A Killer Plot (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

course, if I am invited to join, I’d prefer to be there as a civilian. Just another struggling writer type. I won’t even bring a gun.”
    “That’s fine.” Olivia smiled. “If the need arises, you can borrow mine.”

Chapter 11
     
    It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy;—it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insuffecient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.
    —JANE AUSTEN
     
     
     
     
     
    T wo days later, Jethro Bragg was still being held in a county cell. The townsfolk vacillated between quietly believing in the local man’s guilt and complaining vociferously that the police had arrested Jethro in an act of discrimination against fishermen.
    “The cops always point the finger at one of us when somethin’s wrong!” Olivia heard a fisherman call to another at the Exxon station.
    The second man shook his head in disgust. “Whoever killed that queer was a yellow belly. He weren’t one of us. We go at it face-to-face-look our enemy in the eye when we take him down. It ain’t our way to creep up on a man like that.”
    Olivia considered this exchange. The fishermen were right. The killer must have wanted to surprise Camden, to rob him of his life with stealth and quickness. Yet there was an element of cowardice to the murder that wasn’t in sync with Jethro Bragg’s character. She’d seen him at the meeting. He’d spoken his piece against the new development and wore his heart on his sleeve while doing so. He was a former soldier and proud of his heritage—hardly the type of man to attack an unarmed stranger in the dark.
    “No, the real killer wanted to remain anonymous to his victim, yet he wanted to get public attention by writing the poem,” she mused as she filled the Rover’s tank. “A person of contradictions.” Inside the car, she turned to Haviland. “Is Jethro Bragg that complex? I don’t think so. They’ve got the wrong man, Captain.”
    Haviland stuck his head out the window and watched the fishermen drive off in nearly identical Ford pickups. He let loose several short barks, a sign of agreement.
    Olivia was just offering Haviland an organic dog treat when her phone rang. It was Cosmo.
    “I can’t stay here another day!” he exclaimed into the phone.
    “What’s happened?” Olivia shoved the treat bag inside the center console.
    “Nothing! Nothing besides the fact that my best friend in the world is dead and gone! Gone!” he shouted. Olivia could hear a dry sob through the phone. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just starting to sink in. I woke up in a strange bed with the sun pouring in through the windows and the sound of birds twittering outside and I . . . can’t . . . stand . . . it another second! I need car horns and smog, people speaking Spanish, and my own pillows. I want to go home!” He exhaled loudly. “There. I’ve said it. I feel like the biggest heel, but I want to go home now.”
    Olivia understood. She couldn’t imagine two places more opposite in nature than the city of Los Angeles and the town of Oyster Bay. “Of course you do. There’s nothing wrong with your wanting to leave this place. Go home if you want to. It doesn’t mean you loved Camden any less if you do. How can I help?”
    “You are an angel.” Cosmo began to cry. “I want to take Cam with me, so I’ve decided to have him cremated. I just can’t leave him here, Olivia. I can see letting him drift away on a wave in the Pacific, someplace nice like Carmel or Malibu, but not in this ocean! This isn’t his home either.”
    “Has the chief released Camden’s body?” Olivia inquired gently.
    Another sniff. “I met with Rawlings first thing this morning. They checked him ... his body over carefully, but there were no clues. Apparently the monster who killed him wore gloves and a mask. There are no fibers or fingerprints or any of that stuff you see on those TV crime shows.” His voice broke. “Poor Cam must have been so scared to see that creature rise out of the dark. What was he doing in that alley? Stupid, darling Cam! Look what you’ve done to us!”
    Olivia could hear Cosmo banging on something. “Cosmo!” she shouted, reeling him back into their conversation. “What about the killer’s handwriting? Is it being analyzed?”
    After a pause, Cosmo answered. “Yes. Photos were sent to some state lab. It’ll take weeks . At least that’s what Rawlings told me.”
    Unable to think of