A Killer Plot (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

looking at his brother, and Atlas was studying Olivia, his dark gaze alert and unblinking. Of the three, he was the most composed. He leaned against the wall, pressing his wide shoulders onto the cool cement, his muscular arms folded over his chest.
    “Roy says that you’re one of the five people who’ll vote on this thing next week,” he said. “Must be pretty exciting to be so important.”
    “Like the mayor stated, Oyster Bay is certainly growing,” Olivia answered enigmatically. “Did you relocate from a similar town or are you a city man?”
    “I’ve lived in both,” Atlas replied with equal ambiguity.
    “And have you always been a fix-it man?” she asked, hoping to provoke more information from him.
    Roy’s brother remained unfazed. “Construction jobs, mostly. I go where the towns are experiencing a building boom like this one. I’ve moved around a lot.”
    Olivia didn’t like the picture the term “building boom” called to mind. She loved Oyster Bay the way it was. Sometimes the lack of amenities was an inconvenience, but the coinciding absence of traffic jams, monolithic superstores, and ugly office parks more than made up for the occasional long-distance errand.
    “Do you plan to work at The Yellow Lady and do construction jobs as well? That’ll be quite a full plate,” Olivia said.
    Atlas shrugged and looked away. “There aren’t any openings with the crew building the condos on the bluff, but I might be able to land a spot if this new development goes through. I plan to be the first guy in line when they hand out the job applications.” He turned back to her and smiled. “So keep me in mind when you vote, okay?”
    “Sure,” Olivia replied and bid the Kraus family good night.
    She passed the teacher’s lounge and noted a crack of light at the bottom of the closed door. Pausing, she heard the even bass of the chief’s voice followed by Jethro’s angry rumble. The words were unclear, however, so Olivia didn’t linger.
    Outside, she was met by a pleasant breeze. The humidity had receded, leaving in its wake a clear sky filled with crisp stars and a bright sickle moon. As Olivia drove beyond the town limits and later turned off the paved road onto the sandy track leading to her home, she noticed the bank of luminous clouds hanging just above the horizon.
    Their silver hue seemed especially celestial against the ebony sky. Upon reaching her house, Olivia opened the sliding door to the deck, released Haviland, and together the pair meandered through the dunes to the beach.
    For a long while, Olivia stared at the moon-illuminated clouds, thinking they looked like an ideal setting for a fairy tale castle, or the colossal abode of Jack in the Beanstalk’s giant, or perhaps the pristine, white-marbled temples of Olympian gods.
    “I met a man named Atlas tonight,” Olivia said to Haviland. “Either his parents shared a love of maps or they expected him to have enough strength to hold up the world. It’s some name.”
    Haviland barked and held his nose high, sniffing the air.
    Olivia had always adored Greek mythology and reread Bulfinch’s collection every two or three years. “Atlas was the son of a Titan, brother to Prometheus and Epimetheus,” she spoke to the night-darkened waves. “As punishment for joining in the war against the Olympians, he was condemned to bear the weight of the sky on his shoulders for all time. Because of his assignment, the Titans Earth and Sky would never again be able to meet. Never again would they embrace.”
    She glanced above the ridge of clouds to the star-sprinkled heavens.
    “What is Atlas Kraus’s burden, I wonder?”
    Olivia stood at the edge of the surf, reviewing the evening’s events. Would the next day see the resolution of Camden’s case? What might Jethro Bragg’s anger reveal? Why had he been talking to Camden? Why were Annie and Roy on edge? How would the Planning Board vote next week?
    “Let’s go in now, Haviland. We’ll come back bright and early tomorrow. Perhaps we’ll take out the Bounty Hunter and dig for treasures. For now, I just want sleep.”
     
     
    That night, she had the dream—the dream in which her mind returned to the last time she saw her father. These were not photograph-clear images, but flickered scenes stretched and bent and distorted by time.
    The dream walked a tightrope between memory and nightmare.
    Olivia was nine years old. There were her tan, skinny limbs, her favorite blue boat shoes with