A killer plot, p.3
A Killer Plot, page 3
part #1 of Books by the Bay Mystery Series
Several weeks later she called Camden Ford and offered the Bayside Book Writers the use of the banquet room of her restaurant, The Boot Top Bistro.
“Just this once,” she informed him firmly. “By your next meeting, I’ll have arranged for a more permanent gathering place.”
“Splendid!” Camden gushed. “And will your supple slave girl be making her debut at our meeting? Kamila, Queen of the Harem! Ruler of Pharaoh’s ruler.” He chuckled wickedly.
Olivia smiled at the other end of the phone. Ever since she’d put on her mother’s necklace and awoke each morning to the sounds of hammering, nail guns, shouting, swearing, and salsa music coming from the crew working on the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, she’d felt lighter in spirit than she had in years, but there were limits to how much change she could handle at once. “I think I’ll stick to eavesdropping,” she replied, though part of her longed to take a risk and open her work up to criticism. “I’m not quite ready to commit”
“I suspect you’ve said that phrase many times in your life,” Camden commented without judgment. “Darling, life is messy, but sometimes it’s fun to get a little dirty. Spread your wings, jump off the diving board, make mud pies—I’ll keep going with these clichés until you agree.”
“Save them for your book,” Olivia parried playfully and then changed the subject. “What about food?”
“Oh, whip us up some tapas-type tidbits,” Camden ordered casually. “I’ll treat this time, since we’ll be celebrating our freedom from all things Andrew Lloyd Webber.”
They discussed the meeting time and then said good-bye, but not before Camden threatened to call Fodor’s and AAA and complain about cutting his tongue on a shard of shell found in The Boot Top’s clam chowder if Olivia didn’t agree to become a member of the Bayside Book Writers.
Olivia hissed, “You wouldn’t!”
“I won’t, because you’re going to be at the meeting. I won’t make you read this time, but consider it your only reprieve.” Olivia heard the smile in Camden’s voice. “I told you, my blond Amazon, we need one another.”
Feeling momentarily expansive, Olivia answered, “As I’m being forced against my will, then I might as well see to the drinks. I can’t sit through any more heaving bosoms without bourbon.”
“Purely medicinal,” Camden agreed readily and hung up.
A few evenings later, Olivia realized that the food she had chosen to serve the writers was completely wrong.
Michel, her chef, had outdone himself in producing a selection of succulent hors d’oeuvres. When a waiter had delivered the polished silver trays laden with black truffle canapes, smoked salmon roulades, prosciutto and gruyere pinwheels, shrimp won tons, and lamb meatballs in a pinot noir sauce, Olivia had been pleased with the artistic arrangement of the epicurean fare. But for a reason she could not fathom, the food had barely been touched by the author hopefuls gathered in the private banquet room.
Should I have served beer instead of wine? Olivia second-guessed her decision to decant two bottles of Meritage. Were the vintages too cigar box to the taste, too fruity, or overly hefty for her guests’ palates? They had barely sipped from their Reidel tumblers.
Olivia’s hands itched to be wrapped around a glass filled with half a finger’s worth of twenty-five-year-old Chivas Regal, her customary evening intoxicant. Having become rather immune to the comfort or contentment of other people (unless they were patrons of The Boot Top), Olivia found her desire to gratify these strangers unsettling.
I should have ordered Dominos and served wine in the box, she thought, growing more irritated by the moment. The silence in the room was cloying and she distracted herself by fiddling with the floral centerpiece. That done, she checked her watch again. Where the hell is Ford?
“I suppose we should tell you who we are.” The husky, melodious voice emanated from the exotic, part-Asian beauty whose black hair was now pink striped. Her dark brows were pierced with rows of silver hoops and she wore a diamond nose stud. She was attired in a short plaid skirt, a faded Hello Kitty shirt, and black leather boots. “Name’s Millay Hallowell. Twenty-four years old, artist, and bartender. I’m writing a young adult fantasy novel. You know—the spicy kind where a bunch of sheltered virgins get raped by satyrs and stuff.”
“Did I hear someone mention being ravished by goat boys?” Camden Ford inquired as he breezed into the room. “How delicious!”
A faint blush tinged Millay’s cheeks as she crossed her arms over her chest and tried to look tough.
“Doing introductions, are we? Excellent! Who’s next?” Camden gestured at the young man resembling Peter Pan.
“Um.” He looked at Olivia as his fingers mangled a gruyere pinwheel. “I’m Harris Williams.” He pushed a wave of soft hair from his forehead. “I’m into computers. I create graphics for fantasy games. I’ve got the best job in the world. Flexible hours, a good salary, and I have a lot in common with my coworkers. We’re all pretty smart but we don’t have the greatest people skills.”
“Imagine that,” Camden teased. “Go on, man, before the food gets cold.”
“Sorry. Um, I’m a sci-fi guy. My book’s about the imminent destruction of the Planet Zulton. A group of one hundred Zultons have been chosen to start a new colony on the planet Remus. Their leader is a warrior princess named Zenobia.” Noticing the confused looks of his audience, Harris hurriedly concluded. “Anyway, a spacecraft carrying convicts destined for a life sentence of hard labor crash lands on Zulton and these guys kill a bunch of the Chosen Ones. Zenobia and one of the criminals—”
“Very Flash Gordon, isn’t it!” Camden arched an eyebrow for Olivia’s benefit and then directed his attention to a flustered woman in her early thirties. “And you’ve already had the pleasure of listening to some of Laurel’s work. Give Olivia the 411 on your exciting life, my dear.”
The woman giggled. “I don’t know about exciting, but my name’s Laurel Hobbs. I’m a stay-at-home mom with twin boys. Dallas and Dermot. They’re twenty-seven months and a real handful. You’ve probably heard us in the grocery store.” Even her laugh, high and melodious, was lovely. “I try to write when they’re napping, but it’s hard to find the time with laundry and making dinner and all the errands. The twins are at such a demanding age, but I think they’re just naughty because they’re so smart. Would you like to see a picture of them?” she asked Olivia and began fumbling beneath her chair. “I have a whole bunch in my purse.”
Olivia stared at her in horror. Camden quickly intervened before Laurel could locate her purse. “Tell our hostess about your writing, darling.”
Laurel blinked. “Oh, right!” she exclaimed with another nervous giggle. “My dream is to write romance novels. Like Nora Roberts or Danielle Steel. I’ve wanted to write books like theirs ever since I read my first romance in high school.”
Camden smiled benevolently at Laurel and then gestured at Olivia. “You’re at bat. Swing away.”
Olivia smoothed the tablecloth. She’d never told anyone but Dixie about her novel and wondered what the others would think of her story line. Taking a deep breath, she tersely explained, “My manuscript in progress is a work of historical fiction. It’s set in ancient Egypt and focuses on the struggles of a young concubine in the household of Ramses the Great.”
“The little slut!” Camden poured himself a glass of wine. “Your Egyptian vixen would fit right in with my troupe of thinly veiled fictional celebrities. Yes, indeed. I know the real man my ‘hero’ is based on well enough to be certain he would simply salivate over a piece of tanned jail bait wearing a transparent linen shift.”
Laurel gazed at the gossip writer in adoration. “I still can’t believe you’re friends with famous people!”
Camden flicked his wrist at her. “Puh-lease! We are not friends. I know more big names than you could fit in this lovely, very feng shui room, but don’t be impressed, my dear. Most celebrities are vain, vapid, and filled with vice.” He plucked a shrimp wonton from the tray and placed it delicately in the center of a cocktail napkin. “Did you catch my alliteration there, my dears? Now Olivia, tell us about you.”
“Please help yourselves.” Olivia pointed a dictatorial finger at the food trays. She waited until the writers focused on refilling their plates and then said, “I’m Olivia Limoges. I live out on the point with my standard poodle, Captain Haviland. He’s sleeping in my office at the moment,” she added when Laurel peered under the tablecloth. “I’m unmarried and childless and plan to stay that way. Now that this place”—she gesticulated around the room—“and my rental properties are up and running, I’d like to proceed with my writing.” She crossed her arms and looked at Ford. “Could you tell me more about the group’s schedule and assignments?”
“Excellent canapes, my dear.” Camden saluted her with his refreshed wineglass. “Thus far, we’ve congregated every other week, but we’ve all decided to meet weekly in order to make more progress. We each take turns having our work reviewed. Soon enough, it’ll be your turn to bring us copies of your masterpiece, Olivia.” He picked up a stack of papers from an end table. “Lucky for you, I’ve brought my pages tonight so you can take out all of your aggressions on my humble prose.” He grinned at her. “This gives you an entire week to sharpen your pencil, my dear. Don’t worry, I take criticism very well.”
Olivia sniffed.
“Oh, but don’t worry. We’re not really mean to each other.” Laurel had misinterpreted the noise as anxiety. “We say lots of nice things too!”
Millay rolled her eyes. “And that’s a waste of time if you ask me! We’ll never get better if we just sit around blowing smoke up each other’s asses. When it’s my turn, be as harsh as you want.” She pointed a slim finger at Olivia. “Bring it, sister!”
Harris, who had been stealing glances at Millay all evening, dusted the crumbs from a prosciutto and gruyere pinwheel off his long-fingered hands and reached into a plastic bag resting next to his feet. “I had this cool English teacher in high school who never used a red pen. She said the color made students feel like they had written something wrong when her main intent was to give us helpful suggestions. She wrote comments using green ink, so I bought green pens for all of us. May we do no harm!”
He leapt out of his chair and promptly handed out packets containing two green ballpoint pens to his fellow writers.
“Thank you, Harris. You are so sweet.” Laurel emitted a vibe of maternal approval. “I’d much rather be criticized in green than in red. I always dress my son Dermot in green. Dallas wears blue a lot. I’m afraid red would get them even more worked up than usual. It’s such an energizing color. Why, we were practically banned from story time at the library after the day I dressed them both in red overalls!”
After accepting Harris’s gift, Camden passed out copies of his chapter for review. “Now, I’m going to break protocol and refuse to read aloud tonight. Olivia here has an announcement to make and after she does, we’re relocating to the bar to celebrate. No work this evening, my darlings! Tonight, we make merry!”
All eyes turned to Olivia. “Yes. Well. You all know where the lighthouse is, correct? Out on the point?” she added for Camden’s sake. “The cottage is on my family’s … I mean, my land, and it’s currently being restored. It won’t be totally ready for another week or so but we can hold our future meetings there. At no charge, of course.”
Camden led the group in a round of delighted surprise, and as the writers thanked Olivia, she waved them off. Warmed and slightly embarrassed by their gratitude, she suggested they follow her to the bar.
“See? You’re not quite the Wicked Witch of the South,” Camden whispered in her ear.
“Good evening, Gabe.” Olivia ignored Camden and focused on The Boot Top’s handsome bartender instead. “These folks are … my friends.” How odd to be calming them that, she thought. “Please be certain to put their drinks on my tab.”
The bartender, a young man in his late twenties with a deep tan and an attractive, all-American face, nodded in acquiescence. After serving Laurel a Manhattan, Gabe poured a generous amount of Chivas Regal over a few asymmetrical blocks of hand-chiseled ice and set the tumbler down in front of his employer.
Originally positioned at the far end of the bar, Millay slid away from Harris and jumped up onto the stool next to Olivia. “I didn’t expect this place to be so hip,” she commented, taking a slurp of beer.
Olivia bristled. “Why not? Because I’m so advanced in years?”
“Huh?” Millay missed the note of sarcasm. “It’s just that my parents love coming here. It’s where they go for their special occasions, you know?” She gestured around the wood paneled bar. “They both teach at the community college and can only afford a place like this once in a while. After seeing what you charge for beer, I can see why. The year-rounders in Oyster Bay aren’t exactly loaded. How do you stay in business?”
Pleased to note that the restaurant was nearly full, Olivia took Millay’s question seriously. “There are quite a few tourists here tonight. We’re always busy from May to October, especially since that famous article about Oyster Bay’s appeal appeared in Time. In the winter, things will slow down, but as you said, people come here for birthdays and anniversaries and such. We also host Christmas parties for many local businesses. And we cater.”
She looked around at the glazed ochre walls, which were covered by enormous paintings of wine bottles, at the pristine white cloths, and the terra-cotta hued napkin fans on the few unoccupied tables. Votive candles shone through cylinders of dark amber cut glass made in Indonesia. The same shade of amber formed a thick stripe of paint on the walls and seemed to subtly box in the diners, creating an atmosphere of warm elegance with a hint of exclusivity.
“Interesting,” Millay replied and Olivia couldn’t tell whether she was sincere. “But don’t you think you should consider some cooler music? This soft jazz stuff reminds me of the dentist. I do like the name though. Boot Top. I dig boots.” She lifted both her ankles so that Olivia could admire her lace-up, stiletto-heeled, leather footwear, but Olivia was distracted by the arrival of an unfamiliar middle-aged man.
“Two fingers of Glenfiddich. No ice, please,” he told Gabe in a pleasant baritone.
Millay noticed the newcomer in the mirror behind the bar and pivoted in her seat. “What about you?” She grinned flirtatiously. “Do you like my boot tops?”
The stranger smiled at her but didn’t take his lead gray eyes from her face. “I believe the boot top in this case refers to the russet line on the walls.”
Looking perplexed, Millay didn’t respond, but Olivia locked eyes with the man and said, “Are you familiar with nautical terms Mr…. ?”
“McNulty. Flynn McNulty.” Flynn stood in order to shake hands with Olivia. “My knowledge of maritime matters is limited, but I believe that a boot top is the painted line just above the waterline on a seafaring vessel. Am I at least near the mark?”
“You’re spot-on, Mr. McNulty.” Olivia examined him over the lip of her tumbler.
Flynn assessed her simultaneously. “Another whiskey drinker?” He raised his glass in a salute. “I may actually be able to live in this town after all.”
Millay snorted, a noise that seemed incongruent with her beauty. “It’ll take more than booze to make Oyster Bay look good. Where did you live before?”
“Just outside of Raleigh in the Research Triangle Park area. I’m retiring from cubicle land in order to open a book-shop here. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do and an aunt of mine was kind enough to leave me a small inheritance. I read about the town’s building boom, and since the closest Barnes and Noble is over fifty miles away, I figured this was as fine a place as any to risk it all.”
Olivia tried to ignore the quickening of her blood. A bookstore was her idea of paradise, but she’d preferred to browse in other people’s shops in place of opening one of her own. She turned to tell Camden the news but saw that he was too engaged in flirting with the bartender to be diverted by anything she could say.
“Did you say something about books?” Harris inquired, seeking to join their conversation.
“Shelves of them. I’m out tonight to celebrate. My shop, Through the Wardrobe, will open its doors this Saturday. I was planning on a hugely publicized grand opening in about two weeks, but my stock arrived sooner than expected.” He shrugged. “Now I’ll just hang up some balloons and count on word-of-mouth advertising.”
Millay pulled a face. “In this town, you’ll get more word-of-mouth than you can stand, believe me.”
“It’s so awesome that you named your place after a C.S. Lewis novel!” Delighted, Harris finally tore his eyes from Millay’s shapely legs and gave the newcomer his full attention. The two men launched into a discourse on the multifaceted subject matter tackled within The Chronicles of Narnia.
Clearly displeased over being ignored in favor of C.S. Lewis, Millay poked Flynn in the fleshy part of his thigh. “You might be stocking our books someday, you know. We’re all writers.”
“In that case, I’d better learn everyone’s names,” Flynn replied gallantly.
By the time the assembly had consumed three rounds of drinks, they were thoroughly convinced their fellow writers would completely devote themselves to their upcoming editorial responsibilities, giving each of them the forward push needed to complete a saleable novel. Even Olivia, who thus far had only warmed to Camden, found herself believing that joining the writer’s group might be a step in the right direction toward becoming a social human being.
“I’m feeling so inspired by this meeting!” Laurel squealed excitedly as she bid everyone farewell. “But Steve will be waiting up for me. It’s bad enough he had to babysit while I hung out at a posh restaurant drinking Manhattans.” She hiccupped and quickly covered her mouth with her hand. “I hope he lets me come to our next meeting at Olivia’s cottage,” she said from behind her palm. “I’ll have to detail his truck in exchange for being able to go out four nights in one month!”
