A Killer Plot (35 page)

Heidi swiveled, saw the armed man in the doorway, and screamed. Atlas glanced at her, wounded by her reaction. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m not going to let this scumbag bring you down.” He then turned to face Blake again, but in the moment he’d broken eye contact with his target, two policemen had stepped in front of the civilian, creating a human shield.

“Back off!” Atlas gestured angrily with his gun, his lips curled into an animal-like snarl. “I’ll shoot through you to get to him. I swear I will.”

Olivia watched the muscles in his right arm constrict as he made to pull the trigger.

But Atlas never got the shot off, for as the threat was leaving his mouth and the tendons in his forearm were tightening, Rawlings was raising his nightstick into the air. In a swift, powerful stroke, the police chief brought it down on the killer’s head.

The
crack
echoed down the hall.

Do what we can, summer
will
have its flies
.

—RALPH WALDO EMERSON

 

 

 

 

O
livia hadn’t expected to dream.

At first, her sleep had been deep and untroubled, but as the dawn light crept over the ocean, strange and disjointed images stirred in the trenches of her psyche.

There were no policemen or exuberant preteens or members of her writer’s group filling the shadowy corridors
.
Haviland wasn’t at her flank. Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered weakly
.

“Haviland?” Olivia called out in a disembodied voice
.

She knew the killer was here. At the same doorway in which she’d seen Atlas Kraus standing hours earlier, she stopped and reached out a trembling hand to turn the knob
.

“That’s not your job,” Chief Rawlings murmured behind her. She turned, letting her hand fall to her side and surrendering her position. Rawlings opened the door, stepped into the yawning blackness, and was gone
.

Haviland came racing from around the corner of the building, a billow of fog following behind. Olivia embraced the poodle, then turned to witness Rawlings burst through the double doors of the hall with such force that the brass door pulls slapped against the bricks like a thunderclap. He shoved a handcuffed prisoner forward, shouting for the bystanders to make room
.

In the way of dreams, where logic and orderliness seldom exist, the town hall’s portico, which had been deserted a
moment
ago, was crammed with people. Dozens of cops, reporters, and stunned townsfolk formed a tight knot Rawlings had to push his prisoner through.

At that moment, the killer raised his head and looked out the window, his eyes finding hers
.

 

 

When she woke, the sun’s rays were already pounding down on the beach, erasing any evidence of last night’s storm but for some scattered branches and a fresh infusion of green into the parched dune grasses.

Olivia let Haviland out, leaving the sliding door to the deck open. Shuffling into the kitchen, she watched the coffeemaker as it gurgled and burped, sending the heavenly scent of Kona beans into the air.

Once her mug was filled, she walked onto the deck in her bathrobe. She let the steady rhythm of the surf restore order into her world, smiling as Haviland lunged at a small ghost crab near the waterline.

She wondered briefly if Rawlings had had any sleep at all.

Hoping to postpone a mental review of the previous evening for a little longer, Olivia went inside for a second cup of coffee and the pickle jar containing the recent metal detector finds. She poured the contents out onto the teak deck table, touching the shotgun shells and lining them up in a neat row. Glancing up momentarily to witness Haviland’s glee as he splashed through the shallows, she ran her fingers over the warm metal of the razor blade case, thinking that it wasn’t too long ago that she’d found the old case and made the acquaintance of Camden Ford.

The connection between the object and the man was startling.

Camden’s throat had been cut by a straight edge, like that of a razor blade
, she thought and grabbed the next object she’d dug up: the Indian Head penny dating to the Civil War.

“The Confederate cemetery. That’s where Dean Talbot broke his neck.”

Genuinely unsettled now, she reached for the New Hampshire quarter and was whisked back into the town hall meeting room, witnessing the look of shock and fright on Heidi St. Claire’s face as her eyes fell on the familiar but unwelcome face of Atlas Kraus.

“Her father,” Olivia murmured, tracing the coin’s engraving of the Old Man in the Mountain. It had been that fleeting glance, combined with the memories of Blake teasing Heidi for being from a farm state beginning with the letter
I
and Annie telling Dixie how Atlas had left a family behind in Iowa, that had allowed Olivia to identify the murderer.

Abandoning her treasures, Olivia walked down to the water’s edge. The sand singed the bottom of her feet but she was grateful to be reminded that she was no longer dreaming. Stepping into the surf, she wriggled her toes into the wet sand and sighed.

“You’ve always taken care of me,” she said softly, listening as the ocean acknowledged her remark by delivering a crest that tightened into curl and finished in a surge of bubbled foam. And then came another. And another. Blessed predictability.

Calling Haviland, Olivia meandered a little farther down the beach, keeping her feet in the moistened sand.

“Let’s have a Grumpy’s brunch,” she informed her fur-dampened canine. Haviland bounded back toward the house at the suggestion. “Wipe your paws!” Olivia reminded him.

Inside, she took a long, hot shower but spent little time on her appearance. Donning a breezy, chartreuse linen sundress and a pair of well-worn flip-flops, she ran a brush through her white blond hair and ran a stick of moisturizing gloss over her lips.

Grumpy’s was packed. Between the tourists eating a late breakfast, the locals enjoying an early lunch, and the exuberant members of the press, the only available seat was at the counter. To Olivia’s relief, it was a single stool at the end of the row and the person occupying the adjacent stool was her friend Harris.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” she teased as she picked up the familiar menu.

Harris blushed. “I went in really early, actually. Couldn’t sleep any more, so I figured I might as well work.” He studied her face. “Are you okay? I know you were really scared when Haviland went missing.”

Olivia did her best to look unperturbed by the memory. “Somehow, Atlas must have led him into one of the offices down the side hall and locked him in. In short, my brilliant dog was duped. For the second time, if one counts the drugged ground beef incident as well.”

Haviland sniffed and turned his head toward the front window.

“I think you’ve offended him,” Harris whispered solemnly.

“Nothing a rasher of bacon won’t cure.” Olivia waved at Dixie who had just emerged through the swinging kitchen door bearing plates loaded with cheeseburgers, meat loaf, sandwiches, and fried fish filets. She sighed. “The diner seems so unchanged, as though its occupants weren’t aware of the three murders committed in our town. If only it were as simple as ordering one’s next meal...”

Harris grinned ruefully. “I’m finding this chocolate milk shake very consoling.”

“But it’s not that easy,” Olivia continued as though her friend hadn’t spoken. “There will be statements to be taken and given, lawyers to engage, trials to drag on, and all the while, the insatiable hunger of the media.”

Olivia fell silent. For once, she didn’t know what she felt like eating. The idea of consuming eggs turned her stomach and the lunch platters were too gluttonous for her tastes. The salads were rather bland as Grumpy had a penchant for serving half a head of iceberg lettuce with a couple of cherry tomatoes and thick slices of yellow onions. Upon this leafy pile, he’d then scatter a dozen croutons and a sprinkle of bacon bits. Skipping the salad selections, Olivia tried to decide whether she wanted a fruit plate with cottage cheese or a tuna melt with a side of slaw.

Dixie appeared and plunked a glass of homemade limeade next to Olivia’s hand. “I know that look,” she said. “You don’t know what to order, do you? Don’t worry, sugar. Dixie will fix you right up. Haviland too.” She skated forward and took Haviland’s snout in her small, wide hands. “I saw you go after that bad man. You are the bravest dog in the entire state of North Carolina. I’m going to have Grumpy fry up a nice, rare steak for you. Pour a little gravy on it and serve it with a side of my finest tap water. How does that sound, my hero?”

Haviland barked, causing the heads of all the outsiders to swivel in his direction.

“He’s a workin’ dog!” Dixie called out by way of explanation. “It’s within his rights to be here, so don’t be makin’ any faces at him.” She touched Olivia’s back and stared down the journalists. “She’s got a whole list of disabilities, this one. So say a prayer for her and eat your food.”

Chastised, the curious diners dropped their eyes to their plates and instantly began to talk to one another about the weather. Olivia and Harris snickered as several exchanges about the heat wave circulated through the room as though the subject were being pushed around and around by the ceiling fans.

“Now I understand why you park in so many reserved spaces.” Harris grinned and took a slurp of his shake. He jabbed at an unyielding lump of ice cream with his straw. “So I’ve mentioned before that I write code for computer games, right?” The laughter had gone out of his voice. “Well, right now my team is busy creating the backgrounds for the game’s dungeon scenes. If I had been working on forest scenes or village scenes or anything else, I probably could have trudged along just fine. But this morning, as I sat at the keyboard designing damp stone walls, prison cells with chains, and skeletons piled up on the dirt floors and hanging from rusty manacles, I had to get out of the office.” He paused and touched his chin. “Suddenly, I just had to breathe some fresh air and have a chocolate milk shake.”

Olivia nodded. “How’s Millay?”

Shrugging, Harris flattened his crumpled napkin on the countertop. “It’s hard to tell. She acts so tough, but I think there’s a lot going on under the surface she doesn’t want to let people see. She found the last haiku, you know.”

This was news to Olivia. “Where?”

Harris seemed pleased to be the bearer of such an interesting bit of information. “Atlas must have dropped it in the meeting room. Millay thought she was just picking up some litter. She had already gathered up gum wrappers from those girls. I guess she has a thing against littering. Anyway, she picked up the paper and unfolded it and we both read the poem.”

“Do you remember the words?” Olivia asked doubtfully.

Setting his phone on the counter, Harris pressed a few buttons and three lines of text appeared in the display window. Olivia read them aloud.

“Autumn,” she murmured. “This poem comes closer to following the rules than the summer haiku. It’s interesting and rather disturbing that he wanted to improve as a poet.” Her eyes returned to the first few words. “I take it Blake Talbot is the rotten tree. Atlas planned to shoot him and watch as his body toppled over like a felled tree. Then Atlas’s daughter, the sapling, would receive more sunlight. No one would hold back her burgeoning rise to fame and fortune.”

“Somehow, I don’t think Heidi’s feeling too grateful at the moment,” Harris concluded as Dixie arrived with Olivia’s lunch. She placed a bowl of tomato soup and a plate containing a grilled cheese sandwich on the counter in front of Olivia. Whisking away the empty limeade tumbler, the intuitive proprietor set a steaming mug of hot tea next to Olivia’s hand.

“Wrap your fingers around that. You need some old-fashioned childhood food, ‘Livia. Never met a person on this earth who couldn’t start mendin’ after a bowl of soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.” Dixie tucked a feather of blond hair back under her silver headband and dusted a crumb from her Little Miss Chatterbox shirt.