A Killer Plot (2010)

spasms of a child choking on raisins, Laurel pulled a mangled mass of paper from her diaper bag. As she flipped through the sheaves, Olivia was impressed to see that Laurel had not only highlighted passages, but had also written small, neat notes in the margin of every page.

“I thought it was sad how each one of the Talbot kids tried to make their daddy proud.” She turned to a particular passage and smoothed down a wrinkled corner. “But it seems like only money could impress him. Listen to this section in Diane aka Deirdre’s chapter: ‘Her sweet sixteen party was the talk of Long Island’s nouveau riche. Her guests received Tiffany jewelry party favors, her dress was designed by Vera Wang, and her chocolate truffle cake shaped like a Louis Vuitton purse was made by the executive pastry chef of Tavern on the Green.

‘The compliments flowed like the champagne, with Don’s sycophants tripping over themselves to pay tribute to his only daughter. The pudgy-fingered and corpulent businessmen proclaimed the girl regal as a princess, graceful as a prima donna ballerina, and as fine-boned as a French supermodel. And while Don accepted the praise with a nod here and a forced smile there, Deirdre grew more and more enraged.’ ”

Laurel pointed at the page. “She yells at the guests, saying that she wants to be known for her brains and talent—that it won’t be her brothers who’ll continue the Talcott business legacy, but her.”

“I remember that scene,” Olivia said quietly. “Her father mocks her in front of everyone and tells her he’d never let a woman run the show. In fact, he didn’t consider any of his children capable of taking over the family business.”

“They’re quite the Shakespearean family,” Millay added. “Rich, beautiful, and power-hungry. Mix in a heavy dose of hatred, resentment, and jealousy, and you’ve got a tragedy in the making. The dad rules them like an American King Lear, knowing no one will dare stand up to him for fear of losing their allowance.”

Harris stared at her. “How do you know so much about Shakespeare?”

“I went to one of those fancy, fascist boarding schools too,” she answered cryptically and then hurried on. “In Camden’s last chapter he described how Blake’s character wanted to be in control of his own future. Remember how angry he was? At the end of the scene, he stared at the broken glass like he was planning to do something violent.”

Laurel nodded. “That’s true! He also said, ‘Time to take control.’ ”

“The line implies Blake is ready to get out from under his father’s thumb,” Olivia pointed out. “Perhaps he wants to break away from both parents, as it seems his mother was incapable of providing much in the way of parenting. He may be just as bitter at her for being negligent. And you’re right, Millay. If we can believe Camden’s interpretation, these children are all very angry.”

“So how would murdering a gossip writer grant them revenge against a controlling father and a neglectful mom?” Harris wondered aloud. “Could they even have known Camden was working on this book?”

Setting a copy of US magazine on top of the dress-up chest, Laurel pointed at a photograph on the bottom left of the cover. “I don’t know about the rest of the Talbots, but the oldest son, Julian, isn’t a threat to anybody but himself. Here he is being escorted into a drug-treatment center by his ... entourage.” She seemed pleased by her word choice.

Olivia craned forward. The image provided a close-up of the profile of an ashen-faced young man wearing mirrored sunglasses and a black baseball hat.

“I read the whole article,” Laurel gushed excitedly. “No official comment from the Talbot camp, but Mrs. Talbot came to visit Julian soon after he was admitted. According to this writer, the two have grown close over the last few years.”

“I can’t believe she’s still married to that cheating scumbag, Dean. I would have hooked his favorite appendage up to a pair of jumper cables by now,” Millay growled. “Must be no prenup.”

Harris picked up the magazine and flipped through the pages until he found the short article proclaiming Julian Talbot’s humiliation. “He tried to follow in his father’s footsteps, but it looks like he couldn’t handle the pressures of Wall Street. Cocaine addiction, outrageous debt, a few DUIs—this guy’s in trouble.”

Olivia sighed and Haviland raised his head from where he’d been happily napping behind a blue beanbag. “Millay, did you learn anything significant at work last night?”

Millay began picking at her cuticles. “Fish Nets was buzzing, that’s for sure. I heard some of the narrow- minded crap I expected. Six or seven of our hillbilly homophobes were saying, ‘Now there’s one less fag in the world,’ but most of the people were rattled.” She kept her eyes fixed on her hands. “It takes a lot to shake these guys. They’ve all stared death in the eye out on the ocean, but this is a death they don’t recognize. This had nothing to do with storms or waves, but a straightedge and a poem. They don’t get it and neither do I!”

She glanced up at the kites as though wishing she could climb aboard one and float away, her eyes glistening.

“One of your patrons saw Camden, didn’t they?” Olivia asked softly. Millay’s shoulders stiffened. Olivia leaned forward and hardened her voice. “With whom, Millay?”

“Look, it might just have been the booze talking,” Millay spoke after a lengthy pause. Seeing that she was backed into a corner, she sighed and went on. “Davie Malone thought he saw Jethro Bragg talking to Camden outside the bar.”

Laurel squeaked. “Outside? As in ... in the alley?”

Millay nodded her head miserably. “Yeah. Camden never stepped foot inside Fish Nets. Davie saw Camden and him at the mouth of the alleyway. No one saw Camden after that. But Jethro’s not the killer. Trust me. He’s not the type to take a man down in an alley, let alone spray paint an obscure type of poetry on the wall.”

“I appreciate your loyalty to your, ah, clients, but Chief Rawlings will need to know this,” Olivia said, holding Millay’s gaze. Why does Jethro Bragg’s name sound familiar? she wondered. She was pretty sure she didn’t know the man. Millay met Olivia’s dark blue stare and shrugged. “I’ll tell the chief, but he won’t be able to do anything about it. Jethro goes away for days at a time to work over the clam beds, and his boat’s gone. His motor boat, that is. He lives on a houseboat—it’s docked right at the marina. I walked to the slip this morning to ask him if he’d spoken to Camden. Jethro’s not there.”

“How do you know he didn’t just zip out for a spell?” Laurel inquired innocently. “Steve takes out our whaler whenever he wants to blow off steam.”

Millay didn’t have a chance to respond because the puppet theater suddenly tumbled backward and two boys began to scream as though they’d fallen into a wasp nest.

Olivia expected Laurel to fly to their rescue in a fit of hysterics, but she calmly righted the wooden structure and dug the twins out from under a pile of endangered animal puppets. Gently laying several spider monkey puppets aside, Laurel pulled Dermot free from the plush mound and, after giving him a quick kiss, told him to sit on the yellow beanbag. Once Dallas had been extricated, hugged, and sent to the green beanbag, a peaceful silence descended upon the space.

“Nicely done, Mom,” Millay said with a grin and then became serious again. “And to answer your question, I know Jethro’s clamming because he always flies a flag from his houseboat when he’s away. It’s how he tells people he’s not home.”

“Flag?” Dallas piped up from his cushioned seat. He sounded as though he was speaking from the bottom of a sinkhole.

Millay walked over to the little boy’s side and squatted down beside him. Closing one eye tightly, she screwed up her mouth and growled, “Aye, matey. A pirate flag!”

The child’s eyes grew round with wonder. “I like pirates! They have booty!” he cried and everyone laughed.

Not a bad declaration, Olivia thought, smiling. For a troll.

“Sorry, but I’ve got to get the twins home for lunch,” Laurel said and began to cram cups, empty baggies, and a package of wipes into her diaper bag. She shouldered the bag and gave Olivia a questioning look. “What do we do now?”

“We continue with our writing, for starters,” Olivia answered with conviction. “Camden would have wanted that. Who’s next in line to be critiqued?”

Millay raised her hand and saluted. “Me.”

“It’ll be nice to read your work after what’s happened. We could all use a little fantasy right about now,”