“Not quite. Roy never knew the specifics regarding Atlas’s familial strife and while his younger brother kept in contact over the years, their conversations were brief and sporadic. When Roy was thinking about purchasing a B&B, it was Atlas who steered him to purchasing a house in Oyster Bay. Atlas believed Heidi might visit here eventually, being that she’d had a crush on Blake since she first saw photos of him in some celebrity magazine. Atlas knew that Heidi had pictures of the boy all over her room and taped onto the covers of her schoolbooks.”
Olivia imagined Atlas inside his daughter’s bedroom, fingering her belongings, reading her diary, and inhaling her scent. The thought was repulsive. “Did he sneak into his ex-wife’s house to spy on Heidi as she grew up?”
“Several times,” Rawlings answered. “Even after Heidi was signed for that TV show, she admitted to members of the media that she couldn’t wait to meet Blake now that they traveled in similar circles. Atlas was irrationally jealous of Blake before Blake and Heidi even met and started dating. He wanted his daughter’s attention and resented how Heidi idolized and then, once they started dating, clearly loved Blake.”
Olivia frowned. She’d tried to work out how Atlas Kraus had approached Max Warfield or Blake Talbot as the two men came from remarkably different worlds than the blue-collar construction worker. “So who hired him as a hit man? Max or Blake?”
Rawlings hesitated. “Well, Mr. Kraus claims Blake was the puppet master in regards to the first two killings. Mr. Warfield and young Mr. Talbot wanted to take over Talbot Properties, but in order to do so, they needed to get rid of Dean. The two men hired Atlas to kill the real estate titan, but Atlas had his own agenda. He murdered Camden in hopes that Blake would be suspected of the crime. However, Atlas wasn’t aware of Blackwater’s unscheduled Vegas tour stop, providing our Mr. Talbot with an airtight alibi.” Rawlings paused. “Therefore, Atlas had to go along with the scheme to take Dean’s life, drawing Blake to Oyster Bay in time to attend the meeting at the town hall.”
“All of this to get his daughter to break up with an unsuitable boyfriend?” Olivia was astonished. She balled up her fists in anger. “Camden died because of a father’s crazed possessiveness? And Max died because he might have prevented Atlas from murdering Blake? What about the poems?”
“I took down the confession myself, Olivia. Atlas swears that young Mr. Talbot wrote the poems and sent them, along with other instructions, as text messages on a disposable cell phone. The phones were mailed in unmarked padded envelopes along with a wad of cash.” He placed the summer and autumn poems on the desk in front of her. “Of course these two were written by Atlas. He had grown accustomed to leaving them as a part of his tableau, so when he planned to kill Mr. Warfield and then Mr. Talbot, he wrote two poems in preparation for their deaths. The cycle of seasons would be complete and the threat of his daughter committing to an unsuitable young man would be over.”
“Atlas has confessed to all of this, but what about Blake?” Olivia inquired sharply. “That conniving little brat needs to spend a long time in jail.”
A disgruntled grumble emanated from Rawlings’ throat. “We found no evidence incriminating Mr. Talbot inside Atlas’s cottage at The Yellow Lady. It’s going to take us some time to acquire Mr. Talbot’s financial records and I can only hope that some serious amounts of money were withdrawn from his account close to the time of the murders.”
Olivia felt chilled. “So you can’t charge Blake with a crime?”
“I didn’t say that,” Rawlings chided. “And if Max Warfield was involved in the scheme, which, based on our listening in on his cell phone conversation at The Boot Top, I’d say he was, then he’s already received his sentence. That man has been judged by a higher court.”
The chief’s words seemed to fill up the room. An unnatural death created such complexities for their town, heretofore known only for its beauty and tranquility.
Now, reporters would invade the streets and shops. Tourists looking for sensationalism would fill any house, condo, or spare room for let at exorbitant rates. The police would be up to their elbows in paperwork. The lawyers would be circling like greedy gulls. Roy and Annie Kraus would lay low for months, unable to look their neighbors in the eye. Wherever they went, the couple would feel crushed by the weight of the knowledge that they were responsible for offering hospitality to a murderer and for unintentionally allowing him to take advantage of the people and the peaceful hamlet they’d grown to love.
“Oyster Bay will recover.” Rawlings spoke softly. He walked around his desk and took the chair next to Olivia’s. He didn’t take her hand, but placed his own on the arm of her chair. “And so will we. A good night’s sleep followed by a big breakfast, a solitary walk on the beach, a beautifully written book ...” He smiled at her. “Speaking of which, yours will be the next chapter we critique, will it not?”
Olivia’s cheeks grew warm. “In two weeks’ time, yes. We’ve decided to take this week off. Do you think you’ll be able to join us when we meet again?”
Now Rawlings did touch the back of her hand, but only for a moment. “You can count on me.”
Haviland woke from his nap and stretched his head toward the policeman, not wanting to miss the chance to be caressed. As the chief scratched the poodle under the chin, Olivia stood, slid her purse onto her shoulder, and returned Rawlings’ smile. “No matter what is said after the news of what’s happened here breaks, this town still counts on you, Chief.” She paused in the doorway. “And that includes me.”
Chapter 18
Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, theforget-me-nots of the angels.
—HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
T
wo weeks later, Olivia prepared for a meeting of the Bayside Book Writers. It was July fourth and there had been a parade in town earlier that day. For the first time since she was a child, Olivia and Haviland stood on the sidewalk and watched the spectacle.
Standing shoulder to shoulder with Harris and Millay, the three friends waved little American flags and cheered as the Best Decorated Stroller contestants kicked off the parade. When Laurel strode past, her jogging stroller transformed with the use of Hefty bags and reconstructed wicker baskets into Blackbeard’s pirate ship, the three writers hooted and hollered in delight.
Dallas and Dermot carried plastic cutlasses and growled “arrgghs” at the onlookers. Olivia had to laugh as she took note of their skull and crossbones bandanas, mascara-drawn goatees, and clip-on hoop earrings. Dressed as a pirate captive, Laurel hurled candy coins into the crowd. The gold foil wrapping of the chocolates winked in the sunlight, and for a moment, it seemed as though Laurel was tossing lit sparklers to the eager children lining the sidewalk. Her face aglow with pride, Laurel was by far the loveliest mother in the parade.
The strollers were followed by tricycles and Big Wheels and Haviland howled in discomfort as toddlers rang shrill bike bells while their boisterous parents tooted air horns. Older children pedaled on the heels of this group, impatient with the slow pace. Their ten-speeds were covered with red, white, and blue streamers, flags, balloons, and quotations on liberty by America’s forefathers. One boy was dressed in a full Uncle Sam uniform and was performing tricks on his mountain bike. When he pivoted in a circle using only one wheel, the crowd shouted in amazement.
“I’d say Sam is a shoe-in to win his category,” Harris remarked, looking boyishly exuberant.
Millay glanced after the performing child. “What do they get for a prize? Anything good?”
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.