fabric of the jogging stroller.
“What is it?” Olivia took Laurel by the elbow, fearing that the younger woman might collapse at any moment.
Laurel gulped. “I saw it! At the bulletin board by the town hall. I saw the . . . the . . .” Her words tumbled from her mouth as she fought for air.
Olivia couldn’t make sense of her friend’s jumbled phrases. “You need to get out of the sun and drink some water. Come inside.”
Shaking her head, Laurel wouldn’t release her grip of the stroller handle. “It doesn’t fit through the doorway. Too wide.”
“Wait here.” Olivia strode into Grumpy’s, slapped some money on the table, and grabbed her purse and her water glass from the table. Several reporters cast her interested glances but were too captivated by their food to pay her any real heed. Outside, Olivia handed the water to Laurel. “Take small sips.” She waited while Laurel complied. “I’m going to push the boys under the pharmacy’s awning.”
Mutely, Laurel allowed Olivia to claim her position behind the stroller. Olivia gave the vehicle a light shove.
“The brakes are on,” Laurel whispered and stepped on a lever with her heel.
Olivia maneuvered the sleeping children farther up the block and then insisted Laurel sit down on one of pharmacy’s wide steps. Laurel drank down half of the water, then passed the glass back to Olivia. Her hands were trembling.
“Take your time.” Olivia pivoted the twins out of the sun and sat down next to Laurel, keeping a firm hold on the stroller’s oversized front wheel. “You ran past the bulletin board outside the town hall and saw what?”
Laurel nodded. “I don’t usually stop to read the notices, but I got a cramp as we were going by. There was a bright red piece of paper tacked up there. I needed to catch my breath, so I started to read it.” She wiped her perspiring forehead with the bottom of her pink Adidas shirt. “It’s another poem, Olivia. I couldn’t even tell you what it said, but I know it meant something bad. It . . . the words turned my blood cold.”
Olivia was dumbstruck for a moment. “Another haiku?”
Laurel glanced at her sleeping children. “I didn’t count the syllables, but it was three lines long. It sounded a lot like the other one. Like the same person had written both poems. Olivia, it felt . . . evil.”
“Was it handwritten?”
“No. It was typed.” Laurel pushed a damp lock of hair off her forehead. “Would you call the police? I really need to go home and sit down.”
“Let me give you a lift” Olivia felt acutely protective toward the younger woman. “You’ve had a shock. I’m worried about you walking home.”
“I doubt there’s a pair of car seats in that Range Rover of yours,” Laurel replied with a weak smile. “I’ll be okay now that I’ve told you. I know you’ll handle this better than I ever could. Will you call me after you’re done with the chief?”
“Of course.” Olivia waited for Laurel to rise to her feet and begin walking the stroller at a slow, controlled pace before hustling to her car. She dialed the chief’s number as she headed for the town hall, irritated by the clot of traffic caused by vacationers in search of parking spaces and journalists on the lookout for photo ops. Rawlings didn’t pick up his cell phone so Olivia left him a brief message.
Several minutes later, she drove the Rover into the crowded town hall lot and selected a spot reserved for jurors only. She stuffed her phone back in her purse and pumped her long legs double-time until she reached the bulletin board. There was the poem, just as Laurel had described.
Olivia read it once, and then twice, before copying the lines down into the notebook she always kept in her bag.
She then read them aloud to see how the words, once spoken, grew in power:
From the bottom of her purse, her phone chirped. Olivia glanced at the number. “Chief? I know you’ve probably got your hands full answering questions for the media, but you need to take a quick walk down the block. I’m standing at the bulletin board in front of the town hall and there’s something posted here you must read immediately.”
“What is it? I can’t leave the station whenever the fancy strikes me,” Rawlings replied impatiently as phones rang noisily in the background.
“It’s a poem, just like the one written above Camden’s body. It may also be a clue that Dean Talbot’s death was no accident,” she whispered urgently. “You might want to bring an evidence bag with you. I’ll stand guard until you get here.”
She could hear the creak of the chief’s chair. “Give me five minutes.”
Before he could hang up, Olivia felt compelled to give him what was probably an unnecessary piece of advice. “And you don’t want the press following you here. Trust me. If you have a back door, then use it.”
Olivia waited on a nearby bench as Rawlings read the haiku. He then directed an officer to dust the entire metal case for prints before opening the lid to remove the sheet of red paper with a pair of tweezers.
“The font makes it look almost like real handwriting,” Officer Cook remarked as he examined the bag. “This guy knows enough about computers to use a special font.”
Another policeman peered over Cook’s shoulder. “How do we know it’s by the same person? Someone could be screwing with us.”
Rawlings crossed his arms over his chest. “The poem is part of a sequence. First winter. Now spring. But what should cause us to view this poem as a possible piece of evidence is the word
Cook held out the bagged poem as though it were a contagious virus. “Oh man,” he breathed. “The real estate guy from the park?”
“Precisely. And this piece of information
The officers faced their superior and said, “Yessir,” in solemn unison. Rawlings, satisfied with their response, began to issue calm, firm commands to his men. As he spoke, Olivia stared at the dozens of fingerprints being highlighted on the surface of the bulletin board’s glass case. Black smudges covered the entire area. Some of the prints overlapped, forming moths and spiky bat wings reminiscent of Rorschach’s inkblot images. As a sergeant applied a final sweep of black dust across the glass, he shook his head, the enormity of his task settling upon his shoulders.
Rawlings placed a hand on his officer’s back. “One at a time, Marshall. One at a time.”
Once his men had been dispersed, their ever-raucous radios crackling as they moved off, the chief sat down next to Olivia. He stared at the square of bulletin board cork from which the poem had been removed.
Olivia opened her notebook. “The spring poem.” She traced the lines with her fingertips. “It fits the parameters of traditional haiku. While it’s not a given that the author of this poem killed Dean Talbot, there is no doubt in my mind that this person wrote the winter haiku.” She glanced around the square. Lawyers, clerks, local government officials, secretaries, tourists, and citizens walking dogs or pushing strollers meandered over the sidewalks or stopped to chat in the shade of one of the mammoth magnolias.
Rawlings observed the environment as well. “Another public place. Someone must have seen him unless he tacked the poem under the glass in the middle of the night.”
“Why not leave it with Dean’s body?” Olivia asked. “And isn’t that case locked?”
“The lock is about as secure as a young girl’s diary. You could easily jimmy it with a penknife. In any case, it was unlocked.” He jerked a thumb toward the town hall building. “The officer I sent inside to begin questioning the employees has already reported back. According to one of the clerks, the last person to place a notice on the board
