Rawlings rubbed his chin and spent a few moments quietly thinking. “He may also have a code. Don’t kill women. Don’t hurt the innocent. He knocked your dog out, but he didn’t kill him.”
“Close enough,” Olivia growled.
Sending the two officers into the cottage for a quick search, Rawlings took Olivia’s elbow and held it. “Is it too much to ask you to be careful between now and tonight’s meeting?”
Olivia smiled at him. “Don’t worry about me, Chief. I’ll come into town to give you my fingerprints. Until then, I plan to find things to do at home.” Her smile vanished. “Such as cleaning my rifle.”
Chapter 15
In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
—ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
To her relief, Rawlings and his men declined Olivia’s offer of coffee, leaving her free to take a hot shower. Afterward, her hair curling against her forehead and the side of her cheeks in damp tendrils, Olivia placed a call to Diane.
“Haviland’s still asleep, but that’s to be expected,” the vet said. “It’s not the drug-induced sleep he was in a few hours ago. In fact, he’s dreaming. His paws are twitching as though he’s out on the beach chasing sandpipers.”
Reassured by this image, Olivia spread an old towel on the kitchen table and set out her rifle and gun cleaning kit. She switched on her living room stereo and felt a measure of the tension lodged between her shoulder blades slide away as the opening strains of Beethoven’s “Für Elise” tiptoed into the room.
After pouring herself a large mug of coffee, Olivia laid out the contents of the gun cleaning kit like a surgeon organizing his instruments before a case. She looked over the folding ramrod, nitro solvent, gun oil, cleaning pads, and cloths and was satisfied with her supplies. Unloading the rifle, she carefully pulled the trigger off and then removed the bolt from the rifle body. She screwed together her collapsible ramrod, fed a folded cleaning pad through the hole, and dipped the tool into the solvent.
Gently easing the ramrod all the way into the barrel until it rubbed against the firing mechanism, Olivia worked the device in and out, stopping to change cleaning pads. Once the interior was clean, she dabbed a bit of oil on a soft cloth and began to wipe the pieces of metal on the outside of the gun. The task was calming. It gave Olivia a sense of control and as the music washed over her, she was able to focus on the riddle of the murderer’s identity.
Max Warfield has got to be involved, she thought as she began to reassemble the rifle. As soon as I pick up Haviland, I’m going to pay him a visit. And I think I’ll bring my weapon along.
Out on the deck, Olivia stared down the barrel of her gun. She zeroed in on twigs or dark-hued rocks sticking out of the sand and then let her eyes drift across the sparkling water. Recalling Haviland’s limp body lying in the dark, Olivia felt anger surge through her body—a fierce juxtaposition of the lazy roll of wavelets before her. Jaw clenched, she pumped the unloaded rifle and pressed the trigger, imagining a bullet puncturing the surface of the water, slicing through the blue gray depths until it drove beneath a layer of murk, forever embedded in the cold sea floor.
Having just cleaned the rifle, Olivia had no intention of sullying it by firing a round, no matter how much release she’d gain by doing so. Instead, she collected an unopened box of bullets, a covered bowl containing a healthy snack for Haviland, and a travel mug of coffee for herself.
At the police station, she informed the desk officer that her fingerprints were needed and, to her chagrin, Officer Cook appeared to take them.
“It’s you again,” he muttered, gesturing for her to follow him to the processing area in the building housing the jail. Neither spoke as they walked, but Cook glanced over his shoulder several times, as though a big, black poodle might overtake them at any moment.
Standing across from Olivia, the policeman rolled each of her fingers with the same roughness she imagined he’d use on the combative drunk driver. When he was finished, he tossed two packets of moist towelettes on the counter.
Olivia studied the young man dispassionately. She could only imagine the feelings of impotency the members of the police department must be experiencing with a pair of unsolved murders on their desks and a bevy of reporters crawling over every inch of the town.
“You’ll get him in the end,” she said as she began to clean her fingertips. As one moist cloth became stained with the blue purple ink, she ripped open a second. “He’s not any smarter than you are,” she continued, though she knew this might not be true. The killer had already established his intelligence by avoiding capture. “And what if he’s not working alone? Having a partner should make him easier to catch. Chief Rawlings believes he’ll be at the town hall tonight. If not him, then his partner.” She held up a stained index finger. “Watch for the nonverbal signals, Officer. One of our own has been bribed or blackmailed by Blake Talbot or Max Warfield. Watch those two. They have alibis but the ‘silent partner’ in these murders may not have. And he has to have a tell.”
Cook frowned and Olivia thought the young man was sure to turn truculent, but he surprised her by nodding. “I play poker every Friday and everybody’s got a tell. Even me.” He handed her a third towelette. “You gotta get it off right away. This ink stains worse than blueberry pie on a white napkin.”
“Thank you, Officer Cook.” Olivia finished scrubbing her fingers and then followed the young lawman back to the lobby. “I was wondering if you knew the date of Dean Talbot’s funeral?”
“No, ma‘am, but it won’t be here in Oyster Bay,” Cook replied. “They’re takin’ his body back to New York tomorrow where it belongs. The oldest son is handlin’ it all. He’s a real prize. He thinks we’re all a bunch of dumb hillbillies, but we know a coke addict when we see one. I’ll be glad to see the last of that family for a while.”
Olivia grew thoughtful. “Dean died on Saturday, yet his funeral is Wednesday, which means it was likely delayed until the conclusion of tonight’s meeting. Interesting. With the two of the three Talbot kids not yet arrived from New York, someone needs to stay behind to oversee ...” She trailed off. It was definitely time to pay a visit to Max’s rented condo. “Good luck, Officer. The citizens of Oyster Bay are counting on you.” She smiled at the bewildered policeman and returned to the Rover, which was parked in the fire lane right outside the jail’s front door.
Inside the stifling car, Olivia checked her cell phone for messages. Her face lit up as she listened to the voicemail from Diane. Haviland was awake and moving around and seemed to be no worse for wear.
By the time Olivia pulled in front of the vet’s office, her stomach was rumbling. Glancing at the Tupperware on her passenger seat, Olivia knew she’d end up tossing its contents. Haviland was going to dine on ground turkey and raw chicken hearts—one of his favorite meals. They’d both lunch at The Boot Top.
One of Diane’s employees must have noticed Olivia’s car, for as soon as she stepped onto the driveway, Haviland was allowed outside. He bounded over to his mistress and stood up on his hind legs with a jubilant yelp. Olivia threw her arms around the poodle and then sank to her knees, laughing as she welcomed the frenzied kisses Haviland planted all over her face, neck, and shoulders.