A Killer Plot (2010)

Chapter 17

Do what we can, summer will have its flies.

—RALPH WALDO EMERSON

Olivia hadn’t expected to dream.

At first, her sleep had been deep and untroubled, but as the dawn light crept over the ocean, strange and disjointed images stirred in the trenches of her psyche.

She was back in the town hall again, but this time she was alone.

There were no policemen or exuberant preteens or members of her writer’s group filling the shadowy corridors . Haviland wasn’t at her flank. Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered weakly.

“Haviland?” Olivia called out in a disembodied voice.

She knew the killer was here. At the same doorway in which she’d seen Atlas Kraus standing hours earlier, she stopped and reached out a trembling hand to turn the knob.

“That’s not your job,” Chief Rawlings murmured behind her. She turned, letting her hand fall to her side and surrendering her position. Rawlings opened the door, stepped into the yawning blackness, and was gone.

A bark emitted from another hallway and suddenly Olivia was outside. It was no longer raining, but the poster board signs bearing messages of idolization for Heidi St. Claire were scattered across the glistening asphalt of the parking lot, their words smeared, their hearts and smiley faces bleeding into ugly, distorted shapes.

Haviland came racing from around the corner of the building, a billow of fog following behind. Olivia embraced the poodle, then turned to witness Rawlings burst through the double doors of the hall with such force that the brass door pulls slapped against the bricks like a thunderclap. He shoved a handcuffed prisoner forward, shouting for the bystanders to make room.

In the way of dreams, where logic and orderliness seldom exist, the town hall’s portico, which had been deserted a moment ago, was crammed with people. Dozens of cops, reporters, and stunned townsfolk formed a tight knot Rawlings had to push his prisoner through.

Rawlings made his way to a waiting police cruiser, his grim face bathed in blue light.

The captive kept his head bowed and his face completely shielded by the brim of his baseball cap.

Olivia felt a pang of anxiety. Atlas hadn’t been wearing a hat, but the faded American flag emblem was familiar to her.

Rawlings placed a hand on his prisoner’s head and eased him into the squad car. He shut the door with an authoritative push and turned to address the yelling multitudes.

Feeling that the chief had made a grave mistake, Olivia circled around the edge of the crowd, which seemed to be rapidly multiplying. It was as if the fog were carrying people on its back and depositing them in front of the building.

Olivia picked up her pace, feeling a growing sense of fear as the police car slowly pulled away from the curb. Running now, she checked to make sure that Haviland was beside her as she cut across the lawn, hoping to intercept the cruiser at the end of the parking lot before it had a chance to turn onto the main road.

Breathing hard, she pumped her long legs and arms. Her bare feet were chilled by puddled water and pierced by sharp stones. Her lungs burned, but she somehow managed to reach the corner as the police car made its right turn.

At that moment, the killer raised his head and looked out the window, his eyes finding hers.

“No,” Olivia whispered in shock, for the face was not that of Atlas Kraus.

It was her father’s.

When she woke, the sun’s rays were already pounding down on the beach, erasing any evidence of last night’s storm but for some scattered branches and a fresh infusion of green into the parched dune grasses.

Olivia let Haviland out, leaving the sliding door to the deck open. Shuffling into the kitchen, she watched the coffeemaker as it gurgled and burped, sending the heavenly scent of Kona beans into the air.

Once her mug was filled, she walked onto the deck in her bathrobe. She let the steady rhythm of the surf restore order into her world, smiling as Haviland lunged at a small ghost crab near the waterline.

She wondered briefly if Rawlings had had any sleep at all.

Hoping to postpone a mental review of the previous evening for a little longer, Olivia went inside for a second cup of coffee and the pickle jar containing the recent metal detector finds. She poured the contents out onto the teak deck table, touching the shotgun shells and lining them up in a neat row. Glancing up momentarily to witness Haviland’s glee as he splashed through the shallows, she ran her fingers over the warm metal of the razor blade case, thinking that it wasn’t too long ago that she’d found the old case and made the acquaintance of Camden Ford.

The connection between the object and the man was startling.

Camden’s throat had been cut by a straight edge, like that of a razor blade, she thought and grabbed the next object she’d dug up: the Indian Head penny dating to the Civil War.

“The Confederate cemetery. That’s where Dean Talbot broke his neck.”

Genuinely unsettled now, she reached for the New Hampshire quarter and was whisked back into the town hall meeting room, witnessing the look of shock and fright on Heidi St. Claire’s face as her eyes fell on the familiar but unwelcome face of Atlas Kraus.

“Her father,” Olivia murmured, tracing the coin’s engraving of the Old Man in the Mountain. It had been that fleeting glance, combined with the memories of Blake teasing Heidi for being from a farm state beginning with the letter I and Annie telling Dixie how Atlas had left a family behind in Iowa, that had allowed Olivia to identify the murderer.

Abandoning her treasures, Olivia walked down to the water’s edge. The sand singed the bottom of her feet but she was grateful to be reminded that she was no longer dreaming. Stepping into the surf, she wriggled her toes into the wet sand and sighed.

“You’ve always taken care of me,” she said softly, listening as the ocean acknowledged her remark by delivering a crest that tightened into curl and finished in a surge of bubbled foam. And then came another. And another. Blessed predictability.

Calling Haviland, Olivia meandered a little farther down the beach, keeping her feet in the moistened sand.

“Let’s have a Grumpy’s brunch,” she informed her fur-dampened canine. Haviland bounded back toward the house at the suggestion. “Wipe your paws!” Olivia reminded him.

Inside, she took a long, hot shower but spent little time on her appearance. Donning a breezy, chartreuse linen sundress and a pair of well-worn flip-flops, she ran a brush through her white blond hair and ran a stick of moisturizing gloss over her lips.

Grumpy’s was packed. Between the tourists eating a late breakfast, the locals enjoying an early lunch, and the exuberant members of the press, the only available seat was at the counter. To Olivia’s relief, it was a single stool at the end of the row and the person occupying the adjacent stool was her friend Harris.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” she teased as she picked up the familiar menu.

Harris blushed. “I went in really early, actually. Couldn’t sleep any more, so I figured I might as well work.” He studied her face. “Are you okay? I know you were really scared when Haviland went missing.”

Olivia did her best to look unperturbed by the memory. “Somehow, Atlas must have led him into one of the offices down the side hall and locked him in. In short, my brilliant dog was duped. For the second time, if one counts the drugged ground beef incident as well.”

Haviland sniffed and turned his head toward the front window.

“I think you’ve offended him,” Harris whispered solemnly.

“Nothing a rasher of bacon won’t cure.” Olivia waved at Dixie who had just emerged through the swinging kitchen door bearing plates loaded with cheeseburgers, meat loaf, sandwiches, and fried fish filets. She sighed. “The diner seems so unchanged, as though its occupants weren’t aware of the three murders committed in our town. If only it were as simple as ordering one’s next meal...”

Harris grinned ruefully. “I’m finding this chocolate milk shake very consoling.”

“But it’s not that easy,” Olivia continued as though her friend hadn’t spoken. “There will be statements to be taken and given, lawyers to engage, trials to drag on, and all the while, the insatiable hunger of the media.”

Olivia fell silent. For once, she didn’t know what she felt like eating. The idea of consuming eggs turned her stomach and the lunch platters were too gluttonous for her tastes. The salads were rather bland as Grumpy had a penchant for serving half a head of iceberg lettuce with a couple of cherry tomatoes and thick slices of yellow onions. Upon this leafy pile, he’d then scatter a dozen croutons and a sprinkle of bacon bits. Skipping the salad selections, Olivia tried to decide whether she wanted a fruit plate with cottage cheese or a tuna melt with a side of slaw.

Dixie appeared and plunked a glass of homemade limeade next to Olivia’s hand. “I know that look,” she said. “You don’t know what to order, do you? Don’t worry, sugar. Dixie will fix you right up. Haviland too.” She skated forward and took Haviland’s snout in her small, wide hands. “I saw you go after that bad man. You are the bravest dog in the entire state of North Carolina. I’m going to have Grumpy fry up a nice, rare steak for you. Pour a little gravy on it and serve it with a side of my finest tap water. How does that sound, my hero?”

Haviland barked, causing the heads of all the outsiders to swivel in his direction.

“He’s a workin’ dog!” Dixie called out by way of explanation. “It’s within his rights to be here, so don’t be makin’ any faces at him.” She touched Olivia’s back and stared down the journalists. “She’s got a whole list of disabilities, this one. So say a prayer for her and eat your food.”

Chastised, the curious diners dropped their eyes to their plates and instantly began to talk to one another about the weather. Olivia and Harris snickered as several exchanges about the heat wave circulated through the room as though the subject were being pushed around and around by the ceiling fans.

“Now I understand why you park in so many reserved spaces.” Harris grinned and took a slurp of his shake. He jabbed at an unyielding lump of ice cream with his straw. “So I’ve mentioned before that I write code for computer games, right?” The laughter had gone out of his voice. “Well, right now my team is busy creating the backgrounds for the game’s dungeon scenes. If I had been working on forest scenes or village scenes or anything else, I probably could have trudged along just fine. But this morning, as I sat at the keyboard designing damp stone walls, prison cells with chains, and skeletons piled up on the dirt floors and hanging from rusty manacles, I had to get out of the office.” He paused and touched his chin. “Suddenly, I just had to breathe some fresh air and have a chocolate milk shake.”

Olivia nodded. “How’s Millay?”

Shrugging, Harris flattened his crumpled napkin on the countertop. “It’s hard to tell. She acts so tough, but I think there’s a lot going on under the surface she doesn’t want to let people see. She found the last haiku, you know.”

This was news to Olivia. “Where?”

Harris seemed pleased to be the bearer of such an interesting bit of information. “Atlas must have dropped it in the meeting room. Millay thought she was just picking up some litter. She had already gathered up gum wrappers from those girls. I guess she has a thing against littering. Anyway, she picked up the paper and unfolded it and we both read the poem.”

“Do you remember the words?” Olivia asked doubtfully.

Setting his phone on the counter, Harris pressed a few buttons and three lines of text appeared in the display window. Olivia read them aloud.

A rotten tree falls

Letting in enough light—

For the sapling to grow

“Autumn,” she murmured. “This poem comes closer to following the rules than the summer haiku. It’s interesting and rather disturbing that he wanted to improve as a poet.” Her eyes returned to the first few words. “I take it Blake Talbot is the rotten tree. Atlas planned to shoot him and watch as his body toppled over like a felled tree. Then Atlas’s daughter, the sapling, would receive more sunlight. No one would hold back her burgeoning rise to fame and fortune.”

“Somehow, I don’t think Heidi’s feeling too grateful at the moment,” Harris concluded as Dixie arrived with Olivia’s lunch. She placed a bowl of tomato soup and a plate containing a grilled cheese sandwich on the counter in front of Olivia. Whisking away the empty limeade tumbler, the intuitive proprietor set a steaming mug of hot tea next to Olivia’s hand.

“Wrap your fingers around that. You need some old-fashioned childhood food, ‘Livia. Never met a person on this earth who couldn’t start mendin’ after a bowl of soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.” Dixie tucked a feather of blond hair back under her silver headband and dusted a crumb from her Little Miss Chatterbox shirt.

Olivia opened her napkin and smiled. “Dixie, you’re a precious gem hidden amid the rocks.”

Dixie snorted. “Tell Grumpy that. He’s been promisin’ to buy me a new ‘rock’ for going on ten years now.” She elbowed Harris. “If a gal ever tells you size don’t matter, she’s lying.”

Harris’s cheeks burned red.

“Aw, lamb. You don’t need to blush. I’m just messin’ with you.” Dixie was genuinely contrite.

“It’s not what you said, ma’am. I’ve got a skin condition.” Harris put his palms over his cheeks, looking miserable. “I look embarrassed or humiliated or like I’m suffering from heat stroke at least ten times a day.”

Dixie turned to Olivia. “Such a handsome boy. Reminds me a little bit of Peter Pan.” She put a hand on Harris’s back but kept her eyes on Olivia. “There’s got to be somethin’ out there to fix his skin, am I right?”

“Actually, there is,” Olivia answered brightly.

Harris shook his head “I’ve tried every topical medicine on the market. They don’t work.” He smiled at Dixie. “If I ever do find a girl to propose to, it’ll mean she’s gotten used to my face and likes me despite my rosy red cheeks. We’d be a modern age Beauty and the Beast.”

Olivia touched his arm. “Personally, I’d prefer the Beast, but women your age aren’t often as wise as those of us who’ve learned what matters.” She and Dixie exchanged a wink. “And I’m not referring to creams or salves either. How would you feel about trying a laser treatment? On me, of course. It would be a favor to an aesthetician friend of mine. She’s been searching for someone with your condition to use as a test case for her pulse laser.” Olivia felt no shame in concocting such a flagrant lie. “What do you think?”

Harris’s eyes glimmered. “Cool. A pulse laser? Kind of sounds like an episode of Star Trek. When can we start?”

“I’ll call her right after lunch,” Olivia answered casually, though she was truly excited over the idea of watching Harris’s rosacea become a bad memory. “Let’s keep it a secret too. We’ll see if anyone notices when the Bayside Book Writers meet again.”

Dixie skated off and returned fifteen minutes later with Olivia’s check. Beneath the total she had written, “Softie!” followed by a goofy smiley face. Frowning, Olivia balled up the check and slapped it on top of a twenty-dollar bill.

“Come along, Haviland. Time to visit the chief. Perhaps we should have brought him a grilled cheese sandwich,” she mused as she said good-bye to Harris and stepped outside. A pair of journalists moved to follow her, but Dixie skated in front of them, blocking their path and giving Olivia and Haviland ample time to escape untroubled, at least for the moment.

From a distance, the police station resembled an anthill. Uniformed policemen, important Oyster Bay citizens, and many of those present at the town hall the night before streamed in and out the front doors. In addition, reporters and cameramen milled about the sidewalk. Awaiting an official statement from the chief, they passed the time smoking, speaking into cell phones, fiddling with their BlackBerrys, or accosting the more colorful locals as they left the station.

Olivia scowled in disgust as a woman wearing a pink suit dabbed at her heavily made-up face with a tissue. “I declare!” she drawled. “I won’t be able to sleep a wink until that horrible man is put away for life! And to think he was here among us good, churchgoing folk the whole time. Poor Annie Kraus! She welcomes her brother-in-law into her home and how does he repay her? He kills one of her guests and then nearly ruins our chances of getting that nice new development built.”

The reporter murmured a question and the woman squared her shoulders and declared, “Of course I’m relieved to hear it’s still going through. I am a business owner, you know. Pink Lady Cleaners, that’s me. We have two locations, here and—”

But the woman’s plug was cut short when the reporter spotted Olivia and Haviland. Several cameras swung around to capture her image and she turned her head from the penetrating stares of their zooming lenses.

“Ms. Limoges! Ms. Limoges!” voices shouted, all vying for attention. “Is it true you aided the police in their investigation?”

“Is your dog a trained tracker?” another yelled.

“Are you romantically involved with Chief Rawlings?” she heard just before entering the relative quiet of the station’s lobby. After checking in with the desk officer, she and Haviland sat down and curiously observed the comings and goings of familiar faces. Ed Campbell appeared from a closed door off the lobby. He nodded at her deferentially and then steeled himself to exit the building. Marlene Gibbons arrived in the lobby shortly afterward. Upon seeing Olivia, she came over to say hello.

“For what it’s worth, I admire your passion concerning the preservation of our current ecosystem,” Olivia told her.

Marlene’s brows furrowed in anger. “Then why didn’t you vote against the development? I thought you were on my side. And the environment’s side.”

“I am, but I’m on the side of the townsfolk first,” Olivia retorted gently. “This development will create dozens of new jobs. Plenty of people need those jobs. As much as I like birds and snapping turtles, these people are my neighbors. They need this.”

Releasing a weary sigh, Marlene rose. “I’d always choose animals and plants over people. I just see them as being more worthy of existence, I suppose.” She smiled ruefully at Haviland. “You’re a fine example of such a noble creature. I wish I’d brought of few of my pets with me today. I’d have felt much more confident with my iguana sitting on my shoulder.” She ruffed Haviland’s ears. “Now I’m going to have to fend off the press with sharp words instead.”

Olivia wished Marlene good luck and resumed a pose of patience. However, she quickly grew restless as the station continued to hum with activity.

Finally, Officer Cook strode into the lobby and waved for her to follow him to his desk.

The young man’s appearance betrayed his exhaustion. The puffy skin around his eyes, his stubbly chin, and his rumpled uniform indicated an all-night shift.

“I should have brought you coffee,” Olivia began, attempting friendliness.

Cook waved off the suggestion. “I’ve had so much I can hardly hold my pen. I’m gonna fall flat on my face when I finally get home, but it’ll be worth it. I told you we’d nail the bastard.”

Olivia studied the smug gleam in the officer’s eyes. There was no way to explain to someone half her age that there was nothing to celebrate. Many lives had been destroyed or altered beyond repair. The arrest of Atlas Kraus would never restore the damage already done. Instead, she dipped her chin ever so slightly, gifting Officer Cook with a show of respect. “So you did, Officer. So you did.”

It took over an hour for Olivia to give her statement. Rawlings had put the fear of God in all his men, saying that each and every testimony, regardless of how brief or seemingly inaccurate, had to be recorded with the utmost precision. Olivia understood the chief’s position. After all, the cases were now a matter of national significance. Rawlings undoubtedly wanted to show the world that the members of the Oyster Bay Police Department knew how to wrap up a case with professional efficiency.

Despite her appreciation of the circumstances, Olivia was thoroughly cross by the time Cook reviewed her statement for the third time. “Just let me read it and I’ll tell you if it’s accurate!” she snapped.

At that moment, an officer walked by the desk and Haviland caught the scent lingering on his pant leg. He barked excitedly, causing all of the policemen in the room to shoot dirty glances at Cook.

“He smells Greta, your K-9 unit,” Olivia explained in defense of her dog’s unwelcome clamor. “Quiet, Haviland!” she hissed at the poodle. “Your parts don’t even function, so it would be a futile flirtation in any case!”

Haviland growled and stalked off after Greta’s partner.

Olivia grabbed the printed statement from Cook’s hands, signed her name with a flourish, and marched out in search of her mutinous poodle. Cook pushed back his chair with a jerk but was simply too tired to wrangle with the obstinate woman. Instead, he placed her statement in a file folder and turned toward the lobby in order to retrieve another witness.

Haviland had followed Greta’s partner into the station’s kitchen and was sitting in front of the refrigerator in a posture of angelic expectation.

“Manners,” Olivia remonstrated, and together, they continued down the hall toward the exit. As they passed Rawlings’ office, the door opened. Roy and Annie Kraus stepped out into the hallway. They wore the numb expressions of car-accident survivors. Annie’s glazed eyes met Olivia’s but then the other woman rapidly looked away. She took her husband’s arm and hung on as though she couldn’t stand of her own volition. Roy put his hand on Annie’s lower back and Olivia noticed that every one of the cuticles on his free hand had been shredded. Several drops of blood beaded at the base of his index finger and Olivia wondered if Roy had been gnawing at his fingers throughout the entire interview with Rawlings.

“Ms. Limoges,” Roy croaked, staring at some point beyond her head.

Part of Olivia wanted to move toward the couple, but she recalled all too well how she’d felt after her mother’s death and her father’s disappearance. She didn’t want to speak a word or have anyone reach out to her. She only wanted to wander alone with her grief, her pain visible only to the anonymous ocean. Olivia was always deeply grateful to her grandmother for providing her with both safety and solitude. Jacqueline Limoges did not speak unless absolutely necessary and Olivia valued the long stretches of silence

“I’m sorry,” Olivia said, knowing full well that the words were insufficient.

Mechanically, the couple nodded and shuffled toward the lobby. Olivia ducked into the chief’s office and exclaimed, “You can’t let them go out the front! The press will swarm all over them!”

Rawlings raced after the Krauses without comment. While he was redirecting the shell-shocked couple to the back door, Olivia and Haviland settled in his office to wait for his return.

“Coffee?” Rawlings placed a mug on the desk in front of Olivia. “Thank you for helping them avoid the media. They have enough to deal with without having microphones and cameras shoved into their faces.”

As the chief sank into his chair, Olivia scrutinized him. With more than twenty years on Cook, Rawlings looked much the worse for wear than his junior officer. The skin on the chief’s face was gray tinged, his salt-and-pepper hair was plastered to his scalp, and coffee stains were sprinkled across the front of his shirt.

“This is the miserable part of being a cop,” he said as he cupped his hands around his mug. “Times like these. I will see the hidden emotions and the private and often unpleasant faces of the people in this community. They’ll come in here over the course of the next twenty-four hours—drunk, cursing, elaborating, glory-seeking, and, like Roy and Annie back there, completely sucker-punched.” He pressed his palms against his eyes. “At least you’re a straight shooter, Olivia. Just having you sitting across from me allows me a moment to breathe.”

Olivia was surprised to find the restlessness she’d felt in Cook’s presence had passed now that she was with Rawlings.

I feel so at ease with this man, she thought once again and was looking forward to the time when he would join the writer’s group, not as the chief of police, but as another writer. And as a friend.

Aloud, she quipped, “I suppose you had several volunteers willing to perform the lethal injection.”

Rawlings looked pained. “Half the town would prefer to bypass the court system entirely. As a society, we’re never as far away from lynch mobs as we’d like to think.”

He took a sip of his coffee and then caught a drip from the side of the cup with the tip of his finger and licked it away with a flicker of his tongue.

“How did this whole mess begin ... Sawyer?” Olivia tried out the chief’s given name. “How did Atlas become so estranged from his daughter?”

Picking up a thick case file from the surface of his desk, Rawlings smoothed the cover and shook his head, his eyes sorrowful. “Mr. Kraus was always going to lose his wife. Jessie Kraus had wanted to leave Atlas early on in their marriage. He’d roughed her up a bit over the years—not enough to create a paper trail, but enough to force her to tread carefully when she finally decided to divorce him.”

“And her maiden name was St. Claire?” Olivia surmised.

Rawlings nodded. “Well, she and Heidi moved out of their house one night while Atlas was at his favorite watering hole. The divorce papers were served early the next morning. Atlas tracked his wife and daughter from Iowa to Pasadena, California, where Jessie and Heidi had relocated to live with Jessie’s new man.”

“I can only imagine what happened when he found them,” Olivia stated anxiously.

“Luckily, Heidi was at school when her father showed up. Jessie’s fiance was at work, but she was home. Her new guy was a structural engineer, so she didn’t need to hold down a job anymore and she was happily folding laundry when her ex-husband arrived. By the time Atlas was done with her, she was so bruised and broken I couldn’t recognize her in the photos. She had ... imprints from the iron on her back and stomach.”

Olivia shuddered. “Why wasn’t he arrested?”

“He disappeared. Fled the state. He then picked up construction jobs, the kind involving hard labor. The kind where the bosses don’t ask too many questions. Atlas told me he’d routinely return to Pasadena between jobs in order to see what kind of woman Heidi was becoming. He even watched a few of her school plays, hiding in the back row with a hat pulled down over his brow. He told me he knew after the first play that she’d take Hollywood by storm. Looks like he was right.”

“Was it merely a coincidence that his brother-in-law lived in the same town where the Talbots owned a beach house?” Olivia asked in astonishment.

“Not quite. Roy never knew the specifics regarding Atlas’s familial strife and while his younger brother kept in contact over the years, their conversations were brief and sporadic. When Roy was thinking about purchasing a B&B, it was Atlas who steered him to purchasing a house in Oyster Bay. Atlas believed Heidi might visit here eventually, being that she’d had a crush on Blake since she first saw photos of him in some celebrity magazine. Atlas knew that Heidi had pictures of the boy all over her room and taped onto the covers of her schoolbooks.”

Olivia imagined Atlas inside his daughter’s bedroom, fingering her belongings, reading her diary, and inhaling her scent. The thought was repulsive. “Did he sneak into his ex-wife’s house to spy on Heidi as she grew up?”

“Several times,” Rawlings answered. “Even after Heidi was signed for that TV show, she admitted to members of the media that she couldn’t wait to meet Blake now that they traveled in similar circles. Atlas was irrationally jealous of Blake before Blake and Heidi even met and started dating. He wanted his daughter’s attention and resented how Heidi idolized and then, once they started dating, clearly loved Blake.”

Olivia frowned. She’d tried to work out how Atlas Kraus had approached Max Warfield or Blake Talbot as the two men came from remarkably different worlds than the blue-collar construction worker. “So who hired him as a hit man? Max or Blake?”

Rawlings hesitated. “Well, Mr. Kraus claims Blake was the puppet master in regards to the first two killings. Mr. Warfield and young Mr. Talbot wanted to take over Talbot Properties, but in order to do so, they needed to get rid of Dean. The two men hired Atlas to kill the real estate titan, but Atlas had his own agenda. He murdered Camden in hopes that Blake would be suspected of the crime. However, Atlas wasn’t aware of Blackwater’s unscheduled Vegas tour stop, providing our Mr. Talbot with an airtight alibi.” Rawlings paused. “Therefore, Atlas had to go along with the scheme to take Dean’s life, drawing Blake to Oyster Bay in time to attend the meeting at the town hall.”

“All of this to get his daughter to break up with an unsuitable boyfriend?” Olivia was astonished. She balled up her fists in anger. “Camden died because of a father’s crazed possessiveness? And Max died because he might have prevented Atlas from murdering Blake? What about the poems?”

“I took down the confession myself, Olivia. Atlas swears that young Mr. Talbot wrote the poems and sent them, along with other instructions, as text messages on a disposable cell phone. The phones were mailed in unmarked padded envelopes along with a wad of cash.” He placed the summer and autumn poems on the desk in front of her. “Of course these two were written by Atlas. He had grown accustomed to leaving them as a part of his tableau, so when he planned to kill Mr. Warfield and then Mr. Talbot, he wrote two poems in preparation for their deaths. The cycle of seasons would be complete and the threat of his daughter committing to an unsuitable young man would be over.”

“Atlas has confessed to all of this, but what about Blake?” Olivia inquired sharply. “That conniving little brat needs to spend a long time in jail.”

A disgruntled grumble emanated from Rawlings’ throat. “We found no evidence incriminating Mr. Talbot inside Atlas’s cottage at The Yellow Lady. It’s going to take us some time to acquire Mr. Talbot’s financial records and I can only hope that some serious amounts of money were withdrawn from his account close to the time of the murders.”

Olivia felt chilled. “So you can’t charge Blake with a crime?”

“I didn’t say that,” Rawlings chided. “And if Max Warfield was involved in the scheme, which, based on our listening in on his cell phone conversation at The Boot Top, I’d say he was, then he’s already received his sentence. That man has been judged by a higher court.”

The chief’s words seemed to fill up the room. An unnatural death created such complexities for their town, heretofore known only for its beauty and tranquility.

Now, reporters would invade the streets and shops. Tourists looking for sensationalism would fill any house, condo, or spare room for let at exorbitant rates. The police would be up to their elbows in paperwork. The lawyers would be circling like greedy gulls. Roy and Annie Kraus would lay low for months, unable to look their neighbors in the eye. Wherever they went, the couple would feel crushed by the weight of the knowledge that they were responsible for offering hospitality to a murderer and for unintentionally allowing him to take advantage of the people and the peaceful hamlet they’d grown to love.

“Oyster Bay will recover.” Rawlings spoke softly. He walked around his desk and took the chair next to Olivia’s. He didn’t take her hand, but placed his own on the arm of her chair. “And so will we. A good night’s sleep followed by a big breakfast, a solitary walk on the beach, a beautifully written book ...” He smiled at her. “Speaking of which, yours will be the next chapter we critique, will it not?”

Olivia’s cheeks grew warm. “In two weeks’ time, yes. We’ve decided to take this week off. Do you think you’ll be able to join us when we meet again?”

Now Rawlings did touch the back of her hand, but only for a moment. “You can count on me.”

Haviland woke from his nap and stretched his head toward the policeman, not wanting to miss the chance to be caressed. As the chief scratched the poodle under the chin, Olivia stood, slid her purse onto her shoulder, and returned Rawlings’ smile. “No matter what is said after the news of what’s happened here breaks, this town still counts on you, Chief.” She paused in the doorway. “And that includes me.”