“See? You’d scratch and claw at my arm, desperate to breathe, doing anything in your power to break free.” Rawlings resumed his seat across from Olivia. He averted his gaze, and she knew he’d felt her hunger for him, that it had shocked him with electricity, like water dripping onto a live wire.
Reaching for her glass, Olivia nodded. “You expected to find the killer’s skin under Nick’s nails.”
“Yes. The nails obviously weren’t cleaned, so I’ve begun to believe that Mr. Plumley also wore gloves.”
Several thoughts vied for attention once the chief voiced this theory. Olivia remembered Shala Knowles and her fellow curators donning their white gloves to examine Harris’s painting. She also envisioned Ray Hatcher showing up at Nick’s house with the photographs the author was so desperate to examine. Plumley would have gladly put on a pair of latex gloves in exchange for the right to view images of Camp New Bern.
Rawlings had come to the same conclusion. “I need to pay a visit to Mr. Hatcher tonight. There are far too many suspects in this case, too many people who’d take a risk in the hope of walking away with a pile of money.”
“Or for the chance at possessing an original work by Heimlich Kamler,” Olivia pointed out. “There must have been half a dozen art aficionados in the curator’s office. Who knows how many people they told about the painting? They knew my name and that I’d come to Raleigh from Oyster Bay. I would have been easy to find . . .” She trailed off, feeling foolish.
The chief dismissed the notion. “The murderer wanted Nick dead, not you. I don’t know how the painting fits into the case or if it has any connection at all, but I need to find Hatcher before it gets any later.”
He put his hand on her shoulder in passing. “Nice work, Olivia.”
Without turning, she felt him leave. It was as if the room grew suddenly duller, the warmth on her skin where his breath and fingers had touched her was replaced by the cool exhalation of air-conditioning. Even the candle sputtered, sending fractured shadows onto the table where Rawlings’ empty coffee cup sat.
At that moment his sister entered the bar, her cheeks flushed from an evening of celebration. “There you are!” she exclaimed merrily. “You shouldn’t have paid for my birthday supper! We barely know each other.”
Olivia smiled. “Fifty is a milestone. I couldn’t resist the chance to do something to contribute to your party.”
“And maybe impress my brother at the same time?” Jeannie winked impishly.
Holding her hands out in surrender, Olivia had to laugh. “You got me. I did have an ulterior motive.”
Jeannie squeezed her on the arm. “Thank you all the same. We’d better be going so you all can close. I’ve never been the last person in a restaurant before, but it sure makes me feel young and adventurous. Good night!”
“Wait! Please.” Olivia put out her right hand, hoping to impede the woman’s departure.
The chief’s sister drew close again. “Go on, I can see that you want to ask me something about Sawyer.”
Olivia cast her gaze down. “I screwed up with him. He was willing to be with me, but . . . well . . . I pushed him away,” she confessed miserably. “How can I prove that I’m ready now, that I know I made a mistake the morning I let him go?”
Jeannie took a long time answering. She seemed to be deciding whether Olivia Limoges was worthy of her brother. Finally, her eyes softened. “He was torn in two when Helen died, so he’s not going to come knockin’ on your door if you’ve already shut it in his face once. He’s going to protect his heart now. You want to claim him?”
Uncomfortable in the face of such a direct question, Olivia clenched her jaw to hold in the uprising of feeling and nodded, her sea blue eyes glittering with intensity.
“Well, then. You’re going to have to do something big. And I don’t mean buy him a yacht or write his name across the sky. Something big is something that scares the life out of you, that makes you tremble in your shoes because it’s chock-full of risk. You show Sawyer what you’re letting me see and he’ll never let you go again.” She raised a finger in warning. “But don’t you mess around with his heart, Olivia. I might be a plump, God-fearing wife and mother, but I’ll tear you to pieces with my bare hands if you hurt him.”
Olivia believed her. “I read you loud and clear. He’s lucky to have such a devoted sister.”
Jeannie shrugged, merriment instantly returning to her round cheeks. “Trust me, I wasn’t always nice to him. He did some terrible things to my doll collection, and I held that against him for years.” She smiled. “Word has it that you have a brother too.”
“Hudson. He and his wife, Kim, and their daughter, Caitlyn, all live here now. And they just had a baby. A boy named Anders.” Olivia felt a pang when she spoke his name. She had an inexplicable urge to get in the car and drive to Greenville, to see the infant’s little face and to watch the steady rise and fall of his small chest. Instead, she silently vowed to call Kim first thing in the morning.
“Whatever it is, the child’ll be just fine,” Jeannie said, correctly sensing Olivia’s anxiety. “Babies are tougher than they look.” A movement near the hostess podium caught her attention. “There’s my gang, waiting on me as usual.” She patted Olivia’s hand. “You take care.”
Olivia watched as Jeannie’s husband slid an arm around her waist and kissed her several times on the brow and then once on the lips. Their teenage children followed behind, looking both embarrassed and protected by their father’s open display of affection.
When they’d gone, the emptiness of the restaurant resonated around Olivia. It was only when the waitstaff turned up the lights in the dining room and set about their closing tasks that Olivia was able to shake off her stupor and head through the swinging doors to greet Haviland.
In the kitchen, the sous-chefs weren’t exchanging their usual insults and lighthearted banter. Instead, they were strangely silent. The dishwasher’s banging and splashing reverberated against metal pans and mixing bowls, and no one looked up when she approached.
Olivia paused, glancing from her office door, which was closed, to the sous-chefs. They wouldn’t meet her inquisitive gaze, but their hands betrayed their feelings, straying to twist water from a dishrag or to diligently polish an already gleaming knife blade.
Without bothering to knock, Olivia threw open the door to her office and let out an involuntary gasp.
There was Michel, one arm wrapped around a woman’s back, his free hand stroking her wheat blond hair. Her face was buried in the chef’s neck, and though Olivia couldn’t quite hear the words she whispered, the raw desire behind them was clear enough, tainting the air with a heady, cloying perfume like that of a million jasmine blossoms opening at once.
Haviland bounded up from his position on the floor and gave Olivia a toothy smile. She reached for him and, at the same time, found her voice.
“Laurel Hobbs! What the hell is going on here?”
Chapter 12
Life is not significant details, illuminated by a flash, fixed forever. Photographs are.
—SUSAN SONTAG
Olivia twirled the Mercury dime on the tabletop, watching it reflect splinters of morning light onto the Formica. It winked like a buoy on the water until bumping into the edge of her coffee cup and then clattering to a stop. She picked up the dime and sent it spinning once again.