A Killer Plot (9 page)

“I could certainly do with some scotch,” Olivia murmured in relief. She removed the blanket from her shoulders and folded it into a neat square. “Thank you, Chief. I really have nothing useful to tell you at the moment, but I’ll gather the other writers and try to come up with a comprehensive statement.” She pushed the blanket toward him and gazed at him intently, her navy blue eyes black, mournful pools. “Please find out who did this to Camden.” She didn’t let go of the blanket even as his hands reached up to accept it. “I didn’t know him that well, but
nothing
he did justifies this cruel and
undignified
death. Please ...”

The chief walked with her toward the alley opening. “Believe me, I won’t rest until I know what this is all about. This is my town too, ma’am, and I won’t stand for this. Now go home, Ms. Limoges.” His exerted his authority softly. “I need to focus on other matters.”

Olivia obeyed, moving toward the parking area where she’d left the Range Rover. Part of her wanted to climb in her SUV and race home, pour a glass of Chivas Regal, and crawl into bed. That side of her didn’t want to speak calmly and clearly to one of Rawlings’ officers. That side wanted to ignore the doorbell, pull the covers over her head, and wash away the image of Camden’s body, slumped against the brick wall like a discarded department store mannequin, by overindulging in both booze and sleep.

Yet the other, conscientious side knew she bore a responsibility. She owed it to Camden to make the right choice, and she needed to do anything possible to aid the lawmen in their search for the killer. As she strode toward the parking lot, the shock began to gradually give way to anger. When she saw the rest of the writer’s group gathered around her car, her mind became clear.

“We’re allowed to return to the cottage,” she told them, disliking the coldness in her voice. “Someone from the police department will be by to take our statements later on.”

The other writers were visibly relieved to be able to stay together and escape the dark. Olivia turned away from them in order to check on her dog.

Haviland barked out a cheerful greeting at the sight of his mistress and Olivia pushed her fingers through the crack in the passenger window, comforted by the rough moisture of her poodle’s tongue. “Oh, Captain,” she murmured to her dog and tried to keep her voice from cracking.

No one else spoke. Laurel was crying and Harris had his arm around her. He looked wide-eyed and pale, while Millay’s gaze was fastened on the ground. Her arms were crossed around her chest in a protective posture. No one seemed keen to move just yet.

“Listen,” Olivia began again, forcing gentleness into her tone. “Someone did this to him. To Camden. I know we’re all trying to understand what happened tonight and
nothing
makes any sense at this moment, but we have to clear out and let the chief do his job.” She removed her car keys from her purse. “And we need to help by writing down anything that might be important while it’s still fresh in our minds.”

“I’m scared!” Laurel exclaimed, her lips quivering. “What if the murderer’s still around? He could be in the bar or driving through one of our neighborhoods this very second! He could know us or have seen us with Camden!” Her eyes darted around the parking lot. “Who would do that to another human being? Millay said his throat...” She couldn’t continue.

Olivia reached out and put a hand on Laurel’s shoulder. “Don’t think about that now. We’ll focus on any details we know about Camden. About his life, not his death. Okay?”

The tender touch seemed to make Laurel cry all the harder and Olivia felt herself whispering, “Hush, hush,” as though she were trying to calm a bereft child. “Come on, everyone. We’ll go back to my place and make some coffee. Let’s get out of the night.”

That last statement echoed with Laurel. “That-that sounds good,” she stammered. “I’ll call Steve from the cottage so he won’t worry.”

Everyone piled into Olivia’s SUV. Haviland stepped onto the center console and nuzzled Olivia with his head. She put an arm around him, and for a moment, buried her face in the fur of his neck, inhaling his familiar scent of wet sand and fresh soil and eucalyptus shampoo. When she released her hold of the poodle, she felt as though the ground had finally returned beneath her feet.

“To your seat, Captain,” she ordered while blinking back tears. She buckled his safety belt and turned toward home.

Back at the cottage, she asked Harris to switch on the gas logs in the living room fireplace and for Millay to brew a pot of strong coffee. Laurel went straight for the phone set up in the small office adjacent to the living room. Olivia winced as she listened as the distraught younger woman sought solace from her husband, only to be denied.

“Is that all you have to say to me after what I’ve been through?” she queried pitifully. But Steve’s reply obviously triggered something in Laurel and with a shout of anger, she slammed the phone receiver back into the cradle.

“I’m sorry,” she told Olivia as she exited the office. “I just could not take one of his lectures on how I belong at home. Not tonight, no sir!”

Olivia nodded, pleased to see that Laurel had more spunk than one might credit her with. “I understand. Why don’t you sit down in front of the fire and I’ll get you something warm to drink. We could all use something to steady our nerves.”

As she hadn’t supplied the cottage with shot glasses, thinking they’d hardly be necessary for informal meetings, Olivia poured splashes of Chivas Regal into disposable coffee cups and distributed them to the others.

“Down the hatch.” Millay raised her glass and tossed back the contents without as much as a flinch.

Harris tried to emulate the motion, but couldn’t help from grimacing slightly after he’d swallowed. Laurel held her nose, downed her drink, and slapped the empty cup on the end table beside her.

“I’d like another, please,” she said in a stronger voice.

Olivia shook her head as Millay stood, heading for the bottle. “Why don’t I stir a little into our coffee this time around? We have to stay awake and alert in order to make our statements.”

Hands cradling cups of laced coffee, the writers positioned themselves close to the fire and to one another. Each of them silently called Camden to mind.

“He was so charming.” Laurel spoke first. “Everyone he met liked him from the get-go. Who’d want to hurt him?”

“Maybe he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Harris suggested. “The crowd in that place looks like they could turn rough pretty quickly.”

Millay snorted. “Yeah, like lightning-strike quick. I could pick out a half a dozen fishermen who might snap because you looked at them sideways. Shit, six or seven of them are totally capable of killing somebody. But to write poetry afterward? That’s not their MO. Seems more like a deranged college prof on an acid trip to me.”

“But what was Camden doing in Fish Nets in the first place?” Laurel demanded. “It’s not like he’d go there to make new friends.”

Olivia couldn’t help but smile. “If you’re referring to Camden making sexual advances to one of the patrons, I can’t see that happening either. Millay? Are you certain you saw him enter the bar?”

Running slim fingers through her blue and black hair, Millay exhaled loudly in vexation. “No. Like I said
before
, I only saw him reaching out for the door handle. Then I drove past. I just figured he was buying cigarettes or something.” She shrugged. “I was, like, a mile away before I could even believe it was
him.
Camden and Fish Nets didn’t go together, ya know?”

“Our eyes see what our brain expects them to see,” Harris said in her defense.

A flicker of admiration entered Millay’s dark eyes. “Exactly.” She turned back to Olivia. “I wish I did know if he went inside for sure, but I don’t. I’ll ask around once the cops leave. No one’s going to tell them a thing. Those guys keep things close to the chest.”

Laurel shifted in her seat, tucking her legs beneath her and smoothing out the fabric of her khaki linen trousers. Backlit by the flickering flames in the fireplace, her hair glowed like a golden crown and she instantly seemed years younger. Suddenly, the visage of another, even younger woman sprang into Olivia’s mind.

“Wait a moment,” she said, nearly rising to her feet. “Camden and I listened in when Blake Talbot was discussing his plans for yesterday evening with his girlfriend. From what we overheard, Blake intended to meet some people at Fish Nets.”

“And since Camden’s writing a book based on the Talbot family, he might have gone down there to find out what Blake had been doing there?” Laurel deduced.

Millay shook her head. “No way a rich kid like Blake shows up at my bar.
His
kind does
not
hang out there. They’d be at The Cleat and Anchor or the Dorsal Fin, guzzling their microbrews and checking out the waitresses while they stuff their faces with calamari or lobster bites or whatever you eat when you make more dough than all the drinkers in my bar put together.”

The other writers took notice of the proprietary tone in Millay’s voice.

Olivia cleared her throat. “No one’s assuming one of your regular, ah, patrons, is responsible for Camden’s death, Millay. On the contrary, I can’t see that any of those men and women would have had a connection with him at all. Whoever did this wanted to make a point. Thus, the poem.”

“What did it say?” Laurel asked nervously.

“Something about orchards and apples,” Millay replied angrily. “A bunch of crap that made absolutely no sense!”

Recalling that she’d written the haiku in the small notebook she kept in her purse, Olivia dug it out and reread what she had written, frowning over the odd, horticultural imagery.

“What if Camden never went inside?” Harris wondered aloud, his eyes fixed on the shivering flames. “What if he found some clue in the alley?”

“You may be on to something there, Harris. Blake implied that the ‘business dealings’ he planned for last night were rather on the shady side.” Olivia laid the notebook on the sofa and Millay instantly picked it up and began to study the poem. “Perhaps Camden found something not meant for his ears.”

“Or his pen.” Millay stabbed at the paper with her index finger. Olivia noticed that the young woman’s nails bore the remnants of a deep purple polish and were clipped very short, as though to prevent her from chewing them. “The first line of the poem says, ‘His words are silences.’”

A little gasp escaped Laurel’s throat. The fear in her eyes shimmered in the firelight. “That can only mean one thing,” she breathed. “The killer knew what Camden did for a living.”

“And there aren’t too many people in Oyster Bay who’d be threatened by the appearance of a celebrity gossip writer,” Harris pointed out. “Except maybe Blake or one of the other Talbots.”

Olivia gestured at the notebook in Millay’s hands. “Either Blake Talbot’s educational background included instruction on how to pen this particular form of poetry, or he had dealings with another person who couldn’t afford to be exposed and has been watching Camden’s every move.”

“Someone who created an impromptu haiku?” Harris seemed doubtful.

There was an authoritative rap on the front door and Olivia turned her head toward the sound but made no other move. She was too busy thinking. “It doesn’t read like a spontaneous piece of writing. It feels specific, tailored, and ...” She glanced anxiously at the other writers. “Premeditated.”

 

 

The blast of the foghorn woke Olivia the next morning. The deep, resonating noise caused her to imagine a trumpeting leviathan surfacing from the cold depths of the sea.

Still weary from the night before, she stayed in bed another thirty minutes, listening to the steady, repetitive tolls as the horn warned incoming vessels of the proximity of the shallows.

To Olivia, the sound was as familiar as the beat of her own heart. She remembered, after she’d moved away, how the noises in other parts of the world failed to offer the same level of comfort as the rush of the incoming tide, the blare of a foghorn, the high squawk of a gull, or the clanging of a ship’s bell.

Haviland jumped up on the bed and burrowed under the covers in search of his mistress’s hand. Olivia stuffed it under the pillow, knowing her poodle would lick her palm until she rose and served him breakfast.

“Five more minutes,” she promised, briefly reaching out to scratch Haviland beneath the chin. She watched the tangerine-colored light filter through the bare glass of the master bedroom’s wall of windows.

The foghorn fell silent and Olivia continued to pat Haviland, thinking of Camden.

Last night, when she’d answered the knock on the door of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, a fresh-faced officer named Cook had strutted in. He assessed them with a cocky glance and bossed them about as though they were schoolchildren. He’d taken their statements and asked a few standard questions, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. Olivia had the feeling the young lawman viewed his being sent out to the lighthouse when the real action was happening downtown an insult to his abilities.

Irritated by his arrogance and disinterest in their observations, Olivia strongly suggested he radio Chief Rawlings and track down Blake Talbot as soon as possible.

“Officer Cook.” Olivia walked over to the policeman and did her best to stand even taller than her five-eleven frame. “You might be handing the chief a suspect on a silver platter. Camden Ford was our
friend
and we want to see justice done. We’ve told you all we know, now please share our information with your superior.”

Cook bristled at her choice of words and informed the writer’s group that he knew how to do his job.

Millay rose from her position on the couch and came to stand next to Olivia. “Then prove it! Stop pissing around here and find out what Blake Talbot was up to over the last twenty-four hours!” she shouted. “I believe that’s called ‘chasing down an alibi’ in cop talk.”