diane to dinner as a apology for dragging her out of bed. I wanted to tell you, just in case you read it in the Oyster Bay gossip column and became wildly jealous.”

Olivia touched the orange kitten on the fur above his pink nose. “You don’t belong to me, Flynn. And Diane is a lovely woman.” She glanced at him quizzically. “Did you want me to be jealous?”

After a pause, Flynn answered. “I guess I did. If only a tiny bit.”

It’s time, Olivia thought. Tell him that it’s not working out between the two of you.

“Flynn—” The voice of Flynn’s assistant came through the intercom mounted on the wall. “I need a hand out here. I can’t leave the register and some folks are having trouble locating the books they want.”

“In other words, get my ass out on the floor?” Flynn asked after pressing the reply button.

Jenna giggled but obviously didn’t have time to engage in further conversation.

“Your public awaits,” Olivia said and pushed open the stock room door. Flynn put a hand on her arm as she held the door for him. “That’s supposed to be my job,” he scolded. “And don’t think you’ve escaped so easily. You’ve been as slippery as a piece of seaweed since the storm.” When Olivia didn’t respond, he dropped his hand and smiled. “All I’m saying is don’t be a stranger.”

Olivia watched him walk past the puppet theater, where he paused to pick up a Cat in the Hat puppet and return it to a young girl with pigtails. Her final thought before leaving Through the Wardrobe was that even though she and Flynn had been physically intimate, they were still strangers to one another. And now she no longer desired for them to become anything else.

The next day, Olivia parked the Range Rover in front of a spacious transitional brick home located in a subdivision called The Marshes. Laurel was waiting for her, pacing in the driveway with a cell phone pressed to her ear.

“I can’t come home just yet,” she said and rolled her eyes for Olivia’s benefit. “Just put Dallas on his bed and tell him he has to stay there until he apologizes to his brother. Oh, you’ll forgive me when I bring you something incredible for dinner. Bye!” She sighed and gave Olivia a plaintive look. “Do you have something incredible for me to take home?”

Olivia indicated they should proceed up the flagstone walk. “I’m sure Michel can produce something to satisfy your husband. Pastry-wrapped tenderloin in red wine sauce is always a crowd-pleaser.” She noticed that Laurel’s fingers were shaking as her friend pressed lightly on the doorbell.

A haggard-faced woman with a small boy clinging to her thigh answered the door. “Laurel? Come in. Excuse the mess. I just . . .” She touched her child on the head, easing him away from her and giving him a gentle shove toward the stairs. As he began to climb, she finished her thought. “I just don’t give a damn anymore. Why make the bed? Why dirty a dozen dishes making a beautiful dinner? Why water the plants? If they die, it’s one less thing to deal with.”

April spoke in a flat monotone as though she had cried and raged so much already that there was no emotion left. In Olivia’s opinion, April had entered the worst phase of grief. She would have to wake every morning and face the emptiness within. One hundred times each day, she’d feel the vacuum that her husband’s death had created. It would suck all color, all taste, all the light from her world. The past was out of reach and the future was a frightening, black void.

Laurel murmured the customary words of condolence, but Olivia reached out and touched April on the elbow. The widow flinched, her eyes flying open as though the slight human contact had burned her flesh. Instead of removing her hand, Olivia curled her fingers around April’s forearm. “It will seem endless. They say time helps but some wounds don’t heal completely. You just go on. You drive to the grocery store and watch television and read books you’ll never remember. You’ll cry in unexpected places, eat the same foods over and over, and avoid your friends because they remind you too much of the woman you were before.” She removed her hand. “But you’ll make it. You will make it through this.”

April nodded. “Thank you. I don’t feel like I exist with everyone tiptoeing around me, like I’m the one who died.” She looked away. “Though in a sense, I did. We all did.”

Laurel turned her head, wiped her eyes with a tissue, and whispered, “Can we sit down for a moment?”

“Sure.” April absently led them to the dining room. The room had been decorated in muted greens and golds with dark walnut furniture. “We never use this room,” she remarked, looking around as though seeing the space for the first time. “I think I’ll sell all this stuff. The whole house. Everything. I can’t sleep in my room anymore.”

For a moment, Laurel seemed in danger of rising to her feet and fleeing from April’s grief. It filled the air like smoke, robbing the room of oxygen and replacing it with the family’s stifling loss. But Laurel rallied, took out her notebook, and uncapped her pen. “April, will you tell us everything? From the beginning?”

April did. She began with Felix. She shared the image of him lying on the kitchen floor with a puddle of red blood spread out beneath his head across the bright white tiles. “It was like a crazy dream. I thought I could just close my eyes and when I opened them, everything would be normal. Even when I started screaming, I felt like the sound was coming out of someone else’s mouth.”

It took some time before April could speak again. The thieves had taken the usual items: computers, sterling silver, jewelry, and a few other electronics. The Howards didn’t keep any cash in the house and they owned no original art, so their haul was less substantial than previous takes.

Laurel wrote down the name of the children’s school, learned that the family had no pets, and then asked April for the names of their household services.

April shook her head. “Felix had been worried about losing his job all summer long, so we’d been tightening our belts for months. I’ve been doing the cooking, cleaning, and gardening. Felix was in charge of lawn and car maintenance. The only service we still used was the dry cleaner’s and I didn’t drop off clothes unless I had a coupon.”

“I keep all mine in a special wallet,” Laurel said in an effort to commiserate. “I really like it when those big value packs come in the mail. And we use the Pizza Bay coupons religiously.”

This earned her a small smile. “We do too,” April said and then frowned. “You know, I forgot to tell the police something. When they asked me about what we’d done over the course of the week leading up to . . . the robbery, I tried to remember all the little details. I made this huge list, labeling each day and every activity. It gave me something to do—a way to help the cops bring justice to my husband. But, of course, it didn’t help or they’d have caught the bastards by now.” Her eyes filled with tears, but she shook her head and blinked them away. “But I forgot something. Hold on, I’ll show you.”

Olivia and Laurel waited quietly as April sorted through a pile of papers in a kitchen drawer. She pulled out a green flyer and handed it to Laurel. “We took these guys up on their offer a few days before the kids and I left. I did it to lighten Felix’s load a bit and give him the chance to fully concentrate on his upcoming presentation.”

Laurel studied the flyer and something flashed in her eyes. She engaged April in another line of questioning while sliding the paper over the polished table to Olivia. As soon as Olivia began to read, she felt her breath quicken. This had to be a tangible clue. She reread the advertisement.

Tired of Mowing, Fertilizing, and Mulching?

Let Us Handle All of Your Lawn-care Needs!

We Want Your Business So Badly That We’ll Do a

Complete Yard Cleanup Package for FREE!

Just Mention This Ad When You Call.

GREEN AS GRASS

LAWN SERVICE:

We Strive to Make Your Life Easier!

Olivia could barely sit still through the remainder of the interview. That is until April made a comment about how difficult it would be for her to find employment as an interior designer. “I haven’t worked for years and my last job involved a huge office complex.”

Diverted by thoughts of her Bayside Crab House project, Olivia said, “April, I’d love to see photographs of your work. I happen to know someone in need of your skills. There’s no rush,” she added gently and handed April a business card.

April stared at the card in confusion. “I thought you were Laurel’s photographer.”

“I am,” Olivia agreed. “But I left my camera in the car. I assumed you wouldn’t welcome photos today.”

“I do want a picture of Felix in the paper,” April insisted firmly. “I want those sons-of-bitches to see the face of the man they killed. And I’m ready to show my portfolio to anyone, anytime. I may want to spend the next year in bed but I can’t. I have three kids to feed.”

Olivia promised to phone again in a few days, and she and Laurel walked to the door. Laurel, who had reclaimed the lawn service flyer, held it up to April. “Can I keep this?”

“I guess. You can only use it once anyway.” Now that the interview was over, April seemed to deflate. Holding herself together for over an hour had taken its toll. She leaned heavily against the door frame and rubbed her eyes.

Laurel squeezed the widow’s hand in farewell and then she and Olivia walked down the front path to their cars. “It’s a cliché, Olivia!” Laurel whispered as they drew alongside the Range Rover. “Do you think it’s simply coincidence?”

“No,” Olivia answered. “And neither will Rawlings. Bring the flyer to him, Laurel. This is your discovery. I believe you were born to do this job.”

Flushing with pleasure, Laurel tucked the paper into her purse. “I won’t be needing any of Michel’s food tonight. I came clean to Steve over the phone and I don’t care if he doesn’t believe I’ll even get the job, I’m submitting every article I’ve written about these robberies to the Gazette’s editor tomorrow. If he hires me, I’m going to give this career one hundred percent.” She glanced back at the Howard house. “After all, you can never tell what the future’s going to bring and I want to say that I did more with mine than change diapers and iron my husband’s shirts.”

Laurel thanked Olivia and got into her car.

Olivia watched her friend drive away. “Brava, Laurel,” she murmured as the minivan disappeared around a bend.

Chapter 13

It doesn’t matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.

—ANNE SEXTON

Her room was still filled with shadows when the ringing of the phone jolted Olivia awake. A few weak rays of sunshine crept through the windows, striping Haviland’s black fur so that he looked like an exotic species of antelope or zebra.

Olivia grabbed the receiver and managed a raspy hello.

“Sorry to wake you, Ms. Limoges.” Olivia recognized the voice of Will Hamilton. “For days I had nothing to report, but I have something now.” He paused for effect. “Your pink envelope was passed on. Rodney Burkhart drove down to the port here and handed it off to the crew member of a fishing boat. I couldn’t exactly leap aboard, but I found out the vessel was bound for Okracoke Island.”

“Okracoke?” Olivia flung off her covers and headed downstairs.

Will explained that he’d immediately set about hiring a charter boat, but was warned that the trawler, the Ritaestelle, might not return directly to its home port. As he talked, Olivia opened a coffee table book on coastal North Carolina and rapidly turned the pages to the section containing a group of maps.

“The charter boat captain told me to save my money. For a few bucks, he’d make some calls on his radio to determine the ship’s destination. Sure enough, the Ritaestelle was headed back out to sea. The captain said to expect it to dock in Okracoke in three days’ time.”

Olivia traced an imaginary line from Oyster Bay over the Pamlico Sound to the shores of Okracoke Island. The distance was approximately fifty miles.

Even in a storm, half out of his mind and choking down whiskey, my father could have navigated that distance.

“Are you going to be there when she docks?” Olivia asked Will.

Will’s next words were a surprise. “I’m actually calling you from the island. If the envelope is on its way then your father might actually be here. I thought I’d find out for myself, but the locals are a tight-lipped group. I’m going to pose as a vacationer and keep my ears open until the Ritaestelle returns.”

Olivia was pleased with Will’s doggedness and told him as much, but after she’d hung up the phone, anxiety began to surge through her body. As she stared at the skinny green smudge that was Okracoke on her map, she had a powerful feeling that her father was there, that he’d been there all along.

“So close,” she murmured, experiencing a fresh bout of grief and resentment. “If you’ve been this close all these years . . .” The possibility was too painful to acknowledge and Olivia slammed the book closed.

Haviland joined her in the living room, but he ignored his mistress and headed straight for the door leading to the deck. Olivia followed him outside. She sat in one of the deck chairs and let the burgeoning light wash over her, wishing that it held the power to burn all her memories away.

As she sat there, breathing in the salt-tinged oxygen and releasing her anger with every exhalation, her thoughts eventually turned to yesterday’s writers’ meeting. She went inside, poured herself some coffee, and returned to the deck chair.

“The dolls,” she said to the waves. “The thieves must have felt the dolls’ eyes on them. Why would they care? Do they feel guilty about stealing? Over having committed murder?”

The water rushed to the shore.

“No.” Olivia shook her head as though the ocean had disagreed with her. “They killed a man and buried him on the beach, leaving him naked to the elements. It’s not a moral dilemma, so why did the glass-eyed stares of the dolls bother them?”

As she ruminated, Haviland trotted up the dune path, his black fur covered in wet sand. He politely shook himself off at the bottom of the stairs, but his long nose and forehead were still caked with sand. Olivia grabbed a dishtowel from inside and brushed him off, smiling at how odd he looked with his mask of gritty white. The poodle stayed quite still until she was finished and then jerked away in order to take up an eager stance by his dinner dish.

When Olivia didn’t come back indoors, Haviland barked to signal that he was ready for breakfast, but his mistress was staring down the beach toward the area of the Point where they’d discovered the buried body.

“It’s something physical, I’m sure of it,” she said, rushing back into the house and picking up the phone. “They don’t like to be on the receiving end of stares, but why?”

Rawlings answered his cell phone immediately and listened as Olivia presented her theory. “Something like a birthmark or burn scars?” he asked rhetorically. “It might explain the connection between the victims. Perhaps the children ridiculed our thieves at an athletic event. I’ll have to find out if anyone who came in regular contact with the families had some kind of physical deformity.”

“Did Laurel bring you the lawn-service flyer from the Howard residence?”

“Yes, and we moved on the information immediately,” Rawlings assured her. “Each victim received a similar flyer over the course of the summer. However, the name of the lawn service and the overall appearance of the flyer were altered. Every family had been given a unique flyer.”

Olivia considered the implications of this statement as she put Haviland’s breakfast in the microwave. “The thieves put in some serious effort to get to these families. What were the other names of these lawn service companies?”

“Green Thumb Lawn Care, Down the Garden Path Landscaping Service, and Neat as a Pin Yard Care,” Rawlings said.

“Such obvious clichés! How did I miss them?” She tried to recall the names of the lawn services Harris had typed onto their spreadsheet.

“You didn’t.” Rawlings soothed. “In every case, the families took advantage of the free yard cleanup offered on the flyer, but none of the homeowners were impressed enough by the work to hire the men again. The Ridgemonts were the only ones who tried to call and set up another job, but after no one replied to their voice mail messages, they forgot all about the subject.”

Olivia chuckled. “That certainly sounds like Sue Ridgemont. Lovely, but a bit absentminded.” She grew serious again quickly. “So this was how the thieves were able to break into the homes in broad daylight. They posed as yard men and parked their truck in the driveway. One of them broke into the house while another crew member mowed the lawn. The neighbors wouldn’t hear a thing over the noise of a mower or weed whacker.”

“Precisely,” Rawlings agreed. “And the free service included a tune-up of the irrigation system. Therefore, in nearly every case, the homeowners willingly left their garage doors open. In these subdivisions, the sight of a landscaping truck and unfamiliar men testing the sprinklers would be totally commonplace. Though they were working in plain sight, they were nearly invisible.”

Olivia had to admire the forethought of the burglars. “They could carry stuff from the garage to their truck without anyone batting an eyelash. What a clever scam.”

Rawlings grunted. “They should have stuck with pilfering TVs. Killing Felix Howard has made them number one on the department’s hit list. We’re going to interview every existing lawn-care company in the county. Anyone who’s registered a trailer within fifty miles of Oyster Bay will be visited by a man or woman in blue.”

“I know you will. At least Laurel’s husband is in the clear. What was he like during questioning?”

“Um,” Rawlings stalled. “Let’s say that he was rather indignant over having to provide us with details about his comings and goings and leave it at that. I wish he’d never been on our radar in the first place. We’re going to get these guys, Olivia, I promise you that.”

“Make sure to give Laurel an exclusive on the story. She’s going to be a hell of a reporter.” Olivia removed the casserole dish from the microwave and gave its contents a stir while Haviland danced back and forth in anticipation. Waving a potholder over the steaming casserole made of lean ground lamb, brown rice, and cheese, Olivia shook her head at Haviland, indicating that he’d have to wait a minute for it to cool.

“And I hear you make a superb photographer. Perhaps you’ll have your own booth at the next Cardboard Regatta,” Rawlings quipped.

Horrified, Olivia realized that she had yet to thank the chief for the painting he’d made for her. She hurried to do so and then told him that it hung in a prominent place in her kitchen. “It’s on the wall behind the coffeemaker and is one of the first things I see every morning. Now I can actually crack a smile before I’ve had a single sip of coffee.”

“That is a compliment.” Rawlings paused. “Olivia, when this case is over, you and I . . .”

A silence followed and Olivia knew he was searching for the words to acknowledge the attraction between them. She too wanted to address the feelings he’d awakened in her, but not over the phone. She wanted to be alone with Rawlings, perhaps on a blanket on the beach with only the stars and the sea bearing witness as she made herself vulnerable to him. Most of all, she wanted Rawlings to be near enough to touch, and at the moment, he felt very far away.

Olivia broke the charged silence, changing the subject by telling the chief about Will Hamilton’s call.

“Don’t make a move until I wrap up this case,” Rawlings directed. “I don’t want to appear at our next writer’s meeting to find that you’ve driven off to catch the ferry to Okracoke. You shouldn’t go there alone, Olivia.”

“And miss the chance to finally critique your chapter?” she said. “Never. I’m switching to my red pen just for you.”

She heard the voice of another police officer in the background. Olivia caught the words “victims” and “Pampticoe High” and then Rawlings told her he had to go.

Olivia glanced at her watch. The chief was at work and probably had been for hours, but he had thieves and murderers to catch and it was probably too early to call Laurel. She wondered if Laurel had managed to turn in her articles to the Gazette editor before having to attend to the needs of her family.

“I’ll call her later,” Olivia told Haviland as she served him breakfast.

Feeling restless, Olivia waited for Haviland to finish eating and then the pair set off for a walk. On this occasion, the metal detector was left at home and Olivia carried nothing in her arms. She walked to the end of the Point where a narrow and irregular spit of sand jutted out into the ocean like an arthritic finger. While the sea stirring on both sides and the wind whipped her hair off her face, Olivia stared east across the water. East toward Okracoke.

It wouldn’t take me long to get there, she thought, still a little surprised that she hadn’t jumped in the car the moment Will Hamilton had finished speaking. Yet there was something preventing her from acting, an irrational fear that she would once again become the frightened, reclusive girl of her childhood should she come face-toface with her father.

The morning sun soon gained in strength until Olivia had to turn away from its powerful rays. Back inside her cool house, she peeled a tangerine and sat at her desk, Rawlings’ chapter before her. She took a bite of the ripe fruit and closed her eyes, reveling in its sweetness. Uncapping a pen, she hesitated. What would the chief’s writing lay bare? Would his chapter reveal a flaw Olivia would be unable to accept or be filled with intimate memories of his late wife? Would there be a darkness she hadn’t sensed before or, even worse, a lack of substance?

Casting aside such ridiculous thoughts, she began to read.

Grandfather spoke of treasure until his dying day. It was what I remembered most about him. No matter how much he was told he was a foolish old man by his wife and, later, by his daughter and son-in-law, he believed in its existence. “Pirates!” my mother scoffed in exaggerated disgust the day they moved my grandfather into a nursing home. “He’s wasted half of his life on these damned pirates. He’s studied hundreds of books and letters and maps, and what’s he got to show for it? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!” I knew my mother wasn’t really angry about my grandfather’s obsession. She was upset because he’d taken early retirement to conduct research on two of North Carolina’s most infamous buccaneers and in doing so had squandered every cent of his savings buying rare books and documents from auction houses across the country. My parents were thus forced into inviting him to move into our small house. At first, they thought having Grandfather around could prove useful. He would be readily available to watch us kids while my folks worked extra shifts or went out on a rare dinner date, but after a few months it became clear that the old man couldn’t look after himself, let alone three hellions. Grandfather was eventually diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and my parents’ anger turned bitter. My father paid for my grandfather’s nursing home, complaining about the cost each and every time the bill was pushed through our brass mail slot. My mother stopped visiting him altogether. I was seventeen when he died. I was alone with him in his sad room with its gray carpeting and faded butterfly wallpaper. The smell of mold and rot clung to every surface. But I was there—the only one to hear his final words. I was seventeen and didn’t pay much attention to what he said. I was heading off to college in a few weeks where I’d study a little, party a lot, and decide that I didn’t want to be a doctor or a lawyer or any of the other respectable professions my parents hoped I’d pursue. I wanted to be a cop. And after that, I wanted to figure out what my grandfather had been talking about when he muttered, “Look in . . . Ruth’s . . . log . . .” and shuddered as though he felt a sudden chill. After that final quiver, he died. I sat there for a while, staring not at his slack face or the line of spittle near the corner of his mouth but at the hundreds of tiny butterflies on the wallpaper, forever trapped in a field of dirty white.

Olivia hadn’t expected to encounter Rawlings as a young man. She knew she was reading fiction, of course, but wondered which elements might have been pulled from the chief’s actual childhood. Perhaps an aging relative had moved in with the family or Alzheimer’s had afflicted one of his grandparents. Perhaps someone close to Rawlings had been consumed by an obsession. Olivia could easily picture him playing the role of confidante, even as a teenage boy. He was a gifted listener, patient and quiet, coaxing the speaker to continue with a soft word of encouragement.

With her green pen hovering over Rawlings’ pages, Olivia finished her read-through. Rawlings had named his character Easton Craig and had set the story in what was clearly a fictionalized version of Oyster Bay. Choosing his hometown made sense when penning a tale about pirates, for Blackbeard had made his home in the area. In fact, there had been long-standing rumors among the locals that Edward Thatch had hidden plunder along the banks of the Neuse River and hosted wild parties for other notorious buccaneers such as Charles Vane.

Blackbeard’s other refuge was Okracoke Island. Olivia sat back in her chair, considering the irony.

The infamous pirate met his death off the shores of Okracoke, run down by a lieutenant from the Royal Navy by order of Queen Anne. Blackbeard’s sloop, the Adventure, was anchored offshore the island. Cutting anchor, he tried to outrun his pursuers, but the wind, which had been his ally for hundreds of raids, betrayed the pirate when he needed it most. Blackbeard’s ship was boarded, and in a sword fight to the death, the pirate’s head was severed from his neck in an act of genuine barbarity.

Pushing herself away from her desk, Olivia was once again drawn to the map of North Carolina within her coffee table book. She stared at Okracoke, her thoughts fluctuating between a murdered pirate and a missing father.

In an effort to prevent herself from becoming maudlin, Olivia called Laurel.

“I did it!” Laurel shouted into the phone. “I submitted my articles this morning and I just got an e-mail from my editor. He’s putting them in tomorrow’s paper! I’m officially hired!”

“Wonderful news,” Olivia said with a proud smile. “And how did your conversation with Steve go? Do you have his support?”

Laurel hesitated. “I figured I would show him the articles first. You know, put the Gazette next to his bacon and eggs and let him see that someone is actually going to pay me to write.”

Olivia could imagine Laurel on the other end of the line, clasping her hands over her heart, her lovely face rosy as she indulged in a fantasy of her husband suddenly seeing her in a new light. Olivia hated to burst her bubble, but she wanted Laurel to be prepared for an unfavorable reaction. “What will you do if Steve’s unimpressed?”

“I’ll cry, I suppose,” Laurel answered honestly. “But I’m not going to back down. I’ve never felt so sure about myself as I did when I sent in that file. And I don’t think I’ve thanked you for helping me realize my potential. I wish there was some way to express my gratitude.”

“There is,” Olivia said. “Don’t give up. No matter what anyone says, don’t give this up.”

The next day, the lead-in to Laurel’s article was featured prominently on a right-hand column on the front page. Olivia read it eagerly and was impressed by how Laurel had managed to infuse the facts with compassion for the victims. There was also a short piece on the robbery in Beaufort County and a quote from Chief Rawlings about the department’s progress in the investigation. Laurel had indeed proved herself a capable reporter.

Over the course of the week the Gazette ran pieces on the burglaries. Laurel’s name appeared in the byline below each article and Olivia assumed that she hadn’t heard from her friend because she was too busy writing.

Olivia decided to be industrious as well. She and Michel designed an autumn menu featuring dishes like apple and Brie salad, veal cordon blue, chicken and pears in a gourmandise sauce, pork chops with roasted shallots and carrots, pumpkin bread pudding with candied ginger, and apple crisp with a dulce de leche drizzle. She also finished critiquing Rawlings’ chapter and added five thousand words to her own manuscript.

On Thursday morning, there was a knock on her door. Peering through the kitchen window, Olivia recognized Will Hamilton’s face from the photograph on his website.

“I’m sorry to just show up like this, but my cell phone went for a swim in the Pamlico Sound and I knew you’d want this as soon as possible.” He handed her a padded mailing envelope.

At a loss for words, Olivia indicated the investigator should come inside. She stepped back to let him pass and then removed the contents of the envelope. It was a vial of blood.

“What the hell is this?” she asked, slightly repulsed.

Hamilton stood alongside the kitchen table and laced his fingers together. “It’s supposedly your father’s blood.” When Olivia didn’t respond, he gestured at the nearest chair. “Could we sit?”

Nodding, Olivia sank down a chair. She couldn’t take her eyes off the vial in her right hand. Was it possible? Had this blood recently flowed through her father’s veins? “Tell me how you got this.”

“I kept a constant eye out for the Ritaestelle. When it docked, I recognized the fisherman who’d taken possession of the pink mailer containing your cash. When he disembarked, the envelope was in his hand. It was still unopened too. Anyway, I followed him.”

Olivia leaned forward. “Where did he go?”

“To a café near the harbor. He ordered a big breakfast and chatted with just about everybody in the place. He was clearly a local. I sat at the booth behind him and could easily listen in. Once his food came, he gave the envelope to the waitress, a worn-out-looking woman in her thirties. She looked at the postmark suspiciously and said, ‘What’s he up to?’ I could tell she wasn’t happy. She tossed the envelope on the table and walked away.”

“And then?”

Hamilton sat back in his chair. “She disappeared into the kitchen and a man followed her back out to the fisherman’s booth. He wore a dirty apron and looked at the envelope as if there was a snake hiding inside it. Still, he sat in an empty corner booth and sliced the envelope open with a knife from his apron pocket. Looked like he was gutting a fish,” the PI added. “He peered inside, saw the cash, and stuffed it in his front pocket, like he wanted to hide it. Then the woman, who I discovered was his wife, demanded to know what was going on.”

“Did you get these people’s names?” Olivia demanded tersely. Anger was rising within her and she tried to push it back down. “What do they have to do with my father, or more importantly, my father’s blood?”

“Their names are Kim and Hudson Salter. They own the café and a little bed and breakfast above the eatery. After I explained who I was and why I was there, Hudson told me that your father had rented rooms from them until he fell ill. Seem as though he’s run out of money and is almost out of time too. Pancreatic cancer. The Salters have been taking care of him. “

“And no doubt they think I’ll pay them a small fortune for their kindness toward their elderly tenant. I wonder exactly when they discovered that he’s my father.” Olivia didn’t trust the couple at all.

Hamilton looked a little embarrassed. “Ma’am, I believe the family is in a hard way and don’t have the funds to spare to cover the costs for his treatment. Mrs. Salter seemed pretty upset over the way this whole thing was handled. She didn’t say a word, but I could see that she was ashamed.”

“Did you see this dying man who’s supposed to be my father?”

“No. Hudson wouldn’t allow it. He was very protective of your father.” The investigator hesitated. “Mr. Salter seems like a hard man, but from what I’ve been told by the locals, he’s been really good to your father. They kept telling me that Hudson and your dad were very close. But they’re a tight-lipped lot on that island. They don’t like to talk about their own to a stranger.”

Olivia curled her fingers into her palms, digging her nails into the flesh as rage coursed through her. “I don’t care what the locals say. When I’m done with this man, he will regret his attempts to manipulate me.”

“Ma’am, Hudson swears that he did not send you a letter. He told me that he could guess who’d written it. He left me there then and came back about twenty minutes later with the blood sample. His face was flushed and it seemed like he’d had words with the letter writer, but he refused to give me their name.”

“I wonder why.” Olivia frowned deeply. “I don’t understand any of this! Why would these people take care of some elderly tenant? Why would they pay for his medical bills? Did they think he was some kind of cash cow? And who is the real blackmailer? Who are they protecting?”

Hamilton nodded in sympathy. “This certainly isn’t a clear case, but I didn’t want to push Hudson without talking to you first. He asked me to give the blood to you, in case you were interested in getting a DNA test.” Hamilton kept his voice soft and even. It was obvious that none of his news had been easy for Olivia to take. “Hudson told me you were welcome, once you were convinced that the sick man is your father, to travel to Okracoke and see him before time runs out. He’s keeping his best room reserved for you.”

Exhaling loudly in frustration, Olivia cried, “This guy’s claiming he didn’t write the letter and yet he took the money! What kind of fool does Hudson Salter think I am?”

The private investigator shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “There’s a lab in New Bern where you can get DNA results in twenty-four hours. Would you like the address?”

“Yes,” Olivia answered in a tight voice. She stuffed the vial back into the envelope and then pulled her checkbook from her purse. “At this point your services are no longer required. You’ve done excellent work, Mr. Hamilton, going above and beyond the call of duty. I appreciate your dedication and would be glad to send you a written recommendation for your files.” She scribbled out a check, pressing her signature deep into the paper.

Hamilton waved his hand for her to stop. “You don’t need to worry about payment now, Ms. Limoges. My secretary can send you a bill. This must be quite a shock for you.”

“I’m sure this will more than cover your fee.” Olivia put the check on the table and rose. She desperately wanted the man to leave, needing solitude at this moment more than ever before.

Blinking at the amount of Olivia’s check, Hamilton folded it in half and slid in into his pocket. “This is very generous of you, ma’am, thank you.” He moved to the door and then paused. “I hope you find the closure you were seeking, Ms. Limoges. One way or another.”

And then he was gone.

Olivia sat motionless at the table and listened until she could no longer hear the rumble of Hamilton’s car engine. When all was silent, she shoved her chair back so roughly that it toppled and clattered on the tile floor and she rushed out to the deck, Haviland bounding after her in expectation of a walk. Olivia didn’t even notice as the poodle shot over the dunes ahead of her. Kicking off her sandals, she rushed into the waves, droplets of salt water stinging her eyes. She pumped her arms and legs, going deeper and deeper. When she could no longer touch the sandy bottom, she began to swim. Eyes closed, she struck out toward the cold, dark blue water well offshore.

Haviland yipped from the beach and then dove in after his mistress. An excellent swimmer, the poodle was beside her in a matter of minutes. When Olivia finally became aware of his presence, she stopped her forward progress and began to tread water. She turned toward the shore and watched her house bob up and down in the distance. Her gaze then shifted to the lighthouse keeper’s cottage.

“Come on, Captain,” she said breathlessly, and together, the sodden pair returned more leisurely to the beach.

Back on dry land, Olivia twisted water from her cotton skirt and then walked slowly to the cottage, dripping as she walked. She’d hired her regular contractor to repair the building’s flood damage and, stepping inside, she could see that he’d made decent progress. The carpet had been removed and the floors and baseboards were primed. Without the furniture, it was easy for Olivia to picture the rooms as they’d once been during her girlhood. She could picture her father seated in his favorite chair, whittling a pipe bowl. He often worked on pipes during winter evenings while Olivia and her mother worked a jigsaw puzzle or played card games for pennies.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” she asked the empty room, her voice bouncing off the bare walls. “I can feel it. You’re alive on that island and you can’t die because you’re waiting for me.” Her eyes filled with tears and her lips trembled. “I waited for you for thirty years!” She moved forward, accusing the space where her father’s chair had been. “And all this time you were so close! Didn’t you want to see me? Didn’t you care how I was?”

Haviland whined, nosing Olivia’s hand with his nose.

Olivia was crying freely now. “Why didn’t you love me enough to come back for me?”

Her tears fell on the pristine white floor, mingling with the salt water pooling from her clothes.

She stood in that puddle of salt and water and felt as insignificant and alone as she had as a little girl, the healed scars within her heart pulling apart.

Chapter 14

The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.

—SYLVIA PLATH

Olivia dropped her drenched clothes in the washing machine, showered, and dressed in black yoga pants and a loose, russet-colored cotton shirt. She escorted Haviland to the Range Rover, buckled him into his canine seat belt, and then sped inland toward New Bern.

At the first red light, Olivia examined the blue vein lying just beneath the skin in the crook of her right arm. Her eyes traveled over the freckles on her forearm to her long, graceful hands. They were her mother’s hands. Though several inches taller than her mother, Olivia favored the Limoges line. The women were all naturally thin and graceful. Most had eyes the color of Delft blue pottery, but Olivia and her grandmother’s were of a darker shade and tended to change hue like the shifting colors of the ocean. Olivia looked nothing like her father. The only attributes she’d inherited from him were a strong jaw and a forceful will.

She pondered her parentage on the drive to New Bern, which took far longer than usual. Obstacles seemed to appear from nowhere and Olivia was forced to plod forward below the speed limit for the majority of the trip. On the two-lane highway leading out of town, she got stuck behind a logging truck. When it finally turned off, a line of school buses from the neighboring county got onto the road in front of the Range Rover while Olivia sat helpless beneath the unyielding glare of a red traffic light. She cursed and struck the steering wheel.

Despite maintaining a distance of several car lengths behind the last bus in the row of electric yellow vehicles dispensing clouds of black smoke from their exhaust pipes, Olivia had nowhere else to look but at the children pulling faces at her through the rear windows. They poked out their tongues, stretched their eyes into slits, and wiggled their fingers behind their ears. Taking clear enjoyment in their antics, Haviland bobbed excitedly in his seat. He’d stick his head out of his window, his tongue flapping in the breeze as he smiled at the children, and then he’d come back inside and start the whole routine again.

This comical exchange reminded Olivia of the thieves and the possibility that something about their appearance marked them as being obviously different. She then recalled overhearing one of the chief’s men mention the name Pampticoe High toward the end of her phone conversation with Rawlings yesterday.

Her mind began to churn. Had the victims attended Pampticoe High? Had the thieves? She pictured the school, a squat, worn brick building surrounded by scraggly bushes and sandy parking lots. Out front was a rusty flagpole flying Old Glory and the flag of North Carolina. There was also a set of park benches facing a magnificent bronze sculpture of a Pampticoe Indian paddling a dugout canoe. Olivia knew the county had been using the funds from its coffers—fuller than in the past as a result of several resoundingly successful tourist seasons—to improve roads, the business district, and the public beach areas, but the school was in dire need of attention.

“That building requires refurbishment,” Olivia told Haviland. “It hasn’t been updated at all while I was away. The town needs to look after its youth, create a sense of pride of place or they’ll all move away.” Making a mental note to raise the issue at the next Board of Education meeting, another thought occurred to her. Laurel had gone to Pampticoe High. She must have several yearbooks sitting around. Perhaps one of the thieves was even a classmate.

“Unlikely,” she mused. “But it’s worth a look.”

Once in New Bern, Olivia drove to an off-leash dog area and allowed Haviland a few minutes of freedom. She tried not to be too impatient as he greeted other dogs and sniffed the base of every tree and garbage can. Finally, she called him to get back in the car and promised to return to the park as soon as she was through at the lab.

She pulled the Range Rover beneath the shade of a massive oak tree, put the windows down, and poured Haviland some water. Then, because she wasn’t sure how long she’d be inside, she gave him a large bone.

“Be back soon, Captain,” she promised, but the poodle was too interested in his treat to so much as glance up in acknowledgment.

Inside the lab’s office, it was obvious that she wasn’t going to be breezing in and out of the lab quickly. A dozen names were listed on the receptionist’s clipboard. Once she’d added hers, Olivia asked the receptionist for an estimate on the wait time.

The woman shrugged. “’Bout thirty minutes.” She handed Olivia another clipboard. “Please complete these forms and make sure to sign and date them at the bottom.”

Retreating to an empty corner of the waiting room, Olivia raced through the paperwork and handed the pile back to the receptionist. The woman scooped up the forms, asked Olivia for payment in advance, and then called an elderly man forward and began to chide him for not having an updated insurance card. He searched through his wallet with trembling, age-spotted fingers but could not find anything to satisfy the receptionist.

Everyone in the room looked bored and miserable. A television mounted on the wall nearest the exit was turned to CNN, and an anchorman droned on about the state of the nation’s economy. Rumpled magazines sat untouched on veneered end tables, and a plastic display case filled with health pamphlets covered a coffee table in the center of the gray- and mauve-speckled carpet. The patients waiting to be taken into the back looked like zombies. No one met anyone else’s gaze, but each person took regular turns glancing at the large clock above the receptionist’s desk.

Olivia had paid in cash, slipping two extra twenties into the receptionist’s plump hand in hopes of being able to cajole the woman into seeing that Olivia was seen quickly. The attempt was unsuccessful. The woman counted out the bills and then called Olivia up to her window. Raising her pencil-drawn brows, she said, “You gave me too much money.”

She spoke loud enough for the rest of the room to hear and her tone was replete with disapproval. Olivia had no choice but to apologize, take back her cash, and return to her seat. She could feel the receptionist’s accusatory eyes on her back, but felt no shame. Haviland was waiting outside, so she had a valid reason to try to expedite her stay at the lab.

The minutes dragged on as one person after another passed into the next set of rooms. These patients moved deeper into the lab with slow and heavy steps. Olivia shared their feelings of reticence. She was not fond of having blood drawn and tended to become dizzy and nauseated during the experience.

Finally, a woman wearing purple scrubs encasing wide shoulders and a solid bulk resembling that of a NFL linebacker called Olivia’s name. “Olivia . . .” She frowned over her clipboard. “Limodges?”

“Limoges,” Olivia corrected. And then, because this woman was about to stick a needle into her, tried to amend her answer so that it sounded more conversational. “It’s the same name as the French porcelain.”

The woman blinked at her and then smiled. “Oh, I’ve seen that stuff on Antiques Roadshow. Pitchers and cups and the like painted with flowers. That’s not my style. Too fancy. Me? I collect unicorns. All sorts of unicorns. I just think they are so magical.” She gestured for Olivia to enter an empty exam room to the left and continued to list the types of figurines or plush toys she’d bought or been given over the years even though Olivia was paying her little heed. She was too busy wondering whether to sit in the reclining chair or lie flat on the cushioned exam table to focus on crystal unicorns.

She opted for the table and sat on its edge. Pushing her sleeve up her arm, she waited for the woman to get to work, but she continued her recitation of her unique collection.

In order to stop the phlebotomist’s prattle, Olivia abruptly thrust the envelope containing her father’s blood into the woman’s free hand. “You need this more than I do,” she said and eased back against the cushioned headrest of the exam table.

Temporarily derailed, the woman checked her clipboard. “Paternity test, huh? You can sit in the chair, you know. The table’s for folks who don’t do well when they see the needle coming.”

“It’s not the needle, but I have a track record of wooziness when my blood is drawn,” Olivia admitted reluctantly. “I’d feel more comfortable on this contemporary fainting couch.”

“The what?” The woman asked but didn’t pursue the subject. Humming softly, she tied a rubber tourniquet around Olivia’s bicep and tapped on her skin a few inches below the tourniquet to make the vein swell.

Already feeling a bit clammy, Olivia looked away and tried to find an interesting focal point in the room but could only comfortably see a poster of the human circulatory system. She imagined the red and blue veins as highways on a road map. No matter which road one followed, the end would always be the metropolis of the heart.

Olivia did her best to study the body’s most significant muscle as the phlebotomist stuck her twice before finally hitting the vein. “There we go!” The blood must have filled a vial quickly, for after a brief moment of silence, the woman placed a cotton pad over the needle hole and then applied pressure over the small wound for several seconds. She then slapped a Hello Kitty bandage over the cotton and straightened.

“You just stay still for a bit,” the woman directed. “You’ve gone a bit pale.”

Grunting once in assent, Olivia closed her eyes. That was a mistake. She immediately felt a wave of nausea wash over her. Jerking her eyes open, she searched out the red and blue heart on the poster again, taking in deep breaths through her mouth. By the time the phlebotomist returned, Olivia was able to sit up.

“When will I get my results?”

The woman tidied up her work area, dropping the spent syringe into a biohazard box and putting the bandage wrappings in the trashcan. “They’ll probably take two days.”

Olivia didn’t care for this answer. “I thought results were completed within twenty-four hours. You’re talking about twice the expected wait time.”

Unperturbed, the woman opened the door and indicated that Olivia was free to leave. “We’re pretty backed up right now. Seems like everybody in the county has come down with shingles. You’ll just have to be patient.”

Pausing in the doorway, Olivia made it clear that she wasn’t going to follow the woman to the checkout area. “I need these results immediately. If those blood results are positive, it means that my father, whom I believed drowned thirty years ago, is alive. But he’s barely alive. He’s got pancreatic cancer and is almost out of time. Do you think it’s acceptable to ask me to be patient, to possibly miss the chance to see him before he dies, because this lab is backed up identifying cases of shingles!”

The woman didn’t so much as flinch in the face of Olivia’s indignation. “We’ll do our best, ma’am,” was all she would say before walking up the hall to the waiting room. “Ms. Limoges is ready to check out,” she told the sourfaced receptionist, wished Olivia a good day, and called for the next patient.

Olivia received an instruction sheet on obtaining her lab results and marched out of the office, eager to vent her frustration. Seeing no nearby outlet, she returned Haviland’s boisterous greeting by hugging him around the neck. She then drove to a nearby sandwich shop to pick up lunch for herself and several slices of roast chicken breast for Haviland.

Keeping her promise to Haviland, she returned to the leash-free park. After serving him the chicken, Olivia stuffed salt and vinegar potato chips into her mouth without the slightest regard for ladylike delicacy. While Haviland frolicked under the afternoon sun, she consumed the entire bag, a tuna fish sandwich on whole wheat, and a dill pickle spear. With her hunger satiated and her frustration marginally relieved, Olivia looked at her watch and wondered what diversions could prevent her from obsessing over the lab results.

She called Laurel’s house but no one picked up. After leaving a brief message requesting that her friend get back to her as soon as possible, she threw out the empty potato chip bag and paper sandwich wrapper and dialed April Howard’s number.

“Are you and your portfolio free this afternoon?” she asked when April answered. “Can you meet me at Bagels’n’ Beans in an hour?”

“Yes. I don’t know if my appearance will look entirely professional, but I’ll be there. I need at least an hour to find my one decent suit and iron three years of wrinkles out of it.”

Listening to the fatigue in April’s voice, Olivia sought to ease the widow’s mind. “You’re only meeting with me, and frankly, I don’t care if you show up wearing pajamas. I’m serious, April. I’m your potential client and I don’t give a damn whether you’re in a suit and heels or sweats and sneakers. I just want to see your work and chat over a cup of coffee. Can someone look after your kids on such short notice?”

April issued a dry chuckle. “They’d love to get away from me for a few hours, trust me. I’ve been selfish to keep them close to me. When they’re around me, they feel guilty about playing or laughing at things on TV. My kids are better at grief than I am. They’re more resilient and more hopeful that they can be happy again one day.”

“I think it’s easier for them to put their feelings aside for periods of time,” Olivia agreed. “But they experience grief as deeply as you do. They just might not be able to express how it’s affecting them.”

“One day you’ll have to tell me how you know so much about this subject,” April answered. “But I’ll send the kids to Tina’s. She’s wanted them to come over for pizza for days and they could use a change of scenery. I’ll see you in an hour.”

Pleased, Olivia whistled for Haviland and set off for Bagels ’n’ Beans. When she reached the café an hour later, Wheeler was in the process of handing over the reins to a pair of high school students.

When he saw Olivia, he stopped and pointed at her arm. “You givin’ your blood away, ’cause I could use a fresh supply. Mine feels like it’s movin’ slower and slower through these droopy ol’ veins.”

Olivia dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. “That’s total nonsense. You’ll outlive us all.” She placed her drink order and then smiled at the feisty octogenarian. “Where are you off to now?”

Wheeler grinned. “I got a date. First one in a decade too. Her name’s Esther. I met her on the computer.”

Olivia couldn’t mask her disbelief. “You’re cyber-dating?”

“When it comes to women, I’m better at writin’ than talkin’.” He shrugged. “I just hope she looks like her picture. She’s a dead ringer for Betty White.” Wheeler stooped to pet Haviland and then strolled out the door, his jaunty step belonging to a man a quarter of his age.

“Betty White, huh?” Olivia laughed and settled back in her chair. Haviland curled up by her feet and closed his eyes, worn out from his exertions at the park.

Sipping her cappuccino, Olivia stared out the front window and felt a rush of affection for the town and its inhabitants. Somehow, just being back in Oyster Bay dissipated a fraction of her anxiety over the blood test results.

The bells hanging from the front door tinkled and April Howard walked in, a black portfolio case tucked under her arm. She spotted Olivia and made her way to the table, pausing to glance at the black-and-white photographs for sale on the wall above Olivia’s head.

“These are new,” she said. “Last time I was here there was a display of watercolor paintings.”

“Wheeler told me he couldn’t put up pieces of art fast enough during the Cardboard Regatta. Even with all the vendors selling comparable wares dockside, the tourists bought everything he had hanging on this wall.” Olivia studied the photographs of downtown, which had been taken during the busy season. She liked the movement captured within each shot—how the people on the sidewalk and the cars on the street appeared to be in motion even though the camera had rendered them permanently immobile.

Directly over her cafe table was a head-on shot of Grumpy’s façade. It showed a trio of teenage girls in shorts and bikini tops, a pair of children holding pinwheels, several women with shopping bags, and a cluster of locals chatting alongside the diner’s door. It was a quintessential summer day in Oyster Bay—a glimpse of small-town Utopia.

April was also staring at the photograph. “My folks want me to move back to Ohio, but I could never leave this place. I fell in love with Oyster Bay on a day just like the one in that photo. Felix and I were here for a weekend getaway. On Sunday, while we were packing to go, I told him I wanted to move here and start a family. And we did.”

“I grew up here, but I remember coming back to town after being away for a long time. I felt like I could breathe for the first time in ages.” Olivia pointed at the portfolio. “May I?”

“Of course.” April jerked her thumb toward the counter. “I’m going to order a complicated drink so you’ll have time to look that over without me staring at you.”

As the espresso machine gurgled and sputtered, Olivia examined April’s designs and was satisfied by what she saw.

“Give her a takeout cup,” she ordered the young barista.

Confused, April added a packet of sweetener to her drink and followed Olivia and Haviland outside.

“Let’s show her our new acquisition, Captain.”

The two women walked toward the harbor. A cool wisp of air drifted over them, carrying a hint of autumn. Olivia led April to the warehouse she’d own as soon as all the closing paperwork was finalized.

“This is it.” She gestured at the building. “I want to change this wreckage into the Bayside Crab House. Delicious food, lively music, and a casual setting overlooking the water. What do you think?”

April was stunned. “You want me to do the designs? I’ve never worked on a structure this . . . old before.”

Olivia laughed. “Don’t be daunted by her age. This girl’s about to have major cosmetic surgery. You’ll be working with my contractor, Clyde. He’s the best in the business. He can build anything I ask him to, but he needs design feedback.”

“Do you have blueprints?” April asked and then, without waiting for an answer, began to slowly move around the perimeter of the building. Haviland followed behind, sniffing an invisible trail of human and animal odors as April began to talk to herself. “The kitchen should be on this side. There’s decent access to the road for deliveries and garbage pickup. The front should be dominated by a large bar and I can see an expansive deck with plenty of room for tables . . .” She placed a hand on an exterior wall. “This place could become Oyster Bay’s next hot spot.”

Olivia smiled. She liked how April touched the building, acquainting herself with its bones of brick and wood. “The job’s yours if you want it. And before you give me an answer, I want you to know that there will be days you are simply not going to be able to work. No one expects you to act as though you haven’t been knocked flat by loss.”

“I’ll do my best,” April mumbled.

The clicking of Haviland’s manicured claws over the planks of one of the lower docks caught Olivia’s attention. She signaled for him to return and then focused on April again. “Right now I’d just like you to look over the schematics and do some preliminary drawings. Once the closing is done, I’ll want you to meet with Clyde. When you’re ready I’d then like you to present a final proposal to me.” She raised her hand to stop April from speaking. “Take the night to think it over. The terms of your employment are outlined in this contract, and I trust they will help relieve some of your financial worries.”

April was tactful enough not to peer inside. She thanked Olivia and walked away with her head held a little higher and Olivia knew she had judged the other woman correctly. April was a fighter. She’d hold herself and her family together despite the crushing blow they’d received. Eventually, perhaps years from now, she would emerge from her cocoon of grief. Olivia hoped that when that happened, a good man would appear and give April a second chance at happiness.

Evening fell and Olivia arrived home to the ringing of the phone. For a moment, she thought her lab results might have been completed early and dashed across the kitchen to grab the receiver from the cradle. She simultaneously noticed Laurel’s number on the caller ID.

“I’ve been meaning to catch up with you,” Laurel said hurriedly. “But there was a break in the case and I had to interview one of Rawlings’ officers and then submit an article to my editor before Steve came home.”

“What break?”

Laurel put her hand over the speaker and said something to one of her sons. She apologized for the interruption and then said, “The John Doe from the beach has been identified. When the cops were interviewing the area lawn-care companies, they found out one of the crew members of a large landscaping company stopped showing up for work around the time you found that man’s body in the sand. Not only was he in the lawn-care business”—Laurel paused theatrically—“but the man was also a parolee. His name’s Alan Dumfries.”

Olivia glanced at the clock. It was earlier than her usual cocktail time, but she didn’t care. Dropping a few ice cubes into a crystal tumbler, she opened a fresh bottle of Chivas Regal Reserve. “Let me guess. Alan served time for robbery.”

“Bingo! However, he doesn’t seem to have ties to anyone in town. No family, friends, nothing. Alan lived in Fayetteville before he got caught stealing in this county. Apparently, he preferred to break into cars, but I think it’s safe to assume he graduated to home burglaries. He must have done a few jobs with the Cliché Burglars before they killed him.” She paused thoughtfully. “Actually, they’re more like the Cliché Killers, aren’t they?”

“The Cliché Killers. Yes, that seems more accurate.” Taking a sip of her scotch whiskey, Olivia murmured, “I guess Alan was the third wheel. If he had no connection to the families who were robbed, I’d bet this bottle of Chivas Regal that he was just a lackey.”

“Maybe he was murdered because he broke a rule or something,” Laurel theorized. “Or the thieves in charge couldn’t trust him in the end.”

“Plausible,” Olivia agreed. “But it doesn’t give Rawlings much of a lead. It’s a step forward, something tangible for you to print in the paper, but knowing Alan Dumfries’ name doesn’t answer the who or the why in this case.” She shook the ice cubes in her glass. “Do you have your high school yearbooks handy?”

Laurel hesitated. “I think they’re in a box in the attic. Why?”

“I think our villain may have attended Pamplicoe High.” Olivia described how she’s overheard one of Rawlings’ officers connecting the victims to the school. “We should look through them for anyone with a physical abnormality.”

“That sounds so mean!” Laurel protested. “But I agree, though I can’t do it now. I have to make something for dinner or Steve will say that I can’t balance having a job with my responsibilities at home. Come over in the morning. The twins will be at preschool until twelve thirty. We can look through my yearbooks and then drive over to the high school if need be. The librarian, Ms. Glenda, has been there for ions. She has an uncanny memory for name and faces.”

Olivia refilled her glass, trying not to think of how much she’d rather find out the results of her lab test and formulate a plan based on the results instead of going through page after page of Laurel’s yearbooks. Her treasured tomes were undoubtedly filled with girlie signatures, hearts, x’s and o’s, smiley faces, and the usual gushing promises to remain best friends forever. Olivia had left her own yearbooks in her boarding school dorm room, having made no close friends. Even as a teenager, Olivia planned for an adulthood of solitude. All relics of her school days, whether they were report cards, art projects, or ribbons from horse shows, had been discarded at the end of every term. She didn’t want to look back. It was simply too painful. The only way to survive was to move stubbornly forward, forging no human connections.

“I’ll see you at nine,” she told Laurel and hung up.

Glancing at Rawlings’ painting of Haviland, Olivia raised her glass in salute. Here was evidence that she had become much more sociable since her school days. Repeating the Virginia Slims slogan, she declared, “You’ve come a long way, baby.”

Chapter 15

We grow tired of everything but turning others into ridicule, and congratulating ourselves on their defects.

—WILLIAM HAZLITT

After consuming two liberally poured cocktails, Olivia decided it would be unwise to drive back into town just to spend the rest of the evening milling about her restaurant.

Instead, she ate a salad of endive, roast chicken breast, crumbled blue cheese, and apple slices on the deck. She then poured herself another drink and watched the sky darken. Haviland roamed the beach until the first stars came to life on the night’s blue black canvas. Only when her arms grew chilled did Olivia collect her poodle and return indoors.

Though her body was tired, thoughts whirled around Olivia’s mind with the disruptive force of a thunderstorm and she knew sleep would prove evasive. She moved from one activity to another—wondering if the police were closing in on the thieves, planning how she’d react should her blood test reveal that her father was alive and imagining what Rawlings was doing at the moment, whether he was at the station or at home, perhaps searching through case files again and again.

In an attempt to still her mind, Olivia tried to read. However, the book she’d begun earlier in the week was too frivolous for her current mood. Casting the paperback aside, she turned on the television and flipped from one reality show to another. Marveling that she couldn’t find a single thing to capture her interest even though she had access to over three hundred channels, Olivia unwrapped a candy bar made of fine Belgian dark chocolate and gazed around her living room in search of a better distraction.

In the end, she pulled a DVD from the cabinet below her television and finally settled onto the sofa to watch the 1940 classic, Rebecca. Olivia knew every word of the film by heart but never grew tired of it. She viewed the movie at least once a year, usually when she was in a state of agitation. Somehow, the haunting presence of Rebecca de Winter and the scenes filmed at the base of the cliffs below Manderley captivated her every time.

Rebecca didn’t let her down. When the movie was over, Olivia was finally able to fall asleep, though her dreams were punctuated with fragmented images of shipwrecks, dark and hungry waves, and a distorted, witch-like version of the phlebotomist from the lab in New Bern.

The next morning, Olivia and Haviland took an early walk on the beach and then headed into town for breakfast at Grumpy’s before meeting Laurel. She’d barely sat down at her favorite window booth when Dixie skated over and served Olivia coffee.

“You look like a diminutive version of the tooth fairy,” Olivia told her friend, gesturing at Dixie’s purple top, ballet tutu, and striped tights.

Dixie curtsied. “Actually, I’m channeling the cartoon character Pinky Dinky Doo. She’s my youngest girl’s favorite. If I’d had more time, I woulda gone all out and dyed my hair pink too.” She touched the ends of her high ponytail. “But I had to settle for glitter.”

Oblivious that Dixie was dressed in eccentric costume, Haviland made it clear that he was very glad to see the small woman. Wagging his tail, he gave her a gentlemanly lick on the back of her hand. She beamed at him.

“Captain, you’re a shameless flirt. Don’t you fret, my darlin’, Grumpy’ll cook up something extra special for you on this fine mornin’.” Glancing over her shoulder, she put the coffeepot down on Olivia’s table. “I’m not bringin’ you a thing until you tell me what in the world is goin’ on with you and Flynn.”

“Lately? Not a thing.”

Dixie poked her on the shoulder. “Don’t go all mysterious on me. I’ll take this coffeepot to the kitchen and keep it there.”

Olivia held up her hands in surrender. “Our relationship, and I use that term loosely, has run its course.”

“My, my. Explains why I’ve been seein’ him all over town with Diane the vet.” Dixie studied her friend’s face. “You hadn’t heard that tidbit, had you now?”

“I knew they’d had dinner once, but if they’ve gotten serious already then frankly, I’m relieved. Saves me from having to recite my it’s-time-to-move-on speech.” Olivia pointed at the pad and pencil in Dixie’s apron pocket. “I’d like something with eggs, herbs, and diced tomatoes. Perhaps half a grapefruit as well?”

Sensing that other customers required attention, Dixie frowned and skated off. Olivia turned her attention to the Oyster Bay Gazette and eagerly read Laurel’s article about the identification of Alan Dumfries.

Sipping her coffee, Olivia studied the photograph of the man she’d found buried in the sand. There was little resemblance between the ruined flesh and sunken eyes of the face hidden beneath a green bucket and the defiant stare and chiseled features of the portrait in the paper. Death had robbed Alan Dumfries of his strong jaw, his proud nose, and the blend of anger and arrogance in his dark eyes.

“Why did they kill you?” Olivia asked the surly visage. “How did you screw up?”

“Talking to yourself?” a voice questioned.

Olivia glanced up from the paper and saw Flynn grinning over her shoulder. She tried not to be annoyed by how the man constantly appeared when she was otherwise occupied. Still, she now had the opportunity to make it clear that she was no longer interested in pursuing a relationship with him beyond that of casual friends. She indicated he should sit. “Care to join me for breakfast?”

“I would indeed,” he answered, a smile in his gray eyes. Olivia felt a prick of doubt. Flynn was so lively, so capable of lightening even the gloomiest of her moods with his ready humor and affable manner. As she stared at him now, she had to admit that he was awfully easy on the eyes too.

Dixie skated from the Cats booth to take Flynn’s order, betraying not the slightest surprise over finding him sitting across from Olivia moments after her friend had claimed that she and Flynn were finished. “Your tomato and mozzarella omelet will be out shortly, ma’am,” Dixie said to Olivia and winked as she shot off toward the kitchen.

Olivia gazed at Flynn over the rim of her coffee cup. “The word around town is that you and Diane have become friendly.”

“She’s a fun gal,” he replied nonchalantly. “Except when she’s loading me down with endless amounts of reading material on raising kittens. Life as a single parent.” He sighed theatrically. “It is so hard.”

Olivia laughed. “Have your little felines been given names?”

“Oh, yes. Digory and Polly, after the children in C. S. Lewis’s The Magician’s Nephew.” Dixie arrived in the middle of Flynn’s sentence, carrying Olivia and Haviland’s meals as well as a cup of coffee for Flynn.

“My kids entered your contest, but I think they wanted to name your cats after video game characters or pop stars.” She fluffed the lowest ruffle of her tutu. “And my youngest boy was real set on you callin’ one of them Chinese Takeout.”

Flynn chuckled. “I should have given him an honorable mention for creativity, but you’ll be happy to know that the winner is from a family facing hard times. When I told this kid that he’d won and could pick out fifty dollars worth of books, he grinned from ear to ear. One of the books he chose was a dictionary. He said his folks didn’t see a need for one, but he’d been asking for this particular book since his sixth birthday. I sold him a leather-bound version at cost and he petted the thing like it was a puppy.”

Dixie wiped a tear from her eye. “You’ve gone and made my mascara run. Shame on you, Flynn McNulty.”

“Will you forgive me long enough to put in an order for Grumpy’s apple pancakes?

“I suppose I might.” Dixie sniffed and skated away.

Olivia cut into her eggs, allowing a vent of steam to escape from the molten mozzarella interior. “Returning to the subject of you and Diane . . . I wanted you to know that I am—”

“Madly jealous?” Flynn reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “She and I are friends. You’re the only woman I want to make burnt toast for in the morning.”

A movement close to the window drew Olivia’s attention. She looked outside to see Rawlings, in uniform, carrying a cardboard beverage tray filled with coffee. He handed the tray to the officer in the passenger seat of a double-parked cruiser and then hustled around to the driver’s side, sunlight winking off his mirrored shades.

“Damn it all!” Withdrawing her hand from Flynn’s, Olivia took a bite of her food and chewed mechanically, her gaze fixed on the police car. When it turned out of sight, she sighed. What had Rawlings seen? She and Flynn holding hands like the lovers they’d been? After all, she was the only one who knew she no longer wished to have a physical relationship with Flynn, as she hadn’t managed to break it off.

I’ll make things clear to Flynn first and then I’ll tell Rawlings he caught a glimpse of our final moment of intimacy.

Flynn was watching her curiously. “What’s going on in that beautiful mind of yours? World domination, complex mathematical problems, physics formulas, the plot of a future bestseller?

Olivia put her fork down. “I asked about you and Diane because I wanted you to know you are free to pursue a relationship with her. Not that you needed my permission, because you and I never set parameters as to what we were to one another, but I think she’s lovely.”

“Why do I have a hunch that parameters are about to be firmly put into place,” Flynn murmured unhappily.

“I find in these situations that it’s best to be completely honest,” Olivia said matter-of-factly. “What we have isn’t working for me anymore. Let’s part amicably and continue our book discussions fully clothed in the future.”

In the heavy silence, Dixie arrived with Flynn’s pancakes. She prattled away as he spread several pats of butter across the surface of the stack and then poured liberal amounts of warm, pecan-flavored syrup on top of the butter. When he failed to laugh at Dixie’s joke or take a single bite of his breakfast, she put her hands on her hips and gave him a frank stare. “What’s wrong with your food?”

“There could never be anything amiss with your fine fare,” Flynn answered dramatically. “But Olivia just broke up with me and I’m wishing she’d waited until I was done with my pancakes. I’ve been dreaming about these all week.”

Dixie shot Olivia an accusing look. “Did you put this man off his breakfast?”

Ignoring her, Olivia took some money from her wallet, slapped it on the table, and rose. “Have a nice day. Both of you.”

She patted her thigh to stir Haviland, who was dozing contentedly against the diner’s wall, oblivious of the mixed emotions filling the air above his head.

Neither Flynn nor Dixie interfered with Olivia’s leaving. She reached the Range Rover and felt an immediate and powerful sense of relief. Rolling down all four windows, she turned on the radio and pulled away from her unlawful parking space in front of a fire hydrant and headed for Laurel’s subdivision. The combination of Aretha Franklin and the autumn air sweeping into the car’s cabin tasted sweetly of freedom.

Laurel welcomed Olivia by promising that the coffee she was in the midst of brewing would be fresh and strong.

“I bought myself a new machine with the money from my first paycheck.” She proudly stroked the appliance’s stainless steel façade and Olivia agreed that it was most impressive. After pouring two cups, Laurel offered Haviland a bowl of water and several dog biscuits she’d purchased especially for his visit. The two women then settled at the kitchen table where Laurel had laid out three yearbooks on the sticky tabletop.

“That’s just some jam leftover from breakfast. The boys get more on their clothes and the furniture than in their sweet little tummies,” Laurel said with a laugh, swiping at the surface with a sponge. “Here. You take my sophomore year. I’ll go over my wonderful days as a junior. When I was—”

“Why are there only three books?” Olivia immediately cut short her friend’s high school reminiscences.

Laurel frowned. “I think my parents have my freshman yearbook. I must have left it behind after marrying Steve and they just packed it with the rest of their stuff when they moved to Florida. I could easily picture my mom looking through it every now and then.” Laurel seemed pleased by the thought. “Anyway, I rooted around in the attic as soon as I got back from dropping off the twins this morning but could only locate these three. If we don’t find any suspicious photos in here, we’ll have to pay a visit to Ms. Glenda at the school library.”

Olivia opened the first book and carefully scanned page after page of young faces. The photos revealed evidence of acne, thick glasses, gawkiness, mouthfuls of metal braces, minor facial scars, and one wheelchair-bound student, but nothing struck Olivia as out of the ordinary. Like any group of photographs representing a large population, there were attractive faces, unappealing faces, and altogether unremarkable faces.

Laurel was turning the pages with agonizing slowness, chuckling over the comments written or waxing nostalgic over memories of homecoming or prom. She held one-sided conversations with the smiling visages on almost every page and even giggled a time or two, sounding very much like a teenage girl.

“Slide over your senior year,” Olivia commanded impatiently. “I have no doubt it was unforgettable, but we’ve got a job to do. Stop reliving the glory days as a pompom shaker and search for deformities, would you?”

“Spoilsport,” Laurel retorted and pretended to sulk, but by the time she’d reached a spread featuring the junior class candid shots, she was laughing again.

Olivia finished scrutinizing the second book but found nothing. She insisted on paging through the one Laurel finally set aside. Finding no clues in the third yearbook, she carried her cup to the sink and rinsed a splotch of grape jelly from her wrist. “Let’s head over to Pampticoe High. I’ll drive.”

On the way to the school, Laurel chatted about how much she was enjoying her new career and how comfortable she felt interviewing members of the Oyster Bay Police Department. “Chief Rawlings has been so kind to me. I really hope he can make it to our Bayside Book Writers meeting on Saturday. I loved his chapter! I wrote down so few criticisms that he’s going to think I’m buttering him up in order to get information for my articles.”

The two women discussed Rawlings’ chapter and what progress they hoped to make on their own manuscripts. Olivia didn’t tell Laurel that she’d reached a writing roadblock since receiving the vial of blood from Will Hamilton. It was now impossible to dream up plot lines focusing on Kamila, her fictitious Egyptian concubine, in the face of such poignant real-life drama. Luckily, Laurel was brimming with ideas for a contemporary romance novel and discussed these for the remainder of the ride.

Pampticoe High was bustling with activity when Olivia and Laurel stopped by the front office to collect visitor badges. Students were in the middle of changing classes and poured through the dingy hallways, talking, laughing, shouting, and slamming lockers. Half of the teens wore ear buds and listened to music as they moved while another large percentage was talking or texting on cell phones.

Olivia thought back to the boarding school she’d attended—the strict dress code, the rule of silence when in public areas, the insistence on politeness and proper etiquette at all times. Had these students attended Olivia’s school, most of them would have been immediately hauled off to detention for inappropriate dress and the use of foul language, their electronic devices confiscated and all privileges revoked.

“This is a different world,” she commented under her breath after an oblivious young man barreled into her and then shuffled off without so much as an apology.

Ms. Glenda’s domain was refreshingly quiet and orderly. Olivia only had to watch the woman interact with a single student to see that she ruled the library with a blend of softness and steel. She was also remarkably unsurprised by Laurel’s request that she recall the names of former students with notable physical deformities.

“A nice young police officer asked me the very same thing yesterday afternoon,” Ms. Glenda whispered, removing her reading glasses to clean off a smudge on the left lens. “It was no small feat to consider the unusual birthmarks, burns, scars, missing limbs, additional fingers or toes, and excessive overbites of two decades worth of students!” Having finished with her glasses, she put them back on and gazed at Laurel with interest. “I see your experience with the school paper eventually blossomed into a career. Journalism suits you, my dear. I’ve followed your recent articles with pride, knowing I once taught you how to conduct research.”

Laurel blushed prettily. “You certainly did, Ms. Glenda. Believe me, your coaching has come in handy more than once over the last few weeks.”

Ms. Glenda preened and Olivia suspected the woman deserved every accolade she received. It couldn’t be easy to instruct the group of unruly miscreants Olivia had seen in the school’s hallway. “I don’t know why the police were interested in my memories of days gone by, but I suspect it has something to do with the Cliché Killers. Didn’t you come up with that nickname? Quite catchy.”

Nodding modestly, Laurel held her blank notebook page in the air. “I think we’re chasing down the same lead. Were you able to assist the police?”

“Not at first.” Ms. Glenda indicated they should follow her into the stacks. She pulled a yearbook from the shelf, found the page she was looking for, and then held it open against her chest with the blue cover facing outward. “I thought I’d be of no help until the officers used the words ‘cliché’ and ‘tease’ in the same sentence. Two faces quickly surfaced in my mind.” She studied Laurel. “Surely you remember a student being teased for the strange sounds she made when she tried to talk. Does the phrase, ‘cat got your tongue’ help you remember?”

Laurel began to shake her head, but then stopped. She paled and reached for Ms. Glenda’s yearbook. The librarian pointed to a group of photographs featuring the senior class. “See there? It says, ‘Absent from this group: Andrew Davis and Ellen Donald.’ ”

“Ellen Donald.” Laurel’s words were barely audible. “I remember her now. Oh! I may have . . . I believe I joined in when the older girls made fun of her.”

Ms. Glenda seemed satisfied by the admission. “Her older brother was Rutherford. He graduated three years ahead of Ellen and was also severely tongue-tied.”

Olivia accepted the yearbook and put her finger on the place where Ellen’s photograph should have appeared on the page. “Wasn’t their condition reparable?”