Olivia went into the kitchen for a refill and to treat herself to a few squares of dark chocolate. Chewing on the smooth, slightly bitter Belgian sweet, she paced around the spacious living room. “Bottom line: Blake Talbot has benefited from both deaths.” She spoke to her reflection in the large windows facing the ocean. “Camden no longer has the power to write anything negative about Blake and the death of Blake’s father makes him one of the wealthiest and most powerful young men in the country.”

  Returning to her notebook, she circled Max Warfield’s name. “Do you benefit as well? Has Blake promised you a bigger slice of the pie?” Sighing, she tossed down her pen. “But all the obvious villains have alibis!” Her thoughts strayed to Flynn and to the image of him wielding the box cutter. “No, he can’t be involved. He has no motive.”

  She continued to debate a host of possibilities aloud until she felt frustrated and spent. Opening the French doors leading to the deck, she called for Haviland. A refreshing breeze sprang up from the ocean, and Olivia leaned against the railing, listening to the gentle rush of the waves onto the sand. Inhaling the salt-misted air calmed her thoughts, but eventually she grew impatient for bed.

  “Come on, Haviland!” Olivia called again.

  When another five minutes passed, Olivia shouted again, an edge of irritation entering her voice. She listened for Haviland’s responding bark, but the only sounds were the water’s whispers.

  Annoyed, Olivia grabbed a flashlight from the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink, stuck her feet into the well-worn sneakers reserved for morning walks, and stomped across the luminescent sand.

  “HAVILAND!” she bellowed.

  Slowly, her exasperation turned to concern. Haviland always reappeared within minutes of her first call. Even during daylight hours, when he was routinely distracted by gulls, crabs, and a host of interesting odors, he responded almost immediately to her commands.

  Heading toward the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, Olivia felt a tightness in her chest. Something was wrong.

  At the same moment she felt that sharp stab of fear, the beam of the flashlight sought out a darker patch of black in the shadow cast by the cottage.

  Olivia’s heart nearly stopped. She broke into a run, her legs moving with agonizing slowness over the sand. She dropped to her knees next to her dog.

  Haviland was lying on his side. He was utterly still and didn’t even flinch when Olivia put her hand on his chest, nearly crying in relief as it inflated, albeit shallowly, with oxygen.

  “What is it? What is it?” she demanded frantically, her fingers exploring his coat for signs of injury. There was no blood. None of his bones felt broken. Nothing indicated why he now lay unconscious in the dark. His collar was also missing.

  Having taking several courses on administering canine first aid, Olivia gently peeled open Haviland’s eye. She took in the glazed appearance as though from a great distance, and then parted the poodle’s lips and pulled his tongue free, allowing him to breathe with slightly more ease. It was at that moment she saw a flash of red sticking out beneath Haviland’s front paw.

  Stomach churning out of fright and anger, she pulled the piece of paper loose and held it under the light.

  “BACK OFF,” it read.

  Olivia dropped the note as though it had singed her skin and then shoved it into her back pocket before running as fast as she had ever run back to the house. She grabbed her purse and keys and sped down the hill, backing the Rover over the sand near the cottage until it was only a few feet away from Haviland. She opened the back and, heaving her dog into her arms, laid him down as carefully as she could. She checked once more for signs of breath and then covered his body with a blanket.

  She did nearly eighty into town, dialing the local vet’s number along the way.

  “Hello?” Diane Williamson, doctor of veterinary medicine, croaked. She’d clearly been asleep.

  Fighting to keep her voice calm, Olivia explained how she’d found Haviland and that she was on her way to Diane’s office. The vet, who lived in the carriage house behind the converted home where she practiced, reassured Olivia that she would be ready and waiting to receive her patient.

  “Thank you.” Olivia’s words came out like a dry sob.

  Barely pausing at red lights, Olivia passed slower drivers by crossing the double yellow line, swerved in front of meandering tourists, and even drove on the sidewalk to get around a double-parked convertible filled with teenagers.

  Diane was standing in the doorway when Olivia backed into the driveway. The two women lifted Haviland onto a dog gurney and whisked him up the ramp and into the first of two examination rooms.

  Olivia stroked Haviland’s head while Diane listened to his heart. She inspected his eyes and gums and then gently opened Haviland’s mouth wide and sniffed.

  “What’s the last thing he ate?” Diane asked.

  “A bratwurst,” Olivia answered shamefaced. She knew Diane disapproved of Haviland’s diet. “It wasn’t the sausage … ?”

  “No.” Diane straightened but left one hand on the poodle’s flank. “His mouth smells like ground beef.”

  “Then someone else fed him that.” Olivia’s dark blue eyes blazed with a fierce anger. “Has Haviland … ?” She could barely formulate the thought let alone speak it out loud. “Was he poisoned?”

  Diane hesitated and then shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. There’s no swelling, unusual redness around the eyes, ears, or skin, and no blistering in the mouth. I believe he’s ingested some kind of sedative. Let me run a few tests to make sure.” She turned away from her patient for a moment and touched Olivia’s shoulder. “Trust me. He’s going to be fine.”

  Olivia couldn’t see through the tears. “He’s got to be,” she whispered. “The Captain is … half of my whole being.”

  The vet didn’t respond. She’d already turned her attention back to the poodle. She didn’t waste time asking Olivia to wait outside either, knowing full well she’d refuse.

  Exhausted, Olivia perched on the edge of the room’s only chair, watching every brisk and efficient move Diane made, but allowing the professional to work in silence. At some point, though she did not remember doing so, Olivia shut her eyes, leaned her head back against the wall, and fell into a light sleep.

  Diane woke her with a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. “Haviland is stable. I ran a blood test and found that he did ingest sedatives. Too much for his body weight, but not enough to be fatal. He needs to rest for several hours, but he should make a full recovery and be his charming self in a day or so.”

  Olivia pressed her hands over her eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured, too weary to infuse her words with the gratitude she felt.

  “You should go home and get some rest too,” Diane suggested kindly. “I’ll call you as soon as he’s awake.”

  “No. I won’t leave him.”

  Diane smiled. “I thought you’d say that.” She pointed at a door in the back of the room. “My office is through there. I’ve put a clean blanket and pillow on the sofa for you. You might as well sleep if you can. That’s all Haviland will be doing.”

  Nodding, Olivia walked over to Haviland and stroked the fur behind his right ear. She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead and then simply stood there, watching the reassuring rise and fall of his chest. When she finally sank down on the plaid couch in Diane’s office, something crinkled in her back pocket. She pulled out the small square of red paper.

  “You have hurt the wrong dog, you bastard,” she hissed. “I’m going to devote every resource, every thought, and every moment of my waking hours hunting you down.”

  She stared at the note until the typed words blurred into black, beetlelike smudges and the bright red of the paper became the color of vengeance.

  Olivia waited until six the next morning to call Rawlings. She’d slept a few fitful hours on Diane’s couch, but it had been enough to allow her to spend the rest of the day in action. She planned to scour the area surrounding the cottage as soon as the light allowed for a detailed search and she wanted the chief and his men on the job too.

  Rawlings listened to Olivia recall the events of the previous night and promised to be waiting in her driveway by the time she got home.

  “I don’t want you going inside until I check it out,” he ordered.

  Olivia complied, asked Diane’s assistant to call the moment Haviland woke up, and drove to Bagels ‘n’ Beans. She requested a coffee and a sesame seed bagel with butter for herself and then placed an order for coffee, pastries, and a lunch tray of assorted sandwiches to be sent to Diane’s office and to the Canine Cottage, the grooming business she owned as well.

  “Give them the works,” Olivia told Wheeler, handing him her Visa card. “Chips, cookies, sun tea, all of it. As a matter of fact, I’d like you to do this for them once a week for the rest of the month.”

  Wheeler scrutinized his customer’s bloodshot eyes and drawn face and then scanned the length of the store in search of Haviland. “He’s all right then?”

  “He will be,” Olivia replied, relieved Wheeler hadn’t asked what had happened. She didn’t want anyone to know that she and Haviland had become victims over the course of the night. She didn’t want the town gossips spreading the tale about town, inviting the interest of the journalists present. Besides, playing the victim was a role she refused to accept.

  Rawlings and two of his officers were walking the perimeter of her house when she pulled into the driveway. Olivia handed him the plastic baggie containing the note.

  “My fingerprints will be on there,” she said as he drew near. “I don’t think you have mine on file, so I’ll come in and be printed as soon as we’re done here.”

  Accepting the bag, Rawlings read the warning and his eyes narrowed. “Why does he feel threatened by you?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. Yesterday, I paid brief visits to the other members of the Planning Board, asking them to reject the Cottage Cove proposal until it can be altered to include more green space and the preservation of the Neuse River Park’s cemetery.” Olivia unlocked her front door and stepped aside.

  She watched Rawlings draw his gun, his eyes sweeping the kitchen. Without responding to what she’d said, he waved one of his men toward the living room. The third opened the coat closet and peered inside.

  Olivia noticed that Rawlings had chosen seasoned men to accompany him and was satisfied to find him taking the incident so seriously.

  “Clear!” he called from the living room and disappeared upstairs.

  Impatient to get down to the cottage, Olivia occupied herself by prepping the coffee machine to brew to its full capacity.

  When the chief returned, his gun was holstered. “There’s no sign of an intruder and it doesn’t look as though anything’s been touched. Considering how tidy you are, Ms. Limoges, I’d think it would be obvious if someone had gone through your things. Would you care to check?”

  Olivia shook her head. “No. It doesn’t feel like anyone’s been in the house. I believe I would know. Now let me show you where I found Haviland.”

  The sand and grass-covered area in the lee of the cottage offered no clues except for the faintest boot print. Even that was a disappointment, being a shallow indentation no bigger that a two-inch square. The ridges were similar to the boots worn by both officers, and though the chief squatted down and studied the mark carefully, Olivia wasn’t hopeful that an arrest would be made based on a few lines in the sand. Half the men in Oyster Bay probably owned work boots that made similar imprints.

  “There’s no indication of where he put the ground beef,” Rawlings commented, looking at Olivia. “Were you surprised to learn Haviland ate food given to him by a stranger?”

  “First of all, there’s no way that bastard got close to him until whatever drugs he fed Haviland took effect,” Olivia protested. “He must have left out the meat nearby. If it smelled fresh and Haviland was hungry, which he was, he’d have eaten it. Despite the fact that his intelligence exceeds that of a great deal of Oyster Bay’s residents, Haviland is a dog.”

  “He might have put the meat out closer to the water, sir,” one of the officers suggested. “The tide would have washed away all traces of the beef before Ms. Limoges ever found the dog. Even if our guy fed him right here, the flies, ants, and gulls would have cleaned up the scraps hours ago.”

  Rawlings turned his face toward the sea. “Tonight’s meeting is important to him. I think he’s going to be there, as risky as that might be. He needs to see this thing come off without a hitch.”

  Olivia followed his gaze. “He could have killed me, Chief. I was a sitting duck out here. I think he’s had a plan from the beginning. He knows his victims. I bet he’s had four poems written, four faces in his mind, and a single goal all along. I didn’t fit in his plan so he didn’t hurt me, but he doesn’t want me to spoil his vision either. That’s why he gave me a warning I couldn’t ignore. I just don’t understand why he took Haviland’s collar.”

  Rawlings rubbed his chin and spent a few moments quietly thinking. “He may also have a code. Don’t kill women. Don’t hurt the innocent. He knocked your dog out, but he didn’t kill him.”

  “Close enough,” Olivia growled.

  Sending the two officers into the cottage for a quick search, Rawlings took Olivia’s elbow and held it. “Is it too much to ask you to be careful between now and tonight’s meeting?”

  Olivia smiled at him. “Don’t worry about me, Chief. I’ll come into town to give you my fingerprints. Until then, I plan to find things to do at home.” Her smile vanished. “Such as cleaning my rifle.”

  Chapter 15

  In winter I get up at night

  And dress by yellow candle-light.

  In summer quite the other way,

  I have to go to bed by day.

  —ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

  To her relief, Rawlings and his men declined Olivia’s offer of coffee, leaving her free to take a hot shower. Afterward, her hair curling against her forehead and the side of her cheeks in damp tendrils, Olivia placed a call to Diane.

  “Haviland’s still asleep, but that’s to be expected,” the vet said. “It’s not the drug-induced sleep he was in a few hours ago. In fact, he’s dreaming. His paws are twitching as though he’s out on the beach chasing sandpipers.”

  Reassured by this image, Olivia spread an old towel on the kitchen table and set out her rifle and gun cleaning kit. She switched on her living room stereo and felt a measure of the tension lodged between her shoulder blades slide away as the opening strains of Beethoven’s “Für Elise” tiptoed into the room.

  After pouring herself a large mug of coffee, Olivia laid out the contents of the gun cleaning kit like a surgeon organizing his instruments before a case. She looked over the folding ramrod, nitro solvent, gun oil, cleaning pads, and cloths and was satisfied with her supplies. Unloading the rifle, she carefully pulled the trigger off and then removed the bolt from the rifle body. She screwed together her collapsible ramrod, fed a folded cleaning pad through the hole, and dipped the tool into the solvent.

  Gently easing the ramrod all the way into the barrel until it rubbed against the firing mechanism, Olivia worked the device in and out, stopping to change cleaning pads. Once the interior was clean, she dabbed a bit of oil on a soft cloth and began to wipe the pieces of metal on the outside of the gun. The task was calming. It gave Olivia a sense of control and as the music washed over her, she was able to focus on the riddle of the murderer’s identity.

  Max Warfield has got to be involved, she thought as she began to reassemble the rifle. As soon as I pick up Haviland, I’m going to pay him a visit. And I think I’ll bring my weapon along.

  Out on the deck, Olivia stared down the barrel of her gun. She zeroed in on twigs or dark-hued rocks sticking out of the sand and then let her eyes drift across the sparkling water. Recalling Haviland’s limp body lying in the dark, Olivia felt anger surge through her body—a fierce juxtaposition of the lazy roll of wavelets before her. Jaw clenched, she pumped the unloaded rifle and pressed the trigger, imagining a bullet puncturing the surface of the water, slicing through the blue gray depths until it drove beneath a layer of murk, forever embedded in the cold sea floor.

  Having just cleaned the rifle, Olivia had no intention of sullying it by firing a round, no matter how much release she’d gain by doing so. Instead, she collected an unopened box of bullets, a covered bowl containing a healthy snack for Haviland, and a travel mug of coffee for herself.

  At the police station, she informed the desk officer that her fingerprints were needed and, to her chagrin, Officer Cook appeared to take them.

  “It’s you again,” he muttered, gesturing for her to follow him to the processing area in the building housing the jail. Neither spoke as they walked, but Cook glanced over his shoulder several times, as though a big, black poodle might overtake them at any moment.

  Standing across from Olivia, the policeman rolled each of her fingers with the same roughness she imagined he’d use on the combative drunk driver. When he was finished, he tossed two packets of moist towelettes on the counter.

  Olivia studied the young man dispassionately. She could only imagine the feelings of impotency the members of the police department must be experiencing with a pair of unsolved murders on their desks and a bevy of reporters crawling over every inch of the town.

  “You’ll get him in the end,” she said as she began to clean her fingertips. As one moist cloth became stained with the blue purple ink, she ripped open a second. “He’s not any smarter than you are,” she continued, though she knew this might not be true. The killer had already established his intelligence by avoiding capture. “And what if he’s not working alone? Having a partner should make him easier to catch. Chief Rawlings believes he’ll be at the town hall tonight. If not him, then his partner.” She held up a stained index finger. “Watch for the nonverbal signals, Officer. One of our own has been bribed or blackmailed by Blake Talbot or Max Warfield. Watch those two. They have alibis but the ‘silent partner’ in these murders may not have. And he has to have a tell.”

 

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