Laurel pressed her lips together and then yelled, “I’m a writer! They think they can control everything I do, but I’m my
own
person. I’m
not
just a mother and a wife! I’m
me
too! Laurel! There are things I’m good at, even though I can’t smock or cook coq au vin.” She nibbled a fingernail. “Um, where
would
I be taking this fictional cooking class?”
Wordlessly, Olivia gestured around the empty restaurant.
“Oh, you’re the best!” Laurel did one of her trademark happy hand claps coupled with a great deal of bouncing up and down on the chair. “But what happens when I burn the Thanksgiving turkey again?”
“Leave the culinary dilemmas to me. You march right down to that newspaper and apply for that job.” She eyed Laurel’s outfit. “But go home and put something else on first. I think you’ve got maple syrup on your shirt and a piece of pancake mashed into your necklace.”
“That would be Dermot.” Laurel examined the stains with pride and then rose slowly to her feet. “I’ve never done anything like this before. I’m about to deceive my family and I know it should feel wrong, but it doesn’t. I want this job and I deserve a chance to do something more fulfilling than laundry and grocery shopping!”
Olivia wished her friend good luck and tried not to stiffen when Laurel suddenly embraced her. The younger woman then jogged out to her car, her ponytail swinging like a golden scythe.
Haviland cocked his head and stared at his mistress.
“What are you looking at?” Olivia demanded and the poodle flashed her a toothy smile. “You’d better not give me that ‘you’re a softie’ look if you want lamb with rice and peas! After all, this is how normal people are supposed to act. They’re supposed to listen to one another and accept hugs without turning to stone and—”
Haviland cut her off with a quick howl that sounded much like laughter.
“You’re right, I’ll never be quite like that, but I
am
trying to cast off my Ice Queen image.” She opened the walk-in refrigerator and Haviland’s ears perked up. “Maybe ‘cast off’ isn’t the best word choice. Perhaps ‘defrost’ is a better way of putting it. Ah, here’s the lamb!”
Pressing his snout against Olivia’s palm, Haviland searched for bite-sized cubes of juicy lamb and, sensing they were close at hand, began to shift his front paws in anticipation.
Once Olivia had satisfied her poodle’s hunger, she satiated her own by fixing a spinach salad with lamb, feta cheese, and pecan crumbles accompanied by a side of pita wedges toasted with a sprinkling of Parmesan and fresh basil. She never prepared meals like this in her own home, but there was something about the spacious, gleaming kitchen that made her want to cook.
Later, once the budget had been balanced and she’d placed phone orders to the distributors still open for business on Labor Day, she reviewed Michel’s menu for the upcoming week. Making a note in the margins that her chef needed to add two more vegetarian selections (Michel, like Haviland, loved his meat), Olivia began to go through Saturday’s mail.
She sorted through two pounds of junk mail, including catalogs from restaurant supply companies, credit card and refinancing offers, form letters from big-name banks and insurance companies entreating Olivia to give them her business, and the weekly flyer from Pizza Bay.
Olivia examined the flimsy yellow and red paper featuring the graphic of a smiling fisherman holding a slice of pizza with one hand as he manned the helm with the other. “Best in the Bay!” the ad proclaimed and provided a coupon for two free toppings or a free side of garlic bread sticks. “Why send coupons to a five-star restaurant week after week after week? Do they enjoy wasting paper?” she asked Haviland.
Too full to muster up the strength required to even open an eye, Haviland remained unresponsive. “What would the Pizza Bay delivery boy do if I actually placed an order during business hours? Come right to the hostess podium wearing that hideous electric yellow T-shirt and holding a warming box?” She grinned. “I might have to try that sometime. Teach those Pizza Bay owners a lesson about mass mailing.”
The local printing and copy center had obviously not produced the last letter in the pile. Olivia’s name and the restaurant’s address had been handwritten in black ink on a plain white envelope. The penmanship was childlike and the letters seemed to have been driven into the paper as though a great deal of force had been applied. There was no return address and the post office stamp showed that the letter had originated in Wilmington, which was roughly one hundred and fifty miles south of Oyster Bay.
Her curiosity aroused, Olivia ripped open the letter and pulled out a single sheaf of lined three-hole paper. Picturing the sticker-covered binder of a grade school student, she briefly wondered why some child would be communicating with her.
Then she read the message.
YOUR FATHER IS NOT DEAD. HE HAS BEEN WITH US FOR THIRTY YEARS, BUT NOW HES REAL SICK. IF YOU WANT TO SEE HIM WHILE HES STILL BREETHING, SEND $1000 CASH TO THIS ADRESS. IF YOU TELL ANYONE THE DEALS OFF.
Following these astonishing lines was a street address in Wilmington. Apparently, the cash was to be sent in care of a man named RB.
Olivia hurled the paper onto her desk and shoved her wheeled chair backward so violently that she nearly tipped over. Haviland, jolted out of his full-belly slumber, jumped onto his feet with an alarmed snarl, his brown eyes darting about the room, searching for the source of danger. Anxiously, he sniffed Olivia’s hands, but she made no move to comfort him. Her eyes burned as they stared fixedly at the paper on her desk.
“It cannot be true,” she whispered. Haviland grew more and more disconcerted by her immobility. He sniffed her again and placed his left front paw on her lap. Absently, she touched the fur on his neck, but her gaze remained on the letter. “It isn’t possible.”
Olivia never drank alcohol until five thirty in the afternoon, but today she didn’t think twice about breaking this custom. She marched out of her office and straight to the bar. Taking down a clean tumbler from Gabe the bartender’s neat row of polished glasses, she poured out two fingers of Chivas Regal, drank it in a single gulp, and refilled. This time, she added a splash of water and carried the tumbler back to her office.
Keeping her distance from the letter, she rummaged in a desk drawer until she found a magnifying glass. She then examined every inch of the notebook paper and the envelope from which it came, but found nothing of significance. Next, she turned to the Internet, calling up a map of the North Carolina coast.
Her father had disappeared on his boat after leaving the mouth of Oyster Bay Harbor and entering Pamlico Sound. He could certainly have motored close enough to Wrightsville Beach or the port area of Wilmington, abandoned the boat, and swum ashore. He could have also hopped aboard another fishing vessel and headed out for a long journey in deep waters, but Olivia had always dismissed that theory because it meant that he didn’t want to be found, that he deliberately let his daughter believe that it was the fog and the whiskey and the angry seas that had claimed his life.
She traced the bumpy coastline on the computer screen. Was it possible?
Could
her father be alive? Could he be as close as Wilmington?
“How do you know who I am?” she asked the anonymous writer angrily, jabbing at the paper with her letter opener. The blade landed near one of the holes, slicing it neatly all the way to the edge. It was satisfying, and for a moment, Olivia was tempted to cut the entire letter to shreds, to stab and slice it until she could convince herself that it had never existed.
“But it does exist and I need to decide what to do about it.” She put the opener away in the drawer and held the letter under the light. “No Harvard graduate here. Either that, or this writer doesn’t proofread.” Missing apostrophes, spelling errors, and the use of capital letters throughout seemed to emphasize her initial reaction about the author; that he or she didn’t put pen to paper very often.
“ ‘He’s been with us for thirty years,’ ” she repeated the line aloud. “Who is ‘us’?” She took a drink. “Who the
hell
is ‘
us
’!”
Anger swelled inside her, but she held it in check. She needed to think straight. Why would this person approach her after all this time? Either the letter writer needed money or her father did. When Olivia’s grandmother died, leaving the Limoges oak-barrel fortune to her only relative, Olivia, news of the young woman’s incredible wealth had been in all the papers.
For years, paparazzi kept tabs on her every move, but she had eventually escaped to the one place they wouldn’t bother to track her. She returned home and became a businesswoman, homeowner, and solid member of the community. She no longer jetted around the world, dated famous bachelors, or dressed in haute couture. Therefore, she was no longer interesting to the press, but her name was still well known. People could find Olivia Limoges if they looked hard enough.
“I could risk the money,” she said to Haviland, who was giving her his full attention. “That’s not a problem. I just don’t want to be made a fool of.”
Once again, she turned back to the computer. She did a Google search for RB of Wilmington, North Carolina, but found nothing. However, when she typed the address into the search box, she was directed to a Yellow Page listing. RB’s address was actually a mailbox located in a UPS store.
“That tells me nothing!” she banged on the keyboard in frustration. Downing the rest of her drink, she stood behind her desk chair and grabbed the cushion until her knuckles turned white. “What can I do?”
The poodle grunted and turned in circles by the door. He was ready to leave and his mistress’s edginess was wearing on him.
Noting Haviland’s discomfort, Olivia grabbed the letter, shoved it back into the envelope, and turned off the office lights. “There’s only one person who can advise me about this enigma. Come along, Captain. Off to the police station.”
When they pulled into the police station parking lot, Haviland yipped in excitement. He was very fond of Greta, Oyster Bay’s attractive canine officer. The two dogs had met on several occasions and had always exchanged dignified but affectionate sniffs, nose rubs, and tail wags. Olivia sensed that Haviland had been gravely disappointed when they didn’t run into Greta on Saturday, as she and her fellow officer were out on patrol.
There was no sign of Greta in the police department’s lobby and the female officer manning the reception desk had her hands full with a truculent tourist. The furious man waved a parking ticket while releasing a torrent of insults. Though the officer did her best to remain composed, it was clear that she wouldn’t stay calm much longer.
Suddenly, the red-faced man tore the ticket into tiny pieces and threw them on the counter, jabbing his index finger inches away from the woman’s face. The officer’s eyes blazed with indignation. She picked up her phone and requested backup. Taking advantage of the distraction, Olivia opened the door to a hallway. She and Haviland slipped inside and hurried past office doors until they reached the one bearing Sawyer Rawlings’ name in brass.
Olivia knocked and waited.
“This had better be good,” Rawlings growled from within. When he saw Olivia and Haviland, a mixture of surprise and delight replaced his sullen expression.
“Don’t get up,” Olivia said as Rawlings moved to stand. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I know the local press has gotten wind of your case and you must be very busy.”
“I wish there was something for me to be busy
doing
.” Rawlings was obviously irked. “We still have no ID for our victim and no matching dental records either. I’m going to have to ask for the public’s help and I can’t tell you how many fruitcakes will call or drop by the second the television announcement runs.” He waved at the window. “Everyone with a Superman complex will line up in the lobby.”
Without waiting to be asked, Olivia sat in one of the two chairs facing the chief’s tidy desk. “I take it the medical examiner’s report provided no additional clues.”
“Only that our victim wasn’t drugged.” Rawlings picked up a rubber band and wound it around his thumb and index finger. “There was duct tape residue on his neck, implying that a bag was taped over his head long enough to cause him to lose consciousness. Before burying the victim in the sand, the killer tried to remove all signs of the tape but missed a few pieces.”
Olivia tried to push away the picture forming in her mind of a man fighting desperately to breathe, his lips drawing in plastic while his frantic exhalations fogged up the bag, blurring the movements of his attacker. “Run-of-the-mill silver duct tape?”
Rawlings nodded. “Yes. Even if I got a record of every duct tape sale over the last thirty days from Hampton’s Hardware, there are still dozens of places across the county to buy the stuff. Grocery stores, auto parts centers, gas stations.” He ran a hand over his cheek, pausing to rub an area of stubble he’d missed while shaving that morning.
“I wish I could tell you that I was here because I had useful information, but I don’t.” Olivia withdrew the envelope from her purse. “My visit is purely selfish. I’d like your opinion on this if you can spare the time.”
The lines on Rawlings’ forehead deepened as he accepted the letter. He paused, and Olivia knew he was seeing something in her face he’d never seen there before. Sorrow, carefully tucked away for many years, surfaced in her dark blue eyes.
She could feel him nearly reach for her hand, but when she gazed at the lined paper in his grasp, he turned his attention to the words written in bold black ink.
When he was finished, he didn’t speak right away but turned to the window and stared out at the purple crape myrtle trees lining the parking lot.
“The author of this letter is interested in money,” he said eventually. “If you give him the initial payment, he will ask for more.” He laced his fingers together and looked at Olivia. “Do you think there’s a possibility that this claim is true? That your father is alive and possibly unwell?”