A Killer Plot (2010)

Chapter 15

In winter I get up at night

And dress by yellow candle-light.

In summer quite the other way,

I have to go to bed by day.

—ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

To her relief, Rawlings and his men declined Olivia’s offer of coffee, leaving her free to take a hot shower. Afterward, her hair curling against her forehead and the side of her cheeks in damp tendrils, Olivia placed a call to Diane.

“Haviland’s still asleep, but that’s to be expected,” the vet said. “It’s not the drug-induced sleep he was in a few hours ago. In fact, he’s dreaming. His paws are twitching as though he’s out on the beach chasing sandpipers.”

Reassured by this image, Olivia spread an old towel on the kitchen table and set out her rifle and gun cleaning kit. She switched on her living room stereo and felt a measure of the tension lodged between her shoulder blades slide away as the opening strains of Beethoven’s “Für Elise” tiptoed into the room.

After pouring herself a large mug of coffee, Olivia laid out the contents of the gun cleaning kit like a surgeon organizing his instruments before a case. She looked over the folding ramrod, nitro solvent, gun oil, cleaning pads, and cloths and was satisfied with her supplies. Unloading the rifle, she carefully pulled the trigger off and then removed the bolt from the rifle body. She screwed together her collapsible ramrod, fed a folded cleaning pad through the hole, and dipped the tool into the solvent.

Gently easing the ramrod all the way into the barrel until it rubbed against the firing mechanism, Olivia worked the device in and out, stopping to change cleaning pads. Once the interior was clean, she dabbed a bit of oil on a soft cloth and began to wipe the pieces of metal on the outside of the gun. The task was calming. It gave Olivia a sense of control and as the music washed over her, she was able to focus on the riddle of the murderer’s identity.

Max Warfield has got to be involved, she thought as she began to reassemble the rifle. As soon as I pick up Haviland, I’m going to pay him a visit. And I think I’ll bring my weapon along.

Out on the deck, Olivia stared down the barrel of her gun. She zeroed in on twigs or dark-hued rocks sticking out of the sand and then let her eyes drift across the sparkling water. Recalling Haviland’s limp body lying in the dark, Olivia felt anger surge through her body—a fierce juxtaposition of the lazy roll of wavelets before her. Jaw clenched, she pumped the unloaded rifle and pressed the trigger, imagining a bullet puncturing the surface of the water, slicing through the blue gray depths until it drove beneath a layer of murk, forever embedded in the cold sea floor.

Having just cleaned the rifle, Olivia had no intention of sullying it by firing a round, no matter how much release she’d gain by doing so. Instead, she collected an unopened box of bullets, a covered bowl containing a healthy snack for Haviland, and a travel mug of coffee for herself.

At the police station, she informed the desk officer that her fingerprints were needed and, to her chagrin, Officer Cook appeared to take them.

“It’s you again,” he muttered, gesturing for her to follow him to the processing area in the building housing the jail. Neither spoke as they walked, but Cook glanced over his shoulder several times, as though a big, black poodle might overtake them at any moment.

Standing across from Olivia, the policeman rolled each of her fingers with the same roughness she imagined he’d use on the combative drunk driver. When he was finished, he tossed two packets of moist towelettes on the counter.

Olivia studied the young man dispassionately. She could only imagine the feelings of impotency the members of the police department must be experiencing with a pair of unsolved murders on their desks and a bevy of reporters crawling over every inch of the town.

“You’ll get him in the end,” she said as she began to clean her fingertips. As one moist cloth became stained with the blue purple ink, she ripped open a second. “He’s not any smarter than you are,” she continued, though she knew this might not be true. The killer had already established his intelligence by avoiding capture. “And what if he’s not working alone? Having a partner should make him easier to catch. Chief Rawlings believes he’ll be at the town hall tonight. If not him, then his partner.” She held up a stained index finger. “Watch for the nonverbal signals, Officer. One of our own has been bribed or blackmailed by Blake Talbot or Max Warfield. Watch those two. They have alibis but the ‘silent partner’ in these murders may not have. And he has to have a tell.”

Cook frowned and Olivia thought the young man was sure to turn truculent, but he surprised her by nodding. “I play poker every Friday and everybody’s got a tell. Even me.” He handed her a third towelette. “You gotta get it off right away. This ink stains worse than blueberry pie on a white napkin.”

“Thank you, Officer Cook.” Olivia finished scrubbing her fingers and then followed the young lawman back to the lobby. “I was wondering if you knew the date of Dean Talbot’s funeral?”

“No, ma‘am, but it won’t be here in Oyster Bay,” Cook replied. “They’re takin’ his body back to New York tomorrow where it belongs. The oldest son is handlin’ it all. He’s a real prize. He thinks we’re all a bunch of dumb hillbillies, but we know a coke addict when we see one. I’ll be glad to see the last of that family for a while.”

Olivia grew thoughtful. “Dean died on Saturday, yet his funeral is Wednesday, which means it was likely delayed until the conclusion of tonight’s meeting. Interesting. With the two of the three Talbot kids not yet arrived from New York, someone needs to stay behind to oversee ...” She trailed off. It was definitely time to pay a visit to Max’s rented condo. “Good luck, Officer. The citizens of Oyster Bay are counting on you.” She smiled at the bewildered policeman and returned to the Rover, which was parked in the fire lane right outside the jail’s front door.

Inside the stifling car, Olivia checked her cell phone for messages. Her face lit up as she listened to the voicemail from Diane. Haviland was awake and moving around and seemed to be no worse for wear.

By the time Olivia pulled in front of the vet’s office, her stomach was rumbling. Glancing at the Tupperware on her passenger seat, Olivia knew she’d end up tossing its contents. Haviland was going to dine on ground turkey and raw chicken hearts—one of his favorite meals. They’d both lunch at The Boot Top.

One of Diane’s employees must have noticed Olivia’s car, for as soon as she stepped onto the driveway, Haviland was allowed outside. He bounded over to his mistress and stood up on his hind legs with a jubilant yelp. Olivia threw her arms around the poodle and then sank to her knees, laughing as she welcomed the frenzied kisses Haviland planted all over her face, neck, and shoulders.

“You smell nice,” Olivia remarked. “Did they give you a bath?”

Haviland barked happily and curled his mouth into a smile.

Olivia couldn’t seem to stop running her hands over the poodle’s soft, black curls. He appeared genuinely unharmed, but it was reassuring to feel his healthy, wiggling body under her fingers. Finally, Olivia kissed Haviland once more on the nose and straightened. Tugging on her disheveled shirt, she placed her drool-covered sunglasses inside her purse and waved at the groomers who had paused in their work to witness the reunion.

Inside the vet’s office, Diane’s pretty young assistant tabulated the bill and then gestured at the paper plate bearing a sandwich and a pile of potato chips on her tidy desk. “Thanks for lunch, Ms. Limoges. You didn’t need to do that. We just love taking care of Haviland. If all our patients were as well mannered as the Captain, our jobs would be a lot easier.”

Pleased by the compliment, Olivia reached out and cupped Haviland’s snout in her palm. “Thank Diane again for me, would you?”

“I sure will. She’d see you both off, but she’s in surgery.” The woman lowered her voice. “Doris Fielding finally brought Muffin in to be fixed. That bitch has given birth to every feral mutt in this town. God love them, but each one of her litters is dumber than the last. It’s high time for Muffin to close her legs and start acting like a lady.”

Laughing, Olivia led Haviland out of the vet’s and headed for The Boot Top. The moment the pair walked through the back door, Michel rushed over to Haviland and hugged the poodle’s neck.

“I’ve been waiting for you, my friend.” He cast a worried glance at Olivia but continued to address Haviland. “I heard what happened and have been cooking ever since.” He removed a bowl from the warming oven and began tossing the contents with a wooden spoon. “This will restore you completely.” He set the bowl down beneath Haviland’s quivering nose and whispered in all seriousness to Olivia, “I hope the ground beef he ate was at least organic.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “I hardly asked the vet for an analysis, Michel.”

She left Haviland in the kitchen happily gulping down his lunch and went into the office to phone Dixie.

“Please tell me you are not callin’ me in the middle of my lunch rush to talk about those Talbot kids and their airplanes,” Dixie scolded.

“I am. When did they arrive and who were they with?”

Dixie sighed, but Olivia knew it was all for show. Dixie would keep her customers waiting until suppertime if it meant passing on a choice morsel of gossip. “Let me hand out some bacon burgers and grab my phone bill. It’s all I had handy to write on when I was talkin’ to Grumpy’s cousin.”

Putting the phone on speaker mode, Olivia began to sort through her emails. When Dixie picked up the receiver, she cleared her throat and spoke clearly so Olivia could hear her over the din of the lunch crowd.

“Blake Talbot flew in Sunday afternoon. His girlfriend was with him, that Heidi St. Claire from TV. My girls are wild about her. They say she’s going to be bigger than Hannah Montana.” She paused dramatically. “And guess where she and her man are right now?”

“Where?” Olivia asked, imagining the glimmer in Dixie’s eyes.

“The love birds are here! In the Evita booth!” Dixie dropped her voice to an excited whisper. “They’re both wearin’ baseball hats and those big ole sunglasses that make people look like horseflies, but I know it’s them. Okay, back to the report: The older brother and his wife flew in Sunday evenin’ around six and then the sister and Dean’s widow came in together around eight. No other flights. No other passengers. And don’t you forget you owe me dirt on Flynn for this.”

Olivia frowned. Every single Talbot was out of town when Dean had his fatal fall. “And Saturday? Did any private charters arrive?”

“Just two. One stopped for repairs before headin’ down to Myrtle Beach and the second was full of guys on one of those corporate fishin’ retreats. Nothin’ dark and sinister, darling.” She placed her hand over the receiver and shouted something. “Gotta go. See you tonight for the fireworks show.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Olivia replied with a smirk, but Dixie was already gone.

Next, Olivia dialed the number to the rental management office of the Ocean Vista condos. The phone was answered by a woman with a musical voice and Olivia sweetly asked to be put through to the manager.

“Bert Long. Can I help you?”

Olivia introduced herself as the owner of The Boot Top and proceeded to outline a proposal to reward new condo buyers and long-term renters with a dinner for two at the restaurant. “We are the only five-star restaurant in the area, Mr. Long. I’m sure your clients would appreciate the incentive.”

“I know I would!” the manager declared. “I’ve only been to your place once, but I swear I can still taste the lobster and the wine I enjoyed that night.”

Knowing her fish was on the line, Olivia began to reel him in. “Do you recall the exact vintage?”

Bert recited the French label perfectly.

“Why don’t I swing over with a bottle and we can discuss this in more detail?” Olivia suggested. “I need to pay a visit to one of your guests anyway. Can you tell me which unit Max Warfield is occupying?”

“Two-twelve. A two-bedroom unit with one of our finest ocean views,” Bert answered, switching into salesman mode. “But Mr. Warfield isn’t here right now. He always parks his rental car in front of the office to catch the shade and it’s gone.”

Suppressing her irritation that Max was unavailable, Olivia said, “Would you mind giving me a call when he returns? I don’t want to waste your valuable time and we’re expecting a full house at the restaurant tonight. If you’d be kind enough to alert me, I’ll have time to locate that bottle for you and perhaps bring over a sample of this evening’s chef’s special.”

“Splendid!” Bert bellowed.

Olivia recited her number and then sat back in her chair, wondering what to do next. She opened her notebook and flipped through the pages, hoping some clue would leap off the page and allow her to identify the murderer. As time slipped by, bringing her closer and closer to the evening’s meeting, she felt the helpless anger that had been growing within her since Camden’s death swell like a cresting storm wave.

A copy of Camden’s manuscript sat on her desk. She began to read it again, but couldn’t concentrate on the typed words. Her restless mind instead traveled back to the moment in which she’d first met the charming and gregarious gossip writer at Grumpy’s.

She continued to reminisce as she served herself a cup of decaf, and the strong, hot coffee helped quell the emotions warring within. Calmer now, Olivia was able to pick up the phone and place yet another call. This time, a phone rang on the other side of the country.

Cosmo answered on the sixth ring. “Olivia! I thought you’d forgotten all about me!”

“Of course not. I’ve been preoccupied but that’s no excuse. I apologize for being neglectful.” She did feel rather guilty for not checking on him sooner. “Did you hear about Dean Talbot?”

“Who hasn’t?” Cosmo responded. “All of Hollywood is abuzz about Blakey boy. What will he do with all that money? The power? You see, when someone Blake’s age has been handed the reins to a multimillion-dollar company, one of two things will happen. The little rocker will party like the end of the earth is coming and burn out like a B-movie actress, or he’ll suddenly act older than his years to prove to the other power players that he belongs in their exclusive club. Blake’s either headed for rehab—he can share a room with his brother and Mommy Dearest—or he’s going to start wearing Brooks Brothers suits and cutting the ribbons of new hospital wings.” He paused. “And if he legally hitches his star to Heidi St. Claire, those two will be a serious power couple. Brangelina will be old news.”

Even though she’d read Camden’s chapter on Blake, Olivia couldn’t predict how becoming the majority share-holder of Talbot Fine Properties would impact the behavior of the young musician. “Never mind the Talbots. How are you doing?”

“Oh, I alternate between believing I can make it through this to wanting to fill my pockets with boulders and step off the end of the pier. Do you know how hard it is to find decent boulders in LA?”

Olivia smiled sadly into the phone. “It’s going to take a long time, Cosmo.”

“I know.” He sighed. “I’m working a lot and that helps the daylight hours pass, but the nights ...”

“Last forever,” she finished for him.

Cosmo sniffed. “I swear. It’s like a big, heavy cat jumps onto my chest the second I lie down. I can barely breathe, let alone sleep. I have never, ever been this tired. Or looked this bad! I’m avoiding mirrors altogether—isn’t that shocking?”

“You are one of the loveliest people I’ve ever met and your grief is only going to add another dimension to you.” She clucked her tongue. “I fear you’re going to become so irresistible that your head will swell like a blimp and there’ll be no talking to you.”

A laugh boomed into the earpiece. “Oh, that hurts. I haven’t used those stomach muscles since I left Oyster Bay. If only you were here I could practice the laughing bit some more...”

“Call me whenever you want, even in the middle of the night,” Olivia invited. “I’ll put Haviland on the phone and he’ll send that ‘cat’ on your chest running for his ninth life.”

Olivia’s call waiting signaled and she bid Cosmo a warm, but hasty good-bye. Bert Long was on the other line and was eager to inform her that Max Warfield had returned to his condo.

“Michel, I need an eatable bribe and I need it fast!” Olivia announced as she stepped into the kitchen. “I know you’re busy but, ah, I see you have a fresh supply of truffles.”

The chef threw his hands into the air. “If you hadn’t been through what you’d just been through, I’d tell you to shove these truffles where the sun doesn’t shine. Every table is booked for tonight and you want me to whip something up just like that!” He snapped his fingers. “Is it a picnic basket this time or do you require something more sophisticated, like individual dishes served in a lacquer box?”

“A simple truffle quiche would be perfect,” Olivia replied breezily. “I’ll leave you to it. Haviland? Let’s take a quick walk while Michel’s working his magic. I need to think about how to handle Max Warfield.”

Instead of jumping to his feet when he heard the word “walk,” Haviland continued to rest on the floor, his drowsy eyes tracking his mistress. Olivia studied him. “You’re right. You shouldn’t overdo it. But no more snacking either. I need your canine intuition to be finely honed for the remainder of today and your mind is at its sharpest when your stomach isn’t stuffed.”

Olivia left the restaurant and headed for the docks. The heat of the afternoon sunlight poured down on her head and shoulders, but she was remarkably comfortable. Born in mid-July, she was a child of summer and had always welcomed its arrival and rarely wilted even on the hottest of days.

Jethro Bragg’s houseboat was at its slip, but the small motorboat he used for clamming was gone. As she stared at the water, listening as it lapped against the dock’s wooden pylons, she wondered how Jethro had been coping since his release from jail.

An old man carrying a tackle box drew up alongside her. He jerked a gnarled finger toward the ocean. “If you’re lookin’ for Jethro, he’s out collectin’. But you should come down to his oyster fry tonight. Five dollars a plate and you’ll never taste a better bite of shellfish in your life. The boy’s got the touch.” He glanced sideways at Olivia. “And he’s a good lad, no matter what some folks say.”

“I would very much like to sample his cooking and I’m glad to hear that he’s got loyal friends in town,” Olivia answered honestly and continued on her walk. She turned away from the docks and walked around a dilapidated warehouse behind the marina. It had recently been put back on the market after the original buyer had been unable to secure the loan necessary to repair the faulty wiring and plumbing, replace the rotten roof, and remove the asbestos hidden behind the moldy walls.

Olivia stood still, carefully scrutinizing the two-story structure. It occurred to her that Oyster Bay could do with a lively casual restaurant. Brew pub meets crab shack. That would appeal to both tourists and locals. She shielded her eyes against the glare of the sun and continued musing. Balcony seating. Checkered tablecloths. Plenty of televisions in the bar for the sports fanatics.

With images of the boisterous eatery filling her head, Olivia returned to The Boot Top to collect Haviland, a bottle of her second-best Bordeaux and a white cheddar and truffle quiche for Bert Long.

Michel handed her a white shopping bag for the food and the wine. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but it can’t involve taking it easy since you need to bribe someone with my food. Don’t you think you should go home and put your feet up after what happened last night?”

Olivia patted her chef’s hand, which was covered with dozens of small scars and burns. “Thank you for being concerned, but the person I’m going to see might know who came after Haviland. Someone sedated my best friend, Michel. I could have lost him. There’s no chance of my turning the other cheek.”

“Be careful then.” He pointed at Haviland. “And keep your guard up, Captain. We are way too busy to have the two of you sleeping it off at the vet’s office again.”

Noting the slight flush in his cheeks, Olivia wagged a finger at the chef. “So that’s how you knew what happened so quickly! You’re dating someone at the Canine Cottage, aren’t you? No? Perhaps the lucky woman is Diane’s pretty assistant? She’s not married, is she?”

Michel picked up a cleaver and advanced on her. “Don’t you have some place to be?”

“I do.” Olivia eyed the sharp tool. “And if I didn’t have my rifle in the car, I’d ask to borrow that.”

The Ocean Vista condos were completely booked. Most of the parking spaces were occupied by SUVs and minivans stuffed to the roof racks with pool floats, boogie boards, and beach toys. There were convertibles and pricey sedans here and there, but Olivia sensed the Ocean Vista properties catered primarily to families.

As she walked around the perimeter of the rectangular structure, searching for number two-twelve, Olivia could hear the joyful screeches and splashes of children playing in a pool nearby. The strains of Bob Marley floated from the same direction. The combined sounds formed a jubilant and carefree melody, yet Olivia remained unaffected by the atmosphere, her mouth set in a firm, determined line.

She walked quickly over the well-maintained property, noticing the drought-resistant annuals and the close-cropped beds of Bermuda grass. The condos were built of pristine white stucco that gleamed in the sunlight, providing an aesthetically pleasing contrast to the terra-cotta-style roof shingles. Taking note of the signs pointing vacationers to bike paths, tennis courts, pools, hot tubs, a miniature golf course, laundry room, fitness area, snack bar, as well as an arrow pointing to even-numbered rooms, Olivia climbed the next set of stairs and paused as she came to number two-twelve.

“Ready, Captain?”

Haviland shifted his weight from one leg to the other, inhaled, and faced the door. Olivia knocked. She listened for sounds from inside the condo but heard nothing. She knocked again.

“His car is here.” Olivia knocked a third time, impatiently calling out Max’s name. She sighed in exasperation and turned to her poodle. “Is he inside?”

Dipping his black nose to the floor, Haviland’s snout connected with the cement in front of the door. Breathing rapidly, the poodle absorbed the fresh scents and then pressed his nostrils as far into the crack under the door as he could. He growled and took several small steps backward. Olivia watched him carefully.

“He is in there! Your nose is never wrong. Let’s get Bert.”

Olivia hastened to the management office, pausing only to grab the shopping bag containing Bert’s treats from the Range Rover. Olivia felt the food and wine would immediately smooth her way with the manager.

Bert must have seen Olivia coming up the sidewalk, for he met her at the receptionist’s desk, pumping her hand and smiling as though he were running for political office. He glanced nervously at Haviland but was too polite to question the poodle’s presence.

“From my chef,” Olivia said, handing him the bag. “And though it was my intention to discuss business with you right away, I’m afraid I am too distracted over my concern for Mr. Warfield to do so.”

Bert ran a hand over his pink, bald head. “Oh? What seems to be the trouble?”

“I don’t know,” Olivia answered truthfully. “I knocked on his door several times, but he didn’t respond.” Seeing that Bert was unaffected by this statement, she decided to embellish. “I also tried his cell phone. Normally, I’d say he was merely in the shower or taking a nap, but I’m aware that he has a heart condition. In this heat...” She waved toward the wall of windows facing the parking lot and lowered her voice. “Sometimes these northerners don’t take proper precautions.”

“Isn’t that the truth? You’d think they’d never heard of sunscreen,” Bert agreed and then fell silent, considering a course of action.

“I’d feel so much better if you’d try to reach him.” Olivia touched Bert’s shoulder. “What if he required medical attention and we didn’t respond?”

That pushed the right button. Bert grabbed a set of keys and gestured for Olivia to follow his lead. Together, they marched to unit two-twelve without speaking. Bert gave an authoritative knock on Max’s door and then dialed a number on his cell phone. They could hear Max’s phone ringing from somewhere inside the condo.

Haviland growled again. Bert did a little sideways hop as though the poodle’s teeth were aiming for his meaty calf.

“He’s not directing that threat at you, Mr. Long,” Olivia said soothingly. “Haviland senses something amiss on the other side of this door.”

Paling, Bert knocked once more and then announced he was coming in. He turned the key and tentatively pushed the door open. Assaulted by a blast of air-conditioning, he and Olivia stepped into the disheveled living room. Crumpled clothes and towels were strewn on the peach-colored sectional. The surface of every table was littered with empty soda and beer bottles, newspapers, magazines, and deflated potato chip bags.

Frowning, Bert called Max’s name again, but this time his voice carried an edge of disapproval.

“You’d better wait here,” Bert cautioned as he took a quick glance around the equally untidy kitchen.

Ignoring the manager, Olivia made a gesture with her right hand. “Search, Haviland.”

The poodle darted in front of Bert and as the two humans waited, they heard a deep-throated growl echo from the back rooms. Instinctively, Bert and Olivia froze, only resuming their wary gait once Haviland’s growl changed into an urgent, high-pitched bark.

Haviland was pacing anxiously in the doorway to one of the bedrooms. Olivia looked over his head toward the bed. The rumpled covers had been shoved into a wrinkled mass toward the middle and the white cotton sheets were covered by at least six pillows, all tossed about as though the bed’s occupant had spent a restless night. Max had smoothed out a section of the comforter, however, upon which he’d laid out a gray suit still encased within a dry cleaner’s bag.

Olivia’s eyes continued to sweep the room and came to an abrupt stop at the pair of club chairs positioned beneath the double windows overlooking the ocean. Max Warfield was in the chair nearest the bathroom. His held was tilted backward at an awkward angle. The rest of his body was unnaturally still.

“You were right! He’s had a heart attack!” Bert lurched forward in Max’s direction, but Olivia clamped both hands onto his arm, nearly forcing him off balance.

“We mustn’t touch him,” she stated firmly. “See that thing wrapped around his neck? That’s a dog collar. Haviland’s dog collar. And I doubt Mr. Warfield is wearing it voluntarily. Call 911. Mr. Warfield’s been murdered.”

Mutely, Bert retreated several feet, his eyes bulging with shock and fear. Unblinking, as though he suspected the corpse of making a sudden movement, the property manager punched the digits into his cell phone with trembling fingertips.

Haviland sniffed Max’s hand and then growled again.

“Get his scent, Captain,” Olivia told the poodle, feeling a fresh surge of rage course through her. “He was just here. The man who hurt you. He did this. Smell him, Haviland,” she whispered fiercely over Bert’s shaky conversation with the emergency operator.

As Haviland disappeared into the bathroom, Olivia absorbed as much of the scene as she could without approaching the club chair where Max had been killed.

Her eyes were immediately drawn to Max’s face, for his tongue lolled from between his slack lips. Swollen and blue tinged, it looked like some grotesque alien insect, and Olivia felt momentarily overcome by repulsion. She forced her gaze downward, seeing the slumped shoulders against the cushioned back of the chair, the limp arms, and the casual outfit of shorts and a T-shirt.

Finally, she stared at Haviland’s blue collar, which was fastened around the dead man’s neck. The skin above and below the collar was a purplish red and marred with scratches, illustrating the desperation with which Max had fought against the object robbing him of oxygen.

The most unsettling detail of all was the reflection of the windows in the dead man’s unblinking eyes. A halo of soft, white light fell across the glassy surface of his corneas, giving the impression that an otherworldly radiance was being released from within Max Warfield’s body.

Bert was repeating the condo address in a much steadier voice when Olivia spotted the sheet of paper. It was a standard-sized sheet of white paper that had been neatly positioned on the table in front of Max’s torso. Olivia wondered if those were the last words Max Warfield had seen before he died or if the murderer had placed the paper on the table afterward.

She walked forward four steps, leaning over the table as she removed her notebook from her purse. “The summer haiku,” she murmured and read the three lines upside down.

The summer air is so

thick its almost too hard to breathe—

so don’t bother to try.

“What are you doing?” Bert hissed, but Olivia didn’t hear him.

Backing away from the table, she copied down the words of the poem, silently counting syllables as her pen recorded them.

“This is wrong.” She reread what she’d written. “The lines are too long, the hyphen doesn’t divide the poem into two parts, the nature imagery is overly simplistic, there are grammatical errors ...”

Olivia sank down on the edge of the bed, causing Max’s suit to slide into the depression created by her weight. “This poem was not written by the same person. Are there now two poets?” Chilled, she shoved the plastic bag away from her leg, stood up, and walked quickly out of the room. Haviland growled once more and followed.

“Ms. Limoges? Are you all right?” Bert called after her.

Olivia didn’t stop until she was outside. She needed to breathe real air, as though her lungs weren’t capable of processing the chilled, Freon-tinged air within the condo. Stepping away from the shade of the overhang, Olivia lifted her chin and closed her eyes, letting the sun bathe her head and neck and burn away the gooseflesh on her arms.

Bert touched her lightly on the shoulder, repeating his query.

Mechanically, she pivoted to face him, her eyes wide and unfocused. “He’s off the leash. That’s what the dog collar means. The killer’s not following someone else’s agenda anymore. Yet he likes the poems, the progression of the seasons, the orderliness of it all. And he’s got one more season to go.” She reached out for Haviland.

Bert dropped his hand from her shoulder, frightened by Olivia’s incoherence.

“Who is meant for autumn?” she asked, turning her gaze toward the blinding ocean.