“How can you be so confident?” Harris’s tone was a mixture of admiration and doubt.
“Because Camden’s lover is going to want justice, even more than we do. And I cannot go on living my everyday life knowing that someone is out there, walking the streets of Oyster Bay, breathing the sea air and letting the sun fall on his face, when Camden isn’t. Camden’s life has been stolen from him, in
our
town, and we have to do everything in our power to see that the killer pays for what he did.”
Harris clenched his jaw and nodded, his eyes filled with resolve. Olivia caught a glimpse of the mettle coexisting with the young man’s kindness. Turning toward Cook, Olivia pasted on the most winsome smile she could muster.
“I am so sorry to keep you waiting, Officer,” she gushed. “I know you must have a dozen tasks of
real
significance to complete today. Please. Tell me what you need me to do.”
Looking quite satisfied, the officer leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers together, and tried his best to exude power and authority. “I just need you to review and sign your statement, Ms. Limoges. I doubt there’s anything else
you
could do to help
us.
”
Nodding humbly, Olivia said, “There may be
one
little errand I could run on behalf of the Oyster Bay Police Department, ensuring your talents or those of another valuable officer aren’t wasted providing limo service for the victim’s
boyfriend.
I hear he’s on his way as we speak.”
Cook looked torn, but clearly he wanted to see some real action and he didn’t feel like acting as a chauffeur would qualify.
He took a manly swig of soda. “All right, Ms. Limoges. You can pick him up, but I’m gonna tell you how it’s gonna play out and you’re gonna follow my
exact
directions. Understand?”
“Of course.” Olivia smiled demurely and gave Officer Cook her undivided attention.
Chapter 6
Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need to know of hell.
—EMILY DICKINSON
U
pon leaving the station, Olivia found she didn’t feel like going home. She was restless, but most of Oyster Bay’s businesses were closed on Sunday, so there was little to do but attend church services or go out to eat. Olivia didn’t want to do either, so she decided to stop by her restaurant and busy herself with mindless paperwork.
The Boot Top Bistro had recently added a Sunday brunch to its list of offerings and the churchgoers were streaming into the restaurant as Olivia and Haviland pulled into the parking lot. Plump matrons in pastel skirt suits led their pressed and polished families like clucking hens gathering chicks to the feed pile. Glowering teenagers, pained over being separated from cell phones, iPods, and handheld video games, trailed after the rest of their kin as though hoping to appear unrelated to those who caused them such acute embarrassment merely by existing.
Normally, the sight of so many patrons filing into The Boot Top would have put Olivia in an agreeable mood, but she felt completely out of sorts. It wasn’t only Camden’s tragic death that bothered her, but the feelings of powerlessness that accompanied his murder.
Bursting into the kitchen through the back door, Olivia was greeted by her staff, but she merely waved them off and headed for her office, a tiny, windowless room next to the dry goods pantry. Michel followed her, Haviland right on the chef’s heels, clearly hoping to receive a savory treat.
“I do have something for you, my friend.
Une moment.”
Michel smiled at the poodle but wouldn’t pet him while he was in the midst of food preparation. “Olivia, I heard what happened to your writer friend.” Michel worriedly studied his employer. “Are you sure you want to be here? Georges has things well under control.”
Georges served as both maître d’ and general manager.
“Last time I checked, this was my restaurant and I could come and go as I pleased!” Olivia snapped and then immediately relented. “My apologies, Michel. I shouldn’t be directing my ire at you. I simply cannot stand to sit around, idle, and hope for things to turn out as they ought.”
Michel nodded. Another type A personality, he understood her need to take action. “The police don’t know your friend, do they? He’s an outsider?”
“Camden? He was a gossip columnist from Los Angeles.” She pictured Camden’s silk shirts and flawlessly creased trousers. “Though I’m sure most of them noticed him. He was rather flamboyant for our conservative little town.” Absently, Olivia pressed several pencils into an automatic sharpener and then, satisfied with their sharpness, lined them up neatly on her desk calendar. “But I see what you’re saying—that it would be easier to find his killer if we really knew Camden Ford. Unfortunately, I consider myself his most recent acquaintance, so I need to squeeze as much information as I can out of the person who knew him best.”
Michel looked intrigued. “Who would that be? His mother?”
“His lover. I’m picking him up at the Raleigh-Durham airport early this evening,” Olivia answered and then grinned slyly as an idea struck. “Michel, darling, how would you like to assign one of your assistants a
small
task? As a personal favor to me?”
Bowing from the waist, Michel said, “Anything for you. You need only ask.”
“I’d like a picnic dinner of sorts. A basket brimming with the type of delicacies to loosen the tongue of a stranger.” She looked up at the chef in appeal. “Can you make it fancy yet comforting?”
Her unusual request seemed to please Michel to no end. He stood a fraction taller and straightened his pristine, white hat. “I’ll see to it myself. Robbie and Jeremy are perfectly capable of making omelets Florentine and crab Benedict.
This
requires a delicate hand.” He displayed the briefest of sulks. “I know these brunches are profitable, but they’re rather unadventurous for someone of my talents.”
Olivia glanced at him with a trace of amusement. “You don’t have to work Sundays, Michel. I already told you that. You work too much as is.”
“It beats being at home,” he murmured, and Olivia knew he was referring to his recent breakup with his girlfriend. Personally, she felt the end of his affair with a married woman was a good thing. Besides, Michel was a born optimist, and despite the lovers’ drama-rich parting, he wouldn’t be down for long. Even now, he quickly shook off his melancholy and turned his thoughts to what he knew best: food. “Let’s see. I think I’ll pack some crisp herb crostini with goat cheese, avocado stuffed with chicken salad and dill, cubed watermelon and mango with a lime drizzle, and perhaps a few macaroons dipped in dark chocolate. Linen napkins, small bottles of Perrier—all gracefully arranged in a deep, wicker basket. We have one around here somewhere.”
Rising, Olivia placed her hand on Michel’s arm. “You’re worth every cent of the exorbitant salary I pay you. Make sure you pack enough for three.”
Michel shook his head. “I’ll wrap up something else for the Captain. Neither fruit nor macaroons are to his taste.”
Olivia laughed. “Of course not. Now get back in that kitchen or I’ll make you operate an omelet station out in the dining room.”
Flipping a dish towel over his shoulder, Michel blew air noisily through pursed lips. “You wouldn’t dare. The first sign of a rolling cart with fixings for Belgian waffles and I’ll walk right out the door.”
“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of insulting the staff in such a way. Food preparation belongs in the kitchen. Still, the restaurant does seem rather full. Perhaps I should raise the brunch prices? I don’t want to take any business away from Grumpy’s.”
Michel left Olivia to her musings. As soon as she was alone, she logged on to her computer and typed the first line of the haiku written over Camden’s body into Google’s search box.
“ ‘His words are silenced,’ ” she mumbled to herself as an assortment of results appeared on the screen. “No matches. How about the second line? ‘An orchard in winter.’ ”
She studied the links to photographs of orchards in winter and selected a page of color shots showing an apple orchard covered in snow. One of the images, called “First Frost,” depicted the trees’ barren branches encased in a layer of ice. The snow around the trunks was at least a foot deep and was unmarred by a single blemish. No footprints, animal tracks, or shovel cuts spoiled the pristine, blinding white surface. Olivia enlarged the picture and sat staring at it for several moments. The absolute silence of the scene was almost palpable. She could feel herself there—in the cold, beneath the gray sky. The more her eyes fixed on the image, the more clearly she could sense the stark loneliness of being the only human being around for miles.
Someone dropped a metal bowl in the kitchen and the clanging brought Olivia out of her reverie. She rubbed her arms, wondering if the air-conditioning was set too low or if the pictures of snow and ice had made her feel cold.
“ ‘Apple seeds slumber,’” she whispered and clicked on the next image, which captured the twisted, sharp branches of a single tree. In fact, the limbs looked as though they’d been whipped so harshly by a persistent wind that they’d bent back upon themselves. The photo created feelings of anxiety, as though the tree was in agony. Olivia had never realized that an apple tree could appear frightening, almost violent, but this one did. She exited the website and returned to the original search results.
Her quest for apple seed references led her to pages of recipe listings and advertisements for preschools, eateries, and gardening supply companies. At the bottom of the third page, there was a link to an article on the hazardous nature of cyanide. Olivia read, fascinated, about the dangers of ingesting the poison. When Haviland entered the room, licking his chops with the utmost satisfaction, she pointed at the screen.
“Listen to this, Captain. Cyanide works by preventing the blood from carrying oxygen, so a person dies quickly from asphyxiation. And even though mystery writers often describe it as having an almondlike scent, cyanide can also be completely colorless and odorless.” She sighed. “It also requires a huge amount of pulverized seeds to poison someone, so I don’t see any connection between cyanide and Camden’s death. The apple seeds must mean something else.”
Olivia absently stroked her canine companion. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking? That the haiku wasn’t just about Camden? Perhaps it was a warning to others.
Camden’s ‘words were silenced.’ He was killed and therefore silenced. Because of death, he was also totally still, like an ‘orchard in winter,’ but that last line ... it’s almost as though the apple seeds were waiting. Do you think there will be another victim? That someone will be poisoned?”
Haviland rested his snout on her leg. Olivia stroked his head and cooed, “Don’t worry, Captain. I’m just thinking aloud.”
Olivia was aware that she was trying to reassure herself as much as her poodle.
After two more hours of futile research, Olivia had no clearer idea of the haiku’s meaning. She’d refreshed her memory of high school English literature classes, in which she’d once known that haiku were poems made up of three lines containing five syllables in the first and last lines, and seven syllables in the second line. She was also reminded that one of the four seasons was usually referenced in the poem and that haiku were written using simple language so that a large audience could understand the imagery, yet still be awakened to a unique perspective of a familiar object, setting, or emotion.
What seemed like new information was the requirement of something called a
cut
. Appearing in the first or second line, cutting was meant to divide the short poem into two sections. Each section could have a different meaning, but the overall poem would remain cohesive. The line containing the cut would end with distinct punctuation such as a colon or a dash.
“Camden’s killer is no fisherman—or a very well read one,” Olivia remarked to Haviland as she drove west toward Raleigh. “He placed a cut in the first line
and
used proper punctuation according to the rules of haiku. His syllable count was also exact. I must find out more useful information about Blake Talbot. I wasted a good hour sifting through fan pages and Hollywood claptrap. The only interesting tidbit I came across was that his rock band is named Blackwater.”
Haviland turned his head and stretched his neck as far over the center console as he could, avidly sniffing the air.
“You’re being impolite, Captain. It is
not
time to eat. Is this how you’re going to behave when Mr. Volakis is in the car?”
The poodle gave an apologetic bark and resumed his seat.
“According to Wikipedia, Blackwater is a military company based right here in the beautiful state of North Carolina.” Olivia resumed her lecture. “How do you think the employees of this private security corporation feel about five spoiled twenty-two-year-olds screaming in microphones while garbed in designer fatigues and diamond-studded dog tags?”
Haviland made a rumbling noise in his throat.
Olivia laughed. “Oh, so you
did
hear the title track I played from their latest CD. I was hoping you’d be under Michel’s butcher block by then, the sounds of Blackwater happily obscured as your favorite chef hacked merrily away at hapless carrots and cucumbers.
“Don’t worry,” she assured the poodle. “I’m not going to play a single note from ‘Wreckage’ ever again. Let’s listen to the rest of our
Ancient Evenings
audiobook. It’ll help refresh the Egyptian setting for Kamila’s chapter involving ...” She trailed off, her hand frozen on the volume knob. “I hadn’t thought about my writing future, Captain. I wonder if the Bayside Book Writers will continue without Camden?”
Haviland cocked his head, giving his mistress a version of the canine shrug.
Feeling gloomy, Olivia drove the rest of the way in silence, surrendering herself to the melodious voice of the narrator as he led his listeners through the climax of Norman Mailer’s tale of reincarnation set in 1100 B.C.