A Killer Plot (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

peered over Cook’s shoulder. “How do we know it’s by the same person? Someone could be screwing with us.”
    Rawlings crossed his arms over his chest. “The poem is part of a sequence. First winter. Now spring. But what should cause us to view this poem as a possible piece of evidence is the word pushed. ”
    Cook held out the bagged poem as though it were a contagious virus. “Oh man,” he breathed. “The real estate guy from the park?”
    “Precisely. And this piece of information must stay between us, gentlemen,” the chief warned in a tone that demanded obedience. “Until we know more, we will still refer to Mr. Talbot’s death as an accident—whether you’re talking to the press, your mama, or your fishing buddies. Is that clear?”
    The officers faced their superior and said, “Yessir,” in solemn unison. Rawlings, satisfied with their response, began to issue calm, firm commands to his men. As he spoke, Olivia stared at the dozens of fingerprints being highlighted on the surface of the bulletin board’s glass case. Black smudges covered the entire area. Some of the prints overlapped, forming moths and spiky bat wings reminiscent of Rorschach’s inkblot images. As a sergeant applied a final sweep of black dust across the glass, he shook his head, the enormity of his task settling upon his shoulders.
    Rawlings placed a hand on his officer’s back. “One at a time, Marshall. One at a time.”
    Once his men had been dispersed, their ever-raucous radios crackling as they moved off, the chief sat down next to Olivia. He stared at the square of bulletin board cork from which the poem had been removed.
    Olivia opened her notebook. “The spring poem.” She traced the lines with her fingertips. “It fits the parameters of traditional haiku. While it’s not a given that the author of this poem killed Dean Talbot, there is no doubt in my mind that this person wrote the winter haiku.” She glanced around the square. Lawyers, clerks, local government officials, secretaries, tourists, and citizens walking dogs or pushing strollers meandered over the sidewalks or stopped to chat in the shade of one of the mammoth magnolias.
    Rawlings observed the environment as well. “Another public place. Someone must have seen him unless he tacked the poem under the glass in the middle of the night.”
    “Why not leave it with Dean’s body?” Olivia asked. “And isn’t that case locked?”
    “The lock is about as secure as a young girl’s diary. You could easily jimmy it with a penknife. In any case, it was unlocked.” He jerked a thumb toward the town hall building. “The officer I sent inside to begin questioning the employees has already reported back. According to one of the clerks, the last person to place a notice on the board forgot to lock it. Apparently, she forgets quite often.”
    Olivia stared at the poem again. “Harris was right. This killer is wily. Careful too.” She gripped the edges of the notebook until the cardboard collapsed beneath her fingers. “A monster dressed as a man.”
    The chief rose. “He’ll give something away. He has a goal and anything that threatens his goal enrages him enough to kill. I need to figure out what he wants and as much as I’d like to do that sitting on this bench, I must get back to the station. I am counting on your discretion. Good day, Ms. Limoges.”
    Releasing the notebook, Olivia watched Rawlings walk briskly across the grass. She felt sorry for the chief. He had limited manpower and resources and he was undoubtedly angry, frustrated, and embarrassed that he’d yet to discover the identity of the killer. Now Oyster Bay was overrun with reporters, and sooner or later, news of the second poem would leak out and Rawlings would feel the pressure to solve the murders tighten like a noose.
    Olivia pulled out her cell phone and explained what had happened to Harris. “We need to meet. Come to The Boot Top tonight. We can have privacy in the banquet room and order off the menu. It’s my treat.” She paused, listening to Harris’s question. “Yes, I’ll get in touch with Laurel and yes, I’d love for you to call Millay. And, yes, I’ll make sure we have plenty to drink.”
     
     
    After lunch, Olivia paid brief visits to her fellow members of the Planning Board. At The Yellow Lady, she found Roy perched on a steel ladder at the back of the house, cleaning out the gutters. Thrilled to have an excuse for a break, he listened to her suggestion