A Killer Plot (2010)

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 pages. 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.”

Despite the seriousness of her errand, Olivia grinned upon reading this declaration. She pushed open the