Olivia tried to distract Cosmo from becoming morose. “Did you ask Chief Rawlings about the cell phone and the laptop?”
“No comment on the phone, but he’s letting me look at the laptop right now, but only because I promised to tell him if I saw any unusual files or emails,” Cosmo answered. “The emails are purely social and there are a few of mine on there I don’t want anyone to see!” He was clearly agitated over at the invasion of his privacy. “All of the Milano Cruise files are here and some facts on your darling little town. What you wanted me to look for is here too. Cam saved his manuscript under the name, ‘Book.’ How uncreative of him! I’m emailing it to you this second, and then I’ve got to go. I hear Rawlings down the hall and I don’t want him to catch me. Bye!”
The connection was severed.
“Well done, Cosmo,” Olivia said aloud, relieved that her work email address was printed on The Boot Top Bistro’s business card. Anxious to begin reading Camden’s manuscript immediately, she turned on the engine and backed out of the parking space. The speed of her reversal formed tornadoes of dust that briefly obscured her view out the windshield.
Chapter 8
The writer’s duty is to keep on writing.
—WILLLAM STYRON
Olivia forwarded the email containing Camden’s manuscript to the members of the Bayside Book Writers. She then opened all the windows in her spacious living room, switched on the overhead fans so they spun languidly overhead, and got comfortable on the sofa with half a tumbler full of Chivas Regal. She spent the evening carefully reading the dead writer’s work, only taking a break to eat a quick dinner of Michel’s famous sweet potato vichyssoise and a spoonful of chilled chicken salad mixed with grapes over a bed of chopped lettuce and tomatoes.
The moment she was finished reading, Olivia began to call her fellow writers in order to plan a lunch meeting for the following day. She phoned Laurel first, assuming the young mother would need to make babysitting arrangements, but Laurel insisted she’d have to bring her children along.
“Tomorrow’s Tuesday. Steve’ll be at work and I can’t hire a sitter unless we’re going out together for a date night,” she explained without embarrassment. “He’s a dentist but he just bought into a practice. I don’t understand it, but he says we really have to watch every penny. And the twins cost so much! The way they grow out of clothes and car seats—and they seem to eat all the time! I never thought having kids would be this expensive.”
Plans foiled, Olivia tried to think of a suitable location in which four adults could hold a serious conversation while a pair of demanding, hyperactive toddlers played in relative safety. She tried to picture them in the lighthouse keeper’s cottage but found the thought incredibly distasteful.
“There’s the playground at the beach,” Laurel suggested.
Olivia predicted that the screeches of dozens of children would repeatedly interrupt their concentration. “We couldn’t talk to one another effectively sitting on those benches because they all face the playground. We need to gather around some kind of table,” Olivia reasoned. “Not only that, but an outdoor meeting at noon in June might be a tad warm.”
“I don’t mind. I love the heat,” Laurel said.
Olivia was pleased to know that another Oyster Bay native loved the summer weather as much as she did. “I do as well, but Millay doesn’t seem overly fond of daylight and I think the UV rays would be too harsh on Harris’s skin.”
“You are so considerate,” Laurel gushed and then went tsk, tsk with her tongue. “Our Harris is such a handsome guy if you look beyond that rash, don’t you think? I wish there was a product to help clear up his face. I can only imagine the effect his condition has on his confidence.”
“He seems to possess a solid level of self-assurance,” Olivia remarked, but even as she spoke she scribbled a quick note to call the spa in New Bern the next morning.
Laurel made a noncommittal noise. “Only around us. He hasn’t had a date since his high school prom and I think his social life exists totally in cyberspace. Facebook and Twitter and places like that.”
Olivia’s glance wandered to her copy of Sunday’s Oyst er Bay Gazette. The local weekly, which went to print Saturday evening and was therefore mercifully free of any dramatic headlines regarding Camden’s death, featured a black-and-white photo and a front-page article about Flynn McNulty and Through the Wardrobe.
“Laurel!” Olivia tapped the photograph of Flynn leaning against one of his armoires, his arms crossed over his chest as he smiled warmly for the camera. “I know where we can meet. Do your sons enjoy books?”
Laurel laughed. “They like chewing on them and hitting each other with them. Does that count? Oh! I’ve heard about that new bookstore from my Mommy and Me group. With the dress-up stuff and the puppets, there’s a chance the twins might stay relatively calm.”
“I’ll bring a large bottle of ether just in case,” Olivia murmured, sending Laurel into peals of laughter.
The other members readily agreed to join them at the bookstore. Harris reminded Olivia that he only had an hour lunch break and then told her how he’d spent most of Sunday reading up on the Talbot family. Being savvier about Internet search protocol, he’d also been more successful than Olivia in retrieving background information on Blake Talbot. He hadn’t stopped with the youngest son, however, and was prepared to present biographic summaries on the entire family.
Olivia called Millay last, and though the younger woman complained she’d normally still be abed at noon, she seemed anxious to discuss Camden’s chapters.
“Will you have time to read them?” Olivia asked her. “Are you working tonight?”
“Yeah, I’m here now. You can only hear me because I’m in the supply closet looking for toilet paper. Totally glam, huh?” She snorted. “But Mondays are slow. Between my breaks and the lulls that’ll come when the guys get too riled up over some stupid NASCAR race to drink, I’ll get it done.” Millay sounded determined. “Even if I have to stay up until dawn, I’ll be ready to contribute. And I’m going to see what I can weasel out of my regulars during my shift too. They’ll talk to me, especially if I don’t water down their whiskey as much as I usually do.”
Olivia was impressed by Millay’s commitment. “That a girl,” she told the bartender. “And be careful.”
Millay blew air out through her lips. “Please. Those men would rather have sex with me than murder me and I don’t intend to let them do either. See you at noon and make sure there’s coffee. Lots of it.”
Recalling Flynn’s unpalatable brew, Olivia frowned. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring a thermos.”
“Then I’ll bring a flask,” Millay said and rang off, leaving Olivia to wonder if the young woman had been serious.
Camden had written nearly one hundred pages of the book he had entitled The Tarnished Titans. The writing was fluid and filled with vivid imagery, but Olivia found the lack of chronology confusing. Chapter one described the sheltered childhood of the “Talcott” siblings, and just when Olivia felt as though she was developing a sense of each of the five family member’s personas, Camden focused chapter two solely on Don Talcott.