by Ellery Adams
Olivia raised her eyebrows. “He was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“He finally confessed to being drunk and sounding off at Mr. Ford. He doesn’t recall precisely what he said, but Mr. Bragg thought Mr. Ford was in the employ of the Talbots. Judging by his dress, accent, and mannerisms, he assumed Camden was in favor of relocating the graveyard. Before he was deployed to Afghanistan, Jethro was a land surveyor. One of his former coworkers told him about the Talbots’ grand plans for the park, so he’s been stewing over this project for a long time.” Rawlings rubbed at a crease in his uniform pants. “He remembers telling Mr. Ford that all queers should burn in hell, but he never touched him. In fact, Jethro would have been free to leave on Wednesday if he hadn’t spit a mouthful of hot coffee right in the face of Sergeant Barrett.”
“Did the handwriting analysis provide you with any clues about the real killer?” Olivia asked, her interest quickening.
After studying her face for several seconds, Rawlings opened his notebook and directed his flashlight beam to the white page. “Based on the space between the lines, the angular nature of some of the letters, the narrowness of other letters, et cetera, the killer is likely a single male. An aloof, independent, self-serving, dissatisfied, and frustrated individual. A man filled with hidden aggression.” He paused, tried to interpret his own scrawl, and then continued. “There seems to be an irregularity between the handwriting and the content of the poem. According to the analysis, the handwriting belongs to someone who knows hard work, even drudgery. A laborer. It doesn’t jibe with the writing of an academic type or the type associated with a poet or an artist.”
So much for Blake Talbot being the killer, Olivia thought, bewildered. I bet the Talbot kids haven’t done a day’s labor in their lives.
“I’m not telling you anything you won’t read in the paper. Except for the handwriting analysis. Keep those details to yourself, if you would.” Closing his notebook, Rawlings stood. “I’m sorry to have missed the meeting tonight. Whose work will we be critiquing next week?”
“My head will be on the chopping block next. I should think the press would have come and gone by then, so hopefully you’ll be able to join us.” Olivia gestured at the shadowed land spread before them. “I wonder who will take over the running of Talbot Fine Properties now that Dean is dead.”
A voice crackled through the chief’s radio. “They’re ready to move the body now, sir. Over.”
“Meet you at the entrance, Mullins. Over and out.” Rawlings let his eyes linger on the dark woods beyond the gazebo. “I plan to find an answer to that question,” he replied. “It could be telling or it could be that some elusive board of directors is waiting to take the reins.” He placed a hand on Olivia’s elbow and led her out of the gazebo. “I’m sorry your dinner plans were ruined, even if you were only on a fact-finding mission.”
Olivia shrugged. “Regardless of what elaborate speeches Dean planned to make tonight, I would have and still plan to vote against the proposal as it stands. I’m opposed to the relocation of the graveyard.” She turned to Rawlings. “Chief, I’m certain the development is the reason behind Camden’s death. He found out something about the Talbots that would put a stop to this project. And someone wants the project to go through at any cost—even murder.”
Releasing her elbow, the chief gave her a hard stare. “When you have as many millions as Dean Talbot had, you don’t go around hiring killers to ensure your projects are brought to fruition. If Oyster Bay voted no, Talbot would have just moved on to the next town. There are dozens just like ours up and down the coast.”
Olivia’s ears seemed to filter out the majority of the chief’s argument, focusing only on the phrase “hired killer.” “That would explain the handwriting discrepancy,” she muttered too softly for Rawlings to hear.
The pair left the gazebo and headed back to the park’s entrance.
“Thank you for coming with such expediency, Ms. Limoges,” the chief said as they approached the waiting ambulance. The hint of amusement in his voice was occluded by the grim look in his eyes as he watched the paramedics push a loaded gurney into their vehicle. After bidding Olivia a brief good night, he walked off to query one of his officers.
Olivia and Haviland stayed where they were. Unwittingly, Olivia caught a glimpse of the lower half of the body. The feet were splayed beneath a white sheet, stretching it from toe to toe so that it appeared as though Dean Talbot had a fin.
“He wouldn’t have made a good merman,” Olivia informed the night air. “That man loved land. He wanted to own it, carve it up, and leave it unrecognizable. Land can’t fight back the way the sea can.” She rubbed Haviland behind the ears and turned away from the ambulance. The poodle rubbed his chin along her leg and barked twice. “Yes, Captain. We’ll go see Michel now.”
As she drove toward the welcoming illumination of town, Olivia whispered, “You’re out there, aren’t you?”
Chapter 13
O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
—PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
On Monday morning, Olivia and Haviland were enjoying breakfast at Grumpy’s when they noticed Laurel jog past the window, pushing a double stroller. Her ponytail streamed behind her like a palomino’s mane.
“Look at her go,” Olivia remarked to Dixie. “Seems more like hard labor than exercise. That contraption must weigh more than Laurel does.”
“In about twenty minutes she’ll go flyin’ by again. Does the same loop every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. She’s runnin’ late this morning though.” Dixie glanced at her purple Swatch. “She’s usually come and gone by the time you drag your lazy ass in here for coffee and eggs.”
Scowling, Olivia held out her empty mug. “Fortunately, I’m not forced to wake up at dawn to attend to the endless needs of young and helpless humans. It’s one of the many reasons I’m relieved to have avoided motherhood. Might my lazy ass have a refill, please?”
With a toss of her feathered hair, Dixie skated off for the coffee carafe. “You’ve been holdin’ out on me,” she murmured upon her return.
Olivia watched the steam from the carafe rise over the table, only to be obliterated by the downdraft created by the languid whirling of an overhead fan.
The diner was full of strangers. Olivia recognized only the elderly couple in the Starlight Express booth and a middle-aged woman reading a Barbara Kingsolver novel at the counter. Judging by their dress and the bulky camera bags partially tucked underfoot, the remaining patrons were journalists and photographers.
“That’s a rather vague statement,” she said to Dixie, observing as the curl of white cream she poured into her coffee morphed into a warm, pecan hue. “Haviland and I did find something on our walk this morning, but it’s not interesting from a monetary standpoint. See for yourself.”
Olivia passed Dixie the quarter she and Haviland had dug up on the beach. There had been an extremely low tide that morning, providing a rare opportunity to use the Bounty Hunter over areas of sand normally covered by water.
“It’s just one of them state quarters.” Dixie was unimpressed. “New Hampshire. ‘Live Free or Die.’ I find these every night sweepin’ up.”
“Turn it over,” Olivia directed.
Amused, she watched as Dixie’s thin eyebrows climbed up her forehead. The morning sun highlighted the shimmery purple shadow covering every centimeter of skin from Dixie’s lids to her ruthlessly plucked brows. “It’s like somebody just took an eraser to it,” she breathed and ran her fingertips over the quarter. “But that’s not what I was hintin’ at when I said you were holdin’ out on me. Let me get these city folks their food and I’ll be back to worm the details out of you.”
Dixie plunked the quarter onto the table. As she’d pointed out, one side was engraved with New Hampshire’s Old Man of the Mountain and the state motto, but the reverse was utterly blank. There wasn’t the slightest indication that George Washington’s profile had ever been etched
into the front of the coin. No words remained. Not a single letter had escaped the scouring of sand and sea. It was smooth as glass.
Olivia slipped the anomaly back into her pocket and sipped her coffee, watching Dixie deliver platters of omelets, peach pancakes, and Belgian waffles to customers. She then slid side dishes of hash browns, sausages, bacon, and baked apples onto any available space remaining on each table. Once her customers were busy eating, she skated backward to Olivia’s booth and did a neat half-turn inches away from Haviland’s paw. “Now, for the good stuff. I heard tell you paid a visit to a certain gentleman’s house the other night” She grinned, her bubblegum-colored lip gloss twinkling. “And didn’t leave again ’til midnight.”
Olivia couldn’t help but laugh. “Let me guess. One of your bevies of relatives lives on the same street as Flynn McNulty.” Her smile quickly disappeared. “If only one of them was around to witness Camden’s murder. Or Dean’s fall.”
“Fall? Feed me another one.” Dixie snorted. “That’s not how a man like him goes. Take that with a grain of salt, mind you, because I’ve only seen him a time or two, but he seemed like one sure-footed fellow. He ate lunch here on Thursday so he could ferret out how Grumpy was going to vote come Tuesday night.” She gazed out the window as she remembered. “I liked that he didn’t sugarcoat his reason for coming in. Just asked us straight out. Grumpy told him just as plain that he was votin’ in favor of building that development. Talbot and his buddies ate up every bite of their burgers, thanked us, left the biggest tip I’ve ever laid eyes on, and then went about their business.”
Dean was smooth, Olivia thought. Dixie and Grumpy weren’t easily impressed, especially by outsiders.
“I won’t mince words with you either,” she told her friend. “I’d like to talk Grumpy into rejecting the proposal.”
She raised her hand to stop Dixie from interrupting. “All I ask is that the two of you spend a few, quiet moments in the graveyard in the park. If you still want to support Cottage Cove as it stands, fine, but I’d like the proposal to be altered to allow the cemetery to remain untouched. Consider backing me up on this point. I’m going to talk to the rest of the board members when I’m done here.”
Dixie jerked a thumb toward the dining area behind her. “There aren’t going to be any quiet moments at that park for any of us! Every inch of that place will be on the news, in the papers, and on the Web by tomorrow. Grumpy’s cousin told us that the Talbot kids have being arriving since Sunday. Each one in their own little jet. Isn’t that too cute?”
Olivia laid the fork laden with omelet back on her plate. “Can you find out exactly when each of them landed? I’m specifically interested in when Blake Talbot arrived and if anyone met him at the airport.”
“I’ll make you a trade. Flight information for Flynn information.” Dixie produced a theatrical wink before pushing off from the table. Propelled forward, she dropped off two checks, collected empty dishes, and zipped through the kitchen’s swinging door in the time it would have taken another waitress to tie on her apron.
Smiling, Olivia returned her attention to her omelet. She was just about to take a bite when Laurel’s flushed face appeared at the diner’s window. Before Olivia could wave, Laurel raised her fist and knocked loudly on the glass. As she gestured feverishly for Olivia to come outside, her lovely face crumpled and tears slipped down her cheeks.
“Haviland! Something’s wrong!” Olivia shoved the diner door open. Haviland burst out in front of his mistress and immediately began to scan the street for threats. Laurel had turned the stroller away from the sun. The twins were both sleeping, their heads tilted at what looked to Olivia like supremely uncomfortable angles against the blue fabric of the jogging stroller.
“What is it?” Olivia took Laurel by the elbow, fearing that the younger woman might collapse at any moment.
Laurel gulped. “I saw it! At the bulletin board by the town hall. I saw the . . . the . . .” Her words tumbled from her mouth as she fought for air.
Olivia couldn’t make sense of her friend’s jumbled phrases. “You need to get out of the sun and drink some water. Come inside.”
Shaking her head, Laurel wouldn’t release her grip of the stroller handle. “It doesn’t fit through the doorway. Too wide.”
“Wait here.” Olivia strode into Grumpy’s, slapped some money on the table, and grabbed her purse and her water glass from the table. Several reporters cast her interested glances but were too captivated by their food to pay her any real heed. Outside, Olivia handed the water to Laurel. “Take small sips.” She waited while Laurel complied. “I’m going to push the boys under the pharmacy’s awning.”
Mutely, Laurel allowed Olivia to claim her position behind the stroller. Olivia gave the vehicle a light shove.
“The brakes are on,” Laurel whispered and stepped on a lever with her heel.
Olivia maneuvered the sleeping children farther up the block and then insisted Laurel sit down on one of pharmacy’s wide steps. Laurel drank down half of the water, then passed the glass back to Olivia. Her hands were trembling.
“Take your time.” Olivia pivoted the twins out of the sun and sat down next to Laurel, keeping a firm hold on the stroller’s oversized front wheel. “You ran past the bulletin board outside the town hall and saw what?”
Laurel nodded. “I don’t usually stop to read the notices, but I got a cramp as we were going by. There was a bright red piece of paper tacked up there. I needed to catch my breath, so I started to read it.” She wiped her perspiring forehead with the bottom of her pink Adidas shirt. “It’s another poem, Olivia. I couldn’t even tell you what it said, but I know it meant something bad. It . . . the words turned my blood cold.”
Olivia was dumbstruck for a moment. “Another haiku?”
Laurel glanced at her sleeping children. “I didn’t count the syllables, but it was three lines long. It sounded a lot like the other one. Like the same person had written both poems. Olivia, it felt . . . evil.”
“Was it handwritten?”
“No. It was typed.” Laurel pushed a damp lock of hair off her forehead. “Would you call the police? I really need to go home and sit down.”
“Let me give you a lift” Olivia felt acutely protective toward the younger woman. “You’ve had a shock. I’m worried about you walking home.”
“I doubt there’s a pair of car seats in that Range Rover of yours,” Laurel replied with a weak smile. “I’ll be okay now that I’ve told you. I know you’ll handle this better than I ever could. Will you call me after you’re done with the chief?”
“Of course.” Olivia waited for Laurel to rise to her feet and begin walking the stroller at a slow, controlled pace before hustling to her car. She dialed the chief’s number as she headed for the town hall, irritated by the clot of traffic caused by vacationers in search of parking spaces and journalists on the lookout for photo ops. Rawlings didn’t pick up his cell phone so Olivia left him a brief message.
Several minutes later, she drove the Rover into the crowded town hall lot and selected a spot reserved for jurors only. She stuffed her phone back in her purse and pumped her long legs double-time until she reached the bulletin board. There was the poem, just as Laurel had described.
Olivia read it once, and then twice, before copying the lines down into the notebook she always kept in her bag.
She then read them aloud to see how the words, once spoken, grew in power:
Cherry branches bow—
Petals pushed into the wind
Pale as a new moon.
From the bottom of her purse, her phone chirped. Olivia glanced at the number. “Chief? I know you’ve probably got your hands full answering questions for the media, but you need to take a quick walk down the block. I’m standing at the bulletin board in front of the town hall and there’s something posted here you must read immediately.”
“What is it? I can’t leave the station whenever the fancy strikes me,” Rawlings replied impatientl
y as phones rang noisily in the background.
“It’s a poem, just like the one written above Camden’s body. It may also be a clue that Dean Talbot’s death was no accident,” she whispered urgently. “You might want to bring an evidence bag with you. I’ll stand guard until you get here.”
She could hear the creak of the chief’s chair. “Give me five minutes.”
Before he could hang up, Olivia felt compelled to give him what was probably an unnecessary piece of advice. “And you don’t want the press following you here. Trust me. If you have a back door, then use it.”
Olivia waited on a nearby bench as Rawlings read the haiku. He then directed an officer to dust the entire metal case for prints before opening the lid to remove the sheet of red paper with a pair of tweezers.
“The font makes it look almost like real handwriting,” Officer Cook remarked as he examined the bag. “This guy knows enough about computers to use a special font.”
Another policeman peered over Cook’s shoulder. “How do we know it’s by the same person? Someone could be screwing with us.”
Rawlings crossed his arms over his chest. “The poem is part of a sequence. First winter. Now spring. But what should cause us to view this poem as a possible piece of evidence is the word pushed.”
Cook held out the bagged poem as though it were a contagious virus. “Oh man,” he breathed. “The real estate guy from the park?”
“Precisely. And this piece of information must stay between us, gentlemen,” the chief warned in a tone that demanded obedience. “Until we know more, we will still refer to Mr. Talbot’s death as an accident—whether you’re talking to the press, your mama, or your fishing buddies. Is that clear?”
The officers faced their superior and said, “Yessir,” in solemn unison. Rawlings, satisfied with their response, began to issue calm, firm commands to his men. As he spoke, Olivia stared at the dozens of fingerprints being highlighted on the surface of the bulletin board’s glass case. Black smudges covered the entire area. Some of the prints overlapped, forming moths and spiky bat wings reminiscent of Rorschach’s inkblot images. As a sergeant applied a final sweep of black dust across the glass, he shook his head, the enormity of his task settling upon his shoulders.
