A Killer Plot (2010)

Chapter 13

O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?

—PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

On Monday morning, Olivia and Haviland were enjoying breakfast at Grumpy’s when they noticed Laurel jog past the window, pushing a double stroller. Her ponytail streamed behind her like a palomino’s mane.

“Look at her go,” Olivia remarked to Dixie. “Seems more like hard labor than exercise. That contraption must weigh more than Laurel does.”

“In about twenty minutes she’ll go flyin’ by again. Does the same loop every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. She’s runnin’ late this morning though.” Dixie glanced at her purple Swatch. “She’s usually come and gone by the time you drag your lazy ass in here for coffee and eggs.”

Scowling, Olivia held out her empty mug. “Fortunately, I’m not forced to wake up at dawn to attend to the endless needs of young and helpless humans. It’s one of the many reasons I’m relieved to have avoided motherhood. Might my lazy ass have a refill, please?”

With a toss of her feathered hair, Dixie skated off for the coffee carafe. “You’ve been holdin’ out on me,” she murmured upon her return.

Olivia watched the steam from the carafe rise over the table, only to be obliterated by the downdraft created by the languid whirling of an overhead fan.

The diner was full of strangers. Olivia recognized only the elderly couple in the Starlight Express booth and a middle-aged woman reading a Barbara Kingsolver novel at the counter. Judging by their dress and the bulky camera bags partially tucked underfoot, the remaining patrons were journalists and photographers.

“That’s a rather vague statement,” she said to Dixie, observing as the curl of white cream she poured into her coffee morphed into a warm, pecan hue. “Haviland and I did find something on our walk this morning, but it’s not interesting from a monetary standpoint. See for yourself.”

Olivia passed Dixie the quarter she and Haviland had dug up on the beach. There had been an extremely low tide that morning, providing a rare opportunity to use the Bounty Hunter over areas of sand normally covered by water.

“It’s just one of them state quarters.” Dixie was unimpressed. “New Hampshire. ‘Live Free or Die.’ I find these every night sweepin’ up.”

“Turn it over,” Olivia directed.

Amused, she watched as Dixie’s thin eyebrows climbed up her forehead. The morning sun highlighted the shimmery purple shadow covering every centimeter of skin from Dixie’s lids to her ruthlessly plucked brows. “It’s like somebody just took an eraser to it,” she breathed and ran her fingertips over the quarter. “But that’s not what I was hintin’ at when I said you were holdin’ out on me. Let me get these city folks their food and I’ll be back to worm the details out of you.”

Dixie plunked the quarter onto the table. As she’d pointed out, one side was engraved with New Hampshire’s Old Man of the Mountain and the state motto, but the reverse was utterly blank. There wasn’t the slightest indication that George Washington’s profile had ever been etched into the front of the coin. No words remained. Not a single letter had escaped the scouring of sand and sea. It was smooth as glass.

Olivia slipped the anomaly back into her pocket and sipped her coffee, watching Dixie deliver platters of omelets, peach pancakes, and Belgian waffles to customers. She then slid side dishes of hash browns, sausages, bacon, and baked apples onto any available space remaining on each table. Once her customers were busy eating, she skated backward to Olivia’s booth and did a neat half-turn inches away from Haviland’s paw. “Now, for the good stuff. I heard tell you paid a visit to a certain gentleman’s house the other night” She grinned, her bubblegum-colored lip gloss twinkling. “And didn’t leave again ’til midnight.”

Olivia couldn’t help but laugh. “Let me guess. One of your bevies of relatives lives on the same street as Flynn McNulty.” Her smile quickly disappeared. “If only one of them was around to witness Camden’s murder. Or Dean’s fall.”

“Fall? Feed me another one.” Dixie snorted. “That’s not how a man like him goes. Take that with a grain of salt, mind you, because I’ve only seen him a time or two, but he seemed like one sure-footed fellow. He ate lunch here on Thursday so he could ferret out how Grumpy was going to vote come Tuesday night.” She gazed out the window as she remembered. “I liked that he didn’t sugarcoat his reason for coming in. Just asked us straight out. Grumpy told him just as plain that he was votin’ in favor of building that development. Talbot and his buddies ate up every bite of their burgers, thanked us, left the biggest tip I’ve ever laid eyes on, and then went about their business.”

Dean was smooth, Olivia thought. Dixie and Grumpy weren’t easily impressed, especially by outsiders.

“I won’t mince words with you either,” she told her friend. “I’d like to talk Grumpy into rejecting the proposal.”

She raised her hand to stop Dixie from interrupting. “All I ask is that the two of you spend a few, quiet moments in the graveyard in the park. If you still want to support Cottage Cove as it stands, fine, but I’d like the proposal to be altered to allow the cemetery to remain untouched. Consider backing me up on this point. I’m going to talk to the rest of the board members when I’m done here.”

Dixie jerked a thumb toward the dining area behind her. “There aren’t going to be any quiet moments at that park for any of us! Every inch of that place will be on the news, in the papers, and on the Web by tomorrow. Grumpy’s cousin told us that the Talbot kids have being arriving since Sunday. Each one in their own little jet. Isn’t that too cute?”

Olivia laid the fork laden with omelet back on her plate. “Can you find out exactly when each of them landed? I’m specifically interested in when Blake Talbot arrived and if anyone met him at the airport.”

“I’ll make you a trade. Flight information for Flynn information.” Dixie produced a theatrical wink before pushing off from the table. Propelled forward, she dropped off two checks, collected empty dishes, and zipped through the kitchen’s swinging door in the time it would have taken another waitress to tie on her apron.

Smiling, Olivia returned her attention to her omelet. She was just about to take a bite when Laurel’s flushed face appeared at the diner’s window. Before Olivia could wave, Laurel raised her fist and knocked loudly on the glass. As she gestured feverishly for Olivia to come outside, her lovely face crumpled and tears slipped down her cheeks.

“Haviland! Something’s wrong!” Olivia shoved the diner door open. Haviland burst out in front of his mistress and immediately began to scan the street for threats. Laurel had turned the stroller away from the sun. The twins were both sleeping, their heads tilted at what looked to Olivia like supremely uncomfortable angles against the blue fabric of the jogging stroller.

“What is it?” Olivia took Laurel by the elbow, fearing that the younger woman might collapse at any moment.

Laurel gulped. “I saw it! At the bulletin board by the town hall. I saw the . . . the . . .” Her words tumbled from her mouth as she fought for air.

Olivia couldn’t make sense of her friend’s jumbled phrases. “You need to get out of the sun and drink some water. Come inside.”

Shaking her head, Laurel wouldn’t release her grip of the stroller handle. “It doesn’t fit through the doorway. Too wide.”

“Wait here.” Olivia strode into Grumpy’s, slapped some money on the table, and grabbed her purse and her water glass from the table. Several reporters cast her interested glances but were too captivated by their food to pay her any real heed. Outside, Olivia handed the water to Laurel. “Take small sips.” She waited while Laurel complied. “I’m going to push the boys under the pharmacy’s awning.”

Mutely, Laurel allowed Olivia to claim her position behind the stroller. Olivia gave the vehicle a light shove.

“The brakes are on,” Laurel whispered and stepped on a lever with her heel.

Olivia maneuvered the sleeping children farther up the block and then insisted Laurel sit down on one of pharmacy’s wide steps. Laurel drank down half of the water, then passed the glass back to Olivia. Her hands were trembling.

“Take your time.” Olivia pivoted the twins out of the sun and sat down next to Laurel, keeping a firm hold on the stroller’s oversized front wheel. “You ran past the bulletin board outside the town hall and saw what?”

Laurel nodded. “I don’t usually stop to read the notices, but I got a cramp as we were going by. There was a bright red piece of paper tacked up there. I needed to catch my breath, so I started to read it.” She wiped her perspiring forehead with the bottom of her pink Adidas shirt. “It’s another poem, Olivia. I couldn’t even tell you what it said, but I know it meant something bad. It . . . the words turned my blood cold.”

Olivia was dumbstruck for a moment. “Another haiku?”

Laurel glanced at her sleeping children. “I didn’t count the syllables, but it was three lines long. It sounded a lot like the other one. Like the same person had written both poems. Olivia, it felt . . . evil.”

“Was it handwritten?”

“No. It was typed.” Laurel pushed a damp lock of hair off her forehead. “Would you call the police? I really need to go home and sit down.”

“Let me give you a lift” Olivia felt acutely protective toward the younger woman. “You’ve had a shock. I’m worried about you walking home.”

“I doubt there’s a pair of car seats in that Range Rover of yours,” Laurel replied with a weak smile. “I’ll be okay now that I’ve told you. I know you’ll handle this better than I ever could. Will you call me after you’re done with the chief?”

“Of course.” Olivia waited for Laurel to rise to her feet and begin walking the stroller at a slow, controlled pace before hustling to her car. She dialed the chief’s number as she headed for the town hall, irritated by the clot of traffic caused by vacationers in search of parking spaces and journalists on the lookout for photo ops. Rawlings didn’t pick up his cell phone so Olivia left him a brief message.

Several minutes later, she drove the Rover into the crowded town hall lot and selected a spot reserved for jurors only. She stuffed her phone back in her purse and pumped her long legs double-time until she reached the bulletin board. There was the poem, just as Laurel had described.

Olivia read it once, and then twice, before copying the lines down into the notebook she always kept in her bag.

She then read them aloud to see how the words, once spoken, grew in power:

Cherry branches bow—

Petals pushed into the wind

Pale as a new moon.

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?”

Millay had the good sense to look abashed. “Missy’s married, okay! But her marriage is a big secret. I’m the only one who knows and I don’t spill secrets people tell me when they’re wasted. Besides, if her three-hundred-pound truck-driving husband came back after two months on the road and found out about her and Jethro, there would have been another murder in Oyster Bay, capisce? Missy’s better half is a recovering alcoholic, so he doesn’t come into the bar, but if I ratted on his wife, Missy would have known I’d opened my big mouth. I figured Jethro could provide his own alibi without me having to betray anyone.” She grabbed the bottle from Olivia’s hand. “Anyway, I told you Jethro didn’t do it. How about a little trust next time?”

Stunned by the news, Olivia watched wordlessly as Millay filled her wineglass to the brim. “I admire you for being true to your word,” Olivia finally said. “But your decision allowed the police to waste time and energy.” Surprised to see Millay’s eyes grow moist, Olivia dropped the subject. What was done was done. She had to remember that Millay was young. She’d truly believed that her actions were noble. Olivia touched her briefly on the shoulder. “Jethro doesn’t seem to have known much peace in his life. I’m relieved he won’t have to spend any more time behind bars.”

“It also means there are no suspects for Camden’s murder,” Harris pointed out. “Or Dean’s. It’s not like I wanted Jethro to be guilty, but knowing he’s innocent means the cops still don’t have any leads.”

“We’d better be careful of tossing assumptions around so quickly,” Olivia said with more bite than she’d intended. “This second poem isn’t public knowledge, so let’s keep our thoughts between ourselves and try to come up with something helpful for the police, shall we?”

The four writers studied the poem. Millay and Laurel took pens from their bags and began to make notes or scribble questions in the margins and on the bottom of the paper. Harris read the haiku several times and then wandered off to gaze out the large windows overlooking the harbor where dozens of mast lights winked and shimmered as moored boats swayed gently in the current.

The sky was caught between day and night—peach and melon stripes were being chased away by periwinkle and cobalt blues. Harris lifted his eyes to look at the first stars of the evening, which had awakened and were burning through the lingering clouds.

“What is the connection between Camden and Dean?” Harris spoke without turning. “Camden came here to gather dirt on Blake. Then he was killed. Dean came here to make sure his project would go through. Then he was killed and—”

“And his shares of Talbot Properties go to Blake,” Olivia interjected.

“But Blake wasn’t here!” Laurel protested. “Blake was long gone before Camden’s death. We saw that concert footage of him playing in Vegas, remember? And, if what I read in the paper is right, he left in the middle of his band’s tour and flew in yesterday. I guess his siblings are on their way, too.”

Millay punched some buttons on her iPhone. “It’s true. Blackwater was in concert in Sin City on Saturday. Here’s a YouTube video of Blake testing out the mic before the performance. Look at the time it was filmed.”

Olivia peered at the screen, a little awed by what Millay had been able to discover using a mobile phone. “The medical examiner thinks Dean was killed between three and four in the afternoon. Whoever pushed him has probably been in Oyster Bay since Camden’s murder.”

“What about that Max Warfield? He seems sly enough to fit the profile.” Harris pointed at his untouched wine. “Do you have any of that Gaelic Ale? That stuff is really good.”

“Max was shored up in his hotel room with a woman. That’s his alibi for Dean’s murder.” As Gabe was still in the kitchen, Olivia went behind the bar and popped the cap from one of Highland Brewing Company’s most popular products and removed a chilled pint glass from the small refrigerator under the bar. She served Harris his beer and the other writers watched as the foam bubbled near the rim of the glass without so much as a drip escaping.

Laurel made a growling noise. “This is so frustrating! What Oyster Bay local would want to help Blake Talbot become even richer?”

“A poor one,” Millay replied tersely.

“We’re talking about slitting a man’s throat! It’s got to be about more than just money,” Laurel argued.

Olivia stopped tapping the stem of her wineglass and studied her friend. “I think you’re on to something, Laurel. Money is a motivator, but I agree that the killer must benefit in another way from Blake’s advancement. There’s got to be something personal about these crimes. He’s not shooting them in some private place. He’s makes a statement, but what is he trying to say?”

“Maybe the killer wanted revenge against Dean,” Harris suggested. “Man, I wish Camden could have just spelled out what he discovered and put it in his manuscript. There’s nothing incriminating in those pages. I’ve read them a dozen times by now.”

Delicately draining her glass, Laurel placed it on the table. “Someone must have noticed the creep outside the town hall. I see the same people whenever I’m out for a run. I know who’s a tourist and who’s starting a new exercise routine, who’s running late, and who wears the same shirt every Wednesday ...” She shrugged. “You get my point. Anyway, we should talk to Flynn, the bookstore owner. He runs every day and he’s out early. Even earlier than me.”

Olivia felt the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand up. “I’ll have a discreet talk with him. Right now if I can. You all stay for dinner. I’m going to catch Flynn while he’s locking up for the night.”

Laurel stood. “I can’t stay, but let me know if I can help in any way.”

“What about you, Millay? Should we keep the wheels turning here?” Harris asked with a hopeful smile.

Millay handed Gabe her empty wineglass and ordered an apple martini. “Sure, I’m off tonight. As long as Olivia’s buying, I’ll stay until we figure out who this bastard is.”

Harris shot Olivia a look of appeal.

“Just go easy on the Dom Perignon,” Olivia responded and followed Laurel out the door.