A Killer Plot (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

better half is a recovering alcoholic, so he doesn’t come into the bar, but if I ratted on his wife, Missy would have known I’d opened my big mouth. I figured Jethro could provide his own alibi without me having to betray anyone.” She grabbed the bottle from Olivia’s hand. “Anyway, I told you Jethro didn’t do it. How about a little trust next time?”
    Stunned by the news, Olivia watched wordlessly as Millay filled her wineglass to the brim. “I admire you for being true to your word,” Olivia finally said. “But your decision allowed the police to waste time and energy.” Surprised to see Millay’s eyes grow moist, Olivia dropped the subject. What was done was done. She had to remember that Millay was young. She’d truly believed that her actions were noble. Olivia touched her briefly on the shoulder. “Jethro doesn’t seem to have known much peace in his life. I’m relieved he won’t have to spend any more time behind bars.”
    “It also means there are no suspects for Camden’s murder,” Harris pointed out. “Or Dean’s. It’s not like I wanted Jethro to be guilty, but knowing he’s innocent means the cops still don’t have any leads.”
    “We’d better be careful of tossing assumptions around so quickly,” Olivia said with more bite than she’d intended. “This second poem isn’t public knowledge, so let’s keep our thoughts between ourselves and try to come up with something helpful for the police, shall we?”
    The four writers studied the poem. Millay and Laurel took pens from their bags and began to make notes or scribble questions in the margins and on the bottom of the paper. Harris read the haiku several times and then wandered off to gaze out the large windows overlooking the harbor where dozens of mast lights winked and shimmered as moored boats swayed gently in the current.
    The sky was caught between day and night—peach and melon stripes were being chased away by periwinkle and cobalt blues. Harris lifted his eyes to look at the first stars of the evening, which had awakened and were burning through the lingering clouds.
    “What is the connection between Camden and Dean?” Harris spoke without turning. “Camden came here to gather dirt on Blake. Then he was killed. Dean came here to make sure his project would go through. Then he was killed and—”
    “And his shares of Talbot Properties go to Blake,” Olivia interjected.
    “But Blake wasn’t here!” Laurel protested. “Blake was long gone before Camden’s death. We saw that concert footage of him playing in Vegas, remember? And, if what I read in the paper is right, he left in the middle of his band’s tour and flew in yesterday. I guess his siblings are on their way, too.”
    Millay punched some buttons on her iPhone. “It’s true. Blackwater was in concert in Sin City on Saturday. Here’s a YouTube video of Blake testing out the mic before the performance. Look at the time it was filmed.”
    Olivia peered at the screen, a little awed by what Millay had been able to discover using a mobile phone. “The medical examiner thinks Dean was killed between three and four in the afternoon. Whoever pushed him has probably been in Oyster Bay since Camden’s murder.”
    “What about that Max Warfield? He seems sly enough to fit the profile.” Harris pointed at his untouched wine. “Do you have any of that Gaelic Ale? That stuff is really good.”
    “Max was shored up in his hotel room with a woman. That’s his alibi for Dean’s murder.” As Gabe was still in the kitchen, Olivia went behind the bar and popped the cap from one of Highland Brewing Company’s most popular products and removed a chilled pint glass from the small refrigerator under the bar. She served Harris his beer and the other writers watched as the foam bubbled near the rim of the glass without so much as a drip escaping.
    Laurel made a growling noise. “This is so frustrating! What Oyster Bay local would want to help Blake Talbot become even richer?”
    “A poor one,” Millay replied tersely.
    “We’re talking about slitting a man’s throat! It’s got to be about more than just money,” Laurel argued.
    Olivia stopped tapping the stem of her wineglass and studied her friend. “I think you’re on to something, Laurel. Money is a motivator, but I agree that the killer must benefit in another way from Blake’s advancement. There’s got to be something personal about these crimes. He’s not shooting them in some private