by Ellery Adams
Haviland was pacing anxiously in the doorway to one of the bedrooms. Olivia looked over his head toward the bed. The rumpled covers had been shoved into a wrinkled mass toward the middle and the white cotton sheets were covered by at least six pillows, all tossed about as though the bed’s occupant had spent a restless night. Max had smoothed out a section of the comforter, however, upon which he’d laid out a gray suit still encased within a dry cleaner’s bag.
Olivia’s eyes continued to sweep the room and came to an abrupt stop at the pair of club chairs positioned beneath the double windows overlooking the ocean. Max Warfield was in the chair nearest the bathroom. His held was tilted backward at an awkward angle. The rest of his body was unnaturally still.
“You were right! He’s had a heart attack!” Bert lurched forward in Max’s direction, but Olivia clamped both hands onto his arm, nearly forcing him off balance.
“We mustn’t touch him,” she stated firmly. “See that thing wrapped around his neck? That’s a dog collar. Haviland’s dog collar. And I doubt Mr. Warfield is wearing it voluntarily. Call 911. Mr. Warfield’s been murdered.”
Mutely, Bert retreated several feet, his eyes bulging with shock and fear. Unblinking, as though he suspected the corpse of making a sudden movement, the property manager punched the digits into his cell phone with trembling fingertips.
Haviland sniffed Max’s hand and then growled again.
“Get his scent, Captain,” Olivia told the poodle, feeling a fresh surge of rage course through her. “He was just here. The man who hurt you. He did this. Smell him, Haviland,” she whispered fiercely over Bert’s shaky conversation with the emergency operator.
As Haviland disappeared into the bathroom, Olivia absorbed as much of the scene as she could without approaching the club chair where Max had been killed.
Her eyes were immediately drawn to Max’s face, for his tongue lolled from between his slack lips. Swollen and blue tinged, it looked like some grotesque alien insect, and Olivia felt momentarily overcome by repulsion. She forced her gaze downward, seeing the slumped shoulders against the cushioned back of the chair, the limp arms, and the casual outfit of shorts and a T-shirt.
Finally, she stared at Haviland’s blue collar, which was fastened around the dead man’s neck. The skin above and below the collar was a purplish red and marred with scratches, illustrating the desperation with which Max had fought against the object robbing him of oxygen.
The most unsettling detail of all was the reflection of the windows in the dead man’s unblinking eyes. A halo of soft, white light fell across the glassy surface of his corneas, giving the impression that an otherworldly radiance was being released from within Max Warfield’s body.
Bert was repeating the condo address in a much steadier voice when Olivia spotted the sheet of paper. It was a standard-sized sheet of white paper that had been neatly positioned on the table in front of Max’s torso. Olivia wondered if those were the last words Max Warfield had seen before he died or if the murderer had placed the paper on the table afterward.
She walked forward four steps, leaning over the table as she removed her notebook from her purse. “The summer haiku,” she murmured and read the three lines upside down.
The summer air is so
thick its almost too hard to breathe—
so don’t bother to try.
“What are you doing?” Bert hissed, but Olivia didn’t hear him.
Backing away from the table, she copied down the words of the poem, silently counting syllables as her pen recorded them.
“This is wrong.” She reread what she’d written. “The lines are too long, the hyphen doesn’t divide the poem into two parts, the nature imagery is overly simplistic, there are grammatical errors ...”
Olivia sank down on the edge of the bed, causing Max’s suit to slide into the depression created by her weight. “This poem was not written by the same person. Are there now two poets?” Chilled, she shoved the plastic bag away from her leg, stood up, and walked quickly out of the room. Haviland growled once more and followed.
“Ms. Limoges? Are you all right?” Bert called after her.
Olivia didn’t stop until she was outside. She needed to breathe real air, as though her lungs weren’t capable of processing the chilled, Freon-tinged air within the condo. Stepping away from the shade of the overhang, Olivia lifted her chin and closed her eyes, letting the sun bathe her head and neck and burn away the gooseflesh on her arms.
Bert touched her lightly on the shoulder, repeating his query.
Mechanically, she pivoted to face him, her eyes wide and unfocused. “He’s off the leash. That’s what the dog collar means. The killer’s not following someone else’s agenda anymore. Yet he likes the poems, the progression of the seasons, the orderliness of it all. And he’s got one more season to go.” She reached out for Haviland.
Bert dropped his hand from her shoulder, frightened by Olivia’s incoherence.
“Who is meant for autumn?” she asked, turning her gaze toward the blinding ocean.
Chapter 16
There’s always a period of curious fear between the first sweet-smelling breeze and the time when the rain comes cracking down.
—DON DELILLO
Olivia waited for Chief Rawlings in Bert’s office. After turning Max’s condo over to the pair of officers responding to the 911 call, Bert had retreated to the only restroom, unscrewing the cap to a flask as he slipped inside. His secretary paced around the front sidewalk, her lips moving double-time as she enthusiastically shared the news of Max Warfield’s death into her headset phone. Meanwhile, her unattended office phone rang with such noisy insistence that Olivia felt like knocking on the restroom door and demanding Bert share the contents of his flask.
Instead, she sat in the chair facing Bert’s impressive mahogany desk, stroking the back of Haviland’s head and trying to ignore the ringing phone. She fixed her gaze on a promotional poster showing a sunset over the Ocean Vista condos. Staring at the green palmetto fronds, which had been painted into a slight curl in order to give the feeling they were being caressed by a gentle sea breeze beneath a mango- and raspberry-colored sky, Olivia tried to still her agitated mind.
Several thoughts vied for attention and Olivia began to record each one in her notebook. She became so engrossed that she didn’t hear Rawlings enter the office. “Ms. Limoges.” He spoke softly, trying not to startle her.
Arresting the motion of her pen, she looked up at him. “I’m sorry, Chief. I didn’t come here today expecting to find Max Warfield’s body. I know it seems like I’ve done my best to insert myself into your investigation ...”
“Then what were your expectations? Why were you here?” Rawlings took a seat in Bert’s chair, instantly asserting his position of authority.
Olivia felt it was the chief’s prerogative to treat her with professional formality considering the circumstances. “Honestly, I believed Max Warfield knew more about the previous murders than he pretended. I simply couldn’t get the phone call he placed at The Boot Top out of my mind. Max has played second fiddle to Dean for a long time. It seemed logical that a man his age and status might grow tired of being treated like a servant. I felt strongly that he must be involved at some level.”
“Mr. Warfield’s alibis were airtight for both murders,” the chief argued. “Trust me, I checked and rechecked his movements, as he fit the suspect bill quite nicely. We’ve also been monitoring his financial statements very closely. There hasn’t been a suspicious dime deposited to his accounts. On paper, Mr. Warfield is clean. And before you start pointing a finger at Blake Talbot as your next suspect of choice, allow me to inform you that we’ve had a tail on him all day. He never came near this location.”
Olivia nodded in approval. “That’s good, because someone seems intent on bringing down Talbot Fine Properties and Blake is now the new face of the company.” She held up her notebook. “And even though I don’t know the identity of Max Warfield’s killer, I can
tell you that he did not write all three haiku.”
Rawlings shook his head slightly. “Today’s poem is clearly amateurish, yet the writer still got his point across. ‘The summer air chokes,’ just as he choked the life out of his victim.”
“And the dog collar implies Max was someone’s pet. He followed orders. If the killer obeyed another’s command, then he’s not willing to any longer.” Olivia touched the place on Haviland’s neck where the blue collar used to rest and the poodle looked up at her with inquisitive eyes.
“I’ve called in some help,” Rawlings said. “Officers from the New Bern Police Department are on the way. They’re going to go over every inch of that crime scene with some of my best men, leaving me available to attend tonight’s meeting. The question is, will I be free to concentrate on identifying the killer or will you be conducting a personal investigation from the podium?”
Duly reprimanded, Olivia met the chief’s cold gaze. “Haviland has the killer’s scent down now and he can identify him! Trust me, the Captain earned perfect scores in all of his tracking courses. He has more training than your entire K-9 unit combined. Just let me have his collar back. The killer touched it.” When Rawlings didn’t answer, Olivia continued. “I don’t know what this guy’s stake is in this housing development and I still don’t understand why he felt the need to threaten me. The Confederate cemetery is certain to be preserved—I’ve made sure the majority of the board will vote for the revisions to the proposal. But the housing project will be approved and that must be the killer’s ultimate goal”
“Unless this isn’t about Cottage Cove or the park or the graveyards at all.” The chief scratched his chin thoughtfully. “What questions have you been asking that we haven’t?” Rawlings wanted to know. “I want to see every word you’ve got written in that notebook. We’re running out of time, Ms. Limoges. I cannot allow there to be a fourth victim.”
“Of course. Please, take it.” Olivia placed the notebook on the desk and wisely remained silent as Rawlings read.
The pair remained quiet for the better part of twenty minutes. Haviland contentedly napped in a corner and Olivia slowly developed an urge for a dose of caffeine. As though sensing her need, Rawlings put down the notebook and wearily rubbed his temples.
“I could use some coffee to help me think.” Rising, he returned her notebook. “You’ve got an observant eye, Ms. Limoges.” He offered the compliment with reluctance.
“But I can see that I haven’t written anything to help you solve this mess.” Olivia was disappointed. “Perhaps I could ask Mr. Long’s assistant to brew us a pot of coffee. She seems to have extra time on her hands.”
Rawlings nodded absently and then reached out to stop her. “One thing: How did you plan to worm information out of Mr. Warfield? He didn’t exactly strike me as a man who would freely share his feelings with a stranger.”
Olivia colored slightly. “Well, it was my intention to flirt with him a little and then invite him to the restaurant for a celebratory meal following tonight’s meeting. I wanted to see his reaction when I brought up the amendment to the proposal. I thought I could also get him to tell me how he felt about Blake Talbot, his new boss.”
“And you thought he’d have a crystal-clear look on his face or a quaver to his voice or he’d spill his guts and BAM!” He clapped his hands together, causing Haviland’s head to snap off his forelegs in alarm. “You’d know he had something to hide? Just like that? Perhaps you stashed a recorder in your purse? Because he was sure to confess all his sins to you right then and there, right?”
Surprised by the chief’s venom, Olivia backed away a step. As she retreated, her hip jarred the sharp metal corner of the chair arm and she winced, the pain inflaming her anger. “He killed a friend of mine and then he came after Haviland! Yes, I could have stayed at home and read about your progress in the Gazette, but I wasn’t willing to be quite that passive! This man is running around my town doing whatever he likes to whomever he chooses, and I—”
“Oyster Bay is not yours, no matter how many buildings you own,” Rawlings growled. “You are a citizen and it is my duty to keep citizens such as yourself safe! What if Max Warfield had had something to hide? He could have hurt you, Olivia!”
As he spoke her name, Rawlings grabbed her by the shoulders. His eyes were lit with a mixture of fear and longing and his fingertips pressed into her flesh as though he might pull her roughly against his chest.
Olivia, torn between indignation and a surge of inexplicable desire, wanted him to do just that, but the chief didn’t have the chance to act as he was interrupted by the appearance of Bert Long.
“I ... excuse me,” Bert stammered and Rawlings released his hold of Olivia’s shoulders. “My secretary has made some coffee and put out some food. It’s not much, but I figured you might be here awhile.”
Embarrassed to be caught nearly in the chief’s arms, Olivia gave Bert a hard look. “Got any more of what was in that flask?”
Now it was Bert’s turn to act discomfited. “Ah ... no. Sorry. I’ve never seen a dead body before and I needed a little something to help me settle down. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Well, we’re in Oyster Bay, so perhaps you’ll grow more accustomed to seeing corpses. They seem to be piling up around here.” Olivia glanced at Rawlings. “I assume we’re done for the moment and that I can give my official statement tomorrow, being as there’s not much time until the meeting?”
Rawlings nodded, his expression alternating between concern and irritation. Seeing him struggle to maintain a neutral look, Olivia was again reminded of the weight resting on the man’s shoulders. She took a single step toward him. “Haviland could stop this man before he gets a chance to enact that final haiku,” she said softly. “If the killer doesn’t show tonight, then we’re of no use to you and I vow to stay out of your way, but if he does, and Haviland can zero in on his scent, then at least you’ll know exactly who to pursue. Just give us a chance. I know the collar is evidence. I won’t handle it at all. I just need to open the bag and let Haviland smell it before the meeting starts. What’s the harm in that?” When the chief didn’t immediately agree, she broke eye contact. “Come on, Captain.”
Haviland trotted out of the office ahead of his mistress, obviously ready to leave. Olivia said a short good-bye to Bert and then turned back at Rawlings once more. “This town needs us, Chief. All of us. If I can bring about a conclusion, no matter how clumsily, then I will.”
Olivia expected a small crowd to congregate at the town hall—somewhere around forty people. Their meetings typically attracted a dozen or so regular attendees, but with Dean Talbot’s death, she expected several members of the press to be on hand to record Blake’s reaction to the board’s vote. She then added a dozen nosy townspeople to her mental list, knowing that Dixie would have talked up the evening as a potential source of colorful entertainment.
At five minutes to seven Olivia parked in the mayor’s reserved space. “Well, his Honor should be inside by now,” she informed Haviland defensively. “And he’s filled with so much hot air that he should be able to float right into the building with minimal physical exertion.”
Haviland just looked at her.
“Honestly, Captain, I didn’t think this meeting would draw such a turnout. There must be something else going on in the square. A local band or a dramatic performance by that awful theater troupe. Look, there isn’t an available parking space within sight.” She gazed up at the sky, which had clouded over during the dinner hour. The darkness was deeper than usual and the ocean breeze carried a slight chill. Olivia grabbed an umbrella from the back seat of the Rover. “It’s going to pour,” she told Haviland “You’ll be glad we parked where we did in an hour.”
Steeling herself against the uncertainty waiting within, Olivia opened the hall’s front door. She was surprised to hear noise echoing from inside the meeting room which was at the far end of the building’s main corridor. There was the expected murmur of
adult conversation, but it was louder than she’d ever heard before, swelling into the hall like the buzzing of a thousand hives. These sounds were punctuated by the shrill giggles of a gaggle of preteen girls. The atmosphere permeating the building was electric. Haviland raised his snout, sniffing out the feelings of excitement and nervous anticipation flowing out of the meeting room like a pungent perfume.
As Olivia crossed the threshold, it took her a moment to adjust her eyes to the sight before her. Clusters of young girls holding signs, magazines, and digital cameras filled every imaginable space toward the back of the room.
A child Olivia judged to be about eight years old approached her and asked, “Is there, like, a limo parked out front?”
“Not at the moment.” Olivia studied the child. She wore a striped tank top over a white T-shirt, a pair of denim shorts, and rows of multicolored yarn bracelets on both arms. “Why are all of you here?” She gestured at the fidgety, boisterous girls surrounding them.
The girl in front of her held up a copy of Seventeen magazine. Olivia recognized the cover model right away. It was Heidi St. Claire. “Everybody is waiting for her to show up. I saw her new movie this weekend, like, three times. She is so pretty and such an awesome dancer! I am so going to make my mom buy me some of the Heidi St. Claire clothes when they come out too.”
“I see,” was all Olivia could manage.
Ignoring the follow-up questions from the girl’s companions, Olivia pushed her way through a knot of parents who were only attending the meeting to indulge the whims of their daughters. After reaching the other side of the room, she noticed that the first five or six rows of seats were occupied by the residents of Oyster Bay actually interested in the outcome of the evening’s vote. Assorted members of the media were scattered around the room as well. This was to be Blake’s first official action as the new face of Talbot Properties and the restless reporters were eager to put their best spin on the small-town Planning Board meeting.