A Killer Plot (2010) bbtbm-1

by Ellery Adams

  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.”r />
  “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

  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 h
im 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.