The other writers took notice of the proprietary tone in Millay’s voice.
Olivia cleared her throat. “No one’s assuming one of your regular, ah, patrons, is responsible for Camden’s death, Millay. On the contrary, I can’t see that any of those men and women would have had a connection with him at all. Whoever did this wanted to make a point. Thus, the poem.”
“What did it say?” Laurel asked nervously.
“Something about orchards and apples,” Millay replied angrily. “A bunch of crap that made absolutely no sense!”
Recalling that she’d written the haiku in the small notebook she kept in her purse, Olivia dug it out and reread what she had written, frowning over the odd, horticultural imagery.
“What if Camden never went inside?” Harris wondered aloud, his eyes fixed on the shivering flames. “What if he found some clue in the alley?”
“You may be on to something there, Harris. Blake implied that the ‘business dealings’ he planned for last night were rather on the shady side.” Olivia laid the notebook on the sofa and Millay instantly picked it up and began to study the poem. “Perhaps Camden found something not meant for his ears.”
“Or his pen.” Millay stabbed at the paper with her index finger. Olivia noticed that the young woman’s nails bore the remnants of a deep purple polish and were clipped very short, as though to prevent her from chewing them. “The first line of the poem says, ‘His words are silences.’”
A little gasp escaped Laurel’s throat. The fear in her eyes shimmered in the firelight. “That can only mean one thing,” she breathed. “The killer knew what Camden did for a living.”
“And there aren’t too many people in Oyster Bay who’d be threatened by the appearance of a celebrity gossip writer,” Harris pointed out. “Except maybe Blake or one of the other Talbots.”
Olivia gestured at the notebook in Millay’s hands. “Either Blake Talbot’s educational background included instruction on how to pen this particular form of poetry, or he had dealings with another person who couldn’t afford to be exposed and has been watching Camden’s every move.”
“Someone who created an impromptu haiku?” Harris seemed doubtful.
There was an authoritative rap on the front door and Olivia turned her head toward the sound but made no other move. She was too busy thinking. “It doesn’t read like a spontaneous piece of writing. It feels specific, tailored, and ...” She glanced anxiously at the other writers. “Premeditated.”
The blast of the foghorn woke Olivia the next morning. The deep, resonating noise caused her to imagine a trumpeting leviathan surfacing from the cold depths of the sea.
Still weary from the night before, she stayed in bed another thirty minutes, listening to the steady, repetitive tolls as the horn warned incoming vessels of the proximity of the shallows.
To Olivia, the sound was as familiar as the beat of her own heart. She remembered, after she’d moved away, how the noises in other parts of the world failed to offer the same level of comfort as the rush of the incoming tide, the blare of a foghorn, the high squawk of a gull, or the clanging of a ship’s bell.
Haviland jumped up on the bed and burrowed under the covers in search of his mistress’s hand. Olivia stuffed it under the pillow, knowing her poodle would lick her palm until she rose and served him breakfast.
“Five more minutes,” she promised, briefly reaching out to scratch Haviland beneath the chin. She watched the tangerine-colored light filter through the bare glass of the master bedroom’s wall of windows.
The foghorn fell silent and Olivia continued to pat Haviland, thinking of Camden.
Last night, when she’d answered the knock on the door of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, a fresh-faced officer named Cook had strutted in. He assessed them with a cocky glance and bossed them about as though they were schoolchildren. He’d taken their statements and asked a few standard questions, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. Olivia had the feeling the young lawman viewed his being sent out to the lighthouse when the real action was happening downtown an insult to his abilities.
Irritated by his arrogance and disinterest in their observations, Olivia strongly suggested he radio Chief Rawlings and track down Blake Talbot as soon as possible.
“Officer Cook.” Olivia walked over to the policeman and did her best to stand even taller than her five-eleven frame. “You might be handing the chief a suspect on a silver platter. Camden Ford was our
Cook bristled at her choice of words and informed the writer’s group that he knew how to do his job.
Millay rose from her position on the couch and came to stand next to Olivia. “Then prove it! Stop pissing around here and find out what Blake Talbot was up to over the last twenty-four hours!” she shouted. “I believe that’s called ‘chasing down an alibi’ in cop talk.”
Listening to Millay, Olivia had to fight to keep from smiling.
Thus bullied by the pair of aggressive women, Cook retreated, but only after issuing a final command that the Bayside Book Writers needed to make an appearance at the station first thing in the morning to review and sign their official statements.
“We’ll be there,” Harris promised. He opened the door and practically shoved the truculent officer out.
After Cook had left, Laurel began to weep again. “I’m sorry, everybody. I’m just so tired. All I want to do is put on my nightgown and sleep for a week. It’s selfish, I know, but I’m scared and mixed up and mad all at once.” She gazed at Olivia with moist eyes. “I wish I could be strong like you.”
“Go on home,” Olivia had answered quietly. “There’s nothing else we can do tonight, and though it might not show, I’m every bit as muddled and shaken, I assure you.”
As the tumult of emotions reflecting the onset of grief assaulted the writers, they said good night to one another and dispersed.
Now, only a handful of hours later, Olivia watched the light turn from an orange pink to a yellow-tinged white. Finally, she kicked off her covers and went into the kitchen to brew coffee. Haviland sat in front of the door, waiting to be let outside.
“Make it brief, Captain. I’m going to fix your breakfast and we’ll have a quick walk before we have to go into town.”
Olivia removed a covered casserole dish filled with organic ground beef cooked in beef broth from the refrigerator. She put water on to boil and poured herself a cup of coffee. While she waited for the water, she placed a bowl of instant grits in the microwave. By the time she’d cooked a cup of rice and mixed it with some fresh peas in a large stockpot, she was done with her cereal. As soon as Haviland reappeared, panting and shaking his ears friskily, she served him his meal and then walked out to the deck to eat a peach.
She listened to the rush of the waves curling onto the shore and relished the ripe, tender fruit. She felt a sudden, unexpected pang of guilt for experiencing such a moment of pleasure and peace.
“Poor Camden,” she whispered into the faint, salty breeze.
Later, she and Haviland took a brisk walk along the shoreline and then Olivia changed out of her sweatpants and dressed in black cotton slacks and a chartreuse scoop-neck T-shirt for her trip to the station.
As she neared Main Street, the bells from the Methodist church began to chime. A second later, those from the Baptist church rang out and the two melodies overlapped each other. Instead of sounding disjointed, the effect was that of a melodious echo and Olivia rolled down her window in order to welcome the music into her car.
The Oyster Bay Police Department had been located in the same charming brick building since the late forties. Complete with large arched windows and a facade covered by ivy, it stood across the street from the modern, boxlike two-story building that housed the sheriff’s department and the county jail.
One could walk out the side door of the police station and arrive at a small square with neatly trimmed grass, carefully tended flower beds, sets of wooden benches, and a flagpole flying both the American and the state of North Carolina flags. Just beyond this tidy little park was the county courthouse. Renovated within the last fifteen years, the courthouse was a Greek-revival structure with a corner-stone dated 1836. It was whitewashed brick with chunky white Ionic columns and a frieze carved with an image of the state seal. By far the most impressive building in Oyster Bay, it basked in the early summer sun as though enjoying a well-deserved day of rest.
“You can accompany me into the station, Captain,” Olivia informed her delighted poodle as she pulled into a
