Olivia smiled. “Thank you for the chivalrous gesture, but the chief just wants to know why Dean Talbot planned to have dinner with me tonight. I don’t know what Talbot’s intentions were, but I agreed to break bread with him because I wanted to ferret out more information on Blake, the new housing development, or anything else that could be relevant to Camden’s death.”
“Won’t the chief be ticked off when you tell him you planned to investigate on your own?” Harris asked nervously.
“I’m not going to confess that latter bit to him,” Olivia admitted. “In any case, it makes sense that I’d be questioning Talbot about the development. After all, our Planning Board meets in three nights. Now go on with you. If you don’t hear from me tonight, call me tomorrow. There’s something unrelated to tonight’s incident that I’d like to discuss with you.”
Harris raised his eyebrows. “Sounds interesting.”
“That’s a good word for it,” Olivia said, and then wished Harris good night.
Less than a minute later, the chief’s figure detached itself from a shadow of trees toward her left. “I thought we could talk now,” she called as she moved forward to meet him, ignoring the threatening posture of the junior officer. She lowered her voice as Rawlings drew alongside. “I wanted to set your mind at ease about why my name was written in Mr. Talbot’s appointment book, and since our writer’s group meeting has ended, here I am.”
Rawlings tugged a flashlight from his utility belt and pointed it in the direction of the gazebo. “Let’s take a seat.”
As they walked, their footsteps were obscured by the noises of nighttime creatures. Frogs, owls, crickets, and dozens of other insects filled the darkness with their musical autographs. A mild breeze ruffed tree leaves and whispered through the reeds by the riverbank. A whir of mosquito wings buzzed behind her ear and Haviland snapped at an unseen invader near his hindquarters. Fireflies blinked like miniature stars all around them.
“It seems too peaceful for someone to be lying dead so close by,” Olivia murmured. Rawlings remained quiet, his eyes moving away from Olivia’s face as he watched a white moth flutter across the beam cast by his flashlight.
Once again, Olivia was struck by how comfortable she felt with the policeman. He knew how to relish a precious moment of tranquility and beauty, even when it did not appear at what others might deem a suitable time. In fact, she reflected, most men would fill the silence with demands, explanations, or boasts, but not this man. He knew how to be still and Olivia admired that quality.
“I was sitting right here when I last spoke to Mr. Talbot,” she said and proceeded to tell Rawlings of her exchange with Dean and Max Warfield. She omitted nothing and went so far as to include the mens’ expressions and postures as she observed them during their conversation.
Rawlings watched Olivia intently as she spoke, and when she finished, he simply nodded.
“It’s strikes me as unlikely that Dean Talbot fell down those stairs,” Olivia stated plainly.
Surprisingly, Rawlings dipped his chin in mute agreement. “At the moment, however, we have no evidence to tell us otherwise. What I’ve got is a dislodged hunk of cement, traces of cement embedded in the soles of Mr. Talbot’s shoes, and a corpse with a broken neck.” He sighed. “This will be the last time I’ll be gazing at fireflies for a while. Once the media gets wind of this ...” He left the thought unfinished.
Olivia felt a pang of sympathy for the chief. “Have you talked to Max Warfield yet?”
Rawlings nodded. “One of my officers paid him a personal call. Mr. Warfield was entertaining a young lady in his hotel room all afternoon. He was still, ah, preoccupied, when my man arrived. The coroner believes Mr. Talbot experienced his fatal slip between three and four o’clock.”
“So if it was murder, both Warfield and Jethro Bragg are in the clear.”
Groaning almost inaudibly, Rawlings scratched his neck. “Actually, Mr. Bragg was released yesterday. His handwriting was not a match with that of the spray-painted poem. There aren’t many forensic handwriting experts doing graffiti analysis, but I happen to know one of the best. Though his report wouldn’t be admissible in court, it reaffirmed the conclusion I’d already reached. Jethro was not our man, and no matter what anyone believed, we had no solid evidence against him.”
Olivia raised her eyebrows. “He was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“He finally confessed to being drunk and sounding off at Mr. Ford. He doesn’t recall precisely what he said, but Mr. Bragg thought Mr. Ford was in the employ of the Talbots. Judging by his dress, accent, and mannerisms, he assumed Camden was in favor of relocating the graveyard. Before he was deployed to Afghanistan, Jethro was a land surveyor. One of his former coworkers told him about the Talbots’ grand plans for the park, so he’s been stewing over this project for a long time.” Rawlings rubbed at a crease in his uniform pants. “He remembers telling Mr. Ford that all queers should burn in hell, but he never touched him. In fact, Jethro would have been free to leave on Wednesday if he hadn’t spit a mouthful of hot coffee right in the face of Sergeant Barrett.”
“Did the handwriting analysis provide you with any clues about the real killer?” Olivia asked, her interest quickening.
After studying her face for several seconds, Rawlings opened his notebook and directed his flashlight beam to the white page. “Based on the space between the lines, the angular nature of some of the letters, the narrowness of other letters, et cetera, the killer is likely a single male. An aloof, independent, self-serving, dissatisfied, and frustrated individual. A man filled with hidden aggression.” He paused, tried to interpret his own scrawl, and then continued. “There seems to be an irregularity between the handwriting and the content of the poem. According to the analysis, the handwriting belongs to someone who knows hard work, even drudgery. A laborer. It doesn’t jibe with the writing of an academic type or the type associated with a poet or an artist.”
So much for Blake Talbot being the killer, Olivia thought, bewildered. I bet the Talbot kids haven’t done a day’s labor in their lives.
“I’m not telling you anything you won’t read in the paper. Except for the handwriting analysis. Keep those details to yourself, if you would.” Closing his notebook, Rawlings stood. “I’m sorry to have missed the meeting tonight. Whose work will we be critiquing next week?”
“My head will be on the chopping block next. I should think the press would have come and gone by then, so hopefully you’ll be able to join us.” Olivia gestured at the shadowed land spread before them. “I wonder who will take over the running of Talbot Fine Properties now that Dean is dead.”
A voice crackled through the chief’s radio. “They’re ready to move the body now, sir. Over.”
“Meet you at the entrance, Mullins. Over and out.” Rawlings let his eyes linger on the dark woods beyond the gazebo. “I plan to find an answer to that question,” he replied. “It could be telling or it could be that some elusive board of directors is waiting to take the reins.” He placed a hand on Olivia’s elbow and led her out of the gazebo. “I’m sorry your dinner plans were ruined, even if you were only on a fact-finding mission.”
Olivia shrugged. “Regardless of what elaborate speeches Dean planned to make tonight, I would have and still plan to vote against the proposal as it stands. I’m opposed to the relocation of the graveyard.” She turned to Rawlings. “Chief, I’m certain the development is the reason behind Camden’s death. He found out something about the Talbots that would put a stop to this project. And someone wants the project to go through at any cost—even murder.”