Someone dropped a metal bowl in the kitchen and the clanging brought Olivia out of her reverie. She rubbed her arms, wondering if the air-conditioning was set too low or if the pictures of snow and ice had made her feel cold.
“ ‘Apple seeds slumber,’” she whispered and clicked on the next image, which captured the twisted, sharp branches of a single tree. In fact, the limbs looked as though they’d been whipped so harshly by a persistent wind that they’d bent back upon themselves. The photo created feelings of anxiety, as though the tree was in agony. Olivia had never realized that an apple tree could appear frightening, almost violent, but this one did. She exited the website and returned to the original search results.
Her quest for apple seed references led her to pages of recipe listings and advertisements for preschools, eateries, and gardening supply companies. At the bottom of the third page, there was a link to an article on the hazardous nature of cyanide. Olivia read, fascinated, about the dangers of ingesting the poison. When Haviland entered the room, licking his chops with the utmost satisfaction, she pointed at the screen.
“Listen to this, Captain. Cyanide works by preventing the blood from carrying oxygen, so a person dies quickly from asphyxiation. And even though mystery writers often describe it as having an almondlike scent, cyanide can also be completely colorless and odorless.” She sighed. “It also requires a huge amount of pulverized seeds to poison someone, so I don’t see any connection between cyanide and Camden’s death. The apple seeds must mean something else.”
Olivia absently stroked her canine companion. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking? That the haiku wasn’t just about Camden? Perhaps it was a warning to others.
Camden’s ‘words were silenced.’ He was killed and therefore silenced. Because of death, he was also totally still, like an ‘orchard in winter,’ but that last line ... it’s almost as though the apple seeds were waiting. Do you think there will be another victim? That someone will be poisoned?”
Haviland rested his snout on her leg. Olivia stroked his head and cooed, “Don’t worry, Captain. I’m just thinking aloud.”
Olivia was aware that she was trying to reassure herself as much as her poodle.
After two more hours of futile research, Olivia had no clearer idea of the haiku’s meaning. She’d refreshed her memory of high school English literature classes, in which she’d once known that haiku were poems made up of three lines containing five syllables in the first and last lines, and seven syllables in the second line. She was also reminded that one of the four seasons was usually referenced in the poem and that haiku were written using simple language so that a large audience could understand the imagery, yet still be awakened to a unique perspective of a familiar object, setting, or emotion.
What seemed like new information was the requirement of something called a cut. Appearing in the first or second line, cutting was meant to divide the short poem into two sections. Each section could have a different meaning, but the overall poem would remain cohesive. The line containing the cut would end with distinct punctuation such as a colon or a dash.
“Camden’s killer is no fisherman—or a very well read one,” Olivia remarked to Haviland as she drove west toward Raleigh. “He placed a cut in the first line and used proper punctuation according to the rules of haiku. His syllable count was also exact. I must find out more useful information about Blake Talbot. I wasted a good hour sifting through fan pages and Hollywood claptrap. The only interesting tidbit I came across was that his rock band is named Blackwater.”
Haviland turned his head and stretched his neck as far over the center console as he could, avidly sniffing the air.
“You’re being impolite, Captain. It is not time to eat. Is this how you’re going to behave when Mr. Volakis is in the car?”
The poodle gave an apologetic bark and resumed his seat.
“According to Wikipedia, Blackwater is a military company based right here in the beautiful state of North Carolina.” Olivia resumed her lecture. “How do you think the employees of this private security corporation feel about five spoiled twenty-two-year-olds screaming in microphones while garbed in designer fatigues and diamond-studded dog tags?”
Haviland made a rumbling noise in his throat.
Olivia laughed. “Oh, so you did hear the title track I played from their latest CD. I was hoping you’d be under Michel’s butcher block by then, the sounds of Blackwater happily obscured as your favorite chef hacked merrily away at hapless carrots and cucumbers.
“Don’t worry,” she assured the poodle. “I’m not going to play a single note from ‘Wreckage’ ever again. Let’s listen to the rest of our Ancient Evenings audiobook. It’ll help refresh the Egyptian setting for Kamila’s chapter involving ...” She trailed off, her hand frozen on the volume knob. “I hadn’t thought about my writing future, Captain. I wonder if the Bayside Book Writers will continue without Camden?”
Haviland cocked his head, giving his mistress a version of the canine shrug.
Feeling gloomy, Olivia drove the rest of the way in silence, surrendering herself to the melodious voice of the narrator as he led his listeners through the climax of Norman Mailer’s tale of reincarnation set in 1100 B.C.
Upon arriving at the airport, Olivia parked in the short-term lot and informed Haviland that he’d need to wait in the car. Haviland frowned and turned his face away when Olivia reached out to pet him.
“There are limits to where you can go, Captain. I might get away with trotting you around Oyster Bay, but we’d get in trouble if we went strolling into the terminal like we owned the place.”
Giving his mistress a cold, hard stare, Haviland settled down on the seat and closed his eyes.
Inside the air-conditioned terminal, Olivia joined a cluster of limo drivers waiting on one side of security. Withdrawing her own sign from her purse, Olivia stood stiffly upright next to a driver dressed in an inexpensive black suit, white shirt, and midnight blue tie.
“Excuse me.” Olivia smiled at the man. “Could you tell me whether the US Air flight from Los Angeles has arrived yet?”
The driver’s southern upbringing dictated he come to the aid of a woman in need. “Let me run over and check the board, ma‘am. Be back in two shakes. You just wait right there.” Returning quickly to his spot, he said, “The flight’s landed. Probably take ten minutes for the passengers to deplane and for them to walk to this area.” He noticed her sign. “You expectin’ family?”
“No. I’ve never seen this man in my life,” Olivia answered. “He’s coming to attend a funeral, I’m afraid. He isn’t expecting to be picked up and I’m worried he’ll rush right by me.”
Bowing slightly, the driver said, “Ah, I doubt anyone would miss you, ma’am, but I could hold up the sign for you if you’d like. I know you’re tall for a lady and all, but I’ve got that chauffeur look about me. Wouldn’t want this fellow to pass you by.”
Olivia handed him the sheet of cardstock with gratitude.
She wanted to be able to take brief measure of Camden’s lover before he became aware that he wasn’t actually being picked up by a member of the Oyster Bay Police Department. Fortunately, Mr. Cosmo Volakis was easy to identify. The moment he exited the corridor adjacent to the security check, Olivia knew she was looking at Camden’s significant other.
Of average height and build, Cosmo had a thatch of glossy black hair, an unlined, olive-skinned face, long, feathery eyelashes framing chestnut brown eyes, and a firm, masculine jaw. His lips were as plump as a supermodel’s pout, his chin was dimpled, and his nose, though slightly hooked at the tip, gave him an air of distinction. He wore a cobalt dress shirt, a checked blazer, tailored jeans, and Italian calfskin loafers. A Louis Vuitton garment bag was slung over one shoulder and a pair of sunglasses peeked out of his breast pocket. Every woman within range glanced at Cosmo with appreciation. Several cast him openly flirtatious smiles, but he was too focused on locating his method of transportation to pay his admirers any heed.