A Killer Plot (2010) bbtbm-1

by Ellery Adams

  Cook raised his weapon and squared his shoulders. “Don’t do it, man! I’ll fire before you can get your shot off.”

  Olivia caught a movement in the darkness behind Atlas Kraus. Finally, her heart began to beat again. She allowed her lungs to exhale. All would be well. For there was Chief Rawlings standing in Atlas Kraus’s shadow. Rawlings didn’t move, didn’t speak. His eyes were fixed on the killer. Poised to attack, he waited.

  Staring at him in wonder, Olivia realized Rawlings must have snuck, crouched and catlike, through an adjoining office to emerge at the killer’s back.

  Heidi swiveled, saw the armed man in the doorway, and screamed. Atlas glanced at her, wounded by her reaction. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m not going to let this scumbag bring you down.” He then turned to face Blake again, but in the moment he’d broken eye contact with his target, two policemen had stepped in front of the civilian, creating a human shield.

  “Back off!” Atlas gestured angrily with his gun, his lips curled into an animal-like snarl. “I’ll shoot through you to get to him. I swear I will.”

  Olivia watched the muscles in his right arm constrict as he made to pull the trigger.

  But Atlas never got the shot off, for as the threat was leaving his mouth and the tendons in his forearm were tightening, Rawlings was raising his nightstick into the air. In a swift, powerful stroke, the police chief brought it down on the killer’s head.

  The crack echoed down the hall.

  Chapter 17

  Do what we can, summer will have its flies.

  —RALPH WALDO EMERSON

  Olivia hadn’t expected to dream.

  At first, her sleep had been deep and untroubled, but as the dawn light crept over the ocean, strange and disjointed images stirred in the trenches of her psyche.

  She was back in the town hall again, but this time she was alone.

  There were no policemen or exuberant preteens or members of her writer’s group filling the shadowy corridors . Haviland wasn’t at her flank. Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered weakly.

  “Haviland?” Olivia called out in a disembodied voice.

  She knew the killer was here. At the same doorway in which she’d seen Atlas Kraus standing hours earlier, she stopped and reached out a trembling hand to turn the knob.

  “That’s not your job,” Chief Rawlings murmured behind her. She turned, letting her hand fall to her side and surrendering her position. Rawlings opened the door, stepped into the yawning blackness, and was gone.

  A bark emitted from another hallway and suddenly Olivia was outside. It was no longer raining, but the poster board signs bearing messages of idolization for Heidi St. Claire were scattered across the glistening asphalt of the parking lot, their words smeared, their hearts and smiley faces bleeding into ugly, distorted shapes.

  Haviland came racing from around the corner of the building, a billow of fog following behind. Olivia embraced the poodle, then turned to witness Rawlings burst through the double doors of the hall with such force that the brass door pulls slapped against the bricks like a thunderclap. He shoved a handcuffed prisoner forward, shouting for the bystanders to make room.

  In the way of dreams, where logic and orderliness seldom exist, the town hall’s portico, which had been deserted a moment ago, was crammed with people. Dozens of cops, reporters, and stunned townsfolk formed a tight knot Rawlings had to push his prisoner through.

  Rawlings made his way to a waiting police cruiser, his grim face bathed in blue light.

  The captive kept his head bowed and his face completely shielded by the brim of his baseball cap.

  Olivia felt a pang of anxiety. Atlas hadn’t been wearing a hat, but the faded American flag emblem was familiar to her.

  Rawlings placed a hand on his prisoner’s head and eased him into the squad car. He shut the door with an authoritative push and turned to address the yelling multitudes.

  Feeling that the chief had made a grave mistake, Olivia circled around the edge of the crowd, which seemed to be rapidly multiplying. It was as if the fog were carrying people on its back and depositing them in front of the building.

  Olivia picked up her pace, feeling a growing sense of fear as the police car slowly pulled away from the curb. Running now, she checked to make sure that Haviland was beside her as she cut across the lawn, hoping to intercept the cruiser at the end of the parking lot before it had a chance to turn onto the main road.

  Breathing hard, she pumped her long legs and arms. Her bare feet were chilled by puddled water and pierced by sharp stones. Her lungs burned, but she somehow managed to reach the corner as the police car made its right turn.

  At that moment, the killer raised his head and looked out the window, his eyes finding hers.

  “No,” Olivia whispered in shock, for the face was not that of Atlas Kraus.

  It was her father’s.

  When she woke, the sun’s rays were already pounding down on the beach, erasing any evidence of last night’s storm but for some scattered branches and a fresh infusion of green into the parched dune grasses.

  Olivia let Haviland out, leaving the sliding door to the deck open. Shuffling into the kitchen, she watched the coffeemaker as it gurgled and burped, sending the heavenly scent of Kona beans into the air.

  Once her mug was filled, she walked onto the deck in her bathrobe. She let the steady rhythm of the surf restore order into her world, smiling as Haviland lunged at a small ghost crab near the waterline.

  She wondered briefly if Rawlings had had any sleep at all.

  Hoping to postpone a mental review of the previous evening for a little longer, Olivia went inside for a second cup of coffee and the pickle jar containing the recent metal detector finds. She poured the contents out onto the teak deck table, touching the shotgun shells and lining them up in a neat row. Glancing up momentarily to witness Haviland’s glee as he splashed through the shallows, she ran her fingers over the warm metal of the razor blade case, thinking that it wasn’t too long ago that she’d found the old case and made the acquaintance of Camden Ford.

  The connection between the object and the man was startling.

  Camden’s throat had been cut by a straight edge, like that of a razor blade, she thought and grabbed the next object she’d dug up: the Indian Head penny dating to the Civil War.

  “The Confederate cemetery. That’s where Dean Talbot broke his neck.”

  Genuinely unsettled now, she reached for the New Hampshire quarter and was whisked back into the town hall meeting room, witnessing the look of shock and fright on Heidi St. Claire’s face as her eyes fell on the familiar but unwelcome face of Atlas Kraus.

  “Her father,” Olivia murmured, tracing the coin’s engraving of the Old Man in the Mountain. It had been that fleeting glance, combined with the memories of Blake teasing Heidi for being from a farm state beginning with the letter I and Annie telling Dixie how Atlas had left a family behind in Iowa, that had allowed Olivia to identify the murderer.

  Abandoning her treasures, Olivia walked down to the water’s edge. The sand singed the bottom of her feet but she was grateful to be reminded that she was no longer dreaming. Stepping into the surf, she wriggled her toes into the wet sand and sighed.

  “You’ve always taken care of me,” she said softly, listening as the ocean acknowledged her remark by delivering a crest that tightened into curl and finished in a surge of bubbled foam. And then came another. And another. Blessed predictability.

  Calling Haviland, Olivia meandered a little farther down the beach, keeping her feet in the moistened sand.

  “Let’s have a Grumpy’s brunch,” she informed her fur-dampened canine. Haviland bounded back toward the house at the suggestion. “Wipe your paws!” Olivia reminded him.

  Inside, she took a long, hot shower but spent little time on her appearance. Donning a breezy, chartreuse linen sundress and a pair of well-worn flip-flops, she ran a brush through her white blond hair and ran a stick of moisturizing gloss over her lips.


  Grumpy’s was packed. Between the tourists eating a late breakfast, the locals enjoying an early lunch, and the exuberant members of the press, the only available seat was at the counter. To Olivia’s relief, it was a single stool at the end of the row and the person occupying the adjacent stool was her friend Harris.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” she teased as she picked up the familiar menu.

  Harris blushed. “I went in really early, actually. Couldn’t sleep any more, so I figured I might as well work.” He studied her face. “Are you okay? I know you were really scared when Haviland went missing.”

  Olivia did her best to look unperturbed by the memory. “Somehow, Atlas must have led him into one of the offices down the side hall and locked him in. In short, my brilliant dog was duped. For the second time, if one counts the drugged ground beef incident as well.”

  Haviland sniffed and turned his head toward the front window.

  “I think you’ve offended him,” Harris whispered solemnly.

  “Nothing a rasher of bacon won’t cure.” Olivia waved at Dixie who had just emerged through the swinging kitchen door bearing plates loaded with cheeseburgers, meat loaf, sandwiches, and fried fish filets. She sighed. “The diner seems so unchanged, as though its occupants weren’t aware of the three murders committed in our town. If only it were as simple as ordering one’s next meal...”

  Harris grinned ruefully. “I’m finding this chocolate milk shake very consoling.”

  “But it’s not that easy,” Olivia continued as though her friend hadn’t spoken. “There will be statements to be taken and given, lawyers to engage, trials to drag on, and all the while, the insatiable hunger of the media.”

  Olivia fell silent. For once, she didn’t know what she felt like eating. The idea of consuming eggs turned her stomach and the lunch platters were too gluttonous for her tastes. The salads were rather bland as Grumpy had a penchant for serving half a head of iceberg lettuce with a couple of cherry tomatoes and thick slices of yellow onions. Upon this leafy pile, he’d then scatter a dozen croutons and a sprinkle of bacon bits. Skipping the salad selections, Olivia tried to decide whether she wanted a fruit plate with cottage cheese or a tuna melt with a side of slaw.

  Dixie appeared and plunked a glass of homemade limeade next to Olivia’s hand. “I know that look,” she said. “You don’t know what to order, do you? Don’t worry, sugar. Dixie will fix you right up. Haviland too.” She skated forward and took Haviland’s snout in her small, wide hands. “I saw you go after that bad man. You are the bravest dog in the entire state of North Carolina. I’m going to have Grumpy fry up a nice, rare steak for you. Pour a little gravy on it and serve it with a side of my finest tap water. How does that sound, my hero?”

  Haviland barked, causing the heads of all the outsiders to swivel in his direction.

  “He’s a workin’ dog!” Dixie called out by way of explanation. “It’s within his rights to be here, so don’t be makin’ any faces at him.” She touched Olivia’s back and stared down the journalists. “She’s got a whole list of disabilities, this one. So say a prayer for her and eat your food.”

  Chastised, the curious diners dropped their eyes to their plates and instantly began to talk to one another about the weather. Olivia and Harris snickered as several exchanges about the heat wave circulated through the room as though the subject were being pushed around and around by the ceiling fans.

  “Now I understand why you park in so many reserved spaces.” Harris grinned and took a slurp of his shake. He jabbed at an unyielding lump of ice cream with his straw. “So I’ve mentioned before that I write code for computer games, right?” The laughter had gone out of his voice. “Well, right now my team is busy creating the backgrounds for the game’s dungeon scenes. If I had been working on forest scenes or village scenes or anything else, I probably could have trudged along just fine. But this morning, as I sat at the keyboard designing damp stone walls, prison cells with chains, and skeletons piled up on the dirt floors and hanging from rusty manacles, I had to get out of the office.” He paused and touched his chin. “Suddenly, I just had to breathe some fresh air and have a chocolate milk shake.”

  Olivia nodded. “How’s Millay?”

  Shrugging, Harris flattened his crumpled napkin on the countertop. “It’s hard to tell. She acts so tough, but I think there’s a lot going on under the surface she doesn’t want to let people see. She found the last haiku, you know.”

  This was news to Olivia. “Where?”

  Harris seemed pleased to be the bearer of such an interesting bit of information. “Atlas must have dropped it in the meeting room. Millay thought she was just picking up some litter. She had already gathered up gum wrappers from those girls. I guess she has a thing against littering. Anyway, she picked up the paper and unfolded it and we both read the poem.”

  “Do you remember the words?” Olivia asked doubtfully.

  Setting his phone on the counter, Harris pressed a few buttons and three lines of text appeared in the display window. Olivia read them aloud.

  A rotten tree falls

  Letting in enough light—

  For the sapling to grow

  “Autumn,” she murmured. “This poem comes closer to following the rules than the summer haiku. It’s interesting and rather disturbing that he wanted to improve as a poet.” Her eyes returned to the first few words. “I take it Blake Talbot is the rotten tree. Atlas planned to shoot him and watch as his body toppled over like a felled tree. Then Atlas’s daughter, the sapling, would receive more sunlight. No one would hold back her burgeoning rise to fame and fortune.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think Heidi’s feeling too grateful at the moment,” Harris concluded as Dixie arrived with Olivia’s lunch. She placed a bowl of tomato soup and a plate containing a grilled cheese sandwich on the counter in front of Olivia. Whisking away the empty limeade tumbler, the intuitive proprietor set a steaming mug of hot tea next to Olivia’s hand.

  “Wrap your fingers around that. You need some old-fashioned childhood food, ‘Livia. Never met a person on this earth who couldn’t start mendin’ after a bowl of soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.” Dixie tucked a feather of blond hair back under her silver headband and dusted a crumb from her Little Miss Chatterbox shirt.

  Olivia opened her napkin and smiled. “Dixie, you’re a precious gem hidden amid the rocks.”

  Dixie snorted. “Tell Grumpy that. He’s been promisin’ to buy me a new ‘rock’ for going on ten years now.” She elbowed Harris. “If a gal ever tells you size don’t matter, she’s lying.”

  Harris’s cheeks burned red.

  “Aw, lamb. You don’t need to blush. I’m just messin’ with you.” Dixie was genuinely contrite.

  “It’s not what you said, ma’am. I’ve got a skin condition.” Harris put his palms over his cheeks, looking miserable. “I look embarrassed or humiliated or like I’m suffering from heat stroke at least ten times a day.”

  Dixie turned to Olivia. “Such a handsome boy. Reminds me a little bit of Peter Pan.” She put a hand on Harris’s back but kept her eyes on Olivia. “There’s got to be somethin’ out there to fix his skin, am I right?”

  “Actually, there is,” Olivia answered brightly.

  Harris shook his head “I’ve tried every topical medicine on the market. They don’t work.” He smiled at Dixie. “If I ever do find a girl to propose to, it’ll mean she’s gotten used to my face and likes me despite my rosy red cheeks. We’d be a modern age Beauty and the Beast.”

  Olivia touched his arm. “Personally, I’d prefer the Beast, but women your age aren’t often as wise as those of us who’ve learned what matters.” She and Dixie exchanged a wink. “And I’m not referring to creams or salves either. How would you feel about trying a laser treatment? On me, of course. It would be a favor to an aesthetician friend of mine. She’s been searching for someone with your condition to use as a test case for her pulse laser.” Olivia felt no shame in concocting su
ch a flagrant lie. “What do you think?”

  Harris’s eyes glimmered. “Cool. A pulse laser? Kind of sounds like an episode of Star Trek. When can we start?”

  “I’ll call her right after lunch,” Olivia answered casually, though she was truly excited over the idea of watching Harris’s rosacea become a bad memory. “Let’s keep it a secret too. We’ll see if anyone notices when the Bayside Book Writers meet again.”

  Dixie skated off and returned fifteen minutes later with Olivia’s check. Beneath the total she had written, “Softie!” followed by a goofy smiley face. Frowning, Olivia balled up the check and slapped it on top of a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Come along, Haviland. Time to visit the chief. Perhaps we should have brought him a grilled cheese sandwich,” she mused as she said good-bye to Harris and stepped outside. A pair of journalists moved to follow her, but Dixie skated in front of them, blocking their path and giving Olivia and Haviland ample time to escape untroubled, at least for the moment.

  From a distance, the police station resembled an anthill. Uniformed policemen, important Oyster Bay citizens, and many of those present at the town hall the night before streamed in and out the front doors. In addition, reporters and cameramen milled about the sidewalk. Awaiting an official statement from the chief, they passed the time smoking, speaking into cell phones, fiddling with their BlackBerrys, or accosting the more colorful locals as they left the station.

  Olivia scowled in disgust as a woman wearing a pink suit dabbed at her heavily made-up face with a tissue. “I declare!” she drawled. “I won’t be able to sleep a wink until that horrible man is put away for life! And to think he was here among us good, churchgoing folk the whole time. Poor Annie Kraus! She welcomes her brother-in-law into her home and how does he repay her? He kills one of her guests and then nearly ruins our chances of getting that nice new development built.”