A Killer Plot (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

notebook, she circled Max Warfield’s name. “Do you benefit as well? Has Blake promised you a bigger slice of the pie?” Sighing, she tossed down her pen. “But all the obvious villains have alibis!” Her thoughts strayed to Flynn and to the image of him wielding the box cutter. “No, he can’t be involved. He has no motive.”
    She continued to debate a host of possibilities aloud until she felt frustrated and spent. Opening the French doors leading to the deck, she called for Haviland. A refreshing breeze sprang up from the ocean, and Olivia leaned against the railing, listening to the gentle rush of the waves onto the sand. Inhaling the salt-misted air calmed her thoughts, but eventually she grew impatient for bed.
    “Come on, Haviland!” Olivia called again.
    When another five minutes passed, Olivia shouted again, an edge of irritation entering her voice. She listened for Haviland’s responding bark, but the only sounds were the water’s whispers.
    Annoyed, Olivia grabbed a flashlight from the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink, stuck her feet into the well-worn sneakers reserved for morning walks, and stomped across the luminescent sand.
    “HAVILAND!” she bellowed.
    Slowly, her exasperation turned to concern. Haviland always reappeared within minutes of her first call. Even during daylight hours, when he was routinely distracted by gulls, crabs, and a host of interesting odors, he responded almost immediately to her commands.
    Heading toward the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, Olivia felt a tightness in her chest. Something was wrong.
    At the same moment she felt that sharp stab of fear, the beam of the flashlight sought out a darker patch of black in the shadow cast by the cottage.
    Olivia’s heart nearly stopped. She broke into a run, her legs moving with agonizing slowness over the sand. She dropped to her knees next to her dog.
    Haviland was lying on his side. He was utterly still and didn’t even flinch when Olivia put her hand on his chest, nearly crying in relief as it inflated, albeit shallowly, with oxygen.
    “What is it? What is it?” she demanded frantically, her fingers exploring his coat for signs of injury. There was no blood. None of his bones felt broken. Nothing indicated why he now lay unconscious in the dark. His collar was also missing.
    Having taking several courses on administering canine first aid, Olivia gently peeled open Haviland’s eye. She took in the glazed appearance as though from a great distance, and then parted the poodle’s lips and pulled his tongue free, allowing him to breathe with slightly more ease. It was at that moment she saw a flash of red sticking out beneath Haviland’s front paw.
    Stomach churning out of fright and anger, she pulled the piece of paper loose and held it under the light.
    “BACK OFF,” it read.
    Olivia dropped the note as though it had singed her skin and then shoved it into her back pocket before running as fast as she had ever run back to the house. She grabbed her purse and keys and sped down the hill, backing the Rover over the sand near the cottage until it was only a few feet away from Haviland. She opened the back and, heaving her dog into her arms, laid him down as carefully as she could. She checked once more for signs of breath and then covered his body with a blanket.
    She did nearly eighty into town, dialing the local vet’s number along the way.
    “Hello?” Diane Williamson, doctor of veterinary medicine, croaked. She’d clearly been asleep.
    Fighting to keep her voice calm, Olivia explained how she’d found Haviland and that she was on her way to Diane’s office. The vet, who lived in the carriage house behind the converted home where she practiced, reassured Olivia that she would be ready and waiting to receive her patient.
    “Thank you.” Olivia’s words came out like a dry sob.
    Barely pausing at red lights, Olivia passed slower drivers by crossing the double yellow line, swerved in front of meandering tourists, and even drove on the sidewalk to get around a double-parked convertible filled with teenagers.
    Diane was standing in the doorway when Olivia backed into the driveway. The two women lifted Haviland onto a dog gurney and whisked him up the ramp and into the first of two examination rooms.
    Olivia stroked Haviland’s head while Diane listened to his heart. She inspected his eyes and gums and then gently opened Haviland’s mouth wide and sniffed.
    “What’s the last thing he ate?” Diane