A Killer Plot (2010)

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.

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.

“Give Mommy the sippie cup. Give it to Mommy, please,” Laurel cooed, her face hidden between the red curtains. “Dermot, do not hit your brother with the owl puppet. Dallas ! Stop that this minute! Be my good baby boys? Please?” Laurel sounded close to tears. “Do you want Cheerios? If you want Cheerios you need to give Mommy the sippie cup.”

“What’s with the freaking noise?” Millay croaked from behind Olivia and Harris. Dressed in a gauzy, mango-colored sundress, her streaked hair hidden beneath an orange bandana, Millay looked more exotic and lovely than ever.

It’s as if she just stepped from a Gauguin canvas, Olivia thought as Millay moved behind the puppet theater with swift grace.

“Listen, you two,” she whispered urgently. “The grown-ups need to have a secret meeting. There are monsters coming and we need to stop them! If you want us to beat the monsters, then be very quiet.” She reached out to a rather stunned Laurel, gesturing at the diaper bag. Laurel handed her two baggies filled with oat cereal and raisins. “This is magic food. If you hide back here and eat super quietly, then you’ll turn invisible and the monsters won’t be able to see you.”

“Monsters are not real,” Laurel rapidly assured her children, who remained secreted behind the theater. “Ms. Millay’s just playing a game with you.”

Two pairs of wide eyes peered through the curtains as Millay took a seat on one of the miniature ladder-back chairs. Olivia rewarded her young friend with a full thermos of coffee. Harris folded up his long legs and settled onto the floor. Olivia pulled the only adult-sized chair against the dress-up chest. She opened the manila folder containing the incomplete manuscript and cleared her throat. “I have a feeling our time is limited, so let’s get started. Did anyone find a clue after reading Camden’s book?”

Harris removed a stack of paper from his own folder. “There wasn’t enough info on Blake Talbot in that single chapter Camden wrote about the now-famous rocker, so I did some digging on the computer.” He passed out copies of the printouts. “All three Talbot kids attended The Hotchkiss School in Connecticut. It’s one of the top prep schools in the country, and even when the Talbots went there, it cost close to thirty grand per kid.”

“Damn!” Millay exclaimed. “I wonder if they’d like to adopt a nice half-Asian girl. I could use thirty Gs. Do you know what kind of sweet ride I could buy with that much cash?”

Laurel put her fingers to her lips. “Language please.”

Harris stopped staring at Millay and continued. “Here’s why I’m telling you about the school. Both Blake and his sister Diana were really into creative writing. Blake wrote songs for his dorm band the whole time he was at Hotchkiss. Some of his lyrics were published in the school’s literary magazine. Diana was the editor of the mag. For two years. She wrote short stories and poetry.” He put the notebook on his lap. “I called the English department and pretended to be a prospective parent. They definitely teach haiku and there’s no doubt that at one point, all three Talbot kids were familiar with haiku and could write that kind of poem.”

Millay reached over and chucked Harris in the arm. “You called the school? Way to go, man! You’ve got a bigger pair than I thought!”

Harris’s cheeks blazed crimson.

After quickly checking to see that the noises coming from behind the puppet theater were giggles and not the spasms of a child choking on raisins, Laurel pulled a mangled mass of paper from her diaper bag. As she flipped through the sheaves, Olivia was impressed to see that Laurel had not only highlighted passages, but had also written small, neat notes in the margin of every page.

“I thought it was sad how each one of the Talbot kids tried to make their daddy proud.” She turned to a particular passage and smoothed down a wrinkled corner. “But it seems like only money could impress him. Listen to this section in Diane aka Deirdre’s chapter: ‘Her sweet sixteen party was the talk of Long Island’s nouveau riche. Her guests received Tiffany jewelry party favors, her dress was designed by Vera Wang, and her chocolate truffle cake shaped like a Louis Vuitton purse was made by the executive pastry chef of Tavern on the Green.

‘The compliments flowed like the champagne, with Don’s sycophants tripping over themselves to pay tribute to his only daughter. The pudgy-fingered and corpulent businessmen proclaimed the girl regal as a princess, graceful as a prima donna ballerina, and as fine-boned as a French supermodel. And while Don accepted the praise with a nod here and a forced smile there, Deirdre grew more and more enraged.’ ”

Laurel pointed at the page. “She yells at the guests, saying that she wants to be known for her brains and talent—that it won’t be her brothers who’ll continue the Talcott business legacy, but her.”

“I remember that scene,” Olivia said quietly. “Her father mocks her in front of everyone and tells her he’d never let a woman run the show. In fact, he didn’t consider any of his children capable of taking over the family business.”

“They’re quite the Shakespearean family,” Millay added. “Rich, beautiful, and power-hungry. Mix in a heavy dose of hatred, resentment, and jealousy, and you’ve got a tragedy in the making. The dad rules them like an American King Lear, knowing no one will dare stand up to him for fear of losing their allowance.”

Harris stared at her. “How do you know so much about Shakespeare?”

“I went to one of those fancy, fascist boarding schools too,” she answered cryptically and then hurried on. “In Camden’s last chapter he described how Blake’s character wanted to be in control of his own future. Remember how angry he was? At the end of the scene, he stared at the broken glass like he was planning to do something violent.”

Laurel nodded. “That’s true! He also said, ‘Time to take control.’ ”

“The line implies Blake is ready to get out from under his father’s thumb,” Olivia pointed out. “Perhaps he wants to break away from both parents, as it seems his mother was incapable of providing much in the way of parenting. He may be just as bitter at her for being negligent. And you’re right, Millay. If we can believe Camden’s interpretation, these children are all very angry.”

“So how would murdering a gossip writer grant them revenge against a controlling father and a neglectful mom?” Harris wondered aloud. “Could they even have known Camden was working on this book?”

Setting a copy of US magazine on top of the dress-up chest, Laurel pointed at a photograph on the bottom left of the cover. “I don’t know about the rest of the Talbots, but the oldest son, Julian, isn’t a threat to anybody but himself. Here he is being escorted into a drug-treatment center by his ... entourage.” She seemed pleased by her word choice.

Olivia craned forward. The image provided a close-up of the profile of an ashen-faced young man wearing mirrored sunglasses and a black baseball hat.

“I read the whole article,” Laurel gushed excitedly. “No official comment from the Talbot camp, but Mrs. Talbot came to visit Julian soon after he was admitted. According to this writer, the two have grown close over the last few years.”

“I can’t believe she’s still married to that cheating scumbag, Dean. I would have hooked his favorite appendage up to a pair of jumper cables by now,” Millay growled. “Must be no prenup.”

Harris picked up the magazine and flipped through the pages until he found the short article proclaiming Julian Talbot’s humiliation. “He tried to follow in his father’s footsteps, but it looks like he couldn’t handle the pressures of Wall Street. Cocaine addiction, outrageous debt, a few DUIs—this guy’s in trouble.”

Olivia sighed and Haviland raised his head from where he’d been happily napping behind a blue beanbag. “Millay, did you learn anything significant at work last night?”

Millay began picking at her cuticles. “Fish Nets was buzzing, that’s for sure. I heard some of the narrow-minded crap I expected. Six or seven of our hillbilly homophobes were saying, ‘Now there’s one less fag in the world,’ but most of the people were rattled.” She kept her eyes fixed on her hands. “It takes a lot to shake these guys. They’ve all stared death in the eye out on the ocean, but this is a death they don’t recognize. This had nothing to do with storms or waves, but a straightedge and a poem. They don’t get it and neither do I!”

She glanced up at the kites as though wishing she could climb aboard one and float away, her eyes glistening.

“One of your patrons saw Camden, didn’t they?” Olivia asked softly. Millay’s shoulders stiffened. Olivia leaned forward and hardened her voice. “With whom, Millay?”

“Look, it might just have been the booze talking,” Millay spoke after a lengthy pause. Seeing that she was backed into a corner, she sighed and went on. “Davie Malone thought he saw Jethro Bragg talking to Camden outside the bar.”

Laurel squeaked. “Outside? As in ... in the alley?”

Millay nodded her head miserably. “Yeah. Camden never stepped foot inside Fish Nets. Davie saw Camden and him at the mouth of the alleyway. No one saw Camden after that. But Jethro’s not the killer. Trust me. He’s not the type to take a man down in an alley, let alone spray paint an obscure type of poetry on the wall.”

“I appreciate your loyalty to your, ah, clients, but Chief Rawlings will need to know this,” Olivia said, holding Millay’s gaze. Why does Jethro Bragg’s name sound familiar? she wondered. She was pretty sure she didn’t know the man. Millay met Olivia’s dark blue stare and shrugged. “I’ll tell the chief, but he won’t be able to do anything about it. Jethro goes away for days at a time to work over the clam beds, and his boat’s gone. His motor boat, that is. He lives on a houseboat—it’s docked right at the marina. I walked to the slip this morning to ask him if he’d spoken to Camden. Jethro’s not there.”

“How do you know he didn’t just zip out for a spell?” Laurel inquired innocently. “Steve takes out our whaler whenever he wants to blow off steam.”

Millay didn’t have a chance to respond because the puppet theater suddenly tumbled backward and two boys began to scream as though they’d fallen into a wasp nest.

Olivia expected Laurel to fly to their rescue in a fit of hysterics, but she calmly righted the wooden structure and dug the twins out from under a pile of endangered animal puppets. Gently laying several spider monkey puppets aside, Laurel pulled Dermot free from the plush mound and, after giving him a quick kiss, told him to sit on the yellow beanbag. Once Dallas had been extricated, hugged, and sent to the green beanbag, a peaceful silence descended upon the space.

“Nicely done, Mom,” Millay said with a grin and then became serious again. “And to answer your question, I know Jethro’s clamming because he always flies a flag from his houseboat when he’s away. It’s how he tells people he’s not home.”

“Flag?” Dallas piped up from his cushioned seat. He sounded as though he was speaking from the bottom of a sinkhole.

Millay walked over to the little boy’s side and squatted down beside him. Closing one eye tightly, she screwed up her mouth and growled, “Aye, matey. A pirate flag!”

The child’s eyes grew round with wonder. “I like pirates! They have booty!” he cried and everyone laughed.

Not a bad declaration, Olivia thought, smiling. For a troll.

“Sorry, but I’ve got to get the twins home for lunch,” Laurel said and began to cram cups, empty baggies, and a package of wipes into her diaper bag. She shouldered the bag and gave Olivia a questioning look. “What do we do now?”

“We continue with our writing, for starters,” Olivia answered with conviction. “Camden would have wanted that. Who’s next in line to be critiqued?”

Millay raised her hand and saluted. “Me.”

“It’ll be nice to read your work after what’s happened. We could all use a little fantasy right about now,” Harris said, and once again, Olivia was impressed by the young man’s kindness.

Scowling, Millay replied, “This is dark fantasy, my friend. Just because I’m writing about mythical creatures doesn’t mean my chapter will be full of sunshine and giggles.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Laurel shot back. “My life is so overloaded with sunshine and giggles.” Her boys began to laugh at the silly face their mother was making and the writers couldn’t help but join in.

Olivia could see the twins were getting restless. “So, we’ll comment on Millay’s chapter and we’ll keep our eyes and ears open. Talk to people. Keep thinking about that damned haiku. If anything comes up or one of us happens to track down Jethro Bragg before we meet on Saturday, let’s get in touch with one another.” Olivia rose and Haviland immediately jumped to his feet. The twins, who hadn’t noticed his presence before, became instantly curious. Approaching the poodle without the slightest indication of caution, they reached out their plump hands and roughly grabbed Haviland’s curly fur.

“Doggie!” one of them shouted.

Before Olivia could decide exactly how to detach the human barnacles from her friend, Laurel took a plastic purple squirt gun out of her bag and aimed it at her sons.

“Let go of the nice doggie right now or I’ll spray you! Remember, if the magic water hits you, you won’t be allowed to go to McDonald’s ever again!”

The twins obeyed instantaneously.

“Perhaps you should write a parenting book,” Olivia told Laurel on her way out. Laurel smiled sheepishly, suddenly looking like a young girl herself.

“I know threats aren’t the best parenting method, but sometimes you just do what you can.”

“I wasn’t being sarcastic,” Olivia assured her friend. “I’m impressed with your calm and effective techniques. There are worse things than bribing kids with Happy Meals once in a while.”

Flynn was placing bookmarks in a spinner rack when the writers appeared in the front of the store. Olivia waited for her friends to leave before speaking to him. “I’d like to get Laurel’s boys a few books about pirates. Are there any available for their age level?”

Tossing the bookmarks aside, Flynn gestured for Olivia to follow him back to the children’s section. “Are you their fairy godmother?” he teased.

“Certainly not,” Olivia replied. “I’m merely an adult who realizes that the only chance they have of growing into decent human beings is by becoming enamored of books. Laurel can’t afford new ones, but I can. It’s as simple as that.”

Eyes twinkling, Flynn selected several board books from a lower shelf. As he did so, Olivia chose two macaw puppets and added them to the books in Flynn’s arms. “Those too.” She pointed a finger at him. “And no more references to fairy godmothers or I’ll be forced to sic my dog on you.”

Haviland curled his upper lip, exposing a row of pointy, white teeth.

Flynn’s fingers paused over the cash register. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t poke fun at you after what happened to your friend. I’m not normally insensitive. Please accept my apology.”

Olivia knew everyone in the small town would have heard about the murder by now, but she couldn’t help bristling a little. “No matter how private the pain, it becomes everyone’s business in a town as small as this. Skeletons don’t stay in closets in Oyster Bay. They’re brought out and paraded through the streets.”

Accepting Olivia’s credit card, Flynn held the plastic in his hand and gave her a sympathetic look. “Sounds like you know about this custom firsthand.” He waited for her to respond and when she didn’t, he turned away in order to tender the sale. “I suppose it’s a good thing I’ve got such a dull past,” he stated airily, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “You can’t get into too much trouble trapped in cubicle land for half your life. Borrow someone’s stapler and not give it back, jam the fax machine, use the last of the powdered creamer at the coffee station—that’s about as far as you dare go.”

When Olivia reached out to take the bag, Flynn’s fingers folded over her hand. “Remember, I’m new to Oyster Bay. Keep your secrets locked away from me as long as you want. I only want to see what you’d like to show me.”

Unused to hearing such frankness, especially delivered by such a handsome and charismatic man, Olivia found herself at a loss for words.

When a mother carrying an infant in some kind of sack across her chest approached Flynn in search of a book called The Baby Whisperer, Olivia politely excused herself and left the store.

Outside, the air was twenty degrees warmer and stiflingly moist. Haviland blinked against the sun’s glare and cocked his head at his mistress.

“All right, so I’m flustered!” Olivia snapped. “He is very good-looking and it has been quite some time since my last—”

Haviland barked.

“Point taken, Captain. My mind should be on other matters.” She hastened to the Range Rover. “But there’s no need for you to act jealous either.”

Ten minutes later, Olivia parked in the employee lot of The Boot Top and, giving her kitchen staff the most cursory of waves, went straight back to her office. Haviland perched firmly in the threshold, thereby increasing his chance of being fed choice tidbits by Michel.

Olivia called her aesthetician in New Bern and listened as the woman recommended several products to render Harris’s skin condition less irritating.

“I’m in search of something more permanent than a topical cream,” Olivia explained. “We’re talking about a good-looking boy here, but because of this issue, he probably hasn’t had a proper date since high school. And he’d be a real catch. Harris would treat some lucky girl like a queen.”

The aesthetician laughed. “Then send him my way!”

“Can you help him or not?” Olivia was impatient to get to her computer.

“Only if you bring him into the spa,” the woman replied sweetly. She never seemed bothered by Olivia’s abruptness. “I can see if he’d benefit from a series of laser treatments or IPL, which stands for intense pulse light. I can’t prescribe a treatment over the phone.”

Olivia wondered how she’d ever raise the subject to Harris. She didn’t know him well enough to pull him aside and embark on a discussion about his facial rash, let alone drag him to a posh spa in New Bern to have it treated by a laser while she footed the bill.

“I’ll find a way,” Olivia promised.

Next, she pulled up the website for the Oyster Bay Gazette and searched for an announcement about the township committee meeting. By law, the time, place, and items to be discussed had to be posted for the public prior to the meeting. The notice had appeared in last week’s paper and could also be found on the library bulletin board and on the town’s website. Olivia easily found the link on the Gazette’s online site, opened the PDF file, and began to read.

“The meeting is tonight,” she murmured under her breath. “Here it is! Listen to this!” she shouted, breaking Haviland’s trance. He leapt up and barked nervously. “Committeeman Johnson proposes a discussion followed by a vote to sell the Neuse River Community Park land to Talbot Fine Properties for a sum of eight and a half million dollars.”

She leaned back in her chair, lacing and unlacing her fingers together as excitement and anxiety coursed through her blood. She could feel it rushing through her heart, surging through her extremities as she rose from her chair.

“The Talbots want a bigger piece of Oyster Bay.” Taking Chief Rawlings’ card from her wallet, Olivia picked up the phone and began to dial his number. “The question is: How far will they go to get it?”