Olivia ran her fingertip along the base of her wineglass. “As easy as one, two, three?”
“That’d be my guess.” Rawlings agreed. “But why? What are they trying to say? Who is their audience? The victims? Law enforcement?”
“It implies a level of intelligence.” Olivia said, knowing Rawlings wasn’t directing his questions at her. “I doubt your average thief could define ‘cliché,’ let alone create scenes using such a specific literary device.”
The pair fell silent. Olivia leaned back in her chair, listening to the familiar sounds of subdued laughter from the patrons at the bar and the rise and fall of quiet conversation from the diners in the next room. The noises floated around her and she found comfort in the blend of murmurs, of cutlery being laid against an empty plate, of the tinkle of crystal as a couple toasted one another with flutes of champagne.
“Perhaps there are only two of them,” she said after a few minutes. “That’s why two hands were dealt in their mock poker game.”
Rawlings nodded. “It would certainly take two strong individuals to tote some of those flat-screen televisions. I know they’re not as heavy as they once were, but they’re still unwieldy. And it would be extremely time consuming to maneuver the goods without a partner, so yes, I believe we’re talking about a pair or a team working together.”
A waiter materialized behind Olivia’s shoulder. Seeing that his boss and her guest were no longer eating, he asked for permission and then, after receiving an absent nod from Olivia, removed their plates. He returned shortly to serve them a platter of bite-sized pastries and then poured steaming cups of coffee for the pair. When he started to walk off, Rawlings reached out a hand to stop him.
“Excuse me, good sir,” the chief halted his retreat. “Could you rustle up a glass of chocolate milk for me?”
If the waiter was surprised by the request, he didn’t show it. “Certainly. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Olivia waved at the selection of éclairs, Napoleons, cappuccino mousse, and hazelnut dacquoise cakes. “Not enough sugar for you here?”
“It’s how I get my daily supply of dairy,” Rawlings answered, unruffled by Olivia’s teasing.
Lacking a taste for sweets, Olivia sat back and enjoyed her coffee. She was eager for the waiter to clear away the food so she could input the information from Rawlings’ file onto her spreadsheet. She knew he wouldn’t reveal the entirety of its contents and she didn’t want to see the medical examiner’s report or catch a glimpse of the crime scene photos in any case. What she hungered for were the facts. Indisputable, concise, comprehensible data. She didn’t want to think about the grief-stricken, shell-shocked family or wonder how April Howard would survive without her husband’s income.
Olivia Limoges had always run from loss. Now was no different. She sought to escape from focusing on another woman’s terrible sorrow by training every thought on times and dates, school names and sports teams.
The chief’s chocolate milk was delivered and he drank it pensively, his eyes locked on the dessert platter, unseeing. Finally, Olivia raised her hand and the waiter materialized as silently as a specter and removed their dishes. The noise from the bar area increased as more patrons arrived well ahead of their reservations in order to socialize before enjoying a delicious meal.
Olivia and Rawlings remained wrapped in their cocoon of silence. As always, they were able to enjoy one another’s company without filling the space between them with unnecessary prattle.
When Rawlings spoke, his eyes reflecting the light from the votive on their table, it was apparent that he’d decided to put aside the topic of burglaries for the moment. “I like being here with you, Olivia. It seems like a contradiction, but you are the only person who can infuriate me beyond rational thought and yet are also able to bring me the deepest sense of calm. You are much like the ocean.” He indicated the harbor beyond the window, which was just a dark smudge beneath an indigo sky. “It must be why your eyes remind me of the open sea.”
Olivia smiled at him. The smile was so wide and warm that it felt unfamiliar to the muscles of her mouth. “Sawyer—” she began.
“Hello!” The chipper visage of Flynn McNulty abruptly appeared before them. “Is this a meeting of future Hemingways and Dickensons, or might a simple shopkeeper pull up a chair?”
Rawlings stood and shook Flynn’s hand. “I think you’re giving us too much credit. At least in regards to my writing. Ms. Limoges possesses the only genuine talent at this table.”
Flynn set his tumbler of whiskey down and settled into a chair, crossing an ankle over the opposite knee in a posture of utter relaxation. For the first time, Olivia was irritated by Flynn’s easy confidence. Rawlings queried the bookstore owner about new fiction arrivals and the two men began to toss about author names as though they were playing a game of catch. Olivia heard Michael Connelly, Nick Hornby, Stieg Larsson, and Daniel Silva before she tuned out.
Eventually, Flynn needed a refill and, wanting to chat with Gabe, went up to the bar instead of signaling a waiter. Rawlings had drained his drink and had a speck of chocolate milk on his chin. Olivia reached over with her napkin to wipe it away, but Rawlings caught her by the wrist before she had the chance and placed her palm flat against his chest. She could feel his heart beating as though she held it in her hand.
“I’d better be going,” he said, his voice heavy with regret. He gently released her and swiped at his chin with his napkin. “I have two unsolved murder cases now, and though I doubt they’re related—” He stopped abruptly and his mouth went slack. His gaze was fixed on the framed reproduction of Vincent Van Gogh’s
Beach at Scheveningen in Stormy Weather
, that hung on the wood-paneled wall behind their table. “But they
are
related,” he breathed into Van Gogh’s muted browns and grays and the small splotches of black that formed the villagers waiting at the water’s edge as a lone fishing boat returned to shore.
Olivia rose and moved to the chief’s side, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him.
Rawlings raised one of his large hands, uncurled a finger, and pointed it at a solitary male figure on the right side of the painting. With a few simple brushstrokes, Van Gogh had managed to convey a sense of urgency as the man hurried across the sand. His featureless face betrayed no emotion, but his body pressed forward, legs bent, shoulders lurching forward, hands raised above the waist. Even the wind seemed to be against him, blowing the grass growing over the dunes nearly flat.
“John Doe’s death scene is a cliché,” Rawlings whispered and then gathered his satchel. “Thank you, Olivia. For the meal, the company, and your ability to help me see clearly. I—”
Again, they were interrupted by Flynn who had returned to the table with two tumblers of whiskey. He gave Rawlings a look of apology. “I didn’t know whether you’d be interested in chasing your milk with whiskey.”
Mumbling a hasty good-bye, Rawlings departed.
Olivia took the whiskey from Flynn’s hand with a brief thank-you and drank it down, her eyes never leaving the painting on the wall. “What cliché? What did you see?”
“Olivia.” Flynn waved his hands in an attempt to gain her attention. “Are you free to stay awhile?”
She turned to him, her deep blue eyes nearly black in the dim light. “Not tonight. I need to go home and think.”
And with that, she strolled out of the bar and through the swinging door into the kitchen. The door had a small, rounded window and was marked by a sign that said “Staff Only, Please.” Olivia knew Flynn wouldn’t follow her into the restaurant’s inner sanctum.
It would be like chasing a dragon into its cave.
Chapter 11
On life’s vast ocean diversely we sail,
Reason the card, but passion is the gale.
—ALEXANDER POPE
O
livia carried the Bounty Hunter on her shoulder as though she were a lumberjack heading into the forest for a day’s work. Haviland bounded out in front, splashing in the surf, his brown eyes burnished gold by the earlymorning light.
It wasn’t difficult to find the spot where the body had been buried in the sand. There were still multiple sets of tracks leading up to the dunes left by either the police or, judging from a scattering of empty beer cans, curious locals. Olivia switched on the metal detector and frowned.
“I know it’s pure hubris to believe I could find a buried clue when a dozen cops, not to mention one of the area’s finest K-9 units, could not,” she confessed to Haviland. “But I hate standing idly by.”
Slowly, deliberately, she began to sway the metal detector’s disc over the sand. She started where she believed the body had been and moved up the beach toward the dunes. Her machine was unusually silent and failed to signal the presence of useless pieces of metal like soda can tabs or bottle caps. The display screen was also lifeless.
Olivia completed a wide semicircle and began to repeat the process in the opposite direction, heading toward the water’s edge. Again, the Bounty Hunter had nothing to offer and she set it aside, keenly disappointed. Kicking off her shoes, she sat down, curling her toes in the moist sand just shy of the ocean’s watery fingers.
“You sent me signs last time someone I cared for was hurt,” she whispered, reaching out to touch the frothy ridge of a wave. “This man was a stranger to me, but someone must be missing him. Someone will want him to be at peace. You were the only witness. What secrets do you carry?”
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.