“After the death of her parents, Kamila was taken from the only home she’d ever known to the stately house of her uncle. HerauntNebit, whose name meant ‘leopard,’ was displeased to be burdened with another mouth to feed. With four daughters of her own and none half as lovely as twelve-year-old Kamila, the sight of her dead brother’s child turned her heart bitter.
“Kamila was given a small room off the kitchen in which to sleep. The room did not befit her station as the niece of a wealthy and influential man, and as the days and weeks went by, Kamila found herself performing tasks more suited to a slave than that of a beloved relative. Knowing the girl was powerless to protest, Aunt Nebit demanded that Kamila draw baths for her four daughters, comb, plait, and oil their wigs, and serve wine to the family’s guests.
“On one such occasion, when her aunt and uncle were entertaining a most distinguished visitor, the Sandal Bearer of Ramses the Second, the Living God, Kamila was ordered to keep the esteemed member of the royal household’s goblet full at all times.
“However, this tall, slim man with dark eyes and easy smile caught her by the wrist when she attempted to refill his glass for the third time.
“‘No more, child. I like to keep my wits about me, even when visiting friends.’ He winked at her and she relaxed, withdrawing to stand behind his cushion should he require anything else from her.
“Kamila’s aunt and uncle flattered and plied their guest with plate after plate of choice meats, sweet cakes, and honeyed figs, but he was content to merely sample each dish and clearly did not overindulge in the manner of his hosts.
“‘What
I would like is to see this little beauty
dance,’ the visitor said with
a
gentle smile in
Kamila’s direction
.
“Nebit clapped her hands
and
two of her daughters
appeared
with lutes. ‘My girls
are
skilled musicians. Nanu
and
Shebi, delight the ears of our honored guest
while
Kamila attempts
to dance for him. Forgive us,
s
he is not our daughter but our niece
and
we do not know if she possesses
any
skill
as a dancer.’
“Kamila swallowed.
At one time, she was consid
ered a gifted dancer, but she had not practiced for many months and her body had become stiff and sore from all the labors her aunt had imposed upon her. Still, she feared that if she did not quickly obey, her chores would increase in severity.
“Closing her eyes, she allowed the slow and seductive music to wash over her. She swayed deliberately, unfurling her arms as though she were a blooming flower. She stretched her lithe body until it appeared as though she must break, pointing her toes as she twirled on one leg and then the other. Jealous of the enraptured look upon their visitor’s face, Nanu and Shebi abruptly ended their song, leaving Kamila standing in a trancelike state in the middle of the floor. The sisters giggled wickedly behind their palms.
“When Kamila dared to glance over at her aunt and uncle, she saw that they were paying no attention to her. Her uncle and his guest were whispering back and forth while Aunt Nebit tried to control the look of avarice in her eyes. When the older woman gave Kamila a shrewd stare, the girl knew she was the topic of conversation.
“She was right, and by the end of the evening she became the property of the Sandal Bearer. He requested the use of her uncle’s sedan chair and bearers in order to carry her to the palace. ‘Your niece shall now serve
wine to the Son of Light,’ he declared
and
whisked
Kamila
into the night.
“On the short journey to the palace, the kind
and
gentle man told
Kamila
that he planned to present her
as a
gift to the Living God.
“‘You
should rejoice,’ he stated.
‘This
is
a
great honor. You
are
to become Pharaoh’s
concubine. ’”
Olivia put down the pages and glanced at her sleeping dog. “That boring, eh?”
A few hours later, the Bayside Book Writers reconvened in the lighthouse keeper’s cottage. Once the three regular members arrived, followed closely by a delighted Chief Rawlings, Olivia opened a bottle of chilled champagne and poured the contents into crystal flutes.
“To Camden,” she said solemnly and raised her glass. After each of the writers touched rims, Olivia made a second toast. “And to Sawyer Rawlings, our newest member.”
Rawlings dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I am honored to be counted among this fine group.”
After helping themselves to chocolate-covered strawberries and a selection of crackers and gourmet cheeses, the writers settled on the sofa or in club chairs and laid out their marked copies of Olivia’s work in progress.
Harris began the critique by praising the accurate feel of the setting. He then admitted that he felt there needed to be a more detailed physical description of each character.
Laurel said that she had a strong sense of the minor characters, but wasn’t always clear as to what Kamila was feeling. “She’s really just a young girl! And I know things were different back then—that kids matured much sooner than they do in the modern world. I know they married and bore children at Kamila’s tender age, but she still seems too much of an old soul to me. Doesn’t she long for her own family? Isn’t she terribly lonely? Isn’t she scared to have such an uncertain future?” Laurel’s comments were filled with such passion that Olivia realized her heroine might indeed be lacking in emotion.
When it was Rawlings’ turn to share his impression of the first chapter, he took a moment to review his notes. “Let me begin by saying that I feel invested in your character. I genuinely care what happens to Kamila and that means you’ve hooked me as a reader. I also thought you chose a strong line with which to end chapter one.”
Harris lowered his voice in order to imitate the Royal Sandal Bearer.
“ ‘You are to become Pharaoh’s concubine.’ ”
“More like Pharaoh’s chattel,” Millay said with disgust. “Maybe that’s what your title should be.”
Laurel tossed a pillow at Millay, nearly knocking the pages from her hands.
Rawlings cleared his throat and smiled at Laurel. “If you don’t allow me to finish my critique I’ll have to cuff you.” She quickly sat on her hands and tried to look abashed. Olivia was amused by the effect a little champagne had on her friend. She turned her attention to Rawlings, slightly apprehensive over hearing the remainder of his commentary.
“I share Laurel’s view regarding the reader’s inability to clearly sense Kamila’s feelings. There is too much distance between her and us,” he explained plainly. “Get us closer. If you do, we’ll be on the edge of our seats from chapter to chapter. If you don’t, we won’t be as engaged, and no matter what happens to this fascinating young girl, we won’t relate to her experience on any level. We can empathize over Kamila’s fear of the future, her grief over losing her parents, or her anger over being treated like an Egyptian Cinderella by her aunt if you let us.”
Olivia nodded. “I hear what you’re saying. I’m not certain how to get those emotions across to the reader, but at least I know what needs to be improved. Thank you. This has been very valuable for me.”
Laurel handed Harris an unopened bottle of champagne and signaled for him to do the honors. She squealed at the pop of the cork and then bustled about, topping off everyone’s glasses. As she poured for Rawlings, she said, “Um, Sawyer? Can I ask you something about the case? I know you’re off duty and all but since we’re done with Olivia’s chapter and we still have full glasses ...”
Rawlings hesitated and Laurel took advantage of his silence. “There’s something I haven’t been able to figure out. How did Atlas Kraus make contact with Blake?”
“When Mr. Kraus discovered that his daughter was dating Blake Talbot, he found a way to get a job on a Talbot Fine Properties construction site in another state. Max Warfield spent a few days overseeing that project’s progress and Atlas was able to offer his services as a hit man. Mr. Warfield had long been chafing at the bit and knew he could easily persuade Blake to finance the permanent removal of Dean Talbot. The two of them would then rule Talbot Fine Properties together.” Rawlings took a sip of champagne, the flute looking too delicate in his bearlike hand.
Harris sat forward on the sofa, anxious to ask Rawlings a question of his own. “But if Dean was supposed to be the only victim, why did Atlas kill Camden?”
“Mr. Kraus wanted to frame young Mr. Talbot for the murder,” Rawlings answered after a long moment of silence. “He lured Mr. Ford to that alley by offering an exchange of information for cash. For a few hundred dollars, he told Mr. Ford that he could prove that Dean Talbot’s youngest son and right-hand man were plotting to overthrow him. Mr. Kraus made this call from the library pay phone and the number showed up on Mr. Ford’s phone records.”
“But why kill Camden?” Olivia interjected heatedly.
“According to Mr. Kraus’s confession, Blake wrote the winter haiku, but it was meant for his father, not Mr. Ford. Atlas made up some elaborate lie about the gossip writer having insider information about their wicked plot and that he needed to be silenced. He told Blake to mail him additional funds and another poem for Dean. He didn’t have the chance to leave that haiku with the body because some teenagers arrived at the park to mess around in the gazebo. Atlas was at the top of the stairs and his victim at the bottom, so he had no choice but to flee.”
The chief of police and the three writers fell mute; each of them picturing a broken body sprawled at the base of the deteriorating steps and a murderer racing into a copse of oak trees.
Finally, Millay shifted in her seat and made a noise of exasperation. “What’s with the damned poems anyway? Was Blake going all Hamlet on his daddy or what? Why did he feel a burning desire to write a stupid haiku to leave on his father’s murdered corpse?”
“I read a rather revealing interview about young Mr. Talbot,” Rawlings said quietly. “He began writing poems as a small boy but hid them because his father ridiculed him for writing. He called him a fairy and a pansy and a loser. I believe Blake very much wanted to have the last word.”
Rawlings and Olivia looked at each other. They could almost sense the scant lines of the four haiku lingering in the air around them. The poems had been brought to life for evil purposes and now they had gained a certain amount of power. Works of creativity transformed by the dark souls of their authors. The memory of the poems seemed a sharp contrast to the aspirations the Bayside Book Writers had for their own manuscripts.
“Blake got what he wanted after Dean’s death, but Atlas’s goals hadn’t been satisfied,” Olivia said as she cut slices of aged Gouda and Brie and laid the cheese alongside a fan of thin crackers. “In the end, he intended to murder Blake.” She handed the plate to Rawlings.
He picked up a cracker and held the food suspended in the air. “Yes. Mr. Kraus deemed the young Mr. Talbot an unworthy suitor and also as someone who was sure to interfere with his plans to renew a relationship with his daughter. He wanted to take charge of Heidi’s career. He feels she owes him for abandoning him and going to California with her mother.”
“Oh, that’s rich! Why would she stay with an abusive lunatic? She would never have forgiven him. He beat her mother! He plotted to kill her boyfriend!” Millay scowled.
Rawlings ignored the outburst. “Mr. Kraus also had to get rid of Mr. Warfield, being that he and Blake were confederates. Mr. Kraus couldn’t risk leaving Mr. Warfield alive. Mr. Warfield may have interfered with Mr. Kraus’s attempts to go after Blake Talbot.”
“Why do you call that scumbag ‘Mr. Kraus’?” Millay was angry. “I can give you a few
choice
adjectives if you’ve run out.”
The chief put his plate on the coffee table and clasped his hands together. “I do my best to treat everyone with respect. Mr. Kraus may be a criminal, a monster even, but it is not for me to judge him. I leave that weighty responsibility to others. He broke the law, so I arrested him. That’s my job and I try to perform it with courtesy.”
Olivia admired the chief’s professionalism, but it was clear that Millay disagreed with his beliefs. Twirling a strand of hair around her index finger, she turned to Harris for support. “Don’t you think
Atlas
deserves to fry like a piece of bacon?”
At the word, Haviland raised his head and sniffed the air.
Harris didn’t answer Millay. He seemed to be considering how to respond without giving offense. Laurel glanced at them and said, “Atlas has lost the only thing he ever cared about. His daughter.” She reached across and touched Millay’s hand. “Don’t get me wrong. I
hate
Atlas Kraus. He extinguished such a bright light when he took Camden’s life. He’s sick and twisted. I mean, the way he so calmly planned these horrible things, and then to write those last two poems ...” Her lips trembled and she sucked in a deep breath in order to steady her voice. “But I want to forget about him and focus on this instead.” She waved her hand around the room. “Camden would be so pleased to see us together tonight.”
“But what about justice?” Millay cried. “Is Blake going to walk? We all know he had something to do with at least one of the murders!”
Rawlings looked pained. “No one is going to escape justice, but gathering enough evidence
correctly
takes time. I can assure you that Mr. Talbot’s freedom is temporary. We’ve held several meetings with the DA and as soon as we’re through with our procedural requirements, this case will be wrapped up as tightly as a spring.”
“Right now, Blake’s a media darling. The boy who dodged death.” Olivia felt she had to add weight to the chief’s argument however much she understood Millay’s indignation. “Talbot Fine Properties has a talented PR department. Have you noticed the expensive patio furniture at Bagels ‘n’ Beans or the new sign and awning hanging over Grumpy’s? Dozens of local business owners received ‘gifts of gratitude’ from Blake Talbot, as a means of personally thanking them for their hospitality to his family and his fiancée. The locals have provided the newspapers with nothing but positive quotes in regards to the youngest Talbot but they’ll turn on him like vultures the second one of Oyster Bay’s finest finishes reading him his rights.”