A Killer Plot (25 page)

Her words immediately forced the writers into silence. Each of them recalled their last meeting in the cottage and how it had ended with the discovery of Camden’s death. Laurel hugged herself as though she was suddenly cold, Harris began to doodle again, and Millay’s expression turned mournful, making her seem incredibly young and fragile.

Olivia walked over to the window and watched the surf curl onto the shore. The sun hung low in the sky—an amber disc surrounded by streaks of heron blue clouds and a dusky, lavender haze of humidity.

It was nearly half past seven. Millay and Laurel both needed to leave, but neither woman seemed keen on ending the evening’s fellowship.

The buzzing of Olivia’s cell phone suddenly became the center of attention. She had placed the gadget on the glass-topped coffee table and now, as it vibrated, it slid sideways across the slick surface, looking more animated than a rectangle made of mere metal and plastic. Lurching centimeter by centimeter toward the edge of the table, the shiny black device took on the persona of a robotic insect. Laurel swung her knees away from its approach, staring at it with distrust.

“Are you going to answer that?” she asked Olivia.

The chief’s number surfaced on the phone’s sulfur-hued screen. “It’s Rawlings,” Olivia stated flatly, but her stomach clenched. Her body seemed to sense that something ominous was approaching—that the writers’ peaceful time together was about to be invaded by unwelcome news.

Gripping the phone, Olivia flicked it open. “We’ve been wondering what’s kept you, Chief,” she began with forced levity.

Over a cacophony of background noise, Rawlings’ words burst through the receiver. “Dean Talbot is dead.”

Of all the things the chief might have said, Olivia had expected this statement the least. The blunt delivery also surprised her. “Talbot? How?”

Again the droning filled the space between them before he had a chance to answer. “Looks like he fell and broke his neck. I’m at the scene now.”

Olivia turned away from the anxious glances of her fellow writers and focused on the rolling water outside the window. “Where?”

A pause. “The Neuse River Park. At the foot of the stairs leading up to the graveyard.”

Recalling the dilapidated steps, Olivia could envision how someone might snag the toe of a shoe on one of the deeper cracks or stumble forward on the uneven cement. Still, it was difficult to picture someone with Dean’s acuity falling to his death. The man was both athletic and agile, and it seemed too coincidental that he would meet his demise at the very place he planned to demolish. Besides, Olivia didn’t much believe in coincidence.

“What was he doing there?” she asked, speaking as much to herself as to Rawlings.

“My question exactly.” Rawlings’ tone was steely. “Specifically, I’d like to know why you appear in Mr. Talbot’s appointment book? He’s got the entire evening blocked off and the only thing written across the hours spanning from eight o’clock to midnight is your name.”

Olivia stiffened. “There’s a simple explanation for that.”

“When I’m done here, I’d like you to share it with me. Until then, stick close to the phone.” Rawlings hung up.

Frowning, Olivia turned away from the window. “There’s been another death,” she told her friends, though it was obvious from the slack expressions on their faces they had already guessed as much.

“Another
murder
?” Harris’s voice was hushed.

Laurel reached over and covered his hand with her own.

Millay stood and slipped her purse onto her shoulder. “Can you just skip the extraneous details and hit us up with tomorrow’s headline?” She shrugged her shoulders self-effacingly. “Sorry, but I’ve gotta go.”

Olivia was untroubled by the younger woman’s bluntness. “Apparently, our visiting real estate mogul, Dean Talbot, fell down the steps at the community park. His neck was broken and he’s dead. That’s all I know,” Olivia said.

The writers exchanged anxious glances. Millay glanced at her watch and moved to the door. “Was there a poem?” she asked, her hand on the knob.

“Rawlings didn’t mention one. It looks like an accident at this point,” Olivia stated reassuringly.

Millay looked dubious. “I need to motor. Text me if you find out anything more. Otherwise, I’ll have to wait for one of the customer’s wives to call in with the news and
that
version will be so exaggerated that I won’t know what really went down.”

Olivia gathered her own purse and keys and signaled to Haviland. “I’m going to the park to see for myself. The chief wants to talk to me and he’s sure to be tied up until late tonight.”

Harris cocked his head, reminding Olivia of Haviland when the poodle sensed something wasn’t quite right. “You don’t think he fell, do you?” He hurriedly picked up his loose papers, pen, and journal and gathered them to his chest. “I’m coming with you.”

Laurel’s eyes widened. “Well, I’m
not
. Sorry, you two, but I do
not
want to lay eyes on a dead man. Even a rich and famous one. I still can’t sleep after . . .”

Olivia patted Laurel’s shoulder. “
I’m
not going to the park out of morbid curiosity, let me assure you. I need to know if Dean’s ‘accident’ has anything to do with Camden’s death, and if I can observe the chief while he’s still gathering information, he might let a valuable insight slip.”

“Chief Rawlings doesn’t think Dean tripped?” Laurel began to look a little pale.

“Publicly he does. Privately, who knows? I’m just looking at the situation logically,” Olivia said. “Camden discovered some unsavory connection between someone in the Talbot family and their proposed development, and I believe that information cost him his life.” She reached down, her hand searching for Haviland’s soft head. “Now Dean Talbot, a shrewd, ambitious, and possibly dangerous businessman lies dead. And
I
don’t think he tripped.”

“If Talbot
was
killed,” Harris said as he fished his car keys out of his jeans pocket, “the murderer isn’t acting like he did before. If it’s the same person, he’s really sly. It’s like he’s created two different—what’s the word?—signatures. Camden’s death was obviously a murder, but Talbot’s death looks like an accident. No blood, no poem, and I’m assuming no witnesses ...” Harris fell silent as he continued to ponder the possible differences.

“
If
this is his second murder, then yes, the killer is both intelligent and crafty. He is also
not
Jethro Bragg. After all, Jethro’s in jail. If Talbot was ‘helped’ down that flight of steps, then Camden’s murderer is still at large,” Olivia remarked with soft anger.

The fear they’d all been able to suppress since their friend had been killed resurfaced with renewed strength. Wordlessly, they gathered their things and avoided one another’s eyes. It was no comfort to see the dread they felt echoed in one another’s faces.

Olivia opened the cottage door and mutely led the shaken writers into the descending night.

 

 

Olivia and Harris took separate cars to the park, but neither of them was allowed to step foot beyond the entrance sign. An officer stood, hands on hips, and informed them in a tone that allowed no room for argument that the park was closed until further notice. When Olivia stretched the truth by insisting the chief had requested her immediate presence, he gave her and Haviland a quick once-over and then spoke into the radio attached to his shirt.

“I’ll come to her,” Rawlings’ voice crackled through the speaker.

“You’d better go,” Olivia told Harris. “I’ll call if there’s a need for us to get involved.”

Harris glanced at the massive policeman straddling the pathway leading into the park.

“Are you sure? I could stay ... keep you company.” He gave Haviland a pat on the head. “I know you’ve got your trusty hound with you, but two-legged friends have their uses too.”

Olivia smiled. “Thank you for the chivalrous gesture, but the chief just wants to know why Dean Talbot planned to have dinner with me tonight. I don’t know what
Talbot’s
intentions were, but I agreed to break bread with him because I wanted to ferret out more information on Blake, the new housing development, or anything else that could be relevant to Camden’s death.”

“Won’t the chief be ticked off when you tell him you planned to investigate on your own?” Harris asked nervously.

“I’m not going to confess that latter bit to him,” Olivia admitted. “In any case, it makes sense that I’d be questioning Talbot about the development. After all, our Planning Board meets in three nights. Now go on with you. If you don’t hear from me tonight, call me tomorrow. There’s something unrelated to tonight’s incident that I’d like to discuss with you.”

Harris raised his eyebrows. “Sounds interesting.”

“That’s a good word for it,” Olivia said, and then wished Harris good night.

Less than a minute later, the chief’s figure detached itself from a shadow of trees toward her left. “I thought we could talk now,” she called as she moved forward to meet him, ignoring the threatening posture of the junior officer. She lowered her voice as Rawlings drew alongside. “I wanted to set your mind at ease about why my name was written in Mr. Talbot’s appointment book, and since our writer’s group meeting has ended, here I am.”

Rawlings tugged a flashlight from his utility belt and pointed it in the direction of the gazebo. “Let’s take a seat.”

As they walked, their footsteps were obscured by the noises of nighttime creatures. Frogs, owls, crickets, and dozens of other insects filled the darkness with their musical autographs. A mild breeze ruffed tree leaves and whispered through the reeds by the riverbank. A whir of mosquito wings buzzed behind her ear and Haviland snapped at an unseen invader near his hindquarters. Fireflies blinked like miniature stars all around them.

“It seems too peaceful for someone to be lying dead so close by,” Olivia murmured. Rawlings remained quiet, his eyes moving away from Olivia’s face as he watched a white moth flutter across the beam cast by his flashlight.

Once again, Olivia was struck by how comfortable she felt with the policeman. He knew how to relish a precious moment of tranquility and beauty, even when it did not appear at what others might deem a suitable time. In fact, she reflected, most men would fill the silence with demands, explanations, or boasts, but not this man. He knew how to be still and Olivia admired that quality.

“I was sitting right here when I last spoke to Mr. Talbot,” she said and proceeded to tell Rawlings of her exchange with Dean and Max Warfield. She omitted nothing and went so far as to include the mens’ expressions and postures as she observed them during their conversation.

Rawlings watched Olivia intently as she spoke, and when she finished, he simply nodded.

“It’s strikes me as unlikely that Dean Talbot fell down those stairs,” Olivia stated plainly.

Surprisingly, Rawlings dipped his chin in mute agreement. “At the moment, however, we have no evidence to tell us otherwise. What I’ve got is a dislodged hunk of cement, traces of cement embedded in the soles of Mr. Talbot’s shoes, and a corpse with a broken neck.” He sighed. “This will be the last time I’ll be gazing at fireflies for a while. Once the media gets wind of this ...” He left the thought unfinished.

Olivia felt a pang of sympathy for the chief. “Have you talked to Max Warfield yet?”

Rawlings nodded. “One of my officers paid him a personal call. Mr. Warfield was entertaining a young lady in his hotel room all afternoon. He was still, ah, preoccupied, when my man arrived. The coroner believes Mr. Talbot experienced his fatal slip between three and four o’clock.”

“So if it
was
murder, both Warfield and Jethro Bragg are in the clear.”

Groaning almost inaudibly, Rawlings scratched his neck. “Actually, Mr. Bragg was released yesterday. His handwriting was not a match with that of the spray-painted poem. There aren’t many forensic handwriting experts doing graffiti analysis, but I happen to know one of the best. Though his report wouldn’t be admissible in court, it reaffirmed the conclusion I’d already reached. Jethro was not our man, and no matter what anyone believed, we had no solid evidence against him.”

Olivia raised her eyebrows. “He was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“He finally confessed to being drunk and sounding off at Mr. Ford. He doesn’t recall precisely what he said, but Mr. Bragg thought Mr. Ford was in the employ of the Talbots. Judging by his dress, accent, and mannerisms, he assumed Camden was in favor of relocating the graveyard. Before he was deployed to Afghanistan, Jethro was a land surveyor. One of his former coworkers told him about the Talbots’ grand plans for the park, so he’s been stewing over this project for a long time.” Rawlings rubbed at a crease in his uniform pants. “He remembers telling Mr. Ford that all queers should burn in hell, but he never touched him. In fact, Jethro would have been free to leave on Wednesday if he hadn’t spit a mouthful of hot coffee right in the face of Sergeant Barrett.”

“Did the handwriting analysis provide you with any clues about the real killer?” Olivia asked, her interest quickening.

After studying her face for several seconds, Rawlings opened his notebook and directed his flashlight beam to the white page. “Based on the space between the lines, the angular nature of some of the letters, the narrowness of other letters, et cetera, the killer is likely a single male. An aloof, independent, self-serving, dissatisfied, and frustrated individual. A man filled with hidden aggression.” He paused, tried to interpret his own scrawl, and then continued. “There seems to be an irregularity between the handwriting and the content of the poem. According to the analysis, the handwriting belongs to someone who knows hard work, even drudgery. A laborer. It doesn’t jibe with the writing of an academic type or the type associated with a poet or an artist.”