by Ellery Adams
Rawlings placed a hand on his officer’s back. “One at a time, Marshall. One at a time.”
Once his men had been dispersed, their ever-raucous radios crackling as they moved off, the chief sat down next to Olivia. He stared at the square of bulletin board cork from which the poem had been removed.
Olivia opened her notebook. “The spring poem.” She traced the lines with her fingertips. “It fits the parameters of traditional haiku. While it’s not a given that the author of this poem killed Dean Talbot, there is no doubt in my mind that this person wrote the winter haiku.” She glanced around the square. Lawyers, clerks, local government officials, secretaries, tourists, and citizens walking dogs or pushing strollers meandered over the sidewalks or stopped to chat in the shade of one of the mammoth magnolias.
Rawlings observed the environment as well. “Another public place. Someone must have seen him unless he tacked the poem under the glass in the middle of the night.”
“Why not leave it with Dean’s body?” Olivia asked. “And isn’t that case locked?”
“The lock is about as secure as a young girl’s diary. You could easily jimmy it with a penknife. In any case, it was unlocked.” He jerked a thumb toward the town hall building. “The officer I sent inside to begin questioning the employees has already reported back. According to one of the clerks, the last person to place a notice on the board forgot to lock it. Apparently, she forgets quite often.”
Olivia stared at the poem again. “Harris was right. This killer is wily. Careful too.” She gripped the edges of the notebook until the cardboard collapsed beneath her fingers. “A monster dressed as a man.”
The chief rose. “He’ll give something away. He has a goal and anything that threatens his goal enrages him enough to kill. I need to figure out what he wants and as much as I’d like to do that sitting on this bench, I must get back to the station. I am counting on your discretion. Good day, Ms. Limoges.”
Releasing the notebook, Olivia watched Rawlings walk briskly across the grass. She felt sorry for the chief. He had limited manpower and resources and he was undoubtedly angry, frustrated, and embarrassed that he’d yet to discover the identity of the killer. Now Oyster Bay was overrun with reporters, and sooner or later, news of the second poem would leak out and Rawlings would feel the pressure to solve the murders tighten like a noose.
Olivia pulled out her cell phone and explained what had happened to Harris. “We need to meet. Come to The Boot Top tonight. We can have privacy in the banquet room and order off the menu. It’s my treat.” She paused, listening to Harris’s question. “Yes, I’ll get in touch with Laurel and yes, I’d love for you to call Millay. And, yes, I’ll make sure we have plenty to drink.”
After lunch, Olivia paid brief visits to her fellow members of the Planning Board. At The Yellow Lady, she found Roy perched on a steel ladder at the back of the house, cleaning out the gutters. Thrilled to have an excuse for a break, he listened to her suggestion regarding the preservation of the graveyard and readily agreed.
“Talbot Fine Properties shouldn’t raise too much fuss about having to move the putting green. That’s a sound solution you’ve come up with, Ms. Limoges.”
Roy wiped at his face and Olivia noticed the sweat stains on his T-shirt.
“Shouldn’t Atlas be giving you a hand? This looks like a major job.” Olivia craned her neck to take in the gutters above the second story.
“He’s out truck shopping,” Roy replied lightly. “I think he’s about done being the odd-job man around here. Luckily, it’s summer and I can get a few kids to help out. It’s what we’ve always done before.” He grinned. “I’d better get back to this. Annie’s honey-do list is as long as my arm.”
Olivia smiled sympathetically at him.
Satisfied by her conversation, Olivia stopped by the Neuse Community Bank next. Her talk with Loan Manager Ed Campbell wasn’t as fruitful, however.
“A change like that is going to cost Talbot Properties a pretty penny,” Ed explained. “They’ll have to level the ground, run a line to install the irrigation system, add a bunch of French drains to keep the greens dry when there’s too much moisture, et cetera, et cetera.”
“It’s worth a few extra dollars to keep that cemetery intact,” Olivia argued, but she could see that Ed was unwilling to challenge the Talbots’ proposal by the slightest fraction.
Knowing Dixie would speak to Grumpy and that Marlene planned to vote against the resolution no matter what adjustments were made, Olivia spent the remainder of the afternoon in her office at The Boot Top reading the online articles about Dean’s death. She knew she shouldn’t be surprised by how quickly information was collected and dispersed via the Internet, but she was. Papers from across the country featured stories of the real estate tycoon’s “tragic death” on their homepages. Links to dozens of photographs showing Dean and the rest of the Talbot clan were prominently featured on Yahoo! and Google.
As she watched video clips of the Talbots, Olivia paid careful attention to any appearance of Max Warfield in the footage. She then muted her iMac’s volume and studied the facial expressions and body language of anyone who routinely appeared in public with Dean Talbot.
“No one liked that man,” Olivia informed Haviland as pleasant aromas drifted in from the kitchen. “Look at his kids. They’re all partially turned away from him. None of them will look him in the eye. They probably felt inferior all their lives and their wounded pride and lack of affection eventually turned into anger. The mother is never at any of their public outings. Year after year, she hid at home or was checked into some rehab center, so Dean was the only parent available to receive the full share of his children’s ire.”
Olivia turned her attention to the articles she’d printed out from the Internet, picking up the top sheet. “Dean’s controlling share of Talbot Fine Properties goes to Blake Talbot,” she reread the sentence she’d highlighted. “I can see why he didn’t pick the older son if he’s got a cocaine problem, but why Blake? The daughter clearly has the business smarts while Blake sings in a rock band. Dean didn’t trust him to manage the band’s money, yet he entrusted him with a multimillion-dollar corporation? It doesn’t make sense.”
Having exhausted her search on the computer, Olivia walked out to the bar and turned the wall-mounted television to Headline News. As she waited for the top of the hour, in which the show was certain to lead off with a story on Talbot’s death, Olivia read through her notes once more.
“Blake Talbot had the motive, if not the means to kill his father. He has the necessary skills to write poetry. And he is definitely possessed of a darkness of spirit. Listen to this song lyric, Haviland.”
Haviland sank to his belly and lowered his head to his paws.
“Stop that. I’m not going to sing!” Olivia remonstrated. “ ‘I’ll push you into the black water. Fish are gonna swallow your last breath. I’m gonna tear down your towers and rip down your signs. People are gonna remember my name. You shouldn’t have tried to hold me, fool. You shouldn’t have tried to keep me down. Look at me. I ain’t no sheep, man, I am the wolf.’ ”
Groaning, Haviland rolled onto his side.
“Well, you have to imagine the verse accompanied by pounding drums, feverish electric guitar strumming, and a heavy dose of screaming by a group of young men with gelled hair and leather pants.” She examined the lyrics. “None of the stanzas rhyme, but the lines of the chorus do. More sheep/wolf imagery there. Do you see what I mean, Captain? If this kid wasn’t holding a serious grudge against his father, then I’ll start drinking wine from a box.”
Gabe’s arrival interrupted her musings. He greeted her and then began his preparations behind the bar. Olivia silently observed as he sliced lemons, limes, and strawberries. Considering his profession, Gabe was a calm and unassuming young man, but Olivia found his quiet friendliness refreshing and so did the regulars that liked to sit at his bar.
Millay and Harris appeared at The Boot Top at half past fiv
e and joined Olivia at the bar. Harris looked puzzled while Millay, whose black hair was bright yellow at the tips, tried to put on her signature expression of cool disinterest. However, she quickened her pace upon seeing Olivia and a spark ignited in her eyes, belying her eagerness to discover why an emergency meeting had been called.
Before Olivia had time to say hello, Laurel burst into the room.
“I am the mother of two-year-old twins, you know!” she said, slamming her purse onto the bar’s polished surface. “I can’t just leave the house every other night. I have responsibilities!”
Grinning, Millay slung an arm around Laurel. “Rough visit with the parental units so far?”
Laurel’s shoulders slumped. “They’re my in-laws, actually, though they make me call them Mom and Dad as if I don’t already have a pair of my own.” She sighed heavily. “The good news is they just closed on one of the three-bedroom Ocean Vista condos so I’ll have free babysitting any time I want.”
“And the bad news?” Olivia was already ordering Laurel a glass of wine. Gabe poured a glass of the house Merlot and then headed to the kitchen to fetch olives and pearl onions.
After taking a generous sip, Laurel cracked a thin smile. “That they’ve moved here, of course! Oh, I know I should be happy to have the help, but I can never do anything right in Steve’s mother’s eyes. She always knows just how he likes things and now she seems to have the twins all figured out too.”
“Don’t let her push you around. Your husband and kids are your family. Be nice, but do things your way,” Harris advised and Olivia wondered how often he’d had to stand up to bullies as he grew into manhood.
Laurel patted his arm gratefully. “Well, let’s look at that haiku so I can get back home before she Cloroxes every inch of the nursery.”
Olivia, who privately thought disinfecting Dallas and Dermot’s potentially germ-infested room sounded like a very sound idea, handed out copies of the new poem. She then poured wine for the rest of the group and led them to the table where she’d last sat sharing a drink with Chief Rawlings, preferring the bar’s intimate setting over the formality of the banquet room.
“Oh, yeah, that Talbot dude was pushed all right,” Millay said after reading the haiku. She drank down half her wine in one gulp. “But you’ll be happy to know that Jethro Bragg is definitely in the clear as a suspect in Camden’s murder. He and Missy Gordon—she’s a trashy redhead who has a thing for men who’ve been in the slammer, even if it’s just the drunk tank—came into Fish Nets around three o’clock on Saturday. According to my boss, they were all over each other. They left before I poured out my first Bud of the night, but the word on the street is that Jethro’s hands were way too busy investigating Missy’s body to be killing anyone or writing poetry. I didn’t tell you guys before because I swore not to. We’re talking the hand-on-the-Bible kind of promise.”
“Who cares about your promise?” Olivia stood over the younger woman, holding the wine bottle out of reach, her blue eyes dark with anger. “All along, we’ve been trying to figure out what happened to Camden and you kept this quiet?”
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 page
s. 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.
Chapter 14
We long for an affection altogether ignorant of our faults. Heaven has accorded this to us in the uncritical canine attachment.
—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.”
