Nodding humbly, Olivia said, “There may be one little errand I could run on behalf of the Oyster Bay Police Department, ensuring your talents or those of another valuable officer aren’t wasted providing limo service for the victim’s boyfriend. I hear he’s on his way as we speak.”
Cook looked torn, but clearly he wanted to see some real action and he didn’t feel like acting as a chauffeur would qualify.
He took a manly swig of soda. “All right, Ms. Limoges. You can pick him up, but I’m gonna tell you how it’s gonna play out and you’re gonna follow my exact directions. Understand?”
“Of course.” Olivia smiled demurely and gave Officer Cook her undivided attention.
Chapter 6
Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need to know of hell.
—EMILY DICKINSON
Upon leaving the station, Olivia found she didn’t feel like going home. She was restless, but most of Oyster Bay’s businesses were closed on Sunday, so there was little to do but attend church services or go out to eat. Olivia didn’t want to do either, so she decided to stop by her restaurant and busy herself with mindless paperwork.
The Boot Top Bistro had recently added a Sunday brunch to its list of offerings and the churchgoers were streaming into the restaurant as Olivia and Haviland pulled into the parking lot. Plump matrons in pastel skirt suits led their pressed and polished families like clucking hens gathering chicks to the feed pile. Glowering teenagers, pained over being separated from cell phones, iPods, and handheld video games, trailed after the rest of their kin as though hoping to appear unrelated to those who caused them such acute embarrassment merely by existing.
Normally, the sight of so many patrons filing into The Boot Top would have put Olivia in an agreeable mood, but she felt completely out of sorts. It wasn’t only Camden’s tragic death that bothered her, but the feelings of powerlessness that accompanied his murder.
Bursting into the kitchen through the back door, Olivia was greeted by her staff, but she merely waved them off and headed for her office, a tiny, windowless room next to the dry goods pantry. Michel followed her, Haviland right on the chef’s heels, clearly hoping to receive a savory treat.
“I do have something for you, my friend. Une moment.” Michel smiled at the poodle but wouldn’t pet him while he was in the midst of food preparation. “Olivia, I heard what happened to your writer friend.” Michel worriedly studied his employer. “Are you sure you want to be here? Georges has things well under control.”
Georges served as both maître d’ and general manager.
“Last time I checked, this was my restaurant and I could come and go as I pleased!” Olivia snapped and then immediately relented. “My apologies, Michel. I shouldn’t be directing my ire at you. I simply cannot stand to sit around, idle, and hope for things to turn out as they ought.”
Michel nodded. Another type A personality, he understood her need to take action. “The police don’t know your friend, do they? He’s an outsider?”
“Camden? He was a gossip columnist from Los Angeles.” She pictured Camden’s silk shirts and flawlessly creased trousers. “Though I’m sure most of them noticed him. He was rather flamboyant for our conservative little town.” Absently, Olivia pressed several pencils into an automatic sharpener and then, satisfied with their sharpness, lined them up neatly on her desk calendar. “But I see what you’re saying—that it would be easier to find his killer if we really knew Camden Ford. Unfortunately, I consider myself his most recent acquaintance, so I need to squeeze as much information as I can out of the person who knew him best.”
Michel looked intrigued. “Who would that be? His mother?”
“His lover. I’m picking him up at the Raleigh-Durham airport early this evening,” Olivia answered and then grinned slyly as an idea struck. “Michel, darling, how would you like to assign one of your assistants a small task? As a personal favor to me?”
Bowing from the waist, Michel said, “Anything for you. You need only ask.”
“I’d like a picnic dinner of sorts. A basket brimming with the type of delicacies to loosen the tongue of a stranger.” She looked up at the chef in appeal. “Can you make it fancy yet comforting?”
Her unusual request seemed to please Michel to no end. He stood a fraction taller and straightened his pristine, white hat. “I’ll see to it myself. Robbie and Jeremy are perfectly capable of making omelets Florentine and crab Benedict. This requires a delicate hand.” He displayed the briefest of sulks. “I know these brunches are profitable, but they’re rather unadventurous for someone of my talents.”
Olivia glanced at him with a trace of amusement. “You don’t have to work Sundays, Michel. I already told you that. You work too much as is.”
“It beats being at home,” he murmured, and Olivia knew he was referring to his recent breakup with his girlfriend. Personally, she felt the end of his affair with a married woman was a good thing. Besides, Michel was a born optimist, and despite the lovers’ drama-rich parting, he wouldn’t be down for long. Even now, he quickly shook off his melancholy and turned his thoughts to what he knew best: food. “Let’s see. I think I’ll pack some crisp herb crostini with goat cheese, avocado stuffed with chicken salad and dill, cubed watermelon and mango with a lime drizzle, and perhaps a few macaroons dipped in dark chocolate. Linen napkins, small bottles of Perrier—all gracefully arranged in a deep, wicker basket. We have one around here somewhere.”
Rising, Olivia placed her hand on Michel’s arm. “You’re worth every cent of the exorbitant salary I pay you. Make sure you pack enough for three.”
Michel shook his head. “I’ll wrap up something else for the Captain. Neither fruit nor macaroons are to his taste.”
Olivia laughed. “Of course not. Now get back in that kitchen or I’ll make you operate an omelet station out in the dining room.”
Flipping a dish towel over his shoulder, Michel blew air noisily through pursed lips. “You wouldn’t dare. The first sign of a rolling cart with fixings for Belgian waffles and I’ll walk right out the door.”
“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of insulting the staff in such a way. Food preparation belongs in the kitchen. Still, the restaurant does seem rather full. Perhaps I should raise the brunch prices? I don’t want to take any business away from Grumpy’s.”
Michel left Olivia to her musings. As soon as she was alone, she logged on to her computer and typed the first line of the haiku written over Camden’s body into Google’s search box.
“ ‘His words are silenced,’ ” she mumbled to herself as an assortment of results appeared on the screen. “No matches. How about the second line? ‘An orchard in winter.’ ”
She studied the links to photographs of orchards in winter and selected a page of color shots showing an apple orchard covered in snow. One of the images, called “First Frost,” depicted the trees’ barren branches encased in a layer of ice. The snow around the trunks was at least a foot deep and was unmarred by a single blemish. No footprints, animal tracks, or shovel cuts spoiled the pristine, blinding white surface. Olivia enlarged the picture and sat staring at it for several moments. The absolute silence of the scene was almost palpable. She could feel herself there—in the cold, beneath the gray sky. The more her eyes fixed on the image, the more clearly she could sense the stark loneliness of being the only human being around for miles.