A Killer Plot (2010)

Chapter 5

Dying is a very dull, dreary affair. And my advice to you is to have nothing whatever to do with it.

—W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM

Olivia felt a blanket being draped over her shoulders. It was made of coarse, gray wool and its semi-stale odor reminded her of the horse blankets she’d placed on the curved back of her favorite mare at boarding school.

Clutching the rough fabric together at the base of her throat, she turned to meet the solemn stare of Chief Rawlings.

“I understand you found Mr. Ford’s body. Do you feel up to answering a few questions, Ms. Limoges?”

After a pause, Olivia nodded. “Yes.”

The chief placed a strong hand on her upper arm and pivoted her, so that her line of sight fell away from the gossip writer’s sprawled form. His touch made her aware of the other people milling around the alley. It seemed that suddenly, like a colony of ants erupting from underground, uniformed men and women were everywhere. They were accompanied by bright lights and sharp noises—the cacophony of expressionless professionals doing their jobs in the midst of a scene that had rendered Olivia Limoges completely immobile in its awfulness.

Camera flashes erupted like lightning, footsteps echoed in the tight space between the buildings, and a dozen voices spoke in low, urgent whispers as radio crackles from the hips of the policemen fired into the night air like gunshots from a small-caliber weapon.

“Did you see anyone else here with Mr. Ford?” the chief asked her.

“No, just him, the way he is now.” Olivia looked toward the end of the alley, where the lights from a police cruiser cast blue shadows into the narrow opening. “We only came down to the bar because he didn’t show up for our writer’s group meeting.” Her confident and straight-backed posture sagged by a fraction. It was subtle, just a marginal slump in the shoulders, but Chief Rawlings was the type of man to notice such a small detail.

He studied her on the sly, but Olivia could sense his scrutiny and she shrunk a little further inside herself. She knew he was aware that this was not the first time someone had discovered her, all alone, in the middle of a frightening tableau. She had been found by a passing fishing trawler when her father disappeared, shivering in the bottom of a rowboat, and when they brought her back to Oyster Bay’s docks, half the town had been there to witness her pathetic disembarkation from the vessel. Her grandmother had been among those waiting onshore. After giving Olivia a cold, unpracticed embrace, she swept the orphan into her chauffeured Lincoln and drove right out of Oyster Bay.

Olivia knew the chief had lived in Oyster Bay for most of his life, and for a moment, she wondered if he recognized her as the bedraggled, towheaded, and barefoot girl plucked from the fog. If so, he made no indication, his features creased in genuine concern. “Look here, Ms. Limoges. My boys and I are going to have our hands full questioning the bar patrons,” he remarked gently, his eyes sweeping over his industrious officers. “Why don’t you run on home and get yourself something warm to drink? Maybe a hot cup of spiked coffee or some brandy? I’ll send someone by to take your statement later. You’ve been through enough for one night.”

“I could certainly do with some scotch,” Olivia murmured in relief. She removed the blanket from her shoulders and folded it into a neat square. “Thank you, Chief. I really have nothing useful to tell you at the moment, but I’ll gather the other writers and try to come up with a comprehensive statement.” She pushed the blanket toward him and gazed at him intently, her navy blue eyes black, mournful pools. “Please find out who did this to Camden.” She didn’t let go of the blanket even as his hands reached up to accept it. “I didn’t know him that well, but nothing he did justifies this cruel and undignified death. Please ...”

The chief walked with her toward the alley opening. “Believe me, I won’t rest until I know what this is all about. This is my town too, ma’am, and I won’t stand for this. Now go home, Ms. Limoges.” His exerted his authority softly. “I need to focus on other matters.”

Olivia obeyed, moving toward the parking area where she’d left the Range Rover. Part of her wanted to climb in her SUV and race home, pour a glass of Chivas Regal, and crawl into bed. That side of her didn’t want to speak calmly and clearly to one of Rawlings’ officers. That side wanted to ignore the doorbell, pull the covers over her head, and wash away the image of Camden’s body, slumped against the brick wall like a discarded department store mannequin, by overindulging in both booze and sleep.

Yet the other, conscientious side knew she bore a responsibility. She owed it to Camden to make the right choice, and she needed to do anything possible to aid the lawmen in their search for the killer. As she strode toward the parking lot, the shock began to gradually give way to anger. When she saw the rest of the writer’s group gathered around her car, her mind became clear.

“We’re allowed to return to the cottage,” she told them, disliking the coldness in her voice. “Someone from the police department will be by to take our statements later on.”

The other writers were visibly relieved to be able to stay together and escape the dark. Olivia turned away from them in order to check on her dog.

Haviland barked out a cheerful greeting at the sight of his mistress and Olivia pushed her fingers through the crack in the passenger window, comforted by the rough moisture of her poodle’s tongue. “Oh, Captain,” she murmured to her dog and tried to keep her voice from cracking.

No one else spoke. Laurel was crying and Harris had his arm around her. He looked wide-eyed and pale, while Millay’s gaze was fastened on the ground. Her arms were crossed around her chest in a protective posture. No one seemed keen to move just yet.

“Listen,” Olivia began again, forcing gentleness into her tone. “Someone did this to him. To Camden. I know we’re all trying to understand what happened tonight and nothing makes any sense at this moment, but we have to clear out and let the chief do his job.” She removed her car keys from her purse. “And we need to help by writing down anything that might be important while it’s still fresh in our minds.”

“I’m scared!” Laurel exclaimed, her lips quivering. “What if the murderer’s still around? He could be in the bar or driving through one of our neighborhoods this very second! He could know us or have seen us with Camden!” Her eyes darted around the parking lot. “Who would do that to another human being? Millay said his throat...” She couldn’t continue.

Olivia reached out and put a hand on Laurel’s shoulder. “Don’t think about that now. We’ll focus on any details we know about Camden. About his life, not his death. Okay?”

The tender touch seemed to make Laurel cry all the harder and Olivia felt herself whispering, “Hush, hush,” as though she were trying to calm a bereft child. “Come on, everyone. We’ll go back to my place and make some coffee. Let’s get out of the night.”

That last statement echoed with Laurel. “That-that sounds good,” she stammered. “I’ll call Steve from the cottage so he won’t worry.”

Everyone piled into Olivia’s SUV. Haviland stepped onto the center console and nuzzled Olivia with his head. She put an arm around him, and for a moment, buried her face in the fur of his neck, inhaling his familiar scent of wet sand and fresh soil and eucalyptus shampoo. When she released her hold of the poodle, she felt as though the ground had finally returned beneath her feet.

“To your seat, Captain,” she ordered while blinking back tears. She buckled his safety belt and turned toward home.

Back at the cottage, she asked Harris to switch on the gas logs in the living room fireplace and for Millay to brew a pot of strong coffee. Laurel went straight for the phone set up in the small office adjacent to the living room. Olivia winced as she listened as the distraught younger woman sought solace from her husband, only to be denied.

“Is that all you have to say to me after what I’ve been through?” she queried pitifully. But Steve’s reply obviously triggered something in Laurel and with a shout of anger, she slammed the phone receiver back into the cradle.

“I’m sorry,” she told Olivia as she exited the office. “I just could not take one of his lectures on how I belong at home. Not tonight, no sir!”

Olivia nodded, pleased to see that Laurel had more spunk than one might credit her with. “I understand. Why don’t you sit down in front of the fire and I’ll get you something warm to drink. We could all use something to steady our nerves.”

As she hadn’t supplied the cottage with shot glasses, thinking they’d hardly be necessary for informal meetings, Olivia poured splashes of Chivas Regal into disposable coffee cups and distributed them to the others.

“Down the hatch.” Millay raised her glass and tossed back the contents without as much as a flinch.

Harris tried to emulate the motion, but couldn’t help from grimacing slightly after he’d swallowed. Laurel held her nose, downed her drink, and slapped the empty cup on the end table beside her.

“I’d like another, please,” she said in a stronger voice.

Olivia shook her head as Millay stood, heading for the bottle. “Why don’t I stir a little into our coffee this time around? We have to stay awake and alert in order to make our statements.”

Hands cradling cups of laced coffee, the writers positioned themselves close to the fire and to one another. Each of them silently called Camden to mind.

“He was so charming.” Laurel spoke first. “Everyone he met liked him from the get-go. Who’d want to hurt him?”

“Maybe he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Harris suggested. “The crowd in that place looks like they could turn rough pretty quickly.”

Millay snorted. “Yeah, like lightning-strike quick. I could pick out a half a dozen fishermen who might snap because you looked at them sideways. Shit, six or seven of them are totally capable of killing somebody. But to write poetry afterward? That’s not their MO. Seems more like a deranged college prof on an acid trip to me.”

“But what was Camden doing in Fish Nets in the first place?” Laurel demanded. “It’s not like he’d go there to make new friends.”

Olivia couldn’t help but smile. “If you’re referring to Camden making sexual advances to one of the patrons, I can’t see that happening either. Millay? Are you certain you saw him enter the bar?”

Running slim fingers through her blue and black hair, Millay exhaled loudly in vexation. “No. Like I said before, I only saw him reaching out for the door handle. Then I drove past. I just figured he was buying cigarettes or something.” She shrugged. “I was, like, a mile away before I could even believe it was him. Camden and Fish Nets didn’t go together, ya know?”

“Our eyes see what our brain expects them to see,” Harris said in her defense.

A flicker of admiration entered Millay’s dark eyes. “Exactly.” She turned back to Olivia. “I wish I did know if he went inside for sure, but I don’t. I’ll ask around once the cops leave. No one’s going to tell them a thing. Those guys keep things close to the chest.”

Laurel shifted in her seat, tucking her legs beneath her and smoothing out the fabric of her khaki linen trousers. Backlit by the flickering flames in the fireplace, her hair glowed like a golden crown and she instantly seemed years younger. Suddenly, the visage of another, even younger woman sprang into Olivia’s mind.

“Wait a moment,” she said, nearly rising to her feet. “Camden and I listened in when Blake Talbot was discussing his plans for yesterday evening with his girlfriend. From what we overheard, Blake intended to meet some people at Fish Nets.”

“And since Camden’s writing a book based on the Talbot family, he might have gone down there to find out what Blake had been doing there?” Laurel deduced.

Millay shook her head. “No way a rich kid like Blake shows up at my bar. His kind does not hang out there. They’d be at The Cleat and Anchor or the Dorsal Fin, guzzling their microbrews and checking out the waitresses while they stuff their faces with calamari or lobster bites or whatever you eat when you make more dough than all the drinkers in my bar put together.”

The other writers took notice of the proprietary tone in Millay’s voice.

Olivia cleared her throat. “No one’s assuming one of your regular, ah, patrons, is responsible for Camden’s death, Millay. On the contrary, I can’t see that any of those men and women would have had a connection with him at all. Whoever did this wanted to make a point. Thus, the poem.”

“What did it say?” Laurel asked nervously.

“Something about orchards and apples,” Millay replied angrily. “A bunch of crap that made absolutely no sense!”

Recalling that she’d written the haiku in the small notebook she kept in her purse, Olivia dug it out and reread what she had written, frowning over the odd, horticultural imagery.

“What if Camden never went inside?” Harris wondered aloud, his eyes fixed on the shivering flames. “What if he found some clue in the alley?”

“You may be on to something there, Harris. Blake implied that the ‘business dealings’ he planned for last night were rather on the shady side.” Olivia laid the notebook on the sofa and Millay instantly picked it up and began to study the poem. “Perhaps Camden found something not meant for his ears.”

“Or his pen.” Millay stabbed at the paper with her index finger. Olivia noticed that the young woman’s nails bore the remnants of a deep purple polish and were clipped very short, as though to prevent her from chewing them. “The first line of the poem says, ‘His words are silences.’”

A little gasp escaped Laurel’s throat. The fear in her eyes shimmered in the firelight. “That can only mean one thing,” she breathed. “The killer knew what Camden did for a living.”

“And there aren’t too many people in Oyster Bay who’d be threatened by the appearance of a celebrity gossip writer,” Harris pointed out. “Except maybe Blake or one of the other Talbots.”

Olivia gestured at the notebook in Millay’s hands. “Either Blake Talbot’s educational background included instruction on how to pen this particular form of poetry, or he had dealings with another person who couldn’t afford to be exposed and has been watching Camden’s every move.”

“Someone who created an impromptu haiku?” Harris seemed doubtful.

There was an authoritative rap on the front door and Olivia turned her head toward the sound but made no other move. She was too busy thinking. “It doesn’t read like a spontaneous piece of writing. It feels specific, tailored, and ...” She glanced anxiously at the other writers. “Premeditated.”

The blast of the foghorn woke Olivia the next morning. The deep, resonating noise caused her to imagine a trumpeting leviathan surfacing from the cold depths of the sea.

Still weary from the night before, she stayed in bed another thirty minutes, listening to the steady, repetitive tolls as the horn warned incoming vessels of the proximity of the shallows.

To Olivia, the sound was as familiar as the beat of her own heart. She remembered, after she’d moved away, how the noises in other parts of the world failed to offer the same level of comfort as the rush of the incoming tide, the blare of a foghorn, the high squawk of a gull, or the clanging of a ship’s bell.

Haviland jumped up on the bed and burrowed under the covers in search of his mistress’s hand. Olivia stuffed it under the pillow, knowing her poodle would lick her palm until she rose and served him breakfast.

“Five more minutes,” she promised, briefly reaching out to scratch Haviland beneath the chin. She watched the tangerine-colored light filter through the bare glass of the master bedroom’s wall of windows.

The foghorn fell silent and Olivia continued to pat Haviland, thinking of Camden.

Last night, when she’d answered the knock on the door of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, a fresh-faced officer named Cook had strutted in. He assessed them with a cocky glance and bossed them about as though they were schoolchildren. He’d taken their statements and asked a few standard questions, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. Olivia had the feeling the young lawman viewed his being sent out to the lighthouse when the real action was happening downtown an insult to his abilities.

Irritated by his arrogance and disinterest in their observations, Olivia strongly suggested he radio Chief Rawlings and track down Blake Talbot as soon as possible.

“Officer Cook.” Olivia walked over to the policeman and did her best to stand even taller than her five-eleven frame. “You might be handing the chief a suspect on a silver platter. Camden Ford was our friend and we want to see justice done. We’ve told you all we know, now please share our information with your superior.”

Cook bristled at her choice of words and informed the writer’s group that he knew how to do his job.

Millay rose from her position on the couch and came to stand next to Olivia. “Then prove it! Stop pissing around here and find out what Blake Talbot was up to over the last twenty-four hours!” she shouted. “I believe that’s called ‘chasing down an alibi’ in cop talk.”

Listening to Millay, Olivia had to fight to keep from smiling.

Thus bullied by the pair of aggressive women, Cook retreated, but only after issuing a final command that the Bayside Book Writers needed to make an appearance at the station first thing in the morning to review and sign their official statements.

“We’ll be there,” Harris promised. He opened the door and practically shoved the truculent officer out.

After Cook had left, Laurel began to weep again. “I’m sorry, everybody. I’m just so tired. All I want to do is put on my nightgown and sleep for a week. It’s selfish, I know, but I’m scared and mixed up and mad all at once.” She gazed at Olivia with moist eyes. “I wish I could be strong like you.”

“Go on home,” Olivia had answered quietly. “There’s nothing else we can do tonight, and though it might not show, I’m every bit as muddled and shaken, I assure you.”

As the tumult of emotions reflecting the onset of grief assaulted the writers, they said good night to one another and dispersed.

Now, only a handful of hours later, Olivia watched the light turn from an orange pink to a yellow-tinged white. Finally, she kicked off her covers and went into the kitchen to brew coffee. Haviland sat in front of the door, waiting to be let outside.

“Make it brief, Captain. I’m going to fix your breakfast and we’ll have a quick walk before we have to go into town.”

Olivia removed a covered casserole dish filled with organic ground beef cooked in beef broth from the refrigerator. She put water on to boil and poured herself a cup of coffee. While she waited for the water, she placed a bowl of instant grits in the microwave. By the time she’d cooked a cup of rice and mixed it with some fresh peas in a large stockpot, she was done with her cereal. As soon as Haviland reappeared, panting and shaking his ears friskily, she served him his meal and then walked out to the deck to eat a peach.

She listened to the rush of the waves curling onto the shore and relished the ripe, tender fruit. She felt a sudden, unexpected pang of guilt for experiencing such a moment of pleasure and peace.

“Poor Camden,” she whispered into the faint, salty breeze.

Later, she and Haviland took a brisk walk along the shoreline and then Olivia changed out of her sweatpants and dressed in black cotton slacks and a chartreuse scoop-neck T-shirt for her trip to the station.

As she neared Main Street, the bells from the Methodist church began to chime. A second later, those from the Baptist church rang out and the two melodies overlapped each other. Instead of sounding disjointed, the effect was that of a melodious echo and Olivia rolled down her window in order to welcome the music into her car.

On such a morning, she thought, it doesn’t seem possible that last night truly happened.

The Oyster Bay Police Department had been located in the same charming brick building since the late forties. Complete with large arched windows and a façade covered by ivy, it stood across the street from the modern, boxlike two-story building that housed the sheriff’s department and the county jail.

One could walk out the side door of the police station and arrive at a small square with neatly trimmed grass, carefully tended flower beds, sets of wooden benches, and a flagpole flying both the American and the state of North Carolina flags. Just beyond this tidy little park was the county courthouse. Renovated within the last fifteen years, the courthouse was a Greek-revival structure with a corner-stone dated 1836. It was whitewashed brick with chunky white Ionic columns and a frieze carved with an image of the state seal. By far the most impressive building in Oyster Bay, it basked in the early summer sun as though enjoying a well-deserved day of rest.

“You can accompany me into the station, Captain,” Olivia informed her delighted poodle as she pulled into a spot near the courthouse. “They have a K-9 unit, after all, so they can’t protest your presence. Do you remember Officer Greta? We ran into her during your last grooming appointment.”

Haviland barked excitedly. “Quite an attractive and intelligent German shepherd, I would agree. But she’s on the clock when she’s here, Captain, so no flirting. This is all business. Understood?”

Snorting his assent, Haviland trotted next to Olivia. He’d never taken to a leash and, from the time he was a puppy, had responded to verbal commands with incredible acuity. Since her return to Oyster Bay, Olivia had been chastised about leash laws by policemen, fretful mothers, and a bevy of deliverymen (the most vocal being a terrified UPS driver), but she would rather pay a host of fines than force her poodle to wear such an undignified contraption.

“My dog is smarter than most humans,” was her customary answer, but if someone persisted in lecturing her on leash laws, Olivia would launch into a list of classes she and Haviland had taken to ensure that he’d received top-level training in both hand signals and voice commands. If she felt especially talkative, Olivia would brag about Haviland’s agility and tracking abilities, citing the number of awards he’d won in the canine classroom.

The locals had grown accustomed to seeing Haviland walking alongside his mistress, so when the pair entered the station, their gaits perfectly matched, the female desk sergeant blinked in surprise but said nothing. Olivia wondered if she had Chief Rawlings to thank for receiving no argument regarding Haviland’s presence in the building.

“I’m here to give a formal statement about last night,” Olivia informed the middle-aged woman wearing a snug uniform. “I’d prefer to see Chief Rawlings if I may.”

The woman shook her head and set her lips into a firm, uncompromising line. “Sorry, but he’s real busy.”

“Of course,” Olivia capitulated and took a seat in one of the lobby’s uncomfortable wooden chairs. Haviland sat on his haunches next to her right leg, his soft, brown eyes alight with curiosity.

Five minutes later, Olivia looked up to see who would be taking her formal statement and was most unhappy to be met with the surly visage of Officer Cook.

“Long night?” she asked by way of greeting.

“Yeah.” The policeman eyed Haviland distrustfully for a moment, even though he’d seen the poodle the evening before, and gestured for Olivia to follow him down the carpeted hallway.

They passed by several offices and when Olivia spotted a placard with Chief Rawlings’ name, she peeked around the partially closed door. The chief was on the phone, but he caught the movement from the corner of his eye and waved her inside.

Without bothering to alert Officer Cook that she was deviating from the current course, Olivia stepped into the office, waited for Haviland to pass across the threshold, and closed the door.

“Yes, sir,” Chief Rawlings spoke solemnly into the receiver. “I’ll send an officer to collect you at the airport. He’ll be there by the time you land. Again, I am truly sorry to be the bearer of such news. Yes. Good-bye.”

Replacing the receiver, the chief pressed his hands over his eyes and sighed. “I haven’t had to make too many of those phone calls during my tenure in this office, thank the Lord, but they are the greatest challenge of this job.”

Olivia examined the lawman’s stained and wrinkled uniform shirt, the shadow of an auburn beard darkening his chin, and the discoloration under his eyes. As he sipped from an oversized coffee cup, his head fell into a strip of sunlight pouring in through the window blinds. For the first time, Olivia noticed that the chief’s hair was tinged with hints of red and that his hazel eyes resembled the muddy green of a deep woods pond.

“Were you speaking with a family member? A relative of Camden’s?” she inquired respectfully.

Rawlings shook his head. “Mr. Ford’s wallet held no clues in that area, but there was a business card for a publicist based in LA. I called her last night and she informed me that Camden’s emergency contact was his, ah, partner. Mr. Cosmo Volakis is already en route here. Of course, it will take him most of the day, seeing as he’s coming from the west coast, but I got the sense he caught the first flight out. Poor guy. It’ll be the longest plane ride of his life, I’d imagine.”

There was an impatient tap on the office door. Rawlings shot Officer Cook a questioning glance.

“I was supposed to take this woman’s statement, sir. Then, she just up and disappeared on me.” The young man gave Olivia an accusatory stare.

Frowning, Rawlings said, “I’d like to speak to Ms. Limoges personally, Cook. I’ll return her to you when I’m through. In the meantime, I’d like you to get an update from the coroner.”

“Yes, sir!” Cook immediately brightened and Olivia was reminded of the policeman’s youth. He probably hated dealing with paperwork and had joined the force in search of action and excitement.

“Were you able to question Blake Talbot?” Olivia asked once they were alone again.

“Mr. Talbot had little to tell,” Rawlings grudgingly admitted. “He provided us with an alibi and then gave me his lawyer’s number in case I should have anything further to discuss.” His face darkened. “I can tolerate the Talbots’ money, their attempts to buy up every spare acre in Oyster Bay, and even the lack of imagination of that new condo development, but I cannot stand rudeness. And that boy! Well, let’s just say I’d have loved to put him over my knee and teach him some manners.”

Olivia smiled. “Some discipline would probably do him good.” She reached down and stroked Haviland’s curls. “Did you find any helpful witnesses? Did Camden actually go into the bar? What business did Blake have there?”

Rawlings drew in an impatient breath. “Ms. Limoges, this is an open case and I’m not at liberty to discuss it with a civilian. I shouldn’t even have said what I just said.” He sank back in his chair, as though his spine was too tired to support the weight of his torso.

The chief’s words settled for a moment. Rawlings looked out the window at the park and Olivia looked at him. There was something appealing about his gentleness and intelligence.

“It doesn’t sound as though you’ve got any solid leads,” Olivia remarked dejectedly. “Yet this crime is so unlike our town. The gruesomeness, the poem, the risk of being seen in the alleyway. It’s as though the killer wanted publicity.”

Rawlings raised his hand to stop her from continuing, but Olivia plowed on. “I really liked Camden Ford, Chief. I liked his energy, his ability to bring people together, his verve. All I want is to assist in any way I can. Our writer’s group ...” She paused, noting how good it felt to use such a pronoun. “We can work on unraveling the mystery of the haiku. Who better to help with a literary conundrum? Officer Cook?” Her tone was derisive. “Or us?”

“I’m no novice when it comes to poetry, Ms. Limoges,” Rawlings reminded her of his propensity for reading verse for pleasure.

“And I wouldn’t doubt you could solve a poetic riddle during normal circumstances,” Olivia conceded. “But you’ll soon have the media to face, evidence to examine, and hopefully, witnesses to question. Surely it is not outside the bounds of the law to allow well-meaning civilians to put forth a few theories about this particular clue.”

She could see Rawlings relenting. “I suppose there’s no harm in that.” He handed her a business card. “My cell phone number is listed here. Feel free to call me anytime.”

Olivia rose. “I can find my way back to Officer Cook.” Haviland got to his feet and leisurely joined her in the doorway. As Olivia reached out to grab the handle, something prompted her to turn back to Rawlings. He was regarding her with his kind smile. “And if you need to talk to someone about the case, when you’re off-duty of course, stop by The Boot Top. I’ll buy you a drink.”

His smile grew warmer. “Thank you, Ms. Limoges. Before this is all said and done, I may just take you up on that offer.”

Olivia found Officer Cook at a cluster of desks in a large room at the end of the hall. Harris was seated across from him.

“Hello!” Harris beamed, clearly welcoming the sight of a friendly face.

“I’m glad to see you,” Oliva said and sat down next to Harris. She noticed that the red flush across her friend’s cheeks, nose, and forehead was exacerbated. It looked raw and irritated. No doubt stress caused Harris’s skin condition to become more pronounced.

It’s such a shame, Olivia thought. He’d be quite handsome without that red face. She made a mental note to ask the aesthetician at the spa she frequented in New Bern if there were treatments available to alleviate the symptoms of rosacea.

“Sign here. We’ll call you if we need more information.” Officer Cook slapped a piece of paper on his desk. After Harris signed, Cook dismissed him without so much as a thank-you.

“May I speak to my friend for a moment?” Olivia inquired and then, without waiting for Cook’s permission, took Harris by the elbow and led him several steps away from the desk. “Do you have all of Camden’s chapters?”

Harris shook his head. “No, we just have the one. I know he wrote more, but I’ve never seen the rest of his work. Why?”

“Because if Blake Talbot has anything to do with Camden’s death, the reason might be hidden in Camden’s writing.” Olivia cast a glance over her shoulder. Cook was scowling at her while tapping a ballpoint pen impatiently against his computer keyboard. “Perhaps by getting to know Bradley Talcott more intimately, we might discover what recent scandal Camden was investigating regarding the Talbots.”

Harris turned the idea over for a long second. “That seems like a real possibility. Are you going to tell the cops?”

“Yes, but I also think we could assist the authorities by reviewing the manuscript ourselves. Where was Camden staying?”

“At The Yellow Lady.” Harris touched Olivia’s arm. “But we’re not going to be allowed in his room, are we? Isn’t that room and all Camden’s stuff, you know, off limits now?”

“Not to Mr. Cosmo Volakis. He was Camden’s partner and he’s on his way here from LA.” Olivia’s eyes narrowed with determination. She leaned toward Harris and whispered, “Set up an emergency meeting of the Bayside Book Writers. Anytime is good for me, but make sure everyone can attend. I’m going to offer my chauffeuring services to the good officer here, and, come hell or high water, I intend to get ahold of a copy of Camden’s work-in-progress for us to review.”

“How can you be so confident?” Harris’s tone was a mixture of admiration and doubt.

“Because Camden’s lover is going to want justice, even more than we do. And I cannot go on living my everyday life knowing that someone is out there, walking the streets of Oyster Bay, breathing the sea air and letting the sun fall on his face, when Camden isn’t. Camden’s life has been stolen from him, in our town, and we have to do everything in our power to see that the killer pays for what he did.”

Harris clenched his jaw and nodded, his eyes filled with resolve. Olivia caught a glimpse of the mettle coexisting with the young man’s kindness. Turning toward Cook, Olivia pasted on the most winsome smile she could muster.

“I am so sorry to keep you waiting, Officer,” she gushed. “I know you must have a dozen tasks of real significance to complete today. Please. Tell me what you need me to do.”

Looking quite satisfied, the officer leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers together, and tried his best to exude power and authority. “I just need you to review and sign your statement, Ms. Limoges. I doubt there’s anything else you could do to help us.”

Nodding humbly, Olivia said, “There may be one little errand I could run on behalf of the Oyster Bay Police Department, ensuring your talents or those of another valuable officer aren’t wasted providing limo service for the victim’s boyfriend. I hear he’s on his way as we speak.”

Cook looked torn, but clearly he wanted to see some real action and he didn’t feel like acting as a chauffeur would qualify.

He took a manly swig of soda. “All right, Ms. Limoges. You can pick him up, but I’m gonna tell you how it’s gonna play out and you’re gonna follow my exact directions. Understand?”

“Of course.” Olivia smiled demurely and gave Officer Cook her undivided attention.