A Killer Plot (29 page)

Flynn looked appalled. “Hey, now! This isn’t my taste. Those heinous fish came with the house, along with the atrocious paint colors. Come on, do you think
I’d
have a silver and purple bathroom?” He put his hand over his heart and groaned as though he’d been wounded. “My goal was to get the store straight before turning my attention to this place. Believe me, if those Little Nemos weren’t fastened on there with industrial strength wall anchors, they’d have been at the curb from day one.”

He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “I’ve got soda, beer, tap water, or milk that’s probably well on its way to becoming sour cream.”

“A beer’s fine for me,” Olivia answered, thinking wistfully of the unopened bottle of Chivas Regal she had at home. “And a bowl of water for Haviland, please.”

“Bowls are in the cabinet to the right of the sink.” Flynn placed the beer on the counter and removed a package wrapped in brown butcher paper from the meat drawer. He loaded two ears of corn, unhusked, and several types of sausages onto a platter. As he walked through the living room, he suddenly stopped.

“I can’t believe you thought I deliberately hung those fish. What
else
do you think I’m capable of, I wonder?”

There was a hint of displeasure in Flynn’s voice. Olivia tried to lighten the mood by saying, “I’m hoping you’ll enlighten me during our meal. Last time I was here, you told me about working for a pharmaceutical company in Research Triangle Park. Now tell me how you became a runner. My friend Laurel sees you pounding the pavement on a regular basis.”

Out on the flagstone patio, Flynn lit the grill and a pair of tiki torches mounted to the backs of lawn chairs. “I know Laurel. She’s the one with the cute twins.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how women run with those monster strollers. I can barely propel my own body forward.” He put the sausages on the grill. “Truthfully, I love running. Not to be faster or stronger or for any of those health reasons. I just like to lose myself for an hour or so.”

“I understand that feeling. Haviland and I do that every morning on our walks on the beach. But after you run, do you get to relax in the pages of one of your thousands of books?” Olivia inquired.

Flynn moved the food around with a pair of tongs. “I don’t get much read at the store. We have a steady stream of customers most days and believe it or not, I do have to restock and ring people up and—”

“Brew that odious coffee,” Olivia teased. “Laurel said she notices the same people exercising in the downtown area. Apparently, there’s an entire group of running addicts. Have you noticed that too?”

“Sure. People like schedules. Runners in particular. Me? I’m a morning runner. Can’t do it at night and I’d melt if I went out midday.” He shrugged. “I guess we’re a particular lot, kind of like the folks who love my odious coffee.” He swatted the air near her leg with the hot tongs.

“Did you happen to notice a guy posting a piece of bright red paper on the bulletin board outside the town hall this weekend?” She watched Flynn carefully for a reaction. There was none.

“Nope.” He shook his head. “But I can be pretty clueless about things when I’m in the zone and I’ve got my music turned up loud. Is he important? This guy?”

“I’d just like to know the guy’s name, that’s all,” Olivia answered cryptically and changed the subject.

As Flynn had no patio furniture other than flimsy lawn chairs, they ate on a blanket on the grass. Without the presence of an ocean breeze, the air felt especially cloying. It stuck to Olivia’s arms and neck, inviting a host of bugs to circulate around her head as they searched out the source of her jasmine and gardenia perfume. Haviland didn’t seem to notice the pests as he wolfed down a bratwurst and then gave Flynn his most poignantly imploring look.

“Forget it, Haviland. You’re having vegetables when we get home,” Olivia scolded.

“You can’t stay?” Flynn asked casually, his eyes betraying his desire.

Though part of her wanted to linger, Olivia was too unsettled by the discovery of the haiku and the realization that Camden’s killer had an agenda that possibly included more murders. On another night, she might have wanted comfort, to lose herself with Flynn, but tonight she wanted to go home. It was her goal to make a list of all of the facts and theories she’d accumulated about the murders and try to discern what the killer was after.

She wanted to think and after that, she wanted to sleep, wake up early, and think some more.

“I’m sorry, but with all these reporters in town, we’re swamped at The Boot Top. I need to be up early tomorrow to lend a hand,” she explained softy, doing her best to sound disappointed.

Together, she and Flynn carried their plates to his kitchen. Olivia rinsed while Flynn loaded the dishwasher. When he excused himself to use the bathroom before walking her to the car, Olivia meandered back into the living room. She noticed a white hardback with a pear on the cover sitting on a side table. Curious, she bent down and glanced at the title.

“Haiku Mind: 108 Poems to Cultivate Awareness and Open Your Heart
by Patricia Donegan,” Olivia read. She took a closer look at the page Flynn had marked with a Post-it note. It was a chapter beginning with what the author referred to as Allen Ginsberg’s death poem.

Olivia flipped through the book, scanning every haiku for the familiar lines of the winter and spring poems she had now memorized. When she heard the water rush through the pipes, she slid the book back onto the table and moved toward the front door.

Sensing her sudden discomfort, Haviland whined.

Flynn appeared and patted the poodle’s head. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting, my man.” He held the door open for Haviland and then took Olivia’s hand. “I really wish you didn’t have to go.”

Giving his hand a quick squeeze, Olivia plastered on a smile. “We’ll get together again soon.”

Outside, Flynn leaned his back against the Range Rover, preventing Olivia from getting inside. He reached out and slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her against him. His voice grew hoarse with hunger. “If I promise to feed those plastic fish to the equally unattractive colony of yard gnomes down the street, will you stay over next time?”

Laughing, Olivia kissed him lightly on the lips and disengaged from his grasp. “Maybe. Thank you for dinner. If being adept with a grill makes you more macho in your neighbor’s eyes, then you are one hundred percent pure Grade-A male.”

“Me Flynn Man!” Flynn stepped away from the car, beating on his chest like an ape. “Me get to interrogate you on our next date.” He shuffled, primatelike, around the other side of the Rover and opened the passenger door for Haviland.

“Be safe!” he called out before closing the door and jumping nimbly onto the sidewalk.

Olivia pulled away from the curb and glanced at Haviland. “I find those parting words a bit unsettling, don’t you?”

Haviland barked.

 

 

At home, Olivia kicked off her shoes and poured herself a generous splash of Chivas Regal. She let Haviland out for his nightly roam and sank onto the sofa with her notebook. She reviewed every detail she’d previously recorded about the deaths of Camden Ford and Dean Talbot.

Ripping out the pages containing copies of the two haiku, Olivia stared at the lines. She drained her drink and jiggled the melting ice against the walls of the tumbler. “Do you have a victim in mind for your summer poem?”

Olivia went into the kitchen for a refill and to treat herself to a few squares of dark chocolate. Chewing on the smooth, slightly bitter Belgian sweet, she paced around the spacious living room. “Bottom line: Blake Talbot has benefited from both deaths.” She spoke to her reflection in the large windows facing the ocean. “Camden no longer has the power to write anything negative about Blake and the death of Blake’s father makes him one of the wealthiest and most powerful young men in the country.”

Returning to her notebook, she circled Max Warfield’s name. “Do you benefit as well? Has Blake promised you a bigger slice of the pie?” Sighing, she tossed down her pen. “But all the obvious villains have alibis!” Her thoughts strayed to Flynn and to the image of him wielding the box cutter. “No, he can’t be involved. He has no motive.”

She continued to debate a host of possibilities aloud until she felt frustrated and spent. Opening the French doors leading to the deck, she called for Haviland. A refreshing breeze sprang up from the ocean, and Olivia leaned against the railing, listening to the gentle rush of the waves onto the sand. Inhaling the salt-misted air calmed her thoughts, but eventually she grew impatient for bed.

“Come on, Haviland!” Olivia called again.

When another five minutes passed, Olivia shouted again, an edge of irritation entering her voice. She listened for Haviland’s responding bark, but the only sounds were the water’s whispers.

Annoyed, Olivia grabbed a flashlight from the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink, stuck her feet into the well-worn sneakers reserved for morning walks, and stomped across the luminescent sand.

“HAVILAND!” she bellowed.

Slowly, her exasperation turned to concern. Haviland always reappeared within minutes of her first call. Even during daylight hours, when he was routinely distracted by gulls, crabs, and a host of interesting odors, he responded almost immediately to her commands.

Heading toward the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, Olivia felt a tightness in her chest. Something was wrong.

At the same moment she felt that sharp stab of fear, the beam of the flashlight sought out a darker patch of black in the shadow cast by the cottage.

Olivia’s heart nearly stopped. She broke into a run, her legs moving with agonizing slowness over the sand. She dropped to her knees next to her dog.

Haviland was lying on his side. He was utterly still and didn’t even flinch when Olivia put her hand on his chest, nearly crying in relief as it inflated, albeit shallowly, with oxygen.

“What is it? What is it?” she demanded frantically, her fingers exploring his coat for signs of injury. There was no blood. None of his bones felt broken. Nothing indicated why he now lay unconscious in the dark. His collar was also missing.

Having taking several courses on administering canine first aid, Olivia gently peeled open Haviland’s eye. She took in the glazed appearance as though from a great distance, and then parted the poodle’s lips and pulled his tongue free, allowing him to breathe with slightly more ease. It was at that moment she saw a flash of red sticking out beneath Haviland’s front paw.

Stomach churning out of fright and anger, she pulled the piece of paper loose and held it under the light.

“BACK OFF,” it read.

Olivia dropped the note as though it had singed her skin and then shoved it into her back pocket before running as fast as she had ever run back to the house. She grabbed her purse and keys and sped down the hill, backing the Rover over the sand near the cottage until it was only a few feet away from Haviland. She opened the back and, heaving her dog into her arms, laid him down as carefully as she could. She checked once more for signs of breath and then covered his body with a blanket.

She did nearly eighty into town, dialing the local vet’s number along the way.

“Hello?” Diane Williamson, doctor of veterinary medicine, croaked. She’d clearly been asleep.

Fighting to keep her voice calm, Olivia explained how she’d found Haviland and that she was on her way to Diane’s office. The vet, who lived in the carriage house behind the converted home where she practiced, reassured Olivia that she would be ready and waiting to receive her patient.

“Thank you.” Olivia’s words came out like a dry sob.

Barely pausing at red lights, Olivia passed slower drivers by crossing the double yellow line, swerved in front of meandering tourists, and even drove on the sidewalk to get around a double-parked convertible filled with teenagers.

Diane was standing in the doorway when Olivia backed into the driveway. The two women lifted Haviland onto a dog gurney and whisked him up the ramp and into the first of two examination rooms.

Olivia stroked Haviland’s head while Diane listened to his heart. She inspected his eyes and gums and then gently opened Haviland’s mouth wide and sniffed.

“What’s the last thing he ate?” Diane asked.

“A bratwurst,” Olivia answered shamefaced. She knew Diane disapproved of Haviland’s diet. “It wasn’t the sausage ... ?”

“No.” Diane straightened but left one hand on the poodle’s flank. “His mouth smells like ground beef.”

“Then someone else fed him that.” Olivia’s dark blue eyes blazed with a fierce anger. “Has Haviland ... ?” She could barely formulate the thought let alone speak it out loud. “Was he poisoned?”

Diane hesitated and then shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. There’s no swelling, unusual redness around the eyes, ears, or skin, and no blistering in the mouth. I believe he’s ingested some kind of sedative. Let me run a few tests to make sure.” She turned away from her patient for a moment and touched Olivia’s shoulder. “Trust me. He’s going to be fine.”

Olivia couldn’t see through the tears. “He’s got to be,” she whispered. “The Captain is ... half of my whole being.”

The vet didn’t respond. She’d already turned her attention back to the poodle. She didn’t waste time asking Olivia to wait outside either, knowing full well she’d refuse.

Exhausted, Olivia perched on the edge of the room’s only chair, watching every brisk and efficient move Diane made, but allowing the professional to work in silence. At some point, though she did not remember doing so, Olivia shut her eyes, leaned her head back against the wall, and fell into a light sleep.

Diane woke her with a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. “Haviland is stable. I ran a blood test and found that he did ingest sedatives. Too much for his body weight, but not enough to be fatal. He needs to rest for several hours, but he should make a full recovery and be his charming self in a day or so.”