A Killer Plot (2010)

propped open and held fast with rows of string tied with colorful bows.

“Those look like kite tails,” Olivia said, fingering a red and white gingham bow.

Flynn’s eyes twinkled, but he said nothing.

Together they walked through the wardrobe and stepped into a world of color. Above their heads, kites, model airplanes, papier-mache balloons, and glittery stars hung from invisible threads. Beanbags in primary colors were dumped haphazardly on a rug designed to resemble a large box of crayons. Beneath a sign reading “Fantasy Land” was a wooden chest stuffed with pirate hats and eye patches, fairy wings, sparkling wands, and tiaras. Under a sign in gold script that said “Dr. Seuss Stage” was a wooden puppet theater complete with a box of Dr. Seuss character hand puppets. Another station, called “Wild Adventures,” featured a table shaped like a crocodile surrounded by four plush chairs in the form of a lion, a monkey, a zebra, and an elephant. Instrumental music featuring flutes and oboes filled the room with an aura of magical serenity.

Olivia was impressed. “Every mother in Oyster Bay is going to be here when word gets out about this room. And the free coffee.” She made a mental note to tell Laurel.

“I certainly hope so.” Flynn surveyed his handiwork and folded his arms in contentment. “Feel free to browse around and let me know if you need anything.”

Olivia walked around the entire adult section again. She didn’t have much time, but she wanted to buy something from Flynn to show her support. Suddenly, she spied a section of gift books and was attracted to a group of writing journals. The blank pages were lined and the top of every page featured an inspirational quotation on the art of writing. Olivia scooped up six journals and a coffee table book called Outer Banks Edge: A Photographic Portfolio and brought her purchases to the register.

With three customers ahead of her, Olivia had the chance to study Flynn further. He wore a navy polo shirt over khakis and a pair of leather sandals. His movements were relaxed and his smile seemed genuine as he thanked each patron and handed them a disposable coffee cup.

“Pour yourself some of the Wardrobe House Roast,” he ordered good-naturedly. “And next time, feel free to bring your own coffee cup.” He pointed at a rack holding a single coffee cup showing a cardinal sitting on a dogwood branch on a field of cobalt. “Just label it with permanent marker and I promise to take them all home to the dishwasher every night.” He winked at Olivia. “I hope you’ve got a not-so-fine porcelain mug to bring in here.”

“I’m sure I can dig up a suitable cup,” Olivia replied, stunned by the realization that two men had winked at her in the same afternoon. And while Flynn was both interesting and attractive, it wouldn’t do to express undue interest without getting to know him better. For all Olivia knew, the bookstore proprietor was happily married. His ring finger was bare, but she was aware that the lack of jewelry meant nothing. For all she knew, he had a life partner, eleven children, two hamsters, and a parakeet. Putting on her business face, Olivia smiled pleasantly. “Perhaps you can introduce me to some new historical fiction writers when I return.”

“I believe I’m up to that challenge,” Flynn remarked, handing her a receipt and a coffee cup. He then turned his attention to the next customer.

Olivia frowned as she eyed the large coffeemaker. She doubted that the bookstore brew would be to her liking. It certainly wouldn’t be made from Kona beans, but for some reason she didn’t want to offend the good- looking bookstore owner, so she poured herself half a cup. Adding a splash of cream, she took a sip and forced herself not to grimace. The flavor wasn’t unappealing, but it was far too weak for her tastes. Taking the unfinished cup outside, she furtively tossed the remnants into the flower bed.

Chapter 4

Everyone has talent. What is rare is the courage to follow the talent to the dark place where it leads.

—ERICA JONG

The furniture movers were standing, arms folded in irritation, in front of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage when Olivia pulled up behind them.

“Hello, gentlemen. I trust you haven’t been waiting long.” Without pausing for their reply, she unlocked the front doors and hurried inside, eager to inspect the transformed building for the first time. Taking a brief glance at the polished wood floor, she entered the old living room first.

Her decision to cover the dark walls with Benjamin Moore’s Wilmington Tan, with a bright white trim on the windows and wainscoting, had given the room an instant lift. The antique-style bronze sconces and ceiling fan, which spun in a lazy, almost hypnotizing circle of maple blades, added to the room’s new warmth. Olivia was pleased by the transformation.

Stepping back outside, she waved at the disgruntled deliverymen and then proceeded to boss them about until the rug was placed in the exact center of the room and her paintings were hung with mathematical precision. Just as both men were close to throwing their leather gloves on the ground and storming off, Olivia handed them each an envelope containing one hundred dollars in tip money and then inquired if they minded moving some potted ferns from the back porch of the main house.

“You’ll have to put them in the truck. They’re heavy as anchors.”

The men fingered their five, crisp twenties and agreed to the one final task. Soon, they were gone completely and Olivia sat alone in the cottage, which seemed cleansed of poor choices and bad memories.

The past is buried, she thought, pulling Camden’s chapter onto her lap. She uncapped the green pen Harris had given her and continued where she had left off the night before.

Bradley Talcott put his feet up on the counter in front of an illuminated makeup mirror. His metal-studded boots knocked aside containers of face foundation, brown eye shadow, and black eyeliner as well as an empty bottle of Absolut and a vial of amphetamines.

“It’s time to rock, bro.” The spiked-haired drummer rattled his sticks against the doorjamb. “We got a hot crowd out there.”

Tossing a lit cigarette onto the counter, Bradley stood. “We could be bigger than this, damn it! I’m sick of playing these shitty clubs. It’s time for a tricked out tour bus and twenty-five, sold-out, big-city shows a year.”

“But your punk-ass old man didn’t give you the cash to back a tour, dude, so get on that stage and start singing.” Seeing the flash of anger in his bandmate’s eyes, the drummer retreated a step. “Come on, man. Just think about the fine booty we get to tap after the show.”

The drummer departed and Bradley languidly rose to his feet. He leaned into the mirror and snarled at his reflection. “I’m not going to live like this much longer. I’m no kid. I’m in control of my own future!”

With abrupt vehemence, he pushed the contents of the counter onto the floor. Vials of pills and makeup bounced off the floor, but the vodka bottle shattered in a loud crash. Bradley looked at the result of his rage with satisfaction. He bent over to retrieve one of the shards and, after examining his face in the fragment, muttered, “I am in control.”

Then he strode from the room, the triangle of broken glass still clutched in his hand.

Olivia tapped the end of her pen against her lip. She reviewed her notes on the earlier sections of the chapter in which she had complimented Camden on the strength of voice in the first six pages and how well he had conveyed the emotions of his characters. She also suggested that he might incorporate more setting details and questioned the choice of Bradley Talcott’s name.

Isn’t that rather close to the young man’s real name? she had written on page one.

Frowning, Olivia put down her pen and walked over to the window. She checked her watch and then waved at Haviland. “Let’s grab some dinner before our fellow writers appear.”