It was perfect for Olivia
“I couldn’t do anything to help the man on the beach,” she said to Haviland. She shielded her eyes against the sun’s glare and studied the building. “But I can rescue this place. Restore a piece of Oyster Bay’s history and create some new jobs. I’m in the mood for a new project. Don’t you think The Bayside Crab House has a nice ring to it?”
The poodle barked his assent.
Chapter 3
We were put here as witnesses to the miracle of life. We see the stars, and we want them. We are beholden to give back to the universe . . . If we make landfall on another star system, we become immortal.
—RAY BRADBURY
Olivia wondered if Chief Rawlings would be able to push away the images of the crime scene photos and the scant facts written on the whiteboard in the station’s conference room before knocking on the door of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage. But it took only a glance for her to see that the details of the investigation clung to him like cigarette smoke. His hazel eyes, which were tinged with green and gold in direct sunlight, were murky as shallows in the marshes, and the skin of his face was pinched.
Rawlings stepped forward to greet the other writers, but Olivia blocked his path and placed a tumbler of scotch whiskey in his hand.
The chief was surprised by the act. Olivia had generously refurbished the neglected building for the use of their writers’ club and other community organizations, but her charitable gestures did not typically include the sharing of her twenty-five-year-old Chivas Regal. True, the cottage refrigerator was regularly stocked with beer and white wine and Olivia supplied her friends with the same bottles of fine merlot and cabernet blends featured on The Boot Top’s wine list, but everyone knew better than to reach for her scotch.
“Thank you.” Rawlings took a grateful sip. The night was warm, but the amber liquid felt good sliding down his throat. It settled in the pit of his empty stomach, blended with his blood, and eased the tension from his knotted neck and shoulder muscles. “A few more swallows and I might actually make some intelligent comments this evening.”
Before Olivia could reply, Laurel took the chief by the arm and pulled him over to the sofa. “Are you having any luck cracking the robbery case? It happened in my neighborhood, you know.”
Rawlings looked stunned for a moment, as though the loss of a well-to-do suburbanite’s material possessions was the furthest thing from his mind.
“I know you’re out of uniform during these meetings, but I can’t stop thinking about guys in ski masks creeping around my subdivision. I haven’t slept well since it happened.” Laurel’s anxiety was obvious.
The chief had only made it to two critique nights thus far. His schedule was unpredictable and demanding and he’d been late on both occasions. At first, the other writers had peppered him with questions concerning his whereabouts until he’d chided them for acting like a suspicious wife. He had insisted upon being allowed to leave his job behind when he stepped over the threshold into the cottage’s cozy living room.
Olivia watched the lawman with interest. She knew Rawlings was a voracious reader, but he had turned out to be a skilled critic as well. Most of his comments were phrased as questions, and she wondered if he interrogated suspects with the same gentleness he’d displayed when pointing out flaws in the other writers’ work. She sensed he was eager to turn his attention to Harris’s chapter but was too much of a gentleman to leave Laurel’s question unanswered.
“I can’t say that I am aware of any updates regarding the burglaries,” Rawlings finally replied.
“Burglaries?” Laurel’s eyes went wide. “There’s been more than one?”
“We have two open cases. One in your neighborhood and another that occurred in Sandpiper Shores several weeks ago. Similar items were taken and there was no sign of forced entry.” He gave Laurel’s hand a paternal pat. “We’ll apprehend the thieves, don’t you worry. Just keep your doors locked and your eyes open.”
“The chief’s got more serious bad guys to chase than a few TV-swiping cat burglars, right, Chief?” This from Millay, the Asian American bartender who wrote young adult fantasy. Millay was an exotic beauty, with full lips, dark brown eyes, and tea-hued skin. The girl seemed to deliberately mar her loveliness with brow piercings, hair tint, and heavy makeup. Tonight, for example, she wore her customary knee-length leather boots, thigh-high striped socks, a metallic miniskirt, and a T-shirt bearing a “Little Miss Sunshine” iron-on. Her hair was gelled into sharp points that hovered over her shoulder, and each tip had been dyed an electric plum. Her eyes were rimmed with black eyeliner and she wore a thick coating of lipstick in a dark cherry shade. Examining her chipped nail polish, she gave the chief a falsely nonchalant glance. “Heard something pretty nasty washed up on the Point today.”
Rawlings clearly knew that he was being baited but couldn’t prevent the corners of his mouth from pulling down in irritation. “Has one of my men been tweeting about life on the Oyster Bay police force again?”
He tried to keep his voice light, but Millay shook her head. “Nah. I heard it standing in line behind some grandma in Stop ’n’ Shop. She was whispering about it to one of her bingo buddies. It’s gotta be all over town by now. Those biddies don’t have anything better to do with their time.” She tossed her skull-covered messenger bag onto the sofa. “She also told me I looked like a child of Satan and asked me if my mom knew I dressed like this.”
Instead of claiming the gossip to be false, Rawlings fixed Millay with a soft gaze. “We haven’t been able to ID the man. Will you keep an ear open to the talk circulating in Fish Nets over the next few days and let me know if anyone mentions a local having gone missing?” He leaned forward slightly, as though he and Millay were the only people in the room. “That woman may not understand your fashion sense, but I know you’re bright and observant no matter what you wear. I could use your help. Unofficially, of course.”
“Yeah, sure. No sweat.” Millay’s eyes twinkled. She was clearly pleased to be given the chief’s trust but didn’t want to let it show. The patrons of her smoke-filled drinking den weren’t as loose-tongued as the senior citizens shopping at Stop ’n’ Shop, but they often shared confidences with Millay. The young woman pretended she was uncomfortable with her role as confidante and chalked it up as an occupational hazard. “Goes with the territory,” she’d told them months ago. “I hear stuff their wives, best buddies, and ministers don’t even know. You give a man enough to drink and suddenly he’s your best friend.”
Olivia supposed there was some truth to that, but she also imagined that Millay’s beauty had more than a little to do with the number of secrets she became privy to over her eight P.M. to two A.M. shift.
“Did I miss anything?” Harris asked as he walked in and helped himself to a beer.
Olivia pointed at the pages she held in her hand and shot Laurel a warning look. It was time to get down to business. “We were just jawing a bit, but now that you’re here we can begin. Grab some food and settle in.”
Harris took an unusually large slug of beer and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The science fiction writer was thirty but didn’t look a day over twenty-one. Boyishly handsome, he had ginger hair, an angular chin, rose red lips, and a playful laugh. He reminded Olivia of Peter Pan. Harris was more bashful than the leader of the Lost Boys, however, due to a chronic case of rosacea. As a result, he spent too much time alone with only cyber friends as company.