A Killer Plot (2010)

Chapter 4

Everyone has talent. What is rare is the courage to follow the talent to the dark place where it leads.

—ERICA JONG

The furniture movers were standing, arms folded in irritation, in front of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage when Olivia pulled up behind them.

“Hello, gentlemen. I trust you haven’t been waiting long.” Without pausing for their reply, she unlocked the front doors and hurried inside, eager to inspect the transformed building for the first time. Taking a brief glance at the polished wood floor, she entered the old living room first.

Her decision to cover the dark walls with Benjamin Moore’s Wilmington Tan, with a bright white trim on the windows and wainscoting, had given the room an instant lift. The antique-style bronze sconces and ceiling fan, which spun in a lazy, almost hypnotizing circle of maple blades, added to the room’s new warmth. Olivia was pleased by the transformation.

Stepping back outside, she waved at the disgruntled deliverymen and then proceeded to boss them about until the rug was placed in the exact center of the room and her paintings were hung with mathematical precision. Just as both men were close to throwing their leather gloves on the ground and storming off, Olivia handed them each an envelope containing one hundred dollars in tip money and then inquired if they minded moving some potted ferns from the back porch of the main house.

“You’ll have to put them in the truck. They’re heavy as anchors.”

The men fingered their five, crisp twenties and agreed to the one final task. Soon, they were gone completely and Olivia sat alone in the cottage, which seemed cleansed of poor choices and bad memories.

The past is buried, she thought, pulling Camden’s chapter onto her lap. She uncapped the green pen Harris had given her and continued where she had left off the night before.

Bradley Talcott put his feet up on the counter in front of an illuminated makeup mirror. His metal-studded boots knocked aside containers of face foundation, brown eye shadow, and black eyeliner as well as an empty bottle of Absolut and a vial of amphetamines.

“It’s time to rock, bro.” The spiked-haired drummer rattled his sticks against the doorjamb. “We got a hot crowd out there.”

Tossing a lit cigarette onto the counter, Bradley stood. “We could be bigger than this, damn it! I’m sick of playing these shitty clubs. It’s time for a tricked out tour bus and twenty-five, sold-out, big-city shows a year.”

“But your punk-ass old man didn’t give you the cash to back a tour, dude, so get on that stage and start singing.” Seeing the flash of anger in his bandmate’s eyes, the drummer retreated a step. “Come on, man. Just think about the fine booty we get to tap after the show.”

The drummer departed and Bradley languidly rose to his feet. He leaned into the mirror and snarled at his reflection. “I’m not going to live like this much longer. I’m no kid. I’m in control of my own future!”

With abrupt vehemence, he pushed the contents of the counter onto the floor. Vials of pills and makeup bounced off the floor, but the vodka bottle shattered in a loud crash. Bradley looked at the result of his rage with satisfaction. He bent over to retrieve one of the shards and, after examining his face in the fragment, muttered, “I am in control.”

Then he strode from the room, the triangle of broken glass still clutched in his hand.

Olivia tapped the end of her pen against her lip. She reviewed her notes on the earlier sections of the chapter in which she had complimented Camden on the strength of voice in the first six pages and how well he had conveyed the emotions of his characters. She also suggested that he might incorporate more setting details and questioned the choice of Bradley Talcott’s name.

Isn’t that rather close to the young man’s real name? she had written on page one.

Frowning, Olivia put down her pen and walked over to the window. She checked her watch and then waved at Haviland. “Let’s grab some dinner before our fellow writers appear.”

An hour later, the members of the Bayside Book Writers began to arrive. Harris was the first to use the polished brass knocker in the shape of a starfish. It looked just like the necklace belonging to Olivia’s mother and Olivia felt it was a fitting memorial to the person she’d cherished most.

When she opened the cottage door to welcome Harris inside, he unsettled Olivia by giving her a hug and a quick, friendly peck on the cheek.

“This place is awesome!” he said, the ruddy skin on his face deepening a shade as he removed his arms from Olivia’s shoulders. “It’s the perfect setting for discussions. We are going to accomplish things here!”

“That’s what I was going for,” Olivia replied with a smile, surprised at how much she had wanted Harris to respond exactly as he had. She hadn’t realized, until the moment the first Oyster Bay member had entered, how much she was looking forward to this meeting.

Millay appeared shortly afterward, wearing a shredded Japanime T-shirt and a purple miniskirt. Her hair was now black and blue and had been styled so that the ends fell in sharp points against her neck. “I hate fresh paint smell,” she said by way of hello. “But it sure beats the diner. I used to walk out of there reeking of bacon.” She looked around. “Cool colors.”

Olivia nodded at the compliment. She offered the pair wine or iced tea, telling them to help themselves and then settled into one of the club chairs. She felt that it was important not to act as hostess.

“Camden’s a pretty good writer,” Harris said as he poured himself tea. “I’m a bit nervous about you guys seeing my stuff after reading his work.”

As he chose a seat, Laurel entered the house, her cheeks tinged pink and her wheat-colored hair escaping from a loose ponytail. “Sorry I’m late! It was really hard to get out of the house. The twins dumped their bowls of spaghetti all over the kitchen floor and I had to help the babysitter get them into the tub.” She glanced around the room, her forehead creased with worry. “Were you waiting on me?”

Millay frowned. “You’re not late, but Camden is. You know he likes dramatic entrances.” She filled a wineglass to the brim, her blue and black bangs falling into her eyes as she looked down. “This is going to sound whacked, but I swear I just saw him as I drove past Fish Nets.”

“Doing what?” Olivia inquired. “Aren’t we here to critique his chapter?”

Blowing the bangs from her eyes, Millay shrugged. “Maybe he wanted to toss back a shot before we ripped into his writing.”

Olivia doubted that. “Then you saw him go inside?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Millay swished wine around in her mouth as though she were using mouthwash. “He was reaching out for the door when I drove by. If that was even him, but I don’t know too many other guys who’d wear a pink shirt and white pants.”

“We’ll give him fifteen minutes. Twenty at the most. That should give him plenty of time to finish whatever he’s doing in that place,” Olivia stated crossly. She’d been anxious for Camden’s opinion on her redecorating and was disappointed to have to wait for his special brand of enthusiastic praise.

“This cottage is lovely.” Laurel cradled her glass of Chablis and looked around appreciatively. Digging a sheaf of crumpled pages from what appeared to be a diaper bag, she inquired, “Do you all think Blake Talbot is really like Camden’s character? I mean—the drugs, the girls, the drinking—that seems like regular rock star behavior, but Bradley seemed really dark.”

“And angry,” Harris agreed.

The group talked animatedly about Camden’s chapter until Olivia finally interrupted by saying, “This is ridiculous! We’re starting the critique without the author.”

Harris checked his watch. “Guess his fifteen minutes are up.”

“Kind of like fame,” Millay muttered under her breath. “Well, let’s go drag his white-pants-wearing ass out of Fish Nets. For once in my life, I did my homework. I put time into this thing and I’m not letting my efforts go to waste.” She shook the paper sheaves.

“I’ve always wanted to see the inside of that bar,” Harris stated sheepishly. “But my friends are all afraid to go there.”

Laurel also seemed frightened by the suggestion and looked to Olivia for guidance.

Olivia recalled her declaration that she’d never cross the bar’s threshold, but she was so befuddled and irritated by Camden’s behavior that she decided the gossip writer owed them an explanation. Hadn’t she gone through plenty of energy and expense to prepare this cottage for his writing group?

Rising from her chair, like a monarch preparing to utter a declaration of war, she pulled her car keys from her pocket and gave them an angry shake. Her poodle leapt to his feet at the sound. “Come along, Haviland.” Olivia marched to the front door. “We’re going into town.”

Millay led her friends into Fish Nets with the sort of pride one exhibits when inviting another person into a well-ordered and attractive home. Olivia was relieved she’d decided to leave Haviland in the car because she was certain he would have been unhappy over having to breathe the smoke-polluted air while walking on such a disgusting floor. The gray cement had turned nearly black with the sticky grime of spilled beer, cigarette ash, discarded chewing gum, and mucus. It was a foul film that could never completely be cleansed off.

The decorations were exactly what one would except in a bar named Fish Nets. Cracked buoys, faded life jackets, and life rings no doubt stolen from dry docks up and down the North Carolina coast were haphazardly grouped with an array of plastic lobsters, fish, and rusty, menacing hooks. Photographs of sports fishermen exhibiting their finned prizes by the gills were nearly obscured by thick coats of ash-flecked dust.

“Any sign of Camden?” Harris asked nervously as they all looked around.

Millay was right, Olivia thought. A man with white pants and a pink shirt would never blend in with the bar’s regulars.

Fish Nets was filled with Oyster Bay’s working-class citizens. Some of their faces, the fishermen in particular, were dark and wrinkled as walnut shells. The women had long stringy hair, tight jeans, and generous amounts of exposed cleavage. The conversation of the patrons closest to the door came to an abrupt halt when the group of writers arrived.

“These your friends, Millay?” A fat woman with a rose tattoo curling up the side of her neck laughed.

“Hey, Darla. Yeah, they’re with me, but I gotta go talk to Mack, so catch you later.” Millay wove her way toward the bar and began to shout at the bartender over the music, which was louder on the other side of the room.

As there were no speakers where Olivia stood, she could not have misheard the old man in a pair of stained overalls. “If it ain’t Willy Wade’s lassie. All grown up now, ain’t ya? I’d know that white hair and those ocean eyes anywhere. You still lookin’ for your papa, girlie?” He took a deep draught of his beer. “’Cause he ain’t ever comin’ home. The fog carried him back to the sea. It’s how men like us are meant to go.” He pointed a gnarled hand at Olivia. “You can’t take from the sea all your life and not have ’er claim somethin’ as payment. ’Tis always been that way.”

Stepping away from the man, Olivia crossed her arms protectively over her chest and rubbed at the goose bumps that had sprouted across the surface of her skin. The man drank his beer and stared at her. She never thought she’d be so relieved to see the indigo tint of Millay’s hair appear before her.

“Mack didn’t see Camden himself. He was too busy, but he heard Camden was in the alley, which seems kinda weird,” Millay said with a frown. “There’s nothing back there but the Dumpster, empty kegs, and the scratch, scratch of mongo rats slinking around.”

Laurel uttered a little groan. “I’m not too fond of rats.”

“I’m not either,” Olivia sympathized. “But we’ve come this far. Lead on, Millay.”

Avoiding the sharp, curious eyes of the fishermen, she propelled the young woman forward and then trod closely on Millay’s heels as the crowd parted before them, casting unfriendly looks their way.

The back door was unlocked. As Millay pushed on it, the solid metal slammed against the exterior brick wall with a loud clang. A cloud of smoke escaped from within and quickly mingled with the salt-tinged night air. The rear of the building was dark and the sky was moonless. Olivia could barely make out the shape of the Dumpster twenty yards away and she certainly saw no sign of Camden. All was silent.

“There’s no one here now,” Harris pointed out, looking to the left and right.

Laurel repeated the motion. “Are there any lights back here?” she asked Millay.

“Yeah. Right he—” Her words were cut short. “Well, there used to be a light. The bulb’s been smashed.” She kicked at some fragments with the tip of her boot.

Olivia didn’t like the sound of that.

“Someone did that recently?” Laurel knit her hands together. Her voice sounded shrill and small in the darkness.

Millay shrugged, as though acts of vandalism were a natural part of the bar environment. “It was fine as of two this morning. I should know. I’m the one who took out the trash.”

Harris turned to the right and began to walk the length of the building. The others followed, but Olivia moved off to the left. Something propelled her in the opposite direction.

Around the corner of Fish Nets, in a narrow alley separating the bar from the pizza parlor next door, she found Camden.

His back was against the wall and his head sagged over his chest. Even in the dark, Olivia knew that the black stain spread across the center of Camden’s shirt was blood. For a moment, she couldn’t shake the thought that the slick blemish covering his upper torso resembled a pair of distorted butterfly wings.

The amount of blood and the slackness of Camden’s body told Olivia that her friend was dead—that his throat had probably been slit. She waited for a powerful feeling of horror or grief or anger to flood her, but she was completely overtaken by numbness.

Suddenly, she was a girl again. She saw the police car pull in front of the house, saw the pair of solemn officers remove their hats, heard the exchange of mumbles in the hall as the news was delivered to her father. She watched from her bedroom window as he walked down the path to the dock, heading toward the dinghy—a bottle of whiskey in one hand and her mother’s purse in the other. He rowed away without even glancing up at the cottage where his daughter was facing the greatest shock of her young life. Alone.

Olivia shook herself free from the grip of memory but couldn’t move a muscle. She was paralyzed by the numbness, trapped between the past and the present.

She didn’t know how long she stood staring down at Camden’s body when Millay’s voice finally pierced the stillness. After releasing a string of high-pitched expletives, the younger woman grabbed on to Olivia’s arm, hard.

“Olivia!” She tugged until the older woman blinked and pulled away. “Don’t lose it on me! There’s something written here! Look!” Millay flicked a lighter and tiptoed closer to the wall.

Olivia watched as a weak circle of light illuminated three lines of text, written in glistening black spray paint. The two women read it to themselves.

“What the hell is that?” Millay spluttered indignantly.

“Haiku. A Japanese-style poem following a set of strict rules,” Olivia answered robotically and then, her mind regaining a sense of focus, sent Millay away to forestall the others from seeing Camden’s corpse and to call for help.

Forcing her eyes on the glossy, spidery letters, Olivia tried to detach herself from the knowledge that the body of someone she liked and admired was slumped on the ground before her. As if Camden were still alive, she whispered to him, “Your murderer is a member of the literati.”

She dug out a pen and a small notebook from her purse and copied down the poem. Even when heavy footfalls alerted her that she was no longer alone, her eyes—flickering with a bright anger—remained fixated on the words on the wall.

His words are silenced‒

An orchard in winter, where

Apple seeds slumber