A Killer Plot (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

restlessly in the backseat, having napped during most of the trip. “Slept off your dinner a bit, Captain?” Olivia teased.
    The poodle barked once in reply, his mouth smiling at her reflection in the rearview mirror.
    As they passed through town, Cosmo wrung his hands together. “Are we going to pass by the place ... ?”
    “Not tonight,” Olivia replied firmly. “You’re exhausted. It’s time for you to have a drink and go to bed.”
    “Yes. That sounds like the thing to do.” Cosmo exhaled. “You’re an angel, Olivia. Thank you.”
    Olivia couldn’t help it. She laughed aloud. “An angel? Now, that’s a first.”

Chapter 7
     
    He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone,
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.
     

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (HAMLET, ACT IV)
     
     
     
     
    A fter a night of troubled sleep, Olivia rose just as dawn was breaking over the water. A pale light seeped into the sky, followed by a washed-out sun. Already the summer haze was sitting on the land like an animal resting on heavy haunches. Only the ocean breeze kept Oyster Bay’s residents from being completely weighed down by humidity, though the northern tourists sweated so copiously that they often needed to change clothes twice before lunchtime.
    After breakfast, Olivia and Haviland took their customary walk on the beach. The poodle raced after gulls and sandpipers, did some cursory digging in clam holes, and frightened crabs into scuttling for cover in the white-bubbled foam feathering the shore. Haviland’s mouth hung open in a joyful smile and his bright eyes darted from the moist sand to the grass-speckled dunes to his mistress. Olivia smiled back at him, taking in deep breaths of ocean air. It had taken decades of travel and a dozen different addresses for her to realize there was nowhere else on earth she’d rather be than on the beach she ran across as a child.
    Once the pair had walked a little over a mile, Olivia climbed a small rise and settled on the sand. Hugging her knees against her chest, she sat still as a stone as the sun bathed her face.
    She thought of Camden and Cosmo and their life together in Los Angeles and wondered what it would be like when Cosmo returned home alone. She could almost see him passing through the clean, chic rooms of their apartment, picking up photographs, listlessly shifting throw pillows, opening and closing the refrigerator—anything to avoid the empty truth that his friend and lover would never enter the space again. Eventually, Cosmo would be confronted by the scent of his lover lingering on a bathroom towel or clinging to a silk shirt hanging in the closet and then the beautiful young man would crumple to the floor, a piece of cloth pressed against his face, as grief asserted itself with overwhelming power.
    “But he can’t really begin to mourn without closure,” Olivia murmured to herself. “Oyster Bay is a small town. Someone knows something about this death. I just need to ask the right people the right questions.” She brushed away the stirrings of melancholy as she shook loose sprinkles of sand from her gray yoga pants.
    Haviland trotted over and licked the side of her neck, gracing her with one of his rare, gentlemanlike kisses. She cupped his ears in her hands and pressed her face against his soft cheek. “Come on, darling. We’ve much work to do.”
    Their morning walks were always restorative, and by the time Olivia pulled the Range Rover in front of the cheerful yellow Victorian with the wraparound porch and the lavender front door, she felt as though she had an abundance of strength of will to share with Cosmo. The Yellow Lady was one of the most beautiful houses in Oyster Bay and Olivia felt there was no rival in the entire county for its wild and colorful gardens.
    Though it was nearly ten o’clock, Olivia half expected to learn that Cosmo was still asleep, so she’d come prepared with a James Michener novel and a plump nectarine in case she had to wait. But not only was Cosmo awake, he was showered, immaculately dressed in pressed khakis and a hot pink polo shirt, and dining heartily on the inn’s bountiful breakfast spread.
    Annie Kraus, co-owner of The Yellow Lady, hovered at his elbow. She placed a steaming cup of black coffee next to Cosmo’s plate and solicitously arranged a creamer of steamed milk and a porcelain sugar bowl adorned with silver sugar tongs within easy reach. After giving him a maternal pat on the shoulder,