A Killer Plot (2010) bbtbm-1

by Ellery Adams

  Indeed, the playground featured two sets of swings, a sandbox, a teeter-totter, and an enormous wooden castle structure complete with firemen’s poles, slides, monkey bars, and a rock wall. A small building housed restrooms, a vending machine area, and three water fountains at different heights. Benches surrounded the mulched area, and the covered areas with picnic tables looked like old-fashioned bandstands with their striped roofs and wide-planked floors.

  The next image displayed a map of paved walking trails and dirt tracks reserved for mountain bike enthusiasts. The final slide featured a generous parking lot bordered by a white split-rail fence and landscaped flower beds. Upon entering the park, one would be greeted by a flowing fountain featuring a statue of a jumping dolphin.

  “We don’t have dolphins here, Mack!” one of the men called out.

  Max smiled. “Pretend it’s a blue heron then. I’ve seen them flying over the Ocean Vista condos.” He gestured to his underling and the lights were turned back on. “So there you have it, folks. A new park, nine million dollars added to the town budget, and an attractive community of homes for those looking to relocate to Oyster Bay. I can assure you that these are tasteful, quality homes built to blend in with the traditional style of the area. Thank you for considering this proposal.”

  There was an immediate explosion of excited chatter in the room. Mayor Guthrie resumed the podium and banged his gavel.

  “We’re going to vote on this proposal tonight, so if any members of the public would like to ask questions or voice your concerns, now’s the time. Please raise your hand and wait to be called on so everyone can be heard in an orderly fashion.”

  Dixie snorted. “In other words, we’d best behave ourselves or we’ll have to sit in detention.”

  A burly man wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt and dirty khaki shorts stood up. Without bothering to wait for the mayor to give him permission to speak, he shouted, “It’s a damned disgrace to move those graves! Those boys died fightin’ for this place. They bled for us. And now we’re gonna dig ‘em up like they’re some kind of weeds and stick ’em in the ground someplace else?” He turned to face the audience, his face dark with anger. “Don’t they deserve peace? My great-great granddaddy’s buried at that park. You’d best not touch a splinter of wood on his coffin or you’re gonna have to answer to me!”

  Several people jumped to their feet and clapped loudly as the rest of the crowd tittered, wondering how the refined committee members would handle the man’s overt threat.

  “They’re having the time of their lives,” Dixie remarked with a fond smile. “A few rounds through the gossip mill and the story will have him draped in a Confederate flag and holding up a photograph of his great-great granddaddy.”

  “Or a gun,” Grumpy murmured in agreement.

  Olivia’s eyes were on the broad back of the man who had spoken. “Who is that?” she asked Dixie.

  “Jethro Bragg,” she answered readily. “Quiet type. Clam-kicker. He’s a war vet. Been in Iraq and Afghanistan. He had a house and a girlfriend when he got deployed, but lost them both while he was on tour overseas. She lives with an insurance salesman now.” Dixie sighed. “Jethro saw a lot of hard things when he was away—lost some of his friends to a car bomb. I can see why the idea of movin’ those soldiers troubles him.”

  Olivia knew the weight of loss and fought against feelings of sympathy for Jethro Bragg. After all, he’d been the last person to see Camden Ford alive. Olivia stared at the man and wondered if his eyes were haunted by more than loss. Perhaps something even darker lingered there, a shadow of horrible deeds. “Is he a fisherman?” she asked Dixie.

  “Nah, he’s one of those quiet types. Doesn’t like to work with a crew. He’s been a clam-kicker ever since the war. Before that, he was a land surveyor. He must still know folks in the field, since he came here tonight ready for a fight, so this whole thing was no surprise to him.”

  Her gaze still fixed on Jethro’s back, Olivia thought about the profession he’d chosen. Clam kicking was a method of netting clams by using the backwash from a motorboat propeller to force the clams to the surface. It was a lonely occupation. Jethro would only have to talk to another person when it came time to sell his catch.

  He’s a man who likes to be alone with his memories, she thought. Or worse. A man crippled by the past.

  As Earl Johnson made his way to Jethro’s side in order to speak to him in calm, soothing tones, the mayor called upon a plump woman in the middle of the audience. “I think this idea is wonderful! Nobody ever goes to that old park anyhow. Have you all seen it lately? It’s a disgrace. Me? I’d love to have that new playground. Not only do we get bathrooms, but we can also have church picnics in those nice covered areas. We shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, people!” She gestured at Jethro and spoke with pointed gentleness. “Now, I’m not saying I like the thought of moving those boys, but as long as it’s done with respect, then why not lay our soldiers to rest in the churchyard? Why not give them a Christian burial while giving our living children a fine, safe place to play?”

  Her statement was followed by a smattering of applause from the crowd and an enthusiastic nod from the minister onstage.

  Several others made speeches for and against the sale of the park, but the combination of parents, outdoor enthusiasts, business owners, Realtors, and those engaged in all facets of the construction trade made it clear that Talbot Fine Properties was welcome to continue building in Oyster Bay.

  Earl Johnson, who had returned to his seat after being shoved aside by Jethro Bragg, gripped the microphone and announced that it was time for the committee members to vote. “Who’s in favor of this proposition?” he asked.

  Without hesitation, all five members raised their hands and said, “Aye!”

  A unanimous decision.

  Mayor Guthrie beamed, pumped Max Warfield’s hand, and stepped to the podium for his final address of the evening. “We can’t get our shovels out yet, folks. The Planning Board will need to make the final call on this proposal next week. It’s up to them to debate the amount of green space or storm water drainage required for the new development, but I have every confidence that Talbot Fine Properties has seen to every tiny detail.”

  He and Max Warfield exchanged smug nods. At that moment, Olivia felt an extreme dislike for their mayor.

  “In the meantime,” Mayor Guthrie continued—he was a man who loved the sound of his own voice, “might I suggest you bring the family down to our Twenty-Sixth Annual Barbeque Cook-off this weekend? Yours truly has been working since last year in hopes of winning the Best Beef Rib category. Come on by and bring a lobster bib. It’s going to get messy! Good night!”

  The committee members were the first to leave. Though buoyed by the outcome of the meeting, all five had full-time jobs and were eager to get home. The mayor stayed to field any remaining questions from his constituents and Olivia wondered how many times she’d be approached by townsfolk about the proposition before the Planning Board meeting.

  She leaned over Dixie. “Looks like our vote is going to be a topic of interest, Grumpy. I bet the diner will be filled with curious folks between now and next Tuesday, all wanting to know if you’re planning on saying aye or nay.”

  The short-order cook shrugged. “I’ll vote for the new development, though I doubt Talbot’s homes are any better built than our double-wide. When it comes down to it, Dixie and me got a pile of bills high as the lighthouse. Between the diner and the kids, the only way I’m gonna be able to pay them is if more folks eat my food.”

  Dixie’s taciturn husband had never strung so many words together in Olivia’s presence before. “Perhaps you should raise your prices,” she suggested.

  Grumpy shook his head. “Don’t wanna drive off the workin’ man. I gotta cook for some folks like me so I don’t feel like somebody’s servant. ’Sides, most of the fishers have eaten and gone long before the suits are even awake.”

  Olivia nodded in agreement, gathered
her purse, and stood up. It felt good to stretch her long legs.

  “How about you, ’Livia?” Dixie asked with a smile. “You wanna expand your territory? Buy up a few more town blocks so these new folks will have places to shop? Maybe get their toenails painted? Eat some sushi?”

  Not for the first time, Olivia was grateful that Dixie didn’t resent her wealth or her success in business. The other woman seemed to genuinely admire her for her achievements and this esteem made her a rare friend indeed.

  “I don’t know,” Olivia answered honestly. “The proposal seems most attractive on the onset, but the idea of relocating the graveyard does trouble me a bit. I also have concerns about the limited green space I saw on those renderings for Cottage Cove.” She fell quiet for several seconds. “With only five of us voting on such a major issue, I’d like to do a little more research before reaching a decision.”

  Dixie spun the wheels of her left skate around and around as she mulled over Olivia’s response. “Fair enough.” She elbowed Grumpy. “Come on, babe. We gotta go home and see which of our kids is on fire, hanging from the ceiling, or has run away.”

  Laughing, the couple wished Olivia a good night. Grumpy took his wife’s arm and helped her down the stairs. Olivia exited at the other end of the row and was a few steps from the bottom when she noticed Chief Rawlings.

  He wasn’t in uniform, but he wasn’t wearing one of his typical Hawaiian shirts either. In dark jeans, a light blue collared shirt, and a houndstooth blazer, he was hardly recognizable. As though sensing her eyes on him, Rawlings looked up and smiled, but he glanced away quickly, fixating on the man standing before him.

  “I was wondering if you and I could sit a spell and talk.” He spoke to Jethro Bragg with utmost courtesy. Rawlings’ words were as relaxed as his dress, but his tone was laced with authority. Olivia was close enough to hear them clearly.

  Jethro shook his head and growled, “Look, I didn’t touch a hair on that queer’s head, so we don’t need to talk.”

  “Please come on down to the teacher’s lounge with me. I’d appreciate your help concerning Mr. Ford’s movements the night he was killed. This is an unofficial request. I’m just trying to get a picture of that night, that’s all. Will you give me a few minutes of your time?” Rawlings’ humility gave Jethro pause. But when it looked as those the clam-kicker wouldn’t cooperate, Rawlings put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Come on, man. I don’t want to go home and put on my uniform. I’d rather not have to turn all the lights on at the station for just you and me. No need to make our electric bill any higher. Besides, there’s no coffee, so what do you say?” He held out his hand in the direction of the hallway as though assuming Jethro would comply. After a moment’s hesitation, he did.

  Olivia glanced at her watch. It was half past nine and she was tired. As much as she wanted to wait for the chief outside the teacher’s lounge, the vision of her peaceful home and the lulling call of the surf won out over curiosity.

  Her evening wasn’t over yet, however. She ran into Annie, Roy, and the stranger Olivia took to be Roy’s brother in the hallway.

  “How’s Cosmo?” Olivia asked Annie.

  “Better. He took a nice long walk on the beach this afternoon and the sea air did him good. I laid out a nice afternoon tea for him.” She colored. “We don’t normally fix food other than breakfast for our guests, but I feel like Mr. Cosmo is more like family than some sightseer. Besides, I just couldn’t send him out in search of a snack in the state he’s in.”

  Olivia admired the innkeeper’s generous spirit. “Your care is exactly what he needs right now.” She turned her body slightly in order to include Roy and the unfamiliar man in the conversation. “How are you, Roy?”

  “Good, but busy,” he replied. “We’re into the season full-swing now. Booked solid until October.”

  Roy didn’t appear inclined to linger any longer, but Olivia’s inquisitiveness prompted her to thrust out her hand toward the man standing next to Roy. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around town before. I’m Olivia Limoges.”

  “Atlas Kraus, Roy’s brother,” he answered, briefly squeezing her hand.

  Annie gave her brother-in-law a nervous smile. “Atlas is staying with us for the season. We just can’t handle all the work so it was a real blessing when he called Roy and said he’d like to stay with us awhile. Atlas is real good with his hands. He can build, repair, or restore almost anything!”

  Olivia could sense a current of unease underlying Annie’s praise. Atlas dipped his head in acknowledgment of the compliment while Roy shifted on his feet. He was obviously eager to get on his way.

  They don’t want Atlas too involved with the inn, Olivia thought, listening as Annie described the breakfast she had planned for the next day.

  She watched the body language of the three people. Annie was gripping her own fingertips as though trying to hold on to a sense of control, Roy’s eyes shifted everywhere but avoided looking at his brother, and Atlas was studying Olivia, his dark gaze alert and unblinking. Of the three, he was the most composed. He leaned against the wall, pressing his wide shoulders onto the cool cement, his muscular arms folded over his chest.

  “Roy says that you’re one of the five people who’ll vote on this thing next week,” he said. “Must be pretty exciting to be so important.”

  “Like the mayor stated, Oyster Bay is certainly growing,” Olivia answered enigmatically. “Did you relocate from a similar town or are you a city man?”

  “I’ve lived in both,” Atlas replied with equal ambiguity.

  “And have you always been a fix-it man?” she asked, hoping to provoke more information from him.

  Roy’s brother remained unfazed. “Construction jobs, mostly. I go where the towns are experiencing a building boom like this one. I’ve moved around a lot.”

  Olivia didn’t like the picture the term “building boom” called to mind. She loved Oyster Bay the way it was. Sometimes the lack of amenities was an inconvenience, but the coinciding absence of traffic jams, monolithic superstores, and ugly office parks more than made up for the occasional long-distance errand.

  “Do you plan to work at The Yellow Lady and do construction jobs as well? That’ll be quite a full plate,” Olivia said.

  Atlas shrugged and looked away. “There aren’t any openings with the crew building the condos on the bluff, but I might be able to land a spot if this new development goes through. I plan to be the first guy in line when they hand out the job applications.” He turned back to her and smiled. “So keep me in mind when you vote, okay?”

  “Sure,” Olivia replied and bid the Kraus family good night.

  She passed the teacher’s lounge and noted a crack of light at the bottom of the closed door. Pausing, she heard the even bass of the chief’s voice followed by Jethro’s angry rumble. The words were unclear, however, so Olivia didn’t linger.

  Outside, she was met by a pleasant breeze. The humidity had receded, leaving in its wake a clear sky filled with crisp stars and a bright sickle moon. As Olivia drove beyond the town limits and later turned off the paved road onto the sandy track leading to her home, she noticed the bank of luminous clouds hanging just above the horizon.

  Their silver hue seemed especially celestial against the ebony sky. Upon reaching her house, Olivia opened the sliding door to the deck, released Haviland, and together the pair meandered through the dunes to the beach.

  For a long while, Olivia stared at the moon-illuminated clouds, thinking they looked like an ideal setting for a fairy tale castle, or the colossal abode of Jack in the Beanstalk’s giant, or perhaps the pristine, white-marbled temples of Olympian gods.

  “I met a man named Atlas tonight,” Olivia said to Haviland. “Either his parents shared a love of maps or they expected him to have enough strength to hold up the world. It’s some name.”

  Haviland barked and held his nose high, sniffing the air.

  Olivia had always adored Greek mythology and reread Bulfi
nch’s collection every two or three years. “Atlas was the son of a Titan, brother to Prometheus and Epimetheus,” she spoke to the night-darkened waves. “As punishment for joining in the war against the Olympians, he was condemned to bear the weight of the sky on his shoulders for all time. Because of his assignment, the Titans Earth and Sky would never again be able to meet. Never again would they embrace.”

  She glanced above the ridge of clouds to the star-sprinkled heavens.

  “What is Atlas Kraus’s burden, I wonder?”

  Olivia stood at the edge of the surf, reviewing the evening’s events. Would the next day see the resolution of Camden’s case? What might Jethro Bragg’s anger reveal? Why had he been talking to Camden? Why were Annie and Roy on edge? How would the Planning Board vote next week?

  “Let’s go in now, Haviland. We’ll come back bright and early tomorrow. Perhaps we’ll take out the Bounty Hunter and dig for treasures. For now, I just want sleep.”

  That night, she had the dream—the dream in which her mind returned to the last time she saw her father. These were not photograph-clear images, but flickered scenes stretched and bent and distorted by time.

  The dream walked a tightrope between memory and nightmare.

  Olivia was nine years old. There were her tan, skinny limbs, her favorite blue boat shoes with the untied laces stained by mud and grass, and the T-shirt with the unicorn iron-on—faded and cracked from repeated washes. Her hair was stringy and tangled, hanging down the sides of her face like a fisherman’s net. It hid the fear in her dark blue eyes.

  She was on her father’s trawler heading toward the open sea. It was the eve of her tenth birthday and the night sky was clouding over. Her father stood at the helm, guzzling cheap whiskey and grumbling to himself. He seemed to have forgotten she was there. Cold, Olivia wrapped an old sweatshirt around her shoulders. It was pink and smelled of salt and fish, but it was still a comfort.

  The night wore on.

  Suddenly, her father swiveled, his hands leaving the wheel as his eyes flashed with rage. Snatching the sweat-shirt from Olivia’s grasp, he cursed her, using language she’d never heard him speak until after her mother’s death. But every time the whiskey flowed, he searched for words that would wound his daughter. Words that would form scar after scar.