A Killer Plot (15 page)

The moment she was finished reading, Olivia began to call her fellow writers in order to plan a lunch meeting for the following day. She phoned Laurel first, assuming the young mother would need to make babysitting arrangements, but Laurel insisted she’d have to bring her children along.

“Tomorrow’s Tuesday. Steve’ll be at work and I can’t hire a sitter unless we’re going out together for a date night,” she explained without embarrassment. “He’s a dentist but he just bought into a practice. I don’t understand it, but he says we really have to watch every penny. And the twins cost
so
much! The way they grow out of clothes and car seats—and they seem to eat all the time! I never thought having kids would be this expensive.”

Plans foiled, Olivia tried to think of a suitable location in which four adults could hold a serious conversation while a pair of demanding, hyperactive toddlers played in relative safety. She tried to picture them in the lighthouse keeper’s cottage but found the thought incredibly distasteful.

“There’s the playground at the beach,” Laurel suggested.

Olivia predicted that the screeches of dozens of children would repeatedly interrupt their concentration. “We couldn’t talk to one another effectively sitting on those benches because they all face the playground. We need to gather around some kind of table,” Olivia reasoned. “Not only that, but an outdoor meeting at noon in June might be a tad warm.”

“I don’t mind. I love the heat,” Laurel said.

Olivia was pleased to know that another Oyster Bay native loved the summer weather as much as she did. “I do as well, but Millay doesn’t seem overly fond of daylight and I think the UV rays would be too harsh on Harris’s skin.”

“You are so considerate,” Laurel gushed and then went
tsk, tsk
with her tongue. “Our Harris is
such
a handsome guy if you look beyond that rash, don’t you think? I wish there was a product to help clear up his face. I can only imagine the effect his condition has on his confidence.”

“He seems to possess a solid level of self-assurance,” Olivia remarked, but even as she spoke she scribbled a quick note to call the spa in New Bern the next morning.

Laurel made a noncommittal noise. “Only around us. He hasn’t had a date since his high school prom and I think his social life exists totally in cyberspace. Facebook and Twitter and places like that.”

Olivia’s glance wandered to her copy of Sunday’s
Oyst
er Bay Gazette.
The local weekly, which went to print Saturday evening and was therefore mercifully free of any dramatic headlines regarding Camden’s death, featured a black-and-white photo and a front-page article about Flynn McNulty and Through the Wardrobe.

“Laurel!” Olivia tapped the photograph of Flynn leaning against one of his armoires, his arms crossed over his chest as he smiled warmly for the camera. “I know where we can meet. Do your sons enjoy books?”

Laurel laughed. “They like chewing on them and hitting each other with them. Does that count? Oh! I’ve heard about that new bookstore from my Mommy and Me group. With the dress-up stuff and the puppets, there’s a chance the twins might stay relatively calm.”

“I’ll bring a large bottle of ether just in case,” Olivia murmured, sending Laurel into peals of laughter.

The other members readily agreed to join them at the bookstore. Harris reminded Olivia that he only had an hour lunch break and then told her how he’d spent most of Sunday reading up on the Talbot family. Being savvier about Internet search protocol, he’d also been more successful than Olivia in retrieving background information on Blake Talbot. He hadn’t stopped with the youngest son, however, and was prepared to present biographic summaries on the entire family.

Olivia called Millay last, and though the younger woman complained she’d normally still be abed at noon, she seemed anxious to discuss Camden’s chapters.

“Will you have time to read them?” Olivia asked her. “Are you working tonight?”

“Yeah, I’m here now. You can only hear me because I’m in the supply closet looking for toilet paper. Totally glam, huh?” She snorted. “But Mondays are slow. Between my breaks and the lulls that’ll come when the guys get too riled up over some stupid NASCAR race to drink, I’ll get it done.” Millay sounded determined. “Even if I have to stay up until dawn, I’ll be ready to contribute. And I’m going to see what I can weasel out of my regulars during my shift too. They’ll talk to me, especially if I don’t water down their whiskey as much as I usually do.”

Olivia was impressed by Millay’s commitment. “That a girl,” she told the bartender. “And be careful.”

Millay blew air out through her lips. “
Please
. Those men would rather have sex with me than murder me and I don’t intend to let them do either. See you at noon and make sure there’s coffee. Lots of it.”

Recalling Flynn’s unpalatable brew, Olivia frowned. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring a thermos.”

“Then I’ll bring a flask,” Millay said and rang off, leaving Olivia to wonder if the young woman had been serious.

 

 

Camden had written nearly one hundred pages of the book he had entitled
The Tarnished Titans
. The writing was fluid and filled with vivid imagery, but Olivia found the lack of chronology confusing. Chapter one described the sheltered childhood of the “Talcott” siblings, and just when Olivia felt as though she was developing a sense of each of the five family member’s personas, Camden focused chapter two solely on Don Talcott.

Don, who was undoubtedly the titan referred to in the book’s title, was easily the most interesting character. Raised in a blue-collar Brooklyn home, the young man had gotten ahead by any means possible. After spending four years running errands in one of Manhattan’s premier investment firms while he took night classes toward a business degree, Don was finally awarded a desk and assigned the miserable task of cold calls. As luck would have it, the ambitious Talcott was a born salesman and his exceptional skill at “dialing for dollars” earned him the attention of the firm’s board of directors. Ten years later, he was one of them.

Don married the beautiful Broadway sensation, Lana Alexander. At nineteen, Lana’s decision to become Mrs. Donald Talcott immediately resulted in the death of her career. Pregnant three times in less than five years, Lana remained secluded with her progeny behind the tall, ivy-covered fence surrounding their Long Island estate while Don paraded a host of young models, fresh-faced debutantes, and high-class prostitutes into New York’s chicest nightclubs and restaurants.

The book’s next few chapters centered on the Talcott children. According to Camden’s claims, the two boys and one girl were reared primarily by a Hispanic nanny until they were old enough to be sent away to boarding school. Lana spent most of their childhood checking in and out of rehab centers in New York, Beverly Hills, Texas, and across Europe. The last chapter focused on Bradley and was the only chapter already read and critiqued by the Bayside Book Writers prior to Camden’s death.

“There’s nothing specific about what kind of education Blake received,” Olivia said to Haviland as she pulled into a parking space across from the bookstore. “I was hoping to learn that the boy had written poetry since grammar school or something equally obvious. Maybe Harris can paint a more complete picture.”

As she reached for the shop’s brass door handle, her cell phone rang.

“It’s Annie Kraus. I thought you might have tried to reach Mr. Cosmo on his mobile. You see, he left it in the dining room and it plays a little song every time it rings, and since I just happened to see your number on the screen, I wanted you to know he’s all right.” She finally took a breath. “Well, he’s not exactly in good shape, but he’s here at the inn.”

Olivia relaxed her outstretched arm. “Thank you. I’ve called him several times since yesterday afternoon but assumed he wanted some time alone so I let it be.”

“He’s been sleeping most of the time away.” Annie sighed heavily. “The poor boy was completely done in what with the funeral home and then his trip to the police station.” She paused. “I’m afraid I didn’t do him any favors. I brought him a nice bottle of Merlot to go with his lamb chops. He polished that one off and asked for another to take to his room. I couldn’t refuse him—the sweet, sad, sad boy.”

“A few hours of oblivion were probably a gift to him,” Olivia stated. “When he feels like himself again, tell him he can call me if he’d like a drink or a meal at The Boot Top.”

“Will do,” Annie replied. “I’m going to brew some peppermint tea and slice up an apple and a banana. The fruit soaks up the alcohol and the tea gives the body back some of its pep. Mr. Cosmo will be right as rain by this afternoon. Nothing beats my mother’s magical hangover remedy.”

“I’ll keep that recipe in mind.” Olivia said good-bye and stepped into the bookstore, where she immediately collided with Chief Rawlings. He automatically reached out and held on to her arm, as though she needed to be steadied. But Olivia hadn’t lost her balance and now the two stood, their chests centimeters apart, frozen for a moment. To Olivia, the chief’s touch and the proximity of their bodies became instantly intimate.

Shocked by the realization that she felt completely at ease being so close to the lawman, Olivia immediately took a step back. She looked down at the chief’s hands, searching for evidence that he’d been shopping for books in the midst of a murder investigation.

“I’m glad to run into you, Ms. Limoges.” Rawlings kept his tone formal, but his eyes appraised her warmly. With the full force of the midday sun illuminating his face, Olivia could see the lines on the chief’s forehead, like river symbols on a primitive map. Crinkles deepened the corners of his eyes, indicating he smiled easily and often. Olivia couldn’t help but wonder if he’d had any reason to express humor since Saturday night. Today, his eyes were less the brownish green of pond water and more like sun-dappled tidal pools.

She broke eye contact. “This is hardly where I’d expect to find you, Chief,” she said stiffly, discomforted by the pleasure she’d taken in examining his features. Holding the door open for Haviland, she allowed the poodle to stand in front of her like a canine barricade.

Rawlings made room for Haviland, his mouth curving into the shadow of a grin. Just as quickly as it had surfaced, the hint of amusement was gone. “I thought Mr. McNulty might be able to offer some enlightenment about our strange poem. I was able to find general information about haiku, but the deeper meaning of the spray-paint poem is making my head swim.” Frustration hardened the line of his lips. “Have you had any ideas?”

Olivia shook her head. “I’m going to meet with my friends now to discuss that and other things,” she answered elusively. “Was Mr. McNulty helpful?”

Rawlings hesitated. “He thought it felt unfinished. Not the poem itself, but the message of the poet. Specifically, Mr. McNulty felt there was a sense of pause in the last word, ‘slumber.’ A pause in lieu of closure.”

Looking over the chief’s shoulder at the bookstore proprietor, Olivia nodded. “I’d have to agree with that assessment. I too felt alarm over the seasonal nature of the poem. If this haiku is meant to represent winter, then will a spring follow?” She shook her head, as though trying to dispel the fear. “Without knowing his motive, I can’t see why the killer wrote a poem at all. But the possibility that his message hasn’t been completed worries me.”

Rawlings nodded. “Me as well. I see those three lines whenever I shut my eyes.”

Behind the checkout counter, Flynn thanked his customer, noticed Olivia, and waved at her. She felt a quickening in her blood as their eyes met and, for a brief moment, wondered if Flynn McNulty would make a good candidate for a casual affair. “It’s too bad this store didn’t open sooner,” she said, returning her gaze to the chief. “You’d know the name of every person who reads verse in this town.”

“I’ve got an officer at the library as we speak,” Rawlings answered and then reached down to allow Haviland to sniff his palm.

Olivia glanced at her watch and, seeing she was a few minutes early for the meeting, succinctly told the chief about Camden’s interest in the Neuse River Community Park. “So if you go through his cell phone and review the list of ingoing and outgoing calls, you’ll know who was feeding him information on the locals and our prime tracts of land.”

Rawlings looped his thumbs under his belt. “We will be questioning an individual regarding a series of calls to Mr. Ford’s phone.” He turned back to Olivia, humor twinkling in his eyes. “Any other suggestions, ma’am?”

Thinking about the township meeting, Olivia wished she’d had the foresight to check the agenda printed in last week’s
Gazette
before leaving her house. “Not right now, but perhaps after my friends and I exchange ideas we’ll come up with something useful.”

“In that case, I’d like to accept your offer of a drink. Would Wednesday evening do? That gives your group twenty-four hours to come up with theories about the haiku’s meaning.”

Olivia felt relieved they weren’t to be entirely excluded from the investigation. “Yes. I’ll be at The Boot Top from four o’clock on.” A movement near the door caught her eye.

It was Harris. The young man exchanged polite greetings with the chief and then looked at Olivia expectantly.

“Is anyone else here?” he asked.

The chief answered. “If one of your writers is the mother of twin toddlers, then
she’
s
here.” He smiled and opened the door. “If you all can work around those two, you’ve got more discipline than a platoon of marines.”

Harris stared after the departing policeman. “Does he have any leads?”

Olivia shook her head with regret and she and Harris walked to the back of the store. Upon entering the rainbow-hued children’s area, their ears were accosted by dual howls emanating from behind the wooden puppet theater.