A Killer Plot (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

time, place, and items to be discussed had to be posted for the public prior to the meeting. The notice had appeared in last week’s paper and could also be found on the library bulletin board and on the town’s website. Olivia easily found the link on the Gazette’s online site, opened the PDF file, and began to read.
    “The meeting is tonight, ” she murmured under her breath. “Here it is! Listen to this! ” she shouted, breaking Haviland’s trance. He leapt up and barked nervously. “Committeeman Johnson proposes a discussion followed by a vote to sell the Neuse River Community Park land to Talbot Fine Properties for a sum of eight and a half million dollars.”
    She leaned back in her chair, lacing and unlacing her fingers together as excitement and anxiety coursed through her blood. She could feel it rushing through her heart, surging through her extremities as she rose from her chair.
    “The Talbots want a bigger piece of Oyster Bay.” Taking Chief Rawlings’ card from her wallet, Olivia picked up the phone and began to dial his number. “The question is: How far will they go to get it?”

Chapter 9
     
    I will be the gladdest thing
Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
And not pick one.
    —EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
     
     
     
     
     
    T he smell accosted Olivia as soon as she stepped through the poppy red double doors of the Edward Thatch Middle School. Ammonia, sweat, and greasy food mingled with an animalistic odor of surging hormones. Like all large public buildings, the polished laminate floors still looked dingy beneath rows of dust-covered fluorescent ceiling lights. Without windows, the school’s central hallway could belong in any hospital, mental institution, or low-security correctional facility across the country. Only the self-congratulatory trophy cases and forcibly cheerful bulletin boards identified the corridor as being a part of a building dedicated to learning.
    Olivia followed the sound of murmuring voices, relieved to have left Haviland at home. Not only would his olfactory senses be overwhelmed but the impassioned arguments she expected to take place during the meeting would also cause her poodle far too much anxiety.
    Previous notices listed the township meetings as being held in Classroom 105, but as Olivia passed the room, she noticed the door was shut. A purple sign had been hung across the narrow window slit, announcing that the meeting had been moved to the auditorium.
    To Olivia, the word “auditorium” conjured an image of cushioned seats, velvet curtains, crystal chandeliers, and flashes of gilt. Having left Oyster Bay before middle school, she had never actually seen the Edward Thatch auditorium.
    “It’ll be just like Lincoln Center, I’m sure.” Olivia chuckled to herself. “Instead of amateur productions of The Wizard of Oz or Cheaper by the Dozen , the citizens of Oyster Bay are surely treated to stellar performances of Aida and Tosca. ”
    Turning down another locker-lined hallway, the murmur of conversation swelled. The meeting hadn’t started yet and townsfolk were standing in clusters outside the cavernous room, heads bent as they rapidly exchanged opinions. Words ricocheted off the sand-colored cement walls in a sharp staccato. Already Olivia could see tension in the furrowed brows and balled fists of those waiting just outside the propped auditorium doors.
    Suddenly, the clang of a bell blasted through the wall-mounted speakers, cutting through the clamor as the adults jumped to attention, their memories triggered by the sound. Though some of them hadn’t trod a public school hallway for nearly forty years, the local business owners, lawyers, Realtors, shrimpers, stay-at-home mothers, waitresses, builders, and barbers responded to the signal as if they were still clad in letter jackets and poodle skirts.
    The townsfolk chose seats quickly, arranging themselves by cliques just like the school’s current students. Despite the fact that she had always kept herself apart from such groups, Olivia couldn’t help herself from searching for a familiar, comfortable face. Therefore, she was delighted to feel a tug on her arm and to look down at the darkly tanned, heavily made-up face of Dixie Weaver.
    “Have they started yet?” Dixie licked her finger and scrubbed at a smudge on the top of her left roller skate. In addition to the milk white skates, Dixie wore boys’ tube socks, a plaid miniskirt, and a navy sailor top. Her feathered hair