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
“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
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
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
“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
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.
Upon arriving at the airport, Olivia parked in the short-term lot and informed Haviland that he’d need to wait in the car. Haviland frowned and turned his face away when Olivia reached out to pet him.
“There are limits to where you can go, Captain. I might get away with trotting you around Oyster Bay, but we’d get in trouble if we went strolling into the terminal like we owned the place.”
Giving his mistress a cold, hard stare, Haviland settled down on the seat and closed his eyes.
Inside the air-conditioned terminal, Olivia joined a cluster of limo drivers waiting on one side of security.
