A Killer Plot (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

assignment dull and pointless, as most of the children had been able to name the birds since they could talk. Unlike school, which at least had a playground, the park’s pluses were limited to walking paths (grass-pocked trails of sand) and a few picnic tables. There were no restrooms and the water fountain had been rusted beyond use. The benches were made of coarse wood that zealously dislodged splinters into their bare thighs, and the single gazebo had been covered by layers of excrement left by mischievous Canadian geese.
    “Not much has changed,” Olivia commented to Haviland before he lurched forward, dashing after a pair of startled mallards.
    Allowing the poodle his canine pursuits, Olivia took a cursory look at the closest plaque. The photo of the royal tern was too faded to appear regal any longer. Its orange beak was now a muted brown and the black tail feathers were a dull, watery gray. The font describing the bird’s habits and habitats was no longer legible. Here and there, a letter would show itself clearly, like a tiny fish rising to the surface of a pond to feed.
    Strolling past the gazebo, she noted the weathered structure had been used as a carving board. Names, initials, expletives, and symbols covered every inch of the tired wood, adding to the park’s atmosphere of neglect and disuse.
    Haviland rejoined her and together they mounted the steep flight of cracked cement steps leading up to the small cemetery. Midway in the climb, Olivia caught her toe on a fissure that nearly split one of the steps in two. Looking ahead, she noticed how the three steps nearest the top were swollen and split due to the pressure being forced upon them by the roots of a mature swamp chestnut.
    Olivia reached the top and was surprised by the realization that there was no handrail for the flight of stairs leading up to the graveyard. Approaching the cast-iron fence surrounding the space, she paused. Seven white headstones were lined up in two rows—one of four, one of three—beneath the shelter of another old chestnut tree. Grasping a fence finial in each hand, Olivia stared respectfully at the weathered stones.
    Unlike the rest of the park, the secluded little graveyard was carefully tended. The grass had been mowed, the fence had recently received a fresh coat of black paint, and when Olivia eventually pushed open the narrow gate, it swung inward on well-oiled hinges. There was a bronze plaque set in cement just inside the gate. The plaque read, “Lest We Forget. Our Boys Sacrificed All,” and was surrounded by a ring of miniature Dixie flags.
    Treading softly, Olivia approached the headstones. As Wheeler had said, the text carved into the surface had nearly been sanded smooth by wind and time, but three of the graves in the back row still proclaimed their occupant’s names.
    “James Greenhow, Henry Bragg, and Wallace White,” Olivia whispered. “Lest we forget.” Haviland sniffed at the graves and gave his mistress a quizzical look. “Why would Camden be curious about this place?” Haviland barked dismissively. “Good point, Captain. He was researching the Talbots, not the park. So why would the Talbots be interested in this place?” She gazed around and then inhaled sharply. “The park ! It must be thirty acres.” Her dark blue eyes swept over the deserted landscape. “Situated on the picturesque Neuse River. Minutes from town, minutes from the beach ... I can almost write the brochure. Of course! The Talbots want to buy this land!”
    Turning on her heel, Olivia closed the gate gently behind her and strode to the Range Rover. She dug her pocket-sized planner out of her purse and, after jotting down the names she’d read on the gravestones to research further later on, examined the notations on the calendar page. “The Planning Board meeting isn’t until the end of the month. If the town of Oyster Bay’s been approached about placing this parcel up for sale, it’ll be coming up for vote at the township committee meeting first. I wonder when that’s being held.”
    Her cell phone vibrated in the cup holder in her center console. Picking it up, she noted the missed call had come from Cosmo’s phone. She immediately returned his call.
    “I’m with the chief,” Cosmo informed her, sounding deflated. “He’s getting me a coffee and a glass of chocolate milk for himself. Can you believe that? What kind of cop drinks chocolate milk? Aren’t they supposed to be caffeine addicts by day and