A Killer Plot (2010)

Rawlings glanced at his watch. “I shouldn’t keep you. I know you have dinner plans.” He pushed his empty glass away but made no move to stand. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you, but it never seemed to be the right time.”

Olivia’s heart drummed. Was the chief going to make a romantic overture? Or inquire about her painful past? She wrapped her long, elegant fingers around her tumbler and nodded in encouragement.

“I value your opinion, Olivia, and before I made a fool of myself in front of your writer friends I wanted to see whether your critique group would welcome another member.” He cleared his throat. “Meaning me, of course.”

This was hardly the question Olivia had expected. Relieved, she let forth a rare giggle. “But we’re the Bayside Book Writers, Chief, ah, Sawyer. Don’t you write poetry?”

The chief’s cheeks flushed slightly. “I read many genres, including poetry, but I started penning a mystery a few years ago and I’d love to bring it out of the drawer and see what the group thinks of the first few chapters.”

Olivia believed Rawlings would make an excellent addition to their group. After all, with Camden gone, Harris was the only remaining male. Besides, Olivia was particularly fond of the mystery genre. She didn’t enjoy them as much as historical fiction, but they ranked a close second. “I don’t see why not,” she replied. “I’ll run it by them prior to this Saturday’s meeting.”

“Good.” Rawlings stood up and gave her a little bow. “Of course, if I am invited to join, I’d prefer to be there as a civilian. Just another struggling writer type. I won’t even bring a gun.”

“That’s fine.” Olivia smiled. “If the need arises, you can borrow mine.”

Chapter 11

It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy;—it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insuffecient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.

—JANE AUSTEN

Two days later, Jethro Bragg was still being held in a county cell. The townsfolk vacillated between quietly believing in the local man’s guilt and complaining vociferously that the police had arrested Jethro in an act of discrimination against fishermen.

“The cops always point the finger at one of us when somethin’s wrong!” Olivia heard a fisherman call to another at the Exxon station.

The second man shook his head in disgust. “Whoever killed that queer was a yellow belly. He weren’t one of us. We go at it face-to-face-look our enemy in the eye when we take him down. It ain’t our way to creep up on a man like that.”

Olivia considered this exchange. The fishermen were right. The killer must have wanted to surprise Camden, to rob him of his life with stealth and quickness. Yet there was an element of cowardice to the murder that wasn’t in sync with Jethro Bragg’s character. She’d seen him at the meeting. He’d spoken his piece against the new development and wore his heart on his sleeve while doing so. He was a former soldier and proud of his heritage— hardly the type of man to attack an unarmed stranger in the dark.

“No, the real killer wanted to remain anonymous to his victim, yet he wanted to get public attention by writing the poem,” she mused as she filled the Rover’s tank. “A person of contradictions.” Inside the car, she turned to Haviland. “Is Jethro Bragg that complex? I don’t think so. They’ve got the wrong man, Captain.”

Haviland stuck his head out the window and watched the fishermen drive off in nearly identical Ford pickups. He let loose several short barks, a sign of agreement.

Olivia was just offering Haviland an organic dog treat when her phone rang. It was Cosmo.

“I can’t stay here another day!” he exclaimed into the phone.

“What’s happened?” Olivia shoved the treat bag inside the center console.

“Nothing! Nothing besides the fact that my best friend in the world is dead and gone! Gone!” he shouted. Olivia could hear a dry sob through the phone. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just starting to sink in. I woke up in a strange bed with the sun pouring in through the windows and the sound of birds twittering outside and I . . . can’t . . . stand . . . it another second! I need car horns and smog, people speaking Spanish, and my own pillows. I want to go home!” He exhaled loudly. “There. I’ve said it. I feel like the biggest heel, but I want to go home now.”

Olivia understood. She couldn’t imagine two places more opposite in nature than the city of Los Angeles and the town of Oyster Bay. “Of course you do. There’s nothing wrong with your wanting to leave this place. Go home if you want to. It doesn’t mean you loved Camden any less if you do. How can I help?”

“You are an angel.” Cosmo began to cry. “I want to take Cam with me, so I’ve decided to have him cremated. I just can’t leave him here, Olivia. I can see letting him drift away on a wave in the Pacific, someplace nice like Carmel or Malibu, but not in this ocean! This isn’t his home either.”

“Has the chief released Camden’s body?” Olivia inquired gently.

Another sniff. “I met with Rawlings first thing this morning. They checked him ... his body over carefully, but there were no clues. Apparently the monster who killed him wore gloves and a mask. There are no fibers or fingerprints or any of that stuff you see on those TV crime shows.” His voice broke. “Poor Cam must have been so scared to see that creature rise out of the dark. What was he doing in that alley? Stupid, darling Cam! Look what you’ve done to us!”

Olivia could hear Cosmo banging on something. “Cosmo!” she shouted, reeling him back into their conversation. “What about the killer’s handwriting? Is it being analyzed?”

After a pause, Cosmo answered. “Yes. Photos were sent to some state lab. It’ll take weeks. At least that’s what Rawlings told me.”

Unable to think of what other information the chief might have volunteered to Cosmo, Olivia said, “Would you like me to help with the arrangements? I know Annie took you to the funeral home, but do you need someone to stand beside you during the cremation?” She hoped he’d refuse her offer. She couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do less than bear witness to Camden’s funeral pyre.

Cosmo didn’t answer immediately.

“I need to do this by myself,” he finally declared. “It’s not that I don’t want you there, it’s just that this act is the last thing I have of him that’s all mine. And then I’m booking a flight out of here. I know that sounds cold, but they have a man in custody and I can’t do anything else for Cam. I wanted to take in everything about this town because it’s where I lost him, but now I’ve seen it and I’m ready to go.”

“I understand. In fact, I’ll drive you to the airport.” She hesitated. “And know that I won’t forget about Camden or his case, Cosmo. I promise you that.”

“I know.” His voice grew stronger. “That’s why I feel free to leave.”

Cosmo departed later that same day. He tearfully hugged Annie good-bye and kissed Roy on the cheek after the older man had loaded Cosmo’s garment bag and newly purchased souvenir duffel bag into Olivia’s car. Atlas was on his knees spreading pine straw in one of the perennial beds, but he put down his tools and stood up in order to properly wave good-bye as the Rover drove away from the inn.

Opening his window, Cosmo yelled, “Go get ’em, tiger!”

Olivia watched Atlas’s figure recede in her rearview mirror. “What was that about?”

“He’s interviewing with Talbot Properties today. Roy’s been keeping him plenty busy, but Atlas would rather work building new houses.” Although Cosmo looked washed out and weary, he managed a thin smile. “With all those shirt-less men in tight jeans, who wouldn’t?” He patted the top of the cardboard box containing Camden’s ashes. “Remember those two who redid our bathroom, darling? Simply gorgeous! Beautiful, strapping Italians in