A Killer Plot (28 page)

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.

—GEORGE ELIOT

 

 

 

 

The sign posted on Through the Wardrobe’s front window claimed that the shop would open promptly at nine every morning but might close anywhere between the hours of five and seven, depending on the “whims and temperament of the management.”

Despite the seriousness of her errand, Olivia grinned upon reading this declaration. She pushed open the heavy wooden door to the sound of tinkling bells and was surprised to hear a woman’s voice call out, “Welcome to Through the Wardrobe!”

A woman in her early thirties in a form-fitting flowered sundress looked up from her task of gathering a long vacuum cord. From the manner in which the pretty brunette wrapped the cord from palm to elbow as a veteran sailor would coil a length of rope, Olivia wondered if the younger woman could move about a boat with the same show of grace and ease.

“Can I help you find something?” the brunette asked, using the gentle drawl indigenous to the Carolinas.

Olivia pasted on a friendly smile. “I was looking for Mr. McNulty, actually. There’s something I wanted to ask him. I’ll only take a few minutes of his time as I’ve left my dog in the car.” She gestured toward the front door while inhaling the pleasing aroma of orange-scented furniture wax. “I’m glad to see he’s found some help. This place needed a woman’s touch.”

The woman looped the cord neatly onto the hook on the vacuum cleaner’s body and held out her hand. “I’m Jenna Watts. I’ve seen you around town, of course, but it’s a pleasure to meet you in person. Flynn’s out back taking care of the garbage. Just go through the stockroom. I hope you don’t mind if I let you find your own way. I don’t like to leave the register unattended.” She glanced out the window. “And I’ll make sure to keep an eye on your beautiful dog.”

Upon first seeing her, Olivia had been fully prepared to dislike Flynn’s new employee, but instead found herself disarmed by Jenna’s pleasant, practical nature.

And why would I care that
Flynn hired such a pretty woman?
she asked herself.
I have no claim on him
.

The only customer in the store was a teenage boy enveloped in one of the upholstered chairs. His nose was buried in a graphic novel and he had a stack of similar works piled up on the coffee table in front of him. Olivia suspected Jenna would have to politely tell the absorbed reader the store was closing if she wanted to go home before midnight.

Olivia walked through the deserted children’s section and passed through a set of double doors leading to the stockroom. The space was dimly lit and contained a rolling cart, stacks of cardboard boxes from Ingram and other book distributors, and cardboard book displays sent by various publishing houses in order to highlight the works of some of their bestselling authors.

The sounds of Bob Seger’s “The Fire Inside” burst forth from the radio. The appliance was angled so the speakers faced the cement door leading outside. Olivia walked toward the open door but paused to examine Flynn’s CD collection first. She found people’s tastes in books and music to be very telling. Flynn’s selected artists included Bob Seger, Bruce Springsteen, the Eagles, Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Who, Bread, Creedance Clearwater Revival, Miles Davis, Ella Fitzgerald, and John Coltrane. When her eyes fell on the last pair of CDs in the small rack, she took an involuntary step backward. Flynn owned both of Blackwater’s albums, even though his musical taste didn’t seem to reflect an interest in Blake Talbot’s brand of punk rock.

Olivia opened each of the jewel cases and pulled out the CDs. No notes or scraps of paper bearing sinister instructions fluttered to the floor. She replaced the two CDs, feeling foolishly paranoid and acutely anxious all at once.

What do I really know about this man?
she thought as she moved forward to find him.

Stepping over the threshold, Olivia saw him and abruptly stopped.

Flynn had stripped off his button-down shirt and hung it from the handle of a small moving dolly. Clad in a snug white T-shirt that accentuated his muscular arms and back, Flynn was engrossed in breaking down empty boxes. Wielding a box cutter, he sliced through packing tape using deft, deliberate movements. He then stomped heavily on each box, driving the heel of his foot against the cardboard so that it collapsed in a single, defeated motion.

Olivia focused her gaze on Flynn’s face, watching the tight clench of his jaw and the fixed determination in his eyes as he worked. After finishing another three boxes, he sheathed the box cutter, put it in his pocket, and reached for the bottle of beer he’d had sitting in the shade of the Dumpster. Looking up, he spotted Olivia in the doorway.

Time crawled as he stared at her without seeming to actually see her. It was as though his mind had been miles away and had been suddenly forced back to the here and now. Blinking, a hesitant smile appeared on Flynn’s face and he headed toward Olivia, signaling that he needed to turn down the radio’s volume. She stood aside as he came into the stockroom and switched off the music, perturbed by the vacant look she’d just seen in his eyes.

“Are you one of those people who don’t believe in the modern device known as the telephone?” His tone was playful, making Olivia doubt whether she was reading too much into the far-off thoughts of a man busy with menial labor.

“I prefer to speak to people in person,” Olivia replied. She glanced outside. “Are you almost finished?”

Flynn hesitated and then nodded. “I’ve done enough work for today. Have you had dinner yet?”

“Actually, that’s why I’m here,” she said. “Do you have plans for tonight?”

“Only to fire up the grill so that I can prove to my neighbors that I’m a real man even though I don’t own a pickup or a chain saw.” He gave her a pleading look. “Having a beautiful woman on my patio won’t hurt either, so if you like Italian sausages, corn on the cob, and watermelon, I’ve got enough for two.”

“Well, if your cooking abilities are anything like your decorating tastes ...” Olivia trailed off, recalling the interior of Flynn’s house.

Flynn’s laugh bounced off the cement walls “Let me just lock up back here and tell Jenna she can scoot. Did you get a chance to meet her on the way in?”

Olivia nodded. “Yes, she’s lovely. However, she might be too nice to kick out your last customer. He looks like he’d like to spend the night here.”

“The teenager reading graphic novels?” Flynn asked. “That’s Alan.” He flicked a life-sized cardboard cutout of Dan Brown on the nose. “Alan will leave when I start turning the lights off. Meet you out front.”

Olivia browsed the poetry section while Flynn finished with his closing tasks. Once she’d returned to the Rover and began following Flynn to his home, Haviland whined in protest.

“This is a fact-finding mission,” Olivia explained to the unhappy poodle. “And there will be sausages for dinner.”

As though he understood the word sausage, Haviland bounded out of the car and across Flynn’s lawn in a blur of black fur. He eagerly sniffed at all the shrubbery surrounding the front porch and then sat on his haunches on the welcome mat as though he couldn’t imagine what was taking the humans so long to open the door and begin the food preparations.

“Good evening, Haviland.” Flynn nodded at the poodle.

Olivia watched closely as her dog sniffed Flynn’s hand and then turned away, disinterested. Apparently, Haviland’s feelings hadn’t changed. The poodle still didn’t appear the slightest bit threatened by the man.

Relieved, Olivia walked into the living room and then laughed when the poodle began to bark at the three-dimensional tropical fish swimming across the kelly green wall. “Captain, it isn’t polite to criticize another’s person’s taste in, ah, artwork.”