A Killer Plot (2010) bbtbm-1

by Ellery Adams

  Harris nodded. “Something I’d be happy to take home. Every winner gets a gift certificate from Through the Wardrobe and a special hot chocolate mug with their name and the date printed on it in gold font.”

  Whistling, Millay stood on her tiptoes in order to spot their friend at the front of the procession. “Laurel would love that gift certificate, though her kids might need gold-emblazoned sippie cups.”

  “And low-sugar, organic, lukewarm chocolate,” Olivia added lightly.

  The friends laughed. As high school seniors drove by in decorated convertibles, jacked-up Wranglers, and pickups with oversized wheels, the majority of their passengers somewhat inebriated, Millay shot furtive glances at Harris.

  “What’s different about you?” she demanded, finally examining him outright.

  Harris didn’t appear to have heard her question. His focus, and the focus of every male spectator, had been captured by a blue convertible VW Beetle painted with silver stars being driven by a cute blonde wearing a red and white polka-dot bikini and a cowboy hat. The national anthem blared from her radio and her golden retriever, who was also dressed in a doggie cowboy hat, was perched on the passenger seat. He and Haviland exchanged friendly barks.

  Millay put a hand on each of Harris’s cheeks and swiveled his face away from the blonde. “She’s jail bait, buddy.”

  Harris smiled at her and then, after the slightest hesitation, put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Jealous, are you?”

  Snorting, Millay turned her attention back to the parade while Harris and Olivia exchanged winks over her head. After three laser treatments, the skin on Harris’s face had improved dramatically. Olivia already noticed a change in her friend’s demeanor too. He stood a little taller and didn’t look away so quickly during conversations. All of the women working at the spa in New Bern were smitten with him, but Olivia knew Harris had eyes for only Millay.

  After a lunch of pulled pork sandwiches, corn on the cob, and watermelon, the four writers gathered on the lawn outside the courthouse to hear the winners announced. Laurel removed two blankets from her stroller, and after unfolding one decorated with racing cars for her sons, she introduced her friends to her husband and in-laws. Her husband, Steve, offered to watch the boys so that Laurel could enjoy a peaceful lunch alongside her fellow writers.

  “Thanks, honey. But the boys have something to say to Ms. Limoges first.” Laurel gave her sons a gentle prod in Olivia’s direction.

  “Thank you for our books!” they shouted in unison and then launched themselves into her arms.

  Olivia, who hadn’t expected the embrace, was nearly flattened, but suddenly, a strong hand pressed against her back, steadying her. She managed to give the twins a brief pat before releasing them, only to look down and see that her white cotton shirt was now covered with black mascara and that Flynn McNulty was silently laughing behind her.

  “Are you truly planning to serve the youth of Oyster Bay homebrewed hot chocolate?” Olivia inquired saucily. “Do you also intend on keeping a spittoon nearby?”

  Grinning, Flynn squatted next to her. The sun filtered through the magnolia trees and turned his gray eyes a soft pewter hue. He tried to keep a straight face as Olivia mopped at the black smudges on the front of her shirt with one of Laurel’s wet wipes. “I think you’re making it worse,” he remarked. “Now it looks like you just finished changing the oil of your Range Rover. Would you care for some help?”

  “No!” Olivia exclaimed before she realized he’d been teasing her.

  Flynn glanced out over the crowd. His entire being radiated pleasure as though he were utterly content to simply be among the townsfolk.

  Perhaps he’s found a place to claim as his own and in turn, the place has claimed him, Olivia thought and followed his gaze. Two children ran by with a cheap kite, laughing as the plastic ladybug flopped to the ground alongside an older couple. Everywhere, people were talking and laughing. Oyster Bay was healing.

  “And to answer your question,” Flynn said after they’d sat in silence for a spell, “the hot chocolate will be store-bought. What exactly do you have against my coffee anyway?”

  “It’s weak,” she answered honestly. “Your Wardrobe Blend calls to mind the miso soup one often receives as an appetizer at select Japanese hibachi restaurants.”

  “Ah, the infamous dishwater soup!” Flynn laughed. “Well, I can’t be associated with the word ‘weak.’ Why don’t you come into the shop and show me how to make coffee correctly.”

  Olivia grinned. “I think that’s a fine idea. I’ll even introduce you to my favorite brand of Kona bean.”

  “I look forward to it.” Flynn straightened. “But now, it is time for the award ceremony. I must bestow gift certificates on Oyster Bay’s impressionable youth.”

  Laurel watched him weave his way around the other picnickers toward the makeshift stage. “I think he’s sweet on you,” she teased and then clasped her hands over her chest. “Oh, a handsome bookstore owner. Now, that man is a catch. He could serve me weak coffee anytime!”

  As it turned out, Laurel would have plenty of opportunities to sample the bookstore blend as she and the twins won first prize for the Best Decorated Stroller category. Laurel ran to the podium to claim her gift certificate while Dallas and Dermot shouted, “Go, Mommy!” over the applause. While Laurel accepted kisses of congratulations from her proud husband and beaming in-laws, Olivia and Haviland left the park. They had things to see to before the evening’s meeting.

  After stopping by The Boot Top to collect three bottles of dry champagne, a platter of strawberries dipped in white chocolate, and a few wedges of gourmet cheese, Olivia headed home. She’d finished revising the first chapter of her novel a week ago and had emailed a copy to the other writers. The edits had not only given her leave to think about something besides the murders, but the work had reaffirmed Olivia’s belief that Kamila was a character worth developing.

  That was a week ago, however. Now as she put the champagne and food in the cottage refrigerator, doubts wriggled their way into Olivia’s mind, whispering that her chapter was far inferior to those presented by the rest of the group. Fearing that her Egyptian heroine was two-dimensional and uninteresting, Olivia flipped through her copy of chapter one and began to read a portion of the text out loud as Haviland stretched out on the floor for his afternoon nap.

  “After the death of her parents, Kamila was taken from the only home she’d ever known to the stately house of her uncle. HerauntNebit, whose name meant ‘leopard,’ was displeased to be burdened with another mouth to feed. With four daughters of her own and none half as lovely as twelve-year-old Kamila, the sight of her dead brother’s child turned her heart bitter.

  “Kamila was given a small room off the kitchen in which to sleep. The room did not befit her station as the niece of a wealthy and influential man, and as the days and weeks went by, Kamila found herself performing tasks more suited to a slave than that of a beloved relative. Knowing the girl was powerless to protest, Aunt Nebit demanded that Kamila draw baths for her four daughters, comb, plait, and oil their wigs, and serve wine to the family’s guests.

  “On one such occasion, when her aunt and uncle were entertaining a most distinguished visitor, the Sandal Bearer of Ramses the Second, the Living God, Kamila was ordered to keep the esteemed member of the royal household’s goblet full at all times.

  “However, this tall, slim man with dark eyes and easy smile caught her by the wrist when she attempted to refill his glass for the third time.

  “‘No more, child. I like to keep my wits about me, even when visiting friends.’ He winked at her and she relaxed, withdrawing to stand behind his cushion should he require anything else from her.

  “Kamila’s aunt and uncle flattered and plied their guest with plate after plate of choice meats, sweet cakes, and honeyed figs, but he was content to merely sample each dish and clearly did not overindulge in the manner of his hosts.

  “‘What I would like
is to see this little beauty dance,’ the visitor said with a gentle smile in Kamila’s direction.

  “Nebit clapped her hands and two of her daughters appeared with lutes. ‘My girls are skilled musicians. Nanu and Shebi, delight the ears of our honored guest while Kamila attempts to dance for him. Forgive us, she is not our daughter but our niece and we do not know if she possesses any skill as a dancer.’

  “Kamila swallowed. At one time, she was considered a gifted dancer, but she had not practiced for many months and her body had become stiff and sore from all the labors her aunt had imposed upon her. Still, she feared that if she did not quickly obey, her chores would increase in severity.

  “Closing her eyes, she allowed the slow and seductive music to wash over her. She swayed deliberately, unfurling her arms as though she were a blooming flower. She stretched her lithe body until it appeared as though she must break, pointing her toes as she twirled on one leg and then the other. Jealous of the enraptured look upon their visitor’s face, Nanu and Shebi abruptly ended their song, leaving Kamila standing in a trancelike state in the middle of the floor. The sisters giggled wickedly behind their palms.

  “When Kamila dared to glance over at her aunt and uncle, she saw that they were paying no attention to her. Her uncle and his guest were whispering back and forth while Aunt Nebit tried to control the look of avarice in her eyes. When the older woman gave Kamila a shrewd stare, the girl knew she was the topic of conversation.

  “She was right, and by the end of the evening she became the property of the Sandal Bearer. He requested the use of her uncle’s sedan chair and bearers in order to carry her to the palace. ‘Your niece shall now serve wine to the Son of Light,’ he declared and whisked Kamila into the night.

  “On the short journey to the palace, the kind and gentle man told Kamila that he planned to present her as a gift to the Living God.

  “‘You should rejoice,’ he stated. ‘This is a great honor. You are to become Pharaoh’s concubine. ’”

  Olivia put down the pages and glanced at her sleeping dog. “That boring, eh?”

  A few hours later, the Bayside Book Writers reconvened in the lighthouse keeper’s cottage. Once the three regular members arrived, followed closely by a delighted Chief Rawlings, Olivia opened a bottle of chilled champagne and poured the contents into crystal flutes.

  “To Camden,” she said solemnly and raised her glass. After each of the writers touched rims, Olivia made a second toast. “And to Sawyer Rawlings, our newest member.”

  Rawlings dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I am honored to be counted among this fine group.”

  After helping themselves to chocolate-covered strawberries and a selection of crackers and gourmet cheeses, the writers settled on the sofa or in club chairs and laid out their marked copies of Olivia’s work in progress.

  Harris began the critique by praising the accurate feel of the setting. He then admitted that he felt there needed to be a more detailed physical description of each character.

  Laurel said that she had a strong sense of the minor characters, but wasn’t always clear as to what Kamila was feeling. “She’s really just a young girl! And I know things were different back then—that kids matured much sooner than they do in the modern world. I know they married and bore children at Kamila’s tender age, but she still seems too much of an old soul to me. Doesn’t she long for her own family? Isn’t she terribly lonely? Isn’t she scared to have such an uncertain future?” Laurel’s comments were filled with such passion that Olivia realized her heroine might indeed be lacking in emotion.

  When it was Rawlings’ turn to share his impression of the first chapter, he took a moment to review his notes. “Let me begin by saying that I feel invested in your character. I genuinely care what happens to Kamila and that means you’ve hooked me as a reader. I also thought you chose a strong line with which to end chapter one.”

  Harris lowered his voice in order to imitate the Royal Sandal Bearer. “ ‘You are to become Pharaoh’s concubine.’ ”

  “More like Pharaoh’s chattel,” Millay said with disgust. “Maybe that’s what your title should be.”

  Laurel tossed a pillow at Millay, nearly knocking the pages from her hands.

  Rawlings cleared his throat and smiled at Laurel. “If you don’t allow me to finish my critique I’ll have to cuff you.” She quickly sat on her hands and tried to look abashed. Olivia was amused by the effect a little champagne had on her friend. She turned her attention to Rawlings, slightly apprehensive over hearing the remainder of his commentary.

  “I share Laurel’s view regarding the reader’s inability to clearly sense Kamila’s feelings. There is too much distance between her and us,” he explained plainly. “Get us closer. If you do, we’ll be on the edge of our seats from chapter to chapter. If you don’t, we won’t be as engaged, and no matter what happens to this fascinating young girl, we won’t relate to her experience on any level. We can empathize over Kamila’s fear of the future, her grief over losing her parents, or her anger over being treated like an Egyptian Cinderella by her aunt if you let us.”

  Olivia nodded. “I hear what you’re saying. I’m not certain how to get those emotions across to the reader, but at least I know what needs to be improved. Thank you. This has been very valuable for me.”

  Laurel handed Harris an unopened bottle of champagne and signaled for him to do the honors. She squealed at the pop of the cork and then bustled about, topping off everyone’s glasses. As she poured for Rawlings, she said, “Um, Sawyer? Can I ask you something about the case? I know you’re off duty and all but since we’re done with Olivia’s chapter and we still have full glasses ...”

  Rawlings hesitated and Laurel took advantage of his silence. “There’s something I haven’t been able to figure out. How did Atlas Kraus make contact with Blake?”

  “When Mr. Kraus discovered that his daughter was dating Blake Talbot, he found a way to get a job on a Talbot Fine Properties construction site in another state. Max Warfield spent a few days overseeing that project’s progress and Atlas was able to offer his services as a hit man. Mr. Warfield had long been chafing at the bit and knew he could easily persuade Blake to finance the permanent removal of Dean Talbot. The two of them would then rule Talbot Fine Properties together.” Rawlings took a sip of champagne, the flute looking too delicate in his bearlike hand.

  Harris sat forward on the sofa, anxious to ask Rawlings a question of his own. “But if Dean was supposed to be the only victim, why did Atlas kill Camden?”

  “Mr. Kraus wanted to frame young Mr. Talbot for the murder,” Rawlings answered after a long moment of silence. “He lured Mr. Ford to that alley by offering an exchange of information for cash. For a few hundred dollars, he told Mr. Ford that he could prove that Dean Talbot’s youngest son and right-hand man were plotting to overthrow him. Mr. Kraus made this call from the library pay phone and the number showed up on Mr. Ford’s phone records.”

  “But why kill Camden?” Olivia interjected heatedly.

  “According to Mr. Kraus’s confession, Blake wrote the winter haiku, but it was meant for his father, not Mr. Ford. Atlas made up some elaborate lie about the gossip writer having insider information about their wicked plot and that he needed to be silenced. He told Blake to mail him additional funds and another poem for Dean. He didn’t have the chance to leave that haiku with the body because some teenagers arrived at the park to mess around in the gazebo. Atlas was at the top of the stairs and his victim at the bottom, so he had no choice but to flee.”

  The chief of police and the three writers fell mute; each of them picturing a broken body sprawled at the base of the deteriorating steps and a murderer racing into a copse of oak trees.

  Finally, Millay shifted in her seat and made a noise of exasperation. “What’s with the damned poems anyway? Was Blake going all Hamlet on his daddy or what? Why did he feel a burning desire to write a stupid haiku to leave on his father’s murdered corpse?”

 
“I read a rather revealing interview about young Mr. Talbot,” Rawlings said quietly. “He began writing poems as a small boy but hid them because his father ridiculed him for writing. He called him a fairy and a pansy and a loser. I believe Blake very much wanted to have the last word.”

  Rawlings and Olivia looked at each other. They could almost sense the scant lines of the four haiku lingering in the air around them. The poems had been brought to life for evil purposes and now they had gained a certain amount of power. Works of creativity transformed by the dark souls of their authors. The memory of the poems seemed a sharp contrast to the aspirations the Bayside Book Writers had for their own manuscripts.

  “Blake got what he wanted after Dean’s death, but Atlas’s goals hadn’t been satisfied,” Olivia said as she cut slices of aged Gouda and Brie and laid the cheese alongside a fan of thin crackers. “In the end, he intended to murder Blake.” She handed the plate to Rawlings.

  He picked up a cracker and held the food suspended in the air. “Yes. Mr. Kraus deemed the young Mr. Talbot an unworthy suitor and also as someone who was sure to interfere with his plans to renew a relationship with his daughter. He wanted to take charge of Heidi’s career. He feels she owes him for abandoning him and going to California with her mother.”

  “Oh, that’s rich! Why would she stay with an abusive lunatic? She would never have forgiven him. He beat her mother! He plotted to kill her boyfriend!” Millay scowled.

  Rawlings ignored the outburst. “Mr. Kraus also had to get rid of Mr. Warfield, being that he and Blake were confederates. Mr. Kraus couldn’t risk leaving Mr. Warfield alive. Mr. Warfield may have interfered with Mr. Kraus’s attempts to go after Blake Talbot.”

  “Why do you call that scumbag ‘Mr. Kraus’?” Millay was angry. “I can give you a few choice adjectives if you’ve run out.”

  The chief put his plate on the coffee table and clasped his hands together. “I do my best to treat everyone with respect. Mr. Kraus may be a criminal, a monster even, but it is not for me to judge him. I leave that weighty responsibility to others. He broke the law, so I arrested him. That’s my job and I try to perform it with courtesy.”