condition. Looks like he was drugged before he was buried, but it’s unsure at this point whether he became conscious after the killer was done . . . positioning him.”
Olivia looked at the chief in horror. “Do you mean he could have been paralyzed by the drugs or the weight of the sand but cognizant of what was happening?”
Rawlings nodded. “I don’t mean to upset you. In fact, I’m only talking to you about the case . . . well, because it helps me. I’m being selfish. You’re a smart woman, Olivia, and I trust your discretion. I used to tell my wife details about open investigations because she’d ask a question or make a comment and I was able to see things more clearly. The story would start to unfold, to reveal its beginning and middle. There’s always a story behind every crime. And even though I’m there at the ending, it’s my job to discover the source. That’s how I catch the bad guys.”
Haviland bounded up the steps, pressed his wet nose against Olivia’s hand, and raised his ears. “You can play for a little longer,” she told him and the poodle dashed away again, his black coat blending into the darkness. “There’s another thing about this crime that strikes me as odd.” She gestured in the direction of the isolated stretch of beach. “Why here? Was the killer counting on a remote spot to avoid the chance of a passerby coming to his victim’s aid?”
Rawlings puckered his lips in thought. “I don’t believe he chose the Point for that reason. The murderer was very particular. He brought his victim to a place of few inhabitants, but where eventually, the body would be found. He wasn’t trying to hide what he’d done. In fact, he staged a scene. He also cleared any traces of his presence from that scene.”
“Did the neighbors hear anything? A car or boat motor?” Olivia asked.
“Nothing.”
Olivia listened to the ocean’s murmur against the shore. The steady rhythm raised another question in her mind. “If he wanted the tableau to be found intact, he took a big risk. The tide would have ruined it had I not set out on my morning walk when I did.”
Rawlings grunted and then eased himself out of the rocking chair. He walked to the railing and held on to the wood with both hands. It was the pose of a man searching for answers in the distance and Olivia imagined the chief spent less of his time looking at crime scenes, written reports, and photographs and more of it engaged in active thought. She also realized it was not a job for an impatient man. Like now, Rawlings was forced to wait for clues to come to light.
“The killer might not be a seaman, but I think he’s a local. He banked on someone living on the Point to take a walk over the holiday weekend and come across that body.” Rawlings turned and stared at Olivia. “I just hope he hasn’t been watching that beach, gathering info on who took their strolls and when. I don’t like the idea of him hiding somewhere nearby with a pair of binoculars.”
Olivia glanced past him to where her poodle was splashing in the shallows. “Me either.” She squared her shoulders and rubbed at the raised flesh on her arms. “But even if he did, I don’t mean anything to him. I discovered his find. I played my part. He’d have no more use for me.”
“We’re dealing with a clever and manipulative individual.”
“And a very angry one. The murderer hated the man he buried in the sand. He was disgusted with him.” She exhaled.
They fell silent after that, each reflecting, and not for the first time that day, on what had provoked the killer and how he had channeled his rage, shaping it into a ruthless and premeditated crime.
“Well, I’d best get going. I could sit here all night, but I’d like to review the few facts I’ve got in the case file before falling asleep in front of the television.” Rawlings smiled at her.
“Of course. I wish I could be of more help.” Olivia took his tumbler and walked him to the front door of the cottage, calling for Haviland as she did so.
After the chief had gone, she loaded the soiled plates and glasses into the tiny dishwasher in the cottage’s kitchen and turned out the lights. She locked up and then she and Haviland made their way up the sandy path through the dunes to her stone and wood Low Country-style home. Inside the living room, the most noticeable feature was the bank of windows facing the ocean. A few stars burned through the night haze but the moon wasn’t visible. Searching for it out the nearest window, Olivia was suddenly aware of being alone.
Usually, she cherished her solitude, but now she felt strangely vulnerable. She knew part of this unfamiliar feeling was a reaction to the murder, but there was something about seeing Chief Rawlings drive away that had her reluctant to face a Saturday evening at home.
Casting a gaze at the clock, she suspected that her lover, Flynn McNulty, would be closing his bookstore right about now. She could picture him counting the cash from the till, switching off the coffeepot, and turning out lights. He’d flip over the hand-painted sign on Through the Wardrobe’s front door from “Open” to “Closed” and, jiggling his keys as he hummed or whistled or gave some other evidence of how content he was with life, he would ride his mountain bike home.
Olivia was attracted to Flynn because he was everything she was not. A textbook extrovert, he relished the exchange of small talk and gossip with his customers. He played with their children in the store’s puppet theater and bantered with them in area bars and restaurants. He was lively and friendly and fun. Everyone liked him. Men wanted to befriend him, women of all ages flirted with him, and children idolized him.
Olivia rarely saw him in the act of charming members of the general public, as she preferred to call on him once darkness had fallen. They often shared a late meal together or, if it was past dinnertime, had a nightcap on Flynn’s patio. Sometimes, they’d dance on the flagstones and Flynn would croon silly songs in her ear.
Afterward, they’d have sex. Their bodies would intertwine as one day gave way to another and then, despite Flynn’s protests, Olivia would leave. She couldn’t wake up in his bed, the sun streaming through the slats of his blinds. She couldn’t begin a new day in his house. Somehow, that would mean too much of her belonged to him. And Olivia Limoges belonged to no man.
For months, Flynn had accepted what Olivia was willing to offer. He let her initiate contact, was always available when she called, and never pried into her past. They lived completely in the present, and even though Flynn was familiar with every curve of Olivia’s body, he knew very little about her as a person. In keeping with the parameters of their relationship, he limited communication to the sharing of amusing work anecdotes or the discussion of books. Literature provided the cement for their tenuous connection. They exchanged books, argued about books, and read books aloud to one another.
Without books, without the words penned by others, their relationship would have crumbled almost immediately. Instead, fictional narratives knit them together, loosely, like a mitten that could easily be unwound by tugging on a loose string.
Turning away from the window, the dark sea, and the missing moon, Olivia caught Flynn on his cell phone. He was heading out to pick up a small pizza for dinner and offered to share the pepperoni, sausage, and ham pie.
“I’ve already eaten,” she told him. “But I can bring an excellent Chianti to accompany your gourmet meal.”
Flynn loved to be teased. “You think that’s fancy? You should have seen what I had for lunch. I could have sailed a paper boat in the river of grease streaming from my hamburger.”
“At least you’ll give a local cardiologist business in the near future.”
Laughing, Flynn said, “I burn it all off when I run. For a middle-aged man-about-town, I’m the picture of health.”
Olivia couldn’t argue with that statement. “I hope you haven’t run
“Why do you think I ordered all that extra protein on my pie?” Flynn answered huskily and hung up.
Chapter 4
The Boot Top Bistro was closed on Mondays, but Olivia often went in to catch up on paperwork. She loved to sit in her small office, which was located off the kitchen near the dry goods pantry, and complete a list of mundane tasks while listening to the radio. When Michel and his team were on the job, the kitchen was filled with noise. Raised voices, the gurgle of boiling water, a knife slapping against a carving board, and the hiss of the door leading to the walk-in refrigerator blended to form the melody of industry. Today, the
