A killer plot, p.11
A Killer Plot, page 11
part #1 of Books by the Bay Mystery Series
Annie began placing dirty dishes on a lacquered tray. “You’ll do well with Ms. Olivia watching your back, young man. But it’s my job to see that you’re up to all this, which you won’t be if you don’t finish your breakfast. At least eat some strawberries and polish off the bacon.”
Cosmo saluted. “Eat protein. Change shirt. Stop blubbering. Yes, yes, mommy dearests. Whatever you say.”
Olivia left the inn and drove straight to Bagels ‘n’ Beans. She ordered Wheeler’s home-brewed orange iced tea and then asked him if he had a minute to spare for a chat. She selected the table closest to the back door where she was least likely to be overheard. Her seating choice also allowed her to view Chief Rawlings’ newest paintings. Haviland, clearly sensing there were no treats to be had in a room smelling, to a dog at least, of burned cocoa beans and rubbery dough, went to sleep.
Wheeler finished making soy lattes with no foam for a pair of tourists, gave them a gummy smile when they stuffed a few bills into the tip jar, and then shuffled over to Olivia’s table. He pointed at the paintings. “You gonna snap these up too?”
Though the nearest painting was of a subject Olivia would not choose to display, she had to admit it was charming. It depicted a little boy in overalls standing alongside an ice cream truck. The whole truck wasn’t in view—only one of the wheels and the colorful menu board. The boy, who was barefoot and generously freckled, gripped a dollar bill in one hand and had the other shoved deep into the pocket of his denim overalls. His eyes gleamed as he gazed longingly at the tempting images of orange creamsicles, Astro Pops, ice cream sandwiches, king cones, strawberry shortcake bars, and chocolate éclair bars.
“It’s well executed,” Olivia told Wheeler. “But I like this other one better. Do you know the woman?”
“Aye. Sawyer’s wife, Helen, that is. Died a few years back. Caught the cancer.”
Olivia had never heard the disease described as catch-able before, but Wheeler had spent the better part of his life trolling for tuna across the Atlantic, and like many of Oyster Bay’s older fishermen, had developed a unique dialect of blended accents and phrases.
“I don’t recall hearing Chief Rawlings’ first name before,” Olivia answered as she studied the painting. It was a simple scene showing a woman reading. She was reclined in an Adirondack chair with a hardcover propped open on her knees. Her intelligent eyes were opened wide, her expression one of guilty pleasure. The nail of her index finger was held captive between her upper and lower teeth and her lips curved in a slight, secretive smile. The woman was not beautiful, but it was difficult to turn away from her animated face. Olivia immediately liked how the picture championed the notion that time spent reading was a treasure to be cherished.
“Wheeler, you met Camden Ford, didn’t you?” Olivia turned away from the art. “He was visiting from California.”
“The writer fellow. Acted girly.” Wheeler grunted. “Dressed girly too.”
“Yes, Camden did prefer pastels,” agreed Olivia. “Did he ask you any questions about Oyster Bay or any of the people here?”
Wheeler nodded. “Sure enough. Wanted to know when those houses first startin’ goin’ up on the bluff. I told him they slapped them up in no time like everythin’ they build these days. The first real storm and those things’ll blow over like a feather in the wind.”
“Talbot Fine Properties at work,” Olivia muttered.
“He wanted to know about those folks too. Daddy Talbot was in here a time or two this spring. Never talked to him direct though. He’s got helpers to order his drinks, fetch him a cookie, and stir the sugar in his coffee. Wonder if they wipe his ass for him too.” Wheeler gave a dry chuckle.
“Was Camden interested in any other subjects?”
Wheeler pulled a damp cloth from his pocket and began to wipe the table. Olivia moved her elbows off the surface and watched as the old man’s hands moved in slow, careful circles. The motion seemed to help him think. “He wanted to know about the soldier graveyard—if there was livin’ kin to the boys buried there. I reckon there are a handful of folks sharin’ names with those written on the stones, if you can read ‘em anymore. I haven’t been out there in years, but even way back they were almost picked clean by the weather. Not too much can stand up to bein’ scrubbed clean by wind and sun and sand.”
The park again, Olivia thought, mystified.
The tinkle of the sleigh bells dangling from the front door hinge caused Wheeler to lift his head. “No more chitchat, Miss ’Livia.” He leaned closer to her. “But I’m right glad you came in. I wanted to thank you for not raisin’ the rent this year. I’m doin’ fine, but I had to hire another kid for the summer and I wanna pay the boy a decent wage or he’ll be off cuttin’ grass instead. I gotta have decent young folks for the evenin’ shift ‘cause I can make it here at five A.M. every day, but by three o’clock I gotta go ’cause I’m all done in.”
“Five in the morning? You’re amazing, Wheeler,” Olivia told him. The octogenarian winked at her and returned to his station behind the counter.
Outside, the humidity hit with full force. The wet, languid air shimmered above the asphalt, distorting the images of parked cars and storefronts across the street. Olivia removed her sunglasses from the crown of her head and put them on. She poured water from an insulated cup into Haviland’s travel bowl and placed it in the ground beneath the nearest awning. When he was finished drinking, she belted him into his seat, put down all the windows, and headed south. Olivia loved the heat and had never quite grown accustomed to more than a hint of air-conditioning.
The Neuse River Community Park had never been a popular place. Olivia had been dragged there in elementary school to identify the bird species portrayed on the colored plaques lining the walking paths. She had found the assignment dull and pointless, as most of the children had been able to name the birds since they could talk. Unlike school, which at least had a playground, the park’s pluses were limited to walking paths (grass-pocked trails of sand) and a few picnic tables. There were no restrooms and the water fountain had been rusted beyond use. The benches were made of coarse wood that zealously dislodged splinters into their bare thighs, and the single gazebo had been covered by layers of excrement left by mischievous Canadian geese.
“Not much has changed,” Olivia commented to Haviland before he lurched forward, dashing after a pair of startled mallards.
Allowing the poodle his canine pursuits, Olivia took a cursory look at the closest plaque. The photo of the royal tern was too faded to appear regal any longer. Its orange beak was now a muted brown and the black tail feathers were a dull, watery gray. The font describing the bird’s habits and habitats was no longer legible. Here and there, a letter would show itself clearly, like a tiny fish rising to the surface of a pond to feed.
Strolling past the gazebo, she noted the weathered structure had been used as a carving board. Names, initials, expletives, and symbols covered every inch of the tired wood, adding to the park’s atmosphere of neglect and disuse.
Haviland rejoined her and together they mounted the steep flight of cracked cement steps leading up to the small cemetery. Midway in the climb, Olivia caught her toe on a fissure that nearly split one of the steps in two. Looking ahead, she noticed how the three steps nearest the top were swollen and split due to the pressure being forced upon them by the roots of a mature swamp chestnut.
Olivia reached the top and was surprised by the realization that there was no handrail for the flight of stairs leading up to the graveyard. Approaching the cast-iron fence surrounding the space, she paused. Seven white headstones were lined up in two rows—one of four, one of three—beneath the shelter of another old chestnut tree. Grasping a fence finial in each hand, Olivia stared respectfully at the weathered stones.
Unlike the rest of the park, the secluded little graveyard was carefully tended. The grass had been mowed, the fence had recently received a fresh coat of black paint, and when Olivia eventually pushed open the narrow gate, it swung inward on well-oiled hinges. There was a bronze plaque set in cement just inside the gate. The plaque read, “Lest We Forget. Our Boys Sacrificed All,” and was surrounded by a ring of miniature Dixie flags.
Treading softly, Olivia approached the headstones. As Wheeler had said, the text carved into the surface had nearly been sanded smooth by wind and time, but three of the graves in the back row still proclaimed their occupant’s names.
“James Greenhow, Henry Bragg, and Wallace White,” Olivia whispered. “Lest we forget.” Haviland sniffed at the graves and gave his mistress a quizzical look. “Why would Camden be curious about this place?” Haviland barked dismissively. “Good point, Captain. He was researching the Talbots, not the park. So why would the Talbots be interested in this place?” She gazed around and then inhaled sharply. “The park! It must be thirty acres.” Her dark blue eyes swept over the deserted landscape. “Situated on the picturesque Neuse River. Minutes from town, minutes from the beach … I can almost write the brochure. Of course! The Talbots want to buy this land!”
Turning on her heel, Olivia closed the gate gently behind her and strode to the Range Rover. She dug her pocket-sized planner out of her purse and, after jotting down the names she’d read on the gravestones to research further later on, examined the notations on the calendar page. “The Planning Board meeting isn’t until the end of the month. If the town of Oyster Bay’s been approached about placing this parcel up for sale, it’ll be coming up for vote at the township committee meeting first. I wonder when that’s being held.”
Her cell phone vibrated in the cup holder in her center console. Picking it up, she noted the missed call had come from Cosmo’s phone. She immediately returned his call.
“I’m with the chief,” Cosmo informed her, sounding deflated. “He’s getting me a coffee and a glass of chocolate milk for himself. Can you believe that? What kind of cop drinks chocolate milk? Aren’t they supposed to be caffeine addicts by day and raging alcoholics by night?”
“Do you want me to come down?” Olivia asked. “I can be there in ten minutes.”
“No, no.” Cosmo sighed wearily. “They haven’t arrested anyone yet. Not a single soul saw Cam go inside the bar and only one person noticed him on the sidewalk. It’s like Cam was invisible that night. And their lone witness was already up to his gills in whiskey. Not exactly the picture of reliability. It’s too awful!”
Olivia tried to distract Cosmo from becoming morose. “Did you ask Chief Rawlings about the cell phone and the laptop?”
“No comment on the phone, but he’s letting me look at the laptop right now, but only because I promised to tell him if I saw any unusual files or emails,” Cosmo answered. “The emails are purely social and there are a few of mine on there I don’t want anyone to see!” He was clearly agitated over at the invasion of his privacy. “All of the Milano Cruise files are here and some facts on your darling little town. What you wanted me to look for is here too. Cam saved his manuscript under the name, ‘Book.’ How uncreative of him! I’m emailing it to you this second, and then I’ve got to go. I hear Rawlings down the hall and I don’t want him to catch me. Bye!”
The connection was severed.
“Well done, Cosmo,” Olivia said aloud, relieved that her work email address was printed on The Boot Top Bistro’s business card. Anxious to begin reading Camden’s manuscript immediately, she turned on the engine and backed out of the parking space. The speed of her reversal formed tornadoes of dust that briefly obscured her view out the windshield.
Chapter 8
The writer’s duty is to keep on writing.
—WILLLAM STYRON
Olivia forwarded the email containing Camden’s manuscript to the members of the Bayside Book Writers. She then opened all the windows in her spacious living room, switched on the overhead fans so they spun languidly overhead, and got comfortable on the sofa with half a tumbler full of Chivas Regal. She spent the evening carefully reading the dead writer’s work, only taking a break to eat a quick dinner of Michel’s famous sweet potato vichyssoise and a spoonful of chilled chicken salad mixed with grapes over a bed of chopped lettuce and tomatoes.
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.
