A Killer Plot (27 page)

From the bottom of her purse, her phone chirped. Olivia glanced at the number. “Chief? I know you’ve probably got your hands full answering questions for the media, but you need to take a quick walk down the block. I’m standing at the bulletin board in front of the town hall and there’s something posted here you must read immediately.”

“What is it? I can’t leave the station whenever the fancy strikes me,” Rawlings replied impatiently as phones rang noisily in the background.

“It’s a poem, just like the one written above Camden’s body. It may also be a clue that Dean Talbot’s death was no accident,” she whispered urgently. “You might want to bring an evidence bag with you. I’ll stand guard until you get here.”

She could hear the creak of the chief’s chair. “Give me five minutes.”

Before he could hang up, Olivia felt compelled to give him what was probably an unnecessary piece of advice. “And you don’t want the press following you here. Trust me. If you have a back door, then use it.”

 

 

Olivia waited on a nearby bench as Rawlings read the haiku. He then directed an officer to dust the entire metal case for prints before opening the lid to remove the sheet of red paper with a pair of tweezers.

“The font makes it look almost like real handwriting,” Officer Cook remarked as he examined the bag. “This guy knows enough about computers to use a special font.”

Another policeman peered over Cook’s shoulder. “How do we know it’s by the same person? Someone could be screwing with us.”

Rawlings crossed his arms over his chest. “The poem is part of a sequence. First winter. Now spring. But what should cause us to view this poem as a possible piece of evidence is the word
pushed.
”

Cook held out the bagged poem as though it were a contagious virus. “Oh man,” he breathed. “The real estate guy from the park?”

“Precisely. And this piece of information
must
stay between us, gentlemen,” the chief warned in a tone that demanded obedience. “Until we know more, we will still refer to Mr. Talbot’s death as an accident—whether you’re talking to the press, your mama, or your fishing buddies. Is that clear?”

The officers faced their superior and said, “Yessir,” in solemn unison. Rawlings, satisfied with their response, began to issue calm, firm commands to his men. As he spoke, Olivia stared at the dozens of fingerprints being highlighted on the surface of the bulletin board’s glass case. Black smudges covered the entire area. Some of the prints overlapped, forming moths and spiky bat wings reminiscent of Rorschach’s inkblot images. As a sergeant applied a final sweep of black dust across the glass, he shook his head, the enormity of his task settling upon his shoulders.

Rawlings placed a hand on his officer’s back. “One at a time, Marshall. One at a time.”

Once his men had been dispersed, their ever-raucous radios crackling as they moved off, the chief sat down next to Olivia. He stared at the square of bulletin board cork from which the poem had been removed.

Olivia opened her notebook. “The spring poem.” She traced the lines with her fingertips. “It fits the parameters of traditional haiku. While it’s not a given that the author of this poem killed Dean Talbot, there is no doubt in my mind that this person wrote the winter haiku.” She glanced around the square. Lawyers, clerks, local government officials, secretaries, tourists, and citizens walking dogs or pushing strollers meandered over the sidewalks or stopped to chat in the shade of one of the mammoth magnolias.

Rawlings observed the environment as well. “Another public place. Someone must have seen him unless he tacked the poem under the glass in the middle of the night.”

“Why not leave it with Dean’s body?” Olivia asked. “And isn’t that case locked?”

“The lock is about as secure as a young girl’s diary. You could easily jimmy it with a penknife. In any case, it was unlocked.” He jerked a thumb toward the town hall building. “The officer I sent inside to begin questioning the employees has already reported back. According to one of the clerks, the last person to place a notice on the board forgot to lock it. Apparently, she forgets quite often.”

Olivia stared at the poem again. “Harris was right. This killer is wily. Careful too.” She gripped the edges of the notebook until the cardboard collapsed beneath her fingers. “A monster dressed as a man.”

The chief rose. “He’ll give something away. He has a goal and anything that threatens his goal enrages him enough to kill. I need to figure out what he wants and as much as I’d like to do that sitting on this bench, I must get back to the station. I am counting on your discretion. Good day, Ms. Limoges.”

Releasing the notebook, Olivia watched Rawlings walk briskly across the grass. She felt sorry for the chief. He had limited manpower and resources and he was undoubtedly angry, frustrated, and embarrassed that he’d yet to discover the identity of the killer. Now Oyster Bay was overrun with reporters, and sooner or later, news of the second poem would leak out and Rawlings would feel the pressure to solve the murders tighten like a noose.

Olivia pulled out her cell phone and explained what had happened to Harris. “We need to meet. Come to The Boot Top tonight. We can have privacy in the banquet room and order off the menu. It’s my treat.” She paused, listening to Harris’s question. “Yes, I’ll get in touch with Laurel and yes, I’d love for you to call Millay. And, yes, I’ll make sure we have
plenty
to drink.”

 

 

After lunch, Olivia paid brief visits to her fellow members of the Planning Board. At The Yellow Lady, she found Roy perched on a steel ladder at the back of the house, cleaning out the gutters. Thrilled to have an excuse for a break, he listened to her suggestion regarding the preservation of the graveyard and readily agreed.

“Talbot Fine Properties shouldn’t raise too much fuss about having to move the putting green. That’s a sound solution you’ve come up with, Ms. Limoges.”

Roy wiped at his face and Olivia noticed the sweat stains on his T-shirt.

“Shouldn’t Atlas be giving you a hand? This looks like a major job.” Olivia craned her neck to take in the gutters above the second story.

“He’s out truck shopping,” Roy replied lightly. “I think he’s about done being the odd-job man around here. Luckily, it’s summer and I can get a few kids to help out. It’s what we’ve always done before.” He grinned. “I’d better get back to this. Annie’s honey-do list is as long as my arm.”

Olivia smiled sympathetically at him.

Satisfied by her conversation, Olivia stopped by the Neuse Community Bank next. Her talk with Loan Manager Ed Campbell wasn’t as fruitful, however.

“A change like that is going to cost Talbot Properties a pretty penny,” Ed explained. “They’ll have to level the ground, run a line to install the irrigation system, add a bunch of French drains to keep the greens dry when there’s too much moisture, et cetera, et cetera.”

“It’s worth a few extra dollars to keep that cemetery intact,” Olivia argued, but she could see that Ed was unwilling to challenge the Talbots’ proposal by the slightest fraction.

Knowing Dixie would speak to Grumpy and that Marlene planned to vote against the resolution no matter what adjustments were made, Olivia spent the remainder of the afternoon in her office at The Boot Top reading the online articles about Dean’s death. She knew she shouldn’t be surprised by how quickly information was collected and dispersed via the Internet, but she was. Papers from across the country featured stories of the real estate tycoon’s “tragic death” on their homepages. Links to dozens of photographs showing Dean and the rest of the Talbot clan were prominently featured on Yahoo! and Google.

As she watched video clips of the Talbots, Olivia paid careful attention to any appearance of Max Warfield in the footage. She then muted her iMac’s volume and studied the facial expressions and body language of anyone who routinely appeared in public with Dean Talbot.

“No one liked that man,” Olivia informed Haviland as pleasant aromas drifted in from the kitchen. “Look at his kids. They’re all partially turned away from him. None of them will look him in the eye. They probably felt inferior all their lives and their wounded pride and lack of affection eventually turned into anger. The mother is never at any of their public outings. Year after year, she hid at home or was checked into some rehab center, so Dean was the only parent available to receive the full share of his children’s ire.”

Olivia turned her attention to the articles she’d printed out from the Internet, picking up the top sheet. “Dean’s controlling share of Talbot Fine Properties goes to Blake Talbot,” she reread the sentence she’d highlighted. “I can see why he didn’t pick the older son if he’s got a cocaine problem, but why Blake? The daughter clearly has the business smarts while Blake sings in a rock band. Dean didn’t trust him to manage the band’s money, yet he entrusted him with a multimillion-dollar corporation? It doesn’t make sense.”

Having exhausted her search on the computer, Olivia walked out to the bar and turned the wall-mounted television to
Headline News
. As she waited for the top of the hour, in which the show was certain to lead off with a story on Talbot’s death, Olivia read through her notes once more.

“Blake Talbot had the motive, if not the means to kill his father. He has the necessary skills to write poetry. And he is definitely possessed of a darkness of spirit. Listen to this song lyric, Haviland.”

Haviland sank to his belly and lowered his head to his paws.

“Stop that. I’m not going to sing!” Olivia remonstrated.
“ ‘I’ll push you into the black water. Fish are gonna swallow your last breath. I’m gonna tear down your towers and rip down your signs. People are gonna remember my name. You shouldn’t have tried to hold me, fool. You shouldn’t have tried to keep me down. Look at me. I ain’t no sheep, man, I am the wolf.’ ”

Groaning, Haviland rolled onto his side.

“Well, you have to imagine the verse accompanied by pounding drums, feverish electric guitar strumming, and a heavy dose of screaming by a group of young men with gelled hair and leather pants.” She examined the lyrics. “None of the stanzas rhyme, but the lines of the chorus do. More sheep/wolf imagery there. Do you see what I mean, Captain? If this kid wasn’t holding a serious grudge against his father, then I’ll start drinking wine from a box.”

Gabe’s arrival interrupted her musings. He greeted her and then began his preparations behind the bar. Olivia silently observed as he sliced lemons, limes, and strawberries. Considering his profession, Gabe was a calm and unassuming young man, but Olivia found his quiet friendliness refreshing and so did the regulars that liked to sit at his bar.

Millay and Harris appeared at The Boot Top at half past five and joined Olivia at the bar. Harris looked puzzled while Millay, whose black hair was bright yellow at the tips, tried to put on her signature expression of cool disinterest. However, she quickened her pace upon seeing Olivia and a spark ignited in her eyes, belying her eagerness to discover why an emergency meeting had been called.

Before Olivia had time to say hello, Laurel burst into the room.

“I am the mother of two-year-old twins, you know!” she said, slamming her purse onto the bar’s polished surface. “I can’t just leave the house every other night. I have responsibilities!”

Grinning, Millay slung an arm around Laurel. “Rough visit with the parental units so far?”

Laurel’s shoulders slumped. “They’re my in-laws, actually, though they make me call them Mom and Dad as if I don’t already have a pair of my own.” She sighed heavily. “The good news is they just closed on one of the three-bedroom Ocean Vista condos so I’ll have free babysitting any time I want.”

“And the bad news?” Olivia was already ordering Laurel a glass of wine. Gabe poured a glass of the house Merlot and then headed to the kitchen to fetch olives and pearl onions.

After taking a generous sip, Laurel cracked a thin smile. “That they’ve moved here, of course! Oh, I know I should be happy to have the help, but I can
never
do anything right in Steve’s mother’s eyes. She always knows
just
how he likes things and
now
she seems to have the twins all figured out too.”

“Don’t let her push you around. Your husband and kids are
your
family. Be nice, but do things
your
way,” Harris advised and Olivia wondered how often he’d had to stand up to bullies as he grew into manhood.

Laurel patted his arm gratefully. “Well, let’s look at that haiku so I can get back home before she Cloroxes every inch of the nursery.”

Olivia, who privately thought disinfecting Dallas and Dermot’s potentially germ-infested room sounded like a very sound idea, handed out copies of the new poem. She then poured wine for the rest of the group and led them to the table where she’d last sat sharing a drink with Chief Rawlings, preferring the bar’s intimate setting over the formality of the banquet room.

“Oh, yeah, that Talbot dude was pushed all right,” Millay said after reading the haiku. She drank down half her wine in one gulp. “But you’ll be happy to know that Jethro Bragg is
definitely
in the clear as a suspect in Camden’s murder. He and Missy Gordon—she’s a trashy redhead who has a thing for men who’ve been in the slammer, even if it’s just the drunk tank—came into Fish Nets around three o’clock on Saturday. According to my boss, they were all over each other. They left before I poured out my first Bud of the night, but the word on the street is that Jethro’s hands were
way
too busy investigating Missy’s body to be killing anyone or writing poetry. I didn’t tell you guys before because I swore not to. We’re talking the hand-on-the-Bible kind of promise.”

“Who cares about your promise?” Olivia stood over the younger woman, holding the wine bottle out of reach, her blue eyes dark with anger. “All along, we’ve been trying to figure out what happened to Camden and you kept this quiet?”