A Killer Plot (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

firemen’s poles, slides, monkey bars, and a rock wall. A small building housed restrooms, a vending machine area, and three water fountains at different heights. Benches surrounded the mulched area, and the covered areas with picnic tables looked like old-fashioned bandstands with their striped roofs and wide-planked floors.
    The next image displayed a map of paved walking trails and dirt tracks reserved for mountain bike enthusiasts. The final slide featured a generous parking lot bordered by a white split-rail fence and landscaped flower beds. Upon entering the park, one would be greeted by a flowing fountain featuring a statue of a jumping dolphin.
    “We don’t have dolphins here, Mack!” one of the men called out.
    Max smiled. “Pretend it’s a blue heron then. I’ve seen them flying over the Ocean Vista condos.” He gestured to his underling and the lights were turned back on. “So there you have it, folks. A new park, nine million dollars added to the town budget, and an attractive community of homes for those looking to relocate to Oyster Bay. I can assure you that these are tasteful, quality homes built to blend in with the traditional style of the area. Thank you for considering this proposal.”
    There was an immediate explosion of excited chatter in the room. Mayor Guthrie resumed the podium and banged his gavel.
    “We’re going to vote on this proposal tonight, so if any members of the public would like to ask questions or voice your concerns, now’s the time. Please raise your hand and wait to be called on so everyone can be heard in an orderly fashion.”
    Dixie snorted. “In other words, we’d best behave ourselves or we’ll have to sit in detention.”
    A burly man wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt and dirty khaki shorts stood up. Without bothering to wait for the mayor to give him permission to speak, he shouted, “It’s a damned disgrace to move those graves! Those boys died fightin’ for this place. They bled for us. And now we’re gonna dig ‘em up like they’re some kind of weeds and stick ’em in the ground someplace else?” He turned to face the audience, his face dark with anger. “Don’t they deserve peace? My great-great granddaddy’s buried at that park. You’d best not touch a splinter of wood on his coffin or you’re gonna have to answer to me! ”
    Several people jumped to their feet and clapped loudly as the rest of the crowd tittered, wondering how the refined committee members would handle the man’s overt threat.
    “They’re having the time of their lives,” Dixie remarked with a fond smile. “A few rounds through the gossip mill and the story will have him draped in a Confederate flag and holding up a photograph of his great-great granddaddy.”
    “Or a gun,” Grumpy murmured in agreement.
    Olivia’s eyes were on the broad back of the man who had spoken. “Who is that?” she asked Dixie.
    “Jethro Bragg,” she answered readily. “Quiet type. Clam-kicker. He’s a war vet. Been in Iraq and Afghanistan. He had a house and a girlfriend when he got deployed, but lost them both while he was on tour overseas. She lives with an insurance salesman now.” Dixie sighed. “Jethro saw a lot of hard things when he was away—lost some of his friends to a car bomb. I can see why the idea of movin’ those soldiers troubles him.”
    Olivia knew the weight of loss and fought against feelings of sympathy for Jethro Bragg. After all, he’d been the last person to see Camden Ford alive. Olivia stared at the man and wondered if his eyes were haunted by more than loss. Perhaps something even darker lingered there, a shadow of horrible deeds. “Is he a fisherman?” she asked Dixie.
    “Nah, he’s one of those quiet types. Doesn’t like to work with a crew. He’s been a clam-kicker ever since the war. Before that, he was a land surveyor. He must still know folks in the field, since he came here tonight ready for a fight, so this whole thing was no surprise to him.”
    Her gaze still fixed on Jethro’s back, Olivia thought about the profession he’d chosen. Clam kicking was a method of netting clams by using the backwash from a motorboat propeller to force the clams to the surface. It was a lonely occupation. Jethro would only have to talk to another person when it came time to sell his catch.
    He’s a man who likes to be alone with his memories, she thought. Or worse. A man crippled by the past.
    As Earl Johnson made his way to Jethro’s side in order to