A Killer Plot (2010)

Chapter 10

When one’s character begins to fall under suspicion and disfavor, how swift, then, is the work of disintegration and destruction.

—MARK TWAIN

The dream clung to Olivia like a sweater slung over the shoulders. Though night was long over and the dawn had brought light and heat and a high tide, Olivia couldn’t wait to get out of bed and escape the air of her room. The darkness might be gone, but the space was crowded by the memories the dream had conjured.

Gathering her metal detector and the bag holding her folding trench shovel and nylon dishwashing brush, Olivia followed Haviland as he raced to the beach in a blur of black fur.

As she walked past the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, Olivia glanced at the window of her childhood room, half expecting to see her child self gazing back at her. But the glass only reflected twinkles of sunlight. The day was simply too fresh and full of promise to be held captive by the past, so Olivia turned her face toward the ocean, slipped on her headphones, and felt the presence of the dream dissipate.

She walked along the flat sand for three quarters of a mile and then headed away from the water’s edge into the dunes. It was more challenging to walk there, but she hadn’t hunted this deep around the grass-covered sand before.

Swinging the Bounty Hunter’s disc back and forth, Olivia listened carefully to the chirps and blips, ignoring the low sound signaling pull tabs or nails. Finally, a high-pitched bleep indicated the possibility of a buried coin and Olivia removed her trench shovel from her bag and began to dig up the heavy sand. About a foot down, the tip of her tool struck something metal. Olivia tossed the shovel aside and reached into the damp hole with her fingertips.

Haviland appeared like a phantom from behind a dune and sniffed at the pile of displaced sand.

“Just a shotgun shell,” Olivia told him, placing the find in her bag. “That makes four this year.”

Standing up, Olivia surveyed the flat ocean. “I think we’ll bend the rules a bit this morning. Let’s walk back by the road and see if we can discover something more interesting.”

Trotting up to the unpaved track, Haviland happily searched the unfamiliar scents along the side of the road, his nose quivering with excitement.

Olivia hadn’t gone more than fifty yards before the metal detector indicated another coin possibility. However, after digging through the less yielding soil, she unearthed a second shotgun shell.

“Was someone picking off your relatives with a twelve gauge?” she demanded crossly of a curious gull and shoved the spent shell in her bag.

Overtly disregarding her customary rule to stop after a single find, Olivia continued to move the Bounty Hunter back and forth in a gentle sweep as she and Haviland turned toward home. A few hundred yards along the road, the buzz signaling yet another coin echoed in Olivia’s ears. She almost ignored it.

Haviland barked impatiently. He was ready for his breakfast, but Olivia wanted the ground to provide a distraction from Camden’s death, the upcoming Planning Board meeting, and her inability to complete the chapter describing Kamila’s reception by Pharaoh’s other concubines.

“We’ll go to Grumpy’s this morning, Captain. If you help me dig.”

Together, the pair set to work. After moving about a foot of dirt, Olivia sat back on her heels and wiped the sweat from her brow.

“Nothing!” she shouted in annoyance. Rising, she scanned the displaced soil with the metal detector and, when the panel blinked red, spooned the dirt into a sifter. Furiously shaking the dirt free, she ended up with several large pebbles, a twig, and a corroded circle the size of a penny.

Surrendering, Olivia dumped the unknown coin into her bag and increased her pace so that by the time she reached her house, she felt completely spent. After refreshing Haviland’s water bowl and taking a quick, tepid shower, Olivia grabbed her laptop and drove into town.

Dixie had a sixth sense when it came to her regular customers. She always seemed to know when they’d arrive and what they were in the mood to eat. Olivia’s usual table by the window had been wiped clean and set up with gleaming utensils, a spotless coffee cup, and a glass of tap water without ice.

Haviland jumped onto the booth across from Olivia and, after greeting Dixie with a toothy smile, focused his gaze on the passersby on the other side of the window.

“Florentine egg-white omelet for you, ma’am?” Dixie asked, her small hands looped under a pair of pink suspenders. The unlikely accessory was clipped to the waistband of a purple crinoline skirt, under which Dixie wore a pair of white spandex shorts. Frowning, she held up her pointer finger. “Nope. You don’t feel like eggs today. You want some comfort food. Something sweet and buttery. Am I right?”

“As usual,” Olivia agreed. “I’ll be decadent and have the Oyster Bay French Toast.”

“With a side of carcinogenic bacon?”

Olivia smiled. “Yes, please.” She examined the pieces of fabric covering her friend’s forearms and elbows. “Are those arm socks?”

“Arm warmers,” Dixie corrected. “They’re all the rage with the teenage girls. I borrowed my daughter’s just to see what all the fuss was about. Any luck on this morning’s treasure hunt?”

Haviland issued a muffled bark.

“Two shotgun shells and a coin. The coin’s soaking, but from what I could see, it’s an Indian Head penny. Can’t read the date yet.”

Dixie shook her head. “That’s a lot of effort for a penny, isn’t it? No wonder you stay so damned thin. Let me put your order in and then I’ll come back and fill you in on some gossip you’ll find very interesting.” With a wink, she skated off to the kitchen.

Booting up her laptop, Olivia tried to immerse herself in her ancient Egyptian setting. She imagined Kamila bathing in a cool, shallow pool filled with floating lotus blossoms. Afterward, she’d rub her skin with costly oils and drape herself in the thinnest linen shift. Sitting on a low stool in the morning’s sunshine, Kamila would comb out her long, black tresses as she watched an ibis strut around the lush, private garden.

Just as Kamila was attempting to make friendly overtures toward a group of three older concubines, Dixie returned with Olivia’s bacon and a platter of meat and eggs for Haviland.

“So,” Dixie began. “You know Grumpy’s got a cousin who works at the airport?”

“Grumpy’s got a cousin working in every profession in the county,” Olivia remarked.

Dixie smirked. “Probably three counties. But this cousin likes to tell us when the fancy planes come in. He keeps a list of them in a notebook. Writes down the rich or famous passengers whenever he can recognize them.” She paused, waiting for Olivia to sample her bacon. “Guess who flew in as early as the cock crows this morning?”

“One of the Talbots?” Olivia deduced.

Looking disappointed, Dixie scowled. “You’re no fun. How’d you know that?”

“Our writing group has been researching the family. Dean likes to appear and soften up the locals prior to any vote that might influence one of his bigger projects. He’s got less than a week to butter up all the Planning Board members. I guess the Ocean Vista condos weren’t grand enough to get him down here,” Olivia remarked. “’ Course, we all approved that development in a flash. It was the first time somebody realized Oyster Bay was a real gem. Shows you how smart Talbot is. He decided to build before that Time article was ever written.”

A ring sounded from the pick-up window and Grumpy’s quizzical eyes searched out his wife. Seeing her positioned for a good long chat, he pointed at the platters of food and then turned away to focus on his grill.

“Be right back.” Dixie skated off to deliver tall stacks of pancakes to the patrons seated in the Phantom of the Opera booth. She whisked back to the kitchen, grabbed Olivia’s order and two stainless steel containers of warm pure maple syrup and, after depositing the first with the pancake eaters, returned to Olivia’s table.

Easing the heavy porcelain platter onto the table, Dixie said, “Don’t see that Talbot’s got too much convincing to do on this project either. Grumpy and Roy are voting for the new development and you know damn well Ed Campbell is going to say aye. After all, he’ll be signing a load of new loans for the folks who want to buy those houses. Shoot, Ed’ll probably be made president of the bank before they finish pouring the first foundation.”

Chewing on a piece of soft, cinnamon-laced French toast, Olivia silently agreed. “That leaves Marlene and me and whether the two of us have issues with the lack of green space or the displacement of wildlife doesn’t much matter, does it? Cottage Cove is going through. It only takes a majority to pass a proposal and the majority will vote in favor of this one.”

Dixie chucked Olivia on the arm. “Don’t sound so down. Think of the treasures you could find when they start digging up the park land.”

Olivia immediately envisioned the grumbling excavators as they crunched the soil with their metal teeth. Thinking of an excavator biting through the crumbing steps and collapsing the iron fence surrounding the tiny graveyard forced her to put her fork down.

“How did you find out how Roy was going to vote so quickly?” she asked Dixie, hoping to expunge the image of the decimated burial site from her mind.

The customers in the Cats booth were signaling Dixie for their check. She smiled and nodded at them but didn’t move. Turning back to Olivia as though she had all the time in the world, she leisurely continued their conversation. “Annie and Roy and that brother of his were parked right next to us last night. We couldn’t help but trade thoughts on the proposal.”

“I met Atlas Kraus after the meeting as well. He seemed ... odd.” Olivia was fishing, hoping Dixie would reveal her take on the stranger. Olivia trusted her friend’s ability to read people.

“Not odd. I can warm up to odd. I’m odd. You havin’ a dog for a best friend is odd. No offense, love.” She blew a kiss at Haviland. “Annie told me that her brother-in-law used to have a family of his own in Idaho or Iowa. Wife left him and took their kid to another state. Told him not to call or visit. Ever. Can you imagine? Anyhow, word is he hasn’t been the same since.” Dixie pulled a sympathetic face and began to skate away. Looking over her shoulder, she paused. “He’s got a damaged look to him, but maybe this town can heal him like it’s been healin’ you.”

With Dixie’s words echoing in her head, Olivia left Grumpy’s and drove straight to The Yellow Lady. Cosmo waved to her from the front porch, looking refreshed and comfortable. He was seated in one of the cushioned wicker chairs and had his feet propped on a pillowed ottoman. He cradled a mug of coffee in both hands and a selection of newspapers sat on an end table nearby. A stack of eight-by-eleven typed papers rested on his lap.

“Good morning, Goddess of the Carolina Coast.” Cosmo set down his coffee, clasped the papers against his chest, and jumped up in order to kiss Olivia on both cheeks. He then performed a sweeping bow in Haviland’s honor, but the poodle was more interested in finding a shady spot to rest than in flattery. His belly stuffed, he waddled over to one of the mammoth potted ferns, stretched out beneath its emerald fronds, and closed his eyes.

“Excuse Haviland’s rudeness. He overindulged this morning. But you’re looking well,” Olivia informed Cosmo pleasantly as she took the seat on the other side of the end table. The wicker creaked and crackled as she settled into the chair. She placed her forearms on the armrests, frowning. She didn’t like furniture that protested over having to bear the weight of a human body.

Cosmo waved off her compliment. “If I let Annie feed me one more comfort meal you’re going to have to transport me in a pickup truck bed. Go right ahead and line it with hay. Then a nice, talking spider can write words in her web to spare my being turned into Greek sausage links!”

Olivia laughed.

The two of them fell silent for a moment, listening to the buzzing of insects and the sound of a lawn mower rumbling in a neighboring yard.

“I hear they’re questioning a suspect down at the police station,” Cosmo said softly and caressed Camden’s pages. “Some man named Jethro. Do you know him?”

“I didn’t know he’d been taken into custody, though I was aware that the chief had questions for him,” Olivia answered after a moment. “Jethro’s an army vet. He makes his living selling clams and oysters. Resides on a houseboat and generally keeps to himself.”

Cosmo’s lovely eyes turned dark. He suddenly squeezed them shut in pain. “Why would he hurt Cam?”

Olivia’s gaze traveled beyond the porch to a bed of calla lilies and lantana. “Honestly, I can’t see why he would, but I don’t know him personally, Cosmo. I do have a hard time believing he reads or writes poetry, but the chief must have his reasons for considering him a suspect”

“There must be thousands of those little poems out in the world, Olivia.” Cosmo gestured at the packet in his lap. “There’s all kinds of creative writing for the taking on the Web. Maybe the poem wasn’t an original. Maybe this Jethro is some kind of plagiarizing psychopath.”

Choosing her words carefully, Olivia said, “You raise a valid point about the poem. I shouldn’t have assumed it was original just because I couldn’t find it on the Internet. You may also be on target regarding Jethro.” She paused, considering. “He may be unstable. He may even suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. Still, I can’t help but wonder why he’d randomly attack Camden. There’s no connecting factor between the two mean.” Olivia thought of Millay’s strong conviction that Jethro wasn’t involved in the murder. She had to talk to her soon and find out once and for all why the young bartender had such unshakable faith in Jethro’s innocence.

Cosmo raised both hands into the air. “Do you think only LA has crazies? There are broken people everywhere! In every apartment complex, every mansion, and every house—even the floating kind.” He sank back into his seat and took a deep breath. “Anyway, this is all trickle-down gossip delivered by the friendly, neighborhood mail lady. I want to go down to Chief Rawlings’ office this minute and find out if he’s beaten a confession out of this . . . person.”

At first, Olivia thought Cosmo might be joking, but one look at his face confirmed that he was completely serious. She reached over, ignoring the complaining wicker, and grabbed his hand. “The chief may still be interrogating Jethro or searching his boat. He isn’t going to provide you with specifics. It’s more likely Rawlings will politely send you on your way and you’ll be more stirred up than before.” She squeezed his hand. “Come to The Boot Top for dinner tonight. I’m having drinks with Rawlings beforehand. Any information I can wheedle out of him during the cocktail hour will be yours for the hearing over a bottle of my finest wine.”

Sighing theatrically, Cosmo relented. “Fine. I have work to do anyway. When I checked my voicemail yesterday, I had a message from the agent to that American Idol star. I can’t remember his name at the moment. I don’t watch those silly reality shows. I prefer fantasy.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Well, this rich, handsome singer wants his Malibu beach house to remind him of a southern beach, so I’m going to spend the morning collecting seashells and taking a billion photographs.”

“You should visit the town’s new bookstore as well,” Olivia suggested. “The owner’s name is Flynn McNulty and he has some gorgeous coffee table books on Coastal Carolina with one-of-a-kind color plates.” She rose and snapped her fingers lightly. Haviland got to his feet, blinking sleepily, and leaned his head against her leg. Her hand automatically reached down and stroked the soft fur of his ear. “I’ll send one of my employees to pick you up at eight. Good luck with your research and if you do visit the bookstore, Through the Wardrobe, do not drink Mr. McNulty’s coffee.”

Cosmo, who had stopped in the act of raising his coffee cup to his lips, paused. “Is there such a thing as bad coffee? If I can drink Starburnt I can drink anything.”

“If you say so, but I felt it was my civic duty to warn you. See you tonight.” Olivia smiled and walked away.

Olivia returned home to work on her latest chapter and to check on the soaking coin. She let Haviland loose in the yard and removed the penny from its vinegar-based solution. Scrubbing the remaining debris from the surface, she rinsed it off beneath a gentle flow of warm tap water. The penny felt slightly thicker between her fingers than a modern penny.

Excited, Olivia grabbed a jeweler’s loupe from her desk drawer and moved to the window. Holding the coin beneath the magnifying tool, she could see the distinct profile of an Indian Head penny. Though the edges of the coin were well worn, the raised silhouette was in good shape. The native’s mouth hung open as though he was in a state of shock and his eye sockets seemed dark and haunted. Olivia traced the feathers of his headdress with her fingertip.

“Eighteen sixty-three. So you were around to witness the War Between the States.” She turned the coin over, enjoying the feel of the aged copper and nickel.

Closing the penny in her fist, a thought popped into her mind. She opened the pocket calendar she kept in her purse and flipped to the notes she’d taken after visiting the cemetery at the Neuse River Park the day before. The name Henry Bragg leapt from the page.

“That’s why Jethro’s name sounded familiar!” she exclaimed as she noticed Haviland’s face at the deck door. She let him in without taking her eyes from the notebook. “Henry must be Jethro’s relative. And with Jethro being a veteran, I can understand why he’d feel passionate about the graveyard being disturbed.”

Removing the lid of a jumbo pickle jar, Olivia dropped the coin and the shotgun shells inside. The metal objects clinked against the vintage razor case she’d collected a few weeks ago and the stainless watchband she’d found last time she and Haviland had ventured forth with the Bounty Hunter.

Olivia stared unseeing at the trinkets. “Camden must have discovered something beyond the fact that Talbot Properties wants to build this housing development. He must have learned something about Blake Talbot’s dark business deal. But what? How does the park fit in? How does Jethro fit in?”

Haviland whined and placed his front paws on the edge of Olivia’s writing desk, nudging the computer mouse with his nose.

“You’re right, Captain Task Master. No more procrastinating. I’ll read Millay’s chapter before I work on my own if that’s suitable.”

Sitting upright, Haviland stared at her expectantly. Olivia retrieved Millay’s document from the Bayside Book Writers file on the computer. Haviland cocked his ears as Olivia read aloud.

“Tessa didn’t want to die.

“She stood on the cliff edge, looking down at the surging sea. Her black hair wriggled free from its silk band and flowed out behind her like a pennant. The wind whipped at the voluminous skirts of her white Initiate gown, but Tessa was too frightened to feel the cold.

“She was one of many. Two hundred Initiates would be pushed from the cliff top this dawn.

“Most would meet their death in the freezing waters far below, their bloated bodies washing to shore hours or even days later.

“Thirteen young girls would not die.

“Thirteen young girls would fly.

“ ‘It’s in your blood, lass,’ her nanny told her as she laced up the back of her white dress. ‘You are not destined to drown this day.’

“Tessa could feel the rapid breathing of her Pusher. Standing a foot behind her, his warm exhalations fell onto the pale skin just under her left earlobe. The Priestess of the Initiates began to chant in a clear voice that was carried to every girl and hooded Pusher by means of powerful magic.

“The man behind Tessa took a step toward her. She drew in a quick breath. A pair of strong hands closed around her arms.

“She stiffened. Her time was running out faster than the grains of sea salt in her nanny’s hourglass.

“ ‘Do not be afraid, beauty.’ The man’s rough whisper momentarily distracted Tessa from the ancient words of the Mistress. It’ll be over soon, for better or for worse. May the gods show pity on you lasses.’

“Then, he lifted his voice so that it mingled with the Priestess’s and those of the other men. ‘You fall or you fly. We keep the blood pure. This is the way of the Gryphini. This is the way of the Gryphon Warriors.’

“The man pressed his hands against Tessa’s shoulder blades.

“He pushed her off the cliff.”

The sound of the ringing phone jolted Olivia out of the narrative. She hadn’t realized that she’d edged closer and closer to the computer screen as she read Millay’s opening paragraphs. Haviland was watching his mistress intently, waiting for her to continue.

Irritated, Olivia checked her caller ID and recognized Michel’s number.

“We have a problem,” he announced. “Our entire order of shrimp was delivered less-than-fresh for the second time in a row. I refused to accept it and will never buy from those bastards again, but I can’t leave now to visit the docks. Olivia, I must serve my shrimp grits with prosciutto this evening. A little bird told me one of the food editors from Coastal Living plans to stop by the restaurant this evening. You’ve got to get me the freshest, plumpest, most succulent shrimp in the sea and you need to get it now!”

Olivia glanced at her watch. “Never fear, Michel. I’ll take care of our crustaceous dilemma.”

Reluctantly, she printed Millay’s chapter in hopes of reading it before bed. Next, she hurriedly selected a pair of black slacks, a shimmery lightweight pullover in silver, and a pair of metallic sling-back sandals from her bedroom closet. She hung the ensemble on the dry cleaning hook in the Range Rover.

“To the shrimp docks we go, Captain,” she said and opened the passenger door for Haviland.

The poodle jumped into the car, his puffy tail waving in excitement.

Roaring down the dirt road, Olivia left a screen of dust and sand behind her. The shrimp docks were ten minutes south of town and Olivia worried that the trawlers would either still be out on the ocean or would already be emptied of their payloads. The majority of the shrimpers left before dawn to return late in the afternoon. Olivia was hoping to catch a crew just pulling into the dock. As luck would have it, that’s exactly what she saw as she parked in a hasty slant in the gravel lot.

“We’ve got cash,” she murmured as she removed a bank deposit envelope from the glove compartment. “And we’ve got ice.” She glanced at the large cooler in the back of the Rover. “You’d better wait here, Captain. These macho men might exhibit poodle discrimination and I can’t afford to return without shrimp.”

Haviland fixed his eyes on the dock, eager to accompany Olivia.

“Don’t worry. I’ll leave your window completely open just in case you need to leap out and sink your teeth into one of their calves.”

The poodle leaned forward in his seat and stuck his snout into the salty air.

Normally, Michel oversaw the purchase of fresh food for The Boot Top, but Olivia often accompanied him on his trips to farm stands, herb gardens, and various commercial fishing docks. Michel was meticulous in his selections. He poked, prodded, and scrutinized every piece of fruit, cut of beef, or squirming lobster with an agonizing slowness. Even Haviland grew impatient with Michel, nudging him on the hip with his black nose in a futile attempt to hurry the persnickety chef along.

Confident that she could be as discerning as Michel, Olivia walked down the dock, shielding her eyes against the winking reflection of sunlight bouncing off the water. The roar of the incoming trawler’s motor died down and the vessel coasted toward the dock. With feline grace, a man with a faded baseball hat leapt from the bow onto the dock, a bowline held loosely in his hands.

Ignoring Olivia, he secured the line to a cleat and then raced to the stern to catch another rope. Three men shouted companionable orders to one another, and within minutes, the Clara Sue was docked.

“Good haul?” Olivia asked the older man she assumed to be the captain.

“Can’t complain,” he answered gruffly.

Having spent the first ten years of her life with her fisherman father, Olivia knew the man’s response indicated a full hold. “I’m Olivia Limoges. I own The Boot Top and I’m in desperate need of fine, fresh shrimp.”

“Aye. I know who you are.” The man paused in his preparations to unload and stared at her, his deep-set eyes softening as he did so. “You favor your mama. She was a real looker.”

For the moment, Olivia forgot her purpose in coming to the docks. “Did you know her well?”

“Nah. The missus and me would cross paths with her and your daddy from time to time. She always had a kind word for us. Was a real lady, she was.”

“Thank you,” Olivia spoke after a long pause. “I don’t remember much about her, so whenever I come across someone who does, those memories are a gift to me.” Embarrassed by her own candor, she looked away toward the blue blur where the sky met the ocean.

“The waters we fished today were the same color as your eyes, miss. We caught some mighty fine shrimp there.” The captain offered her a tentative smile. “How can I help you?”

Olivia explained how much shrimp she required and that she needed it loaded into her cooler immediately. She and the captain quickly agreed on terms.

“And I have a bonus here to show my gratitude.” Olivia handed the money to one of the mates. The man removed the bills and began to count them.

The captain’s eyes slid over to the money and then returned to Olivia’s face. “You’ve got class, miss, just like your mama did.”

A warm feeling flooded Olivia’s heart. She handed the captain a business card. “I’d like you to be our primary shrimp supplier.” She focused her attention on the captain. “If you contact my chef, Michel, he’ll see to the arrangements.”

The captain and his two mates expressed no obvious satisfaction over her offer, but the slight straightening of their shoulders and the flicker of light in their eyes told Olivia they were pleased. Times were never easy for a fisherman, and a steady buyer created both an element of pride and provided a small measure of relief from constant monetary worries as well.

Back at The Boot Top, the kitchen was a cyclone of activity. Pots bubbled and knives flashed as two sous chefs chopped cloves of garlic, mushrooms, and scallions. Michel flew around the room, barking sharp commands, tasting sauces, and consulting his food-stained recipe notebook. Her employees were pink-cheeked and frenzied. Olivia smiled. All was as it should be in the kitchen of a five-star restaurant.

“Don’t look so smug,” Michel cautioned, reading her expression. “We need stellar reviews if we want to remain the best restaurant on the coast. Those shrimp had better be perfection.”

“You won’t be displeased,” Olivia promised. She and Haviland headed for her office. After replying to several emails, she was just about to review the week’s menus when one of her waitresses tapped on her door.

“Ms. Limoges? There’s a man asking for you. I think he’s the chief of police, but I’m not sure.”

“Thank you, Lisa.” Olivia checked her watch. “How did it get to be five o’clock? You can stay here, Captain. I’m sure Michel will give you a few nibbles of shrimp after he’s had a smoke break.”

Haviland looked hopeful. The poodle was very fond of fresh shrimp but was treated to them very rarely. Even then, he was only allowed a few, as Olivia didn’t consider shrimp good for his diet.

In The Boot Top’s luxuriant ladies’ room, Olivia hastily changed into her spare outfit, ran a brush through her white blond hair, and put on mascara and lipstick. Briefly wondering if she smelled of shrimp, she rubbed on a dab of scented hand lotion kept on the counter for patrons’ use.

Satisfied with her appearance, Olivia slung the bag containing her other clothes onto the chair in her office and marched out to the dining room to meet her guest. Chief Rawlings stood at the bar, a martini glass in his hand. He and Gabe were engaged in a casual conversation and Olivia reflected that most people seemed completely at ease in the lawman’s presence.

It must make him good at his job, she thought. To get to the bottom of a crime, he needs to listen to people’s stories. The more open they are, the more details he’s given to sift through.

Upon seeing Olivia, Rawlings immediately put down his drink and took her hand in his. He studied her and seemed to like what he saw. For a moment, Olivia was afraid he’d kiss the back of her palm, but he merely squeezed her hand and then gently let go.

“Gabe makes an excellent vodka gimlet. I believe it’s the best I’ve ever had.” He smiled at the bartender. “And I’ve had quite a few.”

Olivia glanced at the chief’s inexpensive but meticulously pressed suit. She wondered if he had dressed up on her behalf and wasn’t quite certain how she felt about the possibility. Gabe handed her a tumbler of Chivas Regal and she led the lawman to a small bar table flanked by leather club chairs.

“I’m glad you came early, Chief. I’m having dinner with Cosmo and I doubt you’ll want to be here when he arrives. He’s sure to want an update on Camden’s case.”

Rawlings traced his finger down the bowl of his chilled glass. “Please call me Sawyer. I’m off duty tonight.”

Olivia’s brows rose over the rim of her tumbler. She took a sip, wondering if Rawlings was hinting that he didn’t plan on discussing the investigation with her. She decided to feel him out. “Is Jethro Bragg a suspect in Camden’s murder?”

“Life in a small town. I’ve got more leaks in my department than an inflatable raft stuck on a coral reef.” He sighed in resignation. “Yes, Jethro is a suspect.”

“He’s familiar with haiku?” Olivia asked incredulously.

Rawlings’ shoulders moved in a slight shrug. “That’s unclear. We searched his houseboat and he’s got books on a variety of subjects, including poetry. He’s had a library copy of The Norton Anthology of World Literature checked out for a year.”

“Imagine the late fees,” Olivia quipped. “There must be more substantial evidence against Jethro than the volumes on his bookshelf.”

A flash of annoyance crossed Rawlings’ features. “He followed Mr. Ford into the alley. Mr. Bragg is overtly anti-gay. He warned Mr. Ford to leave his town or face the consequences. He made several incriminating remarks.”

Olivia watched several emotions flicker over the chief’s face. She leaned closer to him. “You don’t think Jethro’s the killer, do you? You believe he’s capable of killing and has probably taken lives while serving in the army, but you don’t truly think this crime fits him.” She didn’t wait for his reply. “But having him in custody makes people feel better. The mayor. Camden’s partner. The local press. It gives you some breathing room.”

“That’s a long list of assumptions, Ms. Limoges.” Rawlings smiled thinly. “Mr. Bragg is being detained because he became violent during questioning. He has no alibi for the night of Mr. Ford’s murder and spoke with a great deal of hostility against the victim.”

“So no one saw Jethro go inside Fish Nets? He was just nearby, in the alley?”

The chief shook his head. “He never went in. When I asked him to recall his movements for the entire evening, he refused to cooperate. When pressed, he became violent.” He stared at her curiously. “Any breakthroughs on your end?”

“No,” Olivia reluctantly confessed. “We have no idea what the haiku means other than the killer needed to silence Camden.”

Rawlings made a noncommittal grunt.

Gabe walked out from behind the bar and wordlessly served them another round of drinks. A middle-aged couple walked into the bar area, heads bent toward each other, hands interlaced. The man pulled out a padded leather stool for his wife and then asked Gabe for the wine list. Even without looking at the couple, Olivia knew they were from out of town by their New England accents. She gave them a friendly smile. Well-to-do tourists always ran up a nice tab at The Boot Top.

Olivia was just about to turn back to the chief when two men came in. She recognized the one on the left wearing an expensive suit and confident smile. It was Max Warfield. The Talbot Properties employee was laughing robustly in response to something his older, more attractive companion said, but Olivia sensed the humor was insincere.

“I believe we are about to be graced by the presence of Mr. Dean Talbot,” Rawlings whispered.

“Then let’s be as inconspicuous as possible,” Olivia replied. “I’d like to eavesdrop on their conversation.”

Rawlings grinned. “You shoot straight from the hip, don’t you? Now I know he’s got plenty of female fans, but do you have a crush on him too? Sure he’s rich, powerful, and handsome, but he doesn’t strike me as your type.”

“He’s not,” Olivia hissed, eying the real estate tycoon from her peripheral vision. Dean Talbot had the bronzed, unlined skin of someone who regularly frequents both tanning salons as well as the plastic surgeon. His hair fell in thick, silvery waves and he was lean without being too thin.

More interested in examining the screen of his BlackBerry than his surroundings, Dean settled into the chair behind Olivia while Max stepped up to the bar to order their drinks.

“And get me some peanuts or something. I’m freaking starving,” Dean commanded. His voice was nasal and tinged with a Brooklyn accent.

Olivia saw Max’s shoulders stiffen and silently wondered if the man resented the orders he was given. The moment Max set a tumbler in front of his boss, Dean popped out of his seat. “I’m going to take a leak. See to those peanuts, would you?”

Before Max could answer, Gabe come around from behind the bar with a glass dish filled with a mixture of cocktail peanuts, sesame sticks, and wasabi-dusted dried peas. Max, who was busy dialing a number on his cell phone, nodded at the bartender. As soon as Gabe turned away, Max spoke angrily into the phone.

“Are you sure you’ve picked the right guy? He’s already screwed up big-time! Have I backed the wrong horse? You said you had it all worked out!” He paused. “Yeah, it passed, but there’s still the damned Planning Board.”

Olivia and Rawlings exchanged curious looks.

“Look, kid. You know why I agreed to this. Just hold up your end and everything will be fine. And remember, you can’t do anything without me. If I get so much as the slightest vibe that you’re trying to screw me over I will crush you like—” Max immediately stopped speaking. Olivia heard him snap his cell phone shut.

Raising her tumbler, Olivia could see Dean returning in the reflection of the glass. Behind her, she heard the rattle of ice and a loud swallow as Max took a deep sip of his gin and tonic.

“Ah, snack mix!” Dean exclaimed as though Max had presented him with a chest stuffed with fine jewels. “What would I do without you?”

“You’d be just fine, sir,” Max replied affably.

Dean laughed. “You’re probably right.” There was a pause in which Dean likely consumed several handfuls of the snack mix. “I saw the most interesting movie trailer during my flight down,” he said next. “I think Blake’s little girlfriend was the star. Pretty little thing, though I prefer my women to have more curves and more . . . experience. You seen her TV show? That girl is going places.”

Their talk ventured into the realm of movies and television and Olivia no longer bothered to listen in.

Rawlings glanced at his watch. “I shouldn’t keep you. I know you have dinner plans.” He pushed his empty glass away but made no move to stand. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you, but it never seemed to be the right time.”

Olivia’s heart drummed. Was the chief going to make a romantic overture? Or inquire about her painful past? She wrapped her long, elegant fingers around her tumbler and nodded in encouragement.

“I value your opinion, Olivia, and before I made a fool of myself in front of your writer friends I wanted to see whether your critique group would welcome another member.” He cleared his throat. “Meaning me, of course.”

This was hardly the question Olivia had expected. Relieved, she let forth a rare giggle. “But we’re the Bayside Book Writers, Chief, ah, Sawyer. Don’t you write poetry?”

The chief’s cheeks flushed slightly. “I read many genres, including poetry, but I started penning a mystery a few years ago and I’d love to bring it out of the drawer and see what the group thinks of the first few chapters.”

Olivia believed Rawlings would make an excellent addition to their group. After all, with Camden gone, Harris was the only remaining male. Besides, Olivia was particularly fond of the mystery genre. She didn’t enjoy them as much as historical fiction, but they ranked a close second. “I don’t see why not,” she replied. “I’ll run it by them prior to this Saturday’s meeting.”

“Good.” Rawlings stood up and gave her a little bow. “Of course, if I am invited to join, I’d prefer to be there as a civilian. Just another struggling writer type. I won’t even bring a gun.”

“That’s fine.” Olivia smiled. “If the need arises, you can borrow mine.”