A Killer Plot (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

blinked and pulled away. “Don’t lose it on me! There’s something written here! Look!” Millay flicked a lighter and tiptoed closer to the wall.
    Olivia watched as a weak circle of light illuminated three lines of text, written in glistening black spray paint. The two women read it to themselves.
    “What the hell is that?” Millay spluttered indignantly.
    “Haiku. A Japanese-style poem following a set of strict rules,” Olivia answered robotically and then, her mind regaining a sense of focus, sent Millay away to forestall the others from seeing Camden’s corpse and to call for help.
    Forcing her eyes on the glossy, spidery letters, Olivia tried to detach herself from the knowledge that the body of someone she liked and admired was slumped on the ground before her. As if Camden were still alive, she whispered to him, “Your murderer is a member of the literati.”
    She dug out a pen and a small notebook from her purse and copied down the poem. Even when heavy footfalls alerted her that she was no longer alone, her eyes—flickering with a bright anger—remained fixated on the words on the wall.
    His words are silenced‒
An orchard in winter, where
Apple seeds slumber
     

Chapter 5
     
    Dying is a very dull, dreary affair. And my advice to you is to have nothing whatever to do with it.
     

—W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM
     
     
     
     
    O livia felt a blanket being draped over her shoulders. It was made of coarse, gray wool and its semi-stale odor reminded her of the horse blankets she’d placed on the curved back of her favorite mare at boarding school.
    Clutching the rough fabric together at the base of her throat, she turned to meet the solemn stare of Chief Rawlings.
    “I understand you found Mr. Ford’s body. Do you feel up to answering a few questions, Ms. Limoges?”
    After a pause, Olivia nodded. “Yes.”
    The chief placed a strong hand on her upper arm and pivoted her, so that her line of sight fell away from the gossip writer’s sprawled form. His touch made her aware of the other people milling around the alley. It seemed that suddenly, like a colony of ants erupting from underground, uniformed men and women were everywhere. They were accompanied by bright lights and sharp noises—the cacophony of expressionless professionals doing their jobs in the midst of a scene that had rendered Olivia Limoges completely immobile in its awfulness.
    Camera flashes erupted like lightning, footsteps echoed in the tight space between the buildings, and a dozen voices spoke in low, urgent whispers as radio crackles from the hips of the policemen fired into the night air like gunshots from a small-caliber weapon.
    “Did you see anyone else here with Mr. Ford?” the chief asked her.
    “No, just him, the way he is now.” Olivia looked toward the end of the alley, where the lights from a police cruiser cast blue shadows into the narrow opening. “We only came down to the bar because he didn’t show up for our writer’s group meeting.” Her confident and straight-backed posture sagged by a fraction. It was subtle, just a marginal slump in the shoulders, but Chief Rawlings was the type of man to notice such a small detail.
    He studied her on the sly, but Olivia could sense his scrutiny and she shrunk a little further inside herself. She knew he was aware that this was not the first time someone had discovered her, all alone, in the middle of a frightening tableau. She had been found by a passing fishing trawler when her father disappeared, shivering in the bottom of a rowboat, and when they brought her back to Oyster Bay’s docks, half the town had been there to witness her pathetic disembarkation from the vessel. Her grandmother had been among those waiting onshore. After giving Olivia a cold, unpracticed embrace, she swept the orphan into her chauffeured Lincoln and drove right out of Oyster Bay.
    Olivia knew the chief had lived in Oyster Bay for most of his life, and for a moment, she wondered if he recognized her as the bedraggled, towheaded, and barefoot girl plucked from the fog. If so, he made no indication, his features creased in genuine concern. “Look here, Ms. Limoges. My boys and I are going to have our hands full questioning the bar patrons,” he remarked gently, his eyes sweeping over his industrious officers. “Why don’t you run on home and get yourself something warm to drink? Maybe a hot cup of spiked coffee or some brandy? I’ll send someone by to take your statement later.