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 regarding the preservation of the graveyard and readily agreed.
“Talbot Fine Properties shouldn’t raise too much fuss about having to move the putting green. That’s a sound solution you’ve come up with, Ms. Limoges.”
Roy wiped at his face and Olivia noticed the sweat stains on his T-shirt.
“Shouldn’t Atlas be giving you a hand? This looks like a major job.” Olivia craned her neck to take in the gutters above the second story.
“He’s out truck shopping,” Roy replied lightly. “I think he’s about done being the odd-job man around here. Luckily, it’s summer and I can get a few kids to help out. It’s what we’ve always done before.” He grinned. “I’d better get back to this. Annie’s honey-do list is as long as my arm.”
Olivia smiled sympathetically at him.
Satisfied by her conversation, Olivia stopped by the Neuse Community Bank next. Her talk with Loan Manager Ed Campbell wasn’t as fruitful, however.
“A change like that is going to cost Talbot Properties a pretty penny,” Ed explained. “They’ll have to level the ground, run a line to install the irrigation system, add a bunch of French drains to keep the greens dry when there’s too much moisture, et cetera, et cetera.”
“It’s worth a few extra dollars to keep that cemetery intact,” Olivia argued, but she could see that Ed was unwilling to challenge the Talbots’ proposal by the slightest fraction.
Knowing Dixie would speak to Grumpy and that Marlene planned to vote against the resolution no matter what adjustments were made, Olivia spent the remainder of the afternoon in her office at The Boot Top reading the online articles about Dean’s death. She knew she shouldn’t be surprised by how quickly information was collected and dispersed via the Internet, but she was. Papers from across the country featured stories of the real estate tycoon’s “tragic death” on their homepages. Links to dozens of photographs showing Dean and the rest of the Talbot clan were prominently featured on Yahoo! and Google.
As she watched video clips of the Talbots, Olivia paid careful attention to any appearance of Max Warfield in the footage. She then muted her iMac’s volume and studied the facial expressions and body language of anyone who routinely appeared in public with Dean Talbot.
“No one liked that man,” Olivia informed Haviland as pleasant aromas drifted in from the kitchen. “Look at his kids. They’re all partially turned away from him. None of them will look him in the eye. They probably felt inferior all their lives and their wounded pride and lack of affection eventually turned into anger. The mother is never at any of their public outings. Year after year, she hid at home or was checked into some rehab center, so Dean was the only parent available to receive the full share of his children’s ire.”
Olivia turned her attention to the articles she’d printed out from the Internet, picking up the top sheet. “Dean’s controlling share of Talbot Fine Properties goes to Blake Talbot,” she reread the sentence she’d highlighted. “I can see why he didn’t pick the older son if he’s got a cocaine problem, but why Blake? The daughter clearly has the business smarts while Blake sings in a rock band. Dean didn’t trust him to manage the band’s money, yet he entrusted him with a multimillion-dollar corporation? It doesn’t make sense.”
Having exhausted her search on the computer, Olivia walked out to the bar and turned the wall-mounted television to Headline News. As she waited for the top of the hour, in which the show was certain to lead off with a story on Talbot’s death, Olivia read through her notes once more.
“Blake Talbot had the motive, if not the means to kill his father. He has the necessary skills to write poetry. And he is definitely possessed of a darkness of spirit. Listen to this song lyric, Haviland.”
Haviland sank to his belly and lowered his head to his paws.
“Stop that. I’m not going to sing!” Olivia remonstrated. “ ‘I’ll push you into the black water. Fish are gonna swallow your last breath. I’m gonna tear down your towers and rip down your signs. People are gonna remember my name. You shouldn’t have tried to hold me, fool. You shouldn’t have tried to keep me down. Look at me. I ain’t no sheep, man, I am the wolf.’ ”
Groaning, Haviland rolled onto his side.
“Well, you have to imagine the verse accompanied by pounding drums, feverish electric guitar strumming, and a heavy dose of screaming by a group of young men with gelled hair and leather pants.” She examined the lyrics. “None of the stanzas rhyme, but the lines of the chorus do. More sheep/wolf imagery there. Do you see what I mean, Captain? If this kid wasn’t holding a serious grudge against his father, then I’ll start drinking wine from a box.”