A Killer Plot (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

lightly. “I’ll feed you pizza.”
    Harris tried to keep his delighted smile under control. Olivia suspected even without the offer of pizza, an invitation to Millay’s home had him flying high. “Sure,” he answered with nonchalance. “I can swing by around six.”
    Grinning at her two friends, Laurel folded Millay’s pages in half and tucked them in her purse. “Speaking of names, what are we supposed to call the chief when he joins us? If he joins us, that is. I feel like I’m going to say Chief or Mr. Rawlings no matter what! I’m still calling our pediatrician Dr. Davis even though Steve and I have been to dinner with his wife and him a bunch of times!”
    “The chief’s first name is Sawyer,” Olivia replied as she rose to replenish her empty coffee cup. “I don’t know why he’s not here, as he seemed quite sincere about joining us. He even sent me an email saying he’d finished critiquing your chapter, Millay. My only guess is that he got tied up at work. Things aren’t exactly sleepy in Oyster Bay these days.”
    Her words immediately forced the writers into silence. Each of them recalled their last meeting in the cottage and how it had ended with the discovery of Camden’s death. Laurel hugged herself as though she was suddenly cold, Harris began to doodle again, and Millay’s expression turned mournful, making her seem incredibly young and fragile.
    Olivia walked over to the window and watched the surf curl onto the shore. The sun hung low in the sky—an amber disc surrounded by streaks of heron blue clouds and a dusky, lavender haze of humidity.
    It was nearly half past seven. Millay and Laurel both needed to leave, but neither woman seemed keen on ending the evening’s fellowship.
    The buzzing of Olivia’s cell phone suddenly became the center of attention. She had placed the gadget on the glass-topped coffee table and now, as it vibrated, it slid sideways across the slick surface, looking more animated than a rectangle made of mere metal and plastic. Lurching centimeter by centimeter toward the edge of the table, the shiny black device took on the persona of a robotic insect. Laurel swung her knees away from its approach, staring at it with distrust.
    “Are you going to answer that?” she asked Olivia.
    The chief’s number surfaced on the phone’s sulfur-hued screen. “It’s Rawlings,” Olivia stated flatly, but her stomach clenched. Her body seemed to sense that something ominous was approaching—that the writers’ peaceful time together was about to be invaded by unwelcome news.
    Gripping the phone, Olivia flicked it open. “We’ve been wondering what’s kept you, Chief,” she began with forced levity.
    Over a cacophony of background noise, Rawlings’ words burst through the receiver. “Dean Talbot is dead.”
    Of all the things the chief might have said, Olivia had expected this statement the least. The blunt delivery also surprised her. “Talbot? How?”
    Again the droning filled the space between them before he had a chance to answer. “Looks like he fell and broke his neck. I’m at the scene now.”
    Olivia turned away from the anxious glances of her fellow writers and focused on the rolling water outside the window. “Where?”
    A pause. “The Neuse River Park. At the foot of the stairs leading up to the graveyard.”
    Recalling the dilapidated steps, Olivia could envision how someone might snag the toe of a shoe on one of the deeper cracks or stumble forward on the uneven cement. Still, it was difficult to picture someone with Dean’s acuity falling to his death. The man was both athletic and agile, and it seemed too coincidental that he would meet his demise at the very place he planned to demolish. Besides, Olivia didn’t much believe in coincidence.
    “What was he doing there?” she asked, speaking as much to herself as to Rawlings.
    “My question exactly.” Rawlings’ tone was steely. “Specifically, I’d like to know why you appear in Mr. Talbot’s appointment book? He’s got the entire evening blocked off and the only thing written across the hours spanning from eight o’clock to midnight is your name.”
    Olivia stiffened. “There’s a simple explanation for that.”
    “When I’m done here, I’d like you to share it with me. Until then, stick close to the phone.” Rawlings hung up.
    Frowning, Olivia turned away from the window. “There’s been another death,” she told her friends, though it was obvious from the slack