through butter!”
Harris followed her train of thought. “Cliches? The thieves are leaving behind cliches?”
“Two might not be enough to prove a theory, but if the third robbery—the one that turned violent—had some bizarre tableau in the kitchen, then these guys have a signature.”
Harris dropped the cards on the table. “Even if they do, would that help the cops catch them?”
Olivia shrugged. “I think Rawlings apprehends guilty parties by getting to know them, by discovering their story, so to speak. This modus operandi of the robbers is a message. It’s part of their story.”
“Whatever you say.” Harris looked doubtful. “I just hope theirs has an unhappy ending.”
Rawlings was comfortably established at The Boot Top’s bar by the time Olivia arrived. He and Gabe chatted amicably despite the din created by a party of four devouring a bowl of snack mix at one of the nearby tables. Olivia led Haviland into her office, said hello to the kitchen staff, and hurried to the restroom before Rawlings could spot her.
Olivia checked her reflection in the mirror, smoothing tiny wrinkles from her belted scoop-neck dress. The garment’s simple cut and deep blue shade was accentuated by a triple-strand necklace of red coral beads. In the low light of the ladies’ room, she brushed her hair until it shone like moonlight and then spritzed the skin of her neck and wrists with Shalimar.
As though the perfume announced her presence, Rawlings raised his chin and pivoted in his seat, watching intently as she closed the distance between them.
He rose, and though his face remained stiff and formal, his eyes smiled. “When I was a boy, I was fascinated by mythology, yet I never understood why a sailor would willingly jump into the ocean because he heard a woman’s song. But I believe that if saw a siren looking like you do tonight, I would leap overboard at the sound of her first note.”
Rawlings may have delivered the words in a breezy voice, but Olivia had never been given such a unique and lovely compliment. Suddenly, she felt as though everyone in the bar could tell that the air around their bodies was electrically charged, like lightning before the strike.
Gesturing at an open table, Olivia led the chief to one of the leather club chairs and made eye contact with Gabe. Though he was busy mixing a martini, he glanced over at her and nodded. Within minutes, he was at their table with a tumbler of Chivas Regal and one of the restaurant’s microbrews in a frosted glass.
Rawlings and Olivia clinked glasses, sipped from their drinks, and then the chief arched his brows in curiosity as Olivia placed her laptop on the table.
“Did you bring your file on the latest robbery?” she asked.
Glancing at the images surfacing on Olivia’s computer screen, Rawlings patted a worn leather-handled satchel at his feet. The bag called to mind an aging professor or laboratory scientist, but somehow suited the police chief as well. “This is a murder case now, Olivia. I’m not going to simply hand it over for your perusal.”
She bristled. “I hadn’t expected that, but could you take a look at the chart Harris created? It shows a thorough comparison of the other robberies, including the one that occurred in Beaufort County.”
The chief’s brow rose higher. “This is Laurel’s work?”
“In part,” Olivia answered cryptically and pointed out the athleticism of all the victim’s children. “None of them play the same sport or belong to the same country clubs, but these families send their kids to private schools. What of the third?”
Now Rawlings removed the case file from his satchel. “Let’s see. The Howard children attend The Neuse River Academy.” He examined the computer screen. “As do the Quimby children, I see.”
Olivia fell silent and let Rawlings think. His gaze grew distant as he turned his face toward the window and fixed his eyes on the twinkling lights out in the harbor. She followed suit, wondering if a tutor or teacher or bus driver linked the families, but dismissed each possibility as it surfaced in her mind.
“Is it plausible that there’s some sort of coach working at both schools?” she ruminated aloud. “Perhaps an assistant coach? Or a referee? Someone knew
Rawlings removed a sheet of paper from his file. “These are the names of all the teachers, coaches, close friends, and carpool drivers who come into regular contact with the children.” He placed another piece of paper on top of the first. “Here are the cleaning, garbage, and lawn services used by each family as well as doctors, beauticians, barbers, dentists, veterinarians, accountants, et cetera. Notice anything interesting?”
He waited for Olivia to read through the names. When she came across the one he’d also recognized, she jabbed at the paper with her finger. “Steve Hobbs! These families all go to Laurel’s husband to have their teeth cleaned?” She released the paper as though it had singed her fingertips. “Pure coincidence.”
“I’m certain it is as well, but nonetheless, I’ll have to establish his whereabouts on the days the robberies occurred.” Rawlings looked miserable over the prospect.
Olivia took a generous swallow from her glass. “Can you talk to him during office hours? I’d rather Laurel not have to worry when this turns out to be nothing.”
Rawlings smiled. “Of course.” He looked up as a waiter hovered over them, clearly unsure how to ask his boss to move her laptop to make room for the hors d’oeuvres Michel had prepared especially for Olivia and her guest. “Allow me,” the chief told the waiter and put the computer on a nearby chair.
“Chef Michel sends his compliments,” the waiter said to Rawlings. “He’s made several items not listed on this evening’s menu in your honor. First, we have Boursin and spinach bouchee. Next, duck canapes and beef teriyaki brochette. And finally, crab cakes with a Cajun remoulade and mushroom crescents drizzled with a creamed sherry sauce. Enjoy.”
Rawlings rubbed his chin and stared at the gourmet fare. “Boursin? Bouchee? Brochette? What are we eating?”
Olivia smiled. “Boursin is a cheese that comes from Normandy. Bouchee is a pastry. Brochette simply means food cooked and oftentimes served on skewers.” She served him a sample from each of the dishes.
“Do all of your patrons speak gastronomy?”
“Hardly. That’s one of The Boot Top’s charms. We sound fancy, but the trick is blending the correct fresh ingredients together. We awaken the senses through a single mouthful of tender duck or a sip of fine burgundy.” She gestured at the food on their table. “None of this would be possible without Michel. He could work anywhere, but he chose to be here.”
Rawlings tasted a crab cake and moaned. “Mother of God! There are so many flavors in this one bite! Sweet and salty, creamy and crispy—all going off like a perfectly timed fireworks display. Michel is a maestro.”
Pleased, Olivia enjoyed some of her meal before Gabe appeared with two glasses of pinot noir. “While the food has you in such an agreeable state, would you tell me whether any unusual objects were left in the kitchen of the Howard household after the robbery?”
The chief finished chewing and took a swallow of wine. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and then slowly sipped from his wineglass a second time, obviously appreciating the Pinot’s cherry bouquet. “How on earth did you know that?”
She took the deck of playing cards out of her purse. “These were left on the Ridgemonts’ kitchen table, set up as though two people had been playing poker.” After describing the butter dish and knife found on the Quimby’s countertop, she explained how she and Harris had both recognized that the tableaus represented well-known cliches.
Rawlings didn’t need to check the Howard file. He leaned forward, the sumptuous fare on his plate forgotten. “The culprits set out three wooden blocks—taken from a old set that Mrs. Howard’s had since childhood. She kept them in a box in her bedroom closet. The thieves picked out three blocks and turned them so that the numbers faced outward. The numbers were one, two, and three.”
Olivia ran her fingertip along the base of her wineglass. “As easy as one, two, three?”
“That’d be my guess.” Rawlings agreed. “But why? What are they trying to say? Who is their audience? The victims? Law enforcement?”
“It implies a level of intelligence.” Olivia said, knowing Rawlings wasn’t directing his questions at her. “I doubt your average thief could define ‘cliche,’ let alone create scenes using such a specific literary device.”
The pair fell silent. Olivia leaned back in her chair, listening to the familiar sounds of subdued laughter from the patrons at the bar and the rise and fall of quiet conversation from the diners in the next room. The noises floated around her and she found comfort in the blend of murmurs, of cutlery being laid against an empty plate, of
