fruit soaks up the alcohol and the tea gives the body back some of its pep. Mr. Cosmo will be right as rain by this afternoon. Nothing beats my mother’s magical hangover remedy.”
“I’ll keep that recipe in mind.” Olivia said good-bye and stepped into the bookstore, where she immediately collided with Chief Rawlings. He automatically reached out and held on to her arm, as though she needed to be steadied. But Olivia hadn’t lost her balance and now the two stood, their chests centimeters apart, frozen for a moment. To Olivia, the chief’s touch and the proximity of their bodies became instantly intimate.
Shocked by the realization that she felt completely at ease being so close to the lawman, Olivia immediately took a step back. She looked down at the chief’s hands, searching for evidence that he’d been shopping for books in the midst of a murder investigation.
“I’m glad to run into you, Ms. Limoges.” Rawlings kept his tone formal, but his eyes appraised her warmly. With the full force of the midday sun illuminating his face, Olivia could see the lines on the chief’s forehead, like river symbols on a primitive map. Crinkles deepened the corners of his eyes, indicating he smiled easily and often. Olivia couldn’t help but wonder if he’d had any reason to express humor since Saturday night. Today, his eyes were less the brownish green of pond water and more like sun-dappled tidal pools.
She broke eye contact. “This is hardly where I’d expect to find you, Chief,” she said stiffly, discomforted by the pleasure she’d taken in examining his features. Holding the door open for Haviland, she allowed the poodle to stand in front of her like a canine barricade.
Rawlings made room for Haviland, his mouth curving into the shadow of a grin. Just as quickly as it had surfaced, the hint of amusement was gone. “I thought Mr. McNulty might be able to offer some enlightenment about our strange poem. I was able to find general information about haiku, but the deeper meaning of the spray- paint poem is making my head swim.” Frustration hardened the line of his lips. “Have you had any ideas?”
Olivia shook her head. “I’m going to meet with my friends now to discuss that and other things,” she answered elusively. “Was Mr. McNulty helpful?”
Rawlings hesitated. “He thought it felt unfinished. Not the poem itself, but the message of the poet. Specifically, Mr. McNulty felt there was a sense of pause in the last word, ‘slumber.’ A pause in lieu of closure.”
Looking over the chief’s shoulder at the bookstore proprietor, Olivia nodded. “I’d have to agree with that assessment. I too felt alarm over the seasonal nature of the poem. If this haiku is meant to represent winter, then will a spring follow?” She shook her head, as though trying to dispel the fear. “Without knowing his motive, I can’t see why the killer wrote a poem at all. But the possibility that his message hasn’t been completed worries me.”
Rawlings nodded. “Me as well. I see those three lines whenever I shut my eyes.”
Behind the checkout counter, Flynn thanked his customer, noticed Olivia, and waved at her. She felt a quickening in her blood as their eyes met and, for a brief moment, wondered if Flynn McNulty would make a good candidate for a casual affair. “It’s too bad this store didn’t open sooner,” she said, returning her gaze to the chief. “You’d know the name of every person who reads verse in this town.”
“I’ve got an officer at the library as we speak,” Rawlings answered and then reached down to allow Haviland to sniff his palm.
Olivia glanced at her watch and, seeing she was a few minutes early for the meeting, succinctly told the chief about Camden’s interest in the Neuse River Community Park. “So if you go through his cell phone and review the list of ingoing and outgoing calls, you’ll know who was feeding him information on the locals and our prime tracts of land.”
Rawlings looped his thumbs under his belt. “We will be questioning an individual regarding a series of calls to Mr. Ford’s phone.” He turned back to Olivia, humor twinkling in his eyes. “Any other suggestions, ma’am?”
Thinking about the township meeting, Olivia wished she’d had the foresight to check the agenda printed in last week’s
“In that case, I’d like to accept your offer of a drink. Would Wednesday evening do? That gives your group twenty-four hours to come up with theories about the haiku’s meaning.”
Olivia felt relieved they weren’t to be entirely excluded from the investigation. “Yes. I’ll be at The Boot Top from four o’clock on.” A movement near the door caught her eye.
It was Harris. The young man exchanged polite greetings with the chief and then looked at Olivia expectantly.
“Is anyone else here?” he asked.
The chief answered. “If one of your writers is the mother of twin toddlers, then
Harris stared after the departing policeman. “Does he have any leads?”
Olivia shook her head with regret and she and Harris walked to the back of the store. Upon entering the rainbow-hued children’s area, their ears were accosted by dual howls emanating from behind the wooden puppet theater.
“Give Mommy the sippie cup. Give it to Mommy, please,” Laurel cooed, her face hidden between the red curtains. “Dermot, do
“What’s with the freaking noise?” Millay croaked from behind Olivia and Harris. Dressed in a gauzy, mango- colored sundress, her streaked hair hidden beneath an orange bandana, Millay looked more exotic and lovely than ever.
“Listen, you two,” she whispered urgently. “The grown-ups need to have a secret meeting. There are
“Monsters are not real,” Laurel rapidly assured her children, who remained secreted behind the theater. “Ms. Millay’s just playing a game with you.”
Two pairs of wide eyes peered through the curtains as Millay took a seat on one of the miniature ladder-back chairs. Olivia rewarded her young friend with a full thermos of coffee. Harris folded up his long legs and settled onto the floor. Olivia pulled the only adult-sized chair against the dress-up chest. She opened the manila folder containing the incomplete manuscript and cleared her throat. “I have a feeling our time is limited, so let’s get started. Did anyone find a clue after reading Camden’s book?”
Harris removed a stack of paper from his own folder. “There wasn’t enough info on Blake Talbot in that single chapter Camden wrote about the now-famous rocker, so I did some digging on the computer.” He passed out copies of the printouts. “All three Talbot kids attended The Hotchkiss School in Connecticut. It’s one of the top prep schools in the country, and even when the Talbots went there, it cost close to thirty grand per kid.”
“Damn!” Millay exclaimed. “I wonder if they’d like to adopt a nice half-Asian girl. I could use thirty Gs. Do you know what kind of sweet ride I could buy with that much cash?”
Laurel put her fingers to her lips. “Language please.”
Harris stopped staring at Millay and continued. “Here’s why I’m telling you about the school. Both Blake and his sister Diana were really into creative writing. Blake wrote songs for his dorm band the whole time he was at Hotchkiss. Some of his lyrics were published in the school’s literary magazine. Diana was the editor of the mag. For two years. She wrote short stories and poetry.” He put the notebook on his lap. “I called the English department and pretended to be a prospective parent. They definitely teach haiku and there’s no doubt that at one point, all three Talbot kids were familiar with haiku and could write that kind of poem.”
Millay reached over and chucked Harris in the arm. “You
Harris’s cheeks blazed crimson.
After quickly checking to see that the noises coming from behind the puppet theater were giggles and not the
