A Killer Plot (2010)

She kept the paper raised, as though an article on escalating interest rates was inordinately captivating, while she listened intently as a woman read aloud from what sounded like a work of romantic fiction.

“Maureen put her eye to the keyhole and gasped. There was her mistress, the duchess, in the arms of a strange man. His fingers were unlacing her gown, slowly, letting each piece of delicate silk slide over his powerful fingers.”

“What drivel,” Olivia Limoges muttered to Haviland as the reader paused for breath. The poodle sneezed. Feeling that her canine companion hadn’t been in clear agreement with her assessment, Olivia leaned to the right in order to eavesdrop further.

“He then turned her around, roughly, and pushed her frock to the floor I could hear her gasp as he caressed the ribbons on her petticoat, his dark eyes never leaning the duchess’s amber ones.”

Olivia snorted. “Cats have amber eyes. People do not” She cast a glance at the author who had abruptly ceased speaking, seemingly reluctant to continue. She was a pretty woman—small-framed and smooth-skinned, with hair the color of sunlit wheat, but her face was discolored and puffy, indicating a consistent lack of sleep.

“Go on, Laurel, my dear. I sense we’re nearing the juicy part,” a middle-aged man with carefully gelled hair, a peach silk shirt, and finely manicured hands urged.

“Maureen knew she should back away from the door but the stranger’s movements were hypnotizing. His hand, which resembled the calloused palm of a man engaged in trade, not the smooth, pampered hands belonging to a gentleman, eased apart my lady’s bodice. His eyes lingered on the heaving swell of her breasts—”

Olivia couldn’t contain herself. “Not heaving breasts!” she exclaimed with a wry laugh. “Anything but those!”

The woman named Laurel blushed furiously and dropped her paper onto the table in front of her.

“If you’d like to share your opinion, it’d be a mite easier if you joined their group instead of hollerin’ across the counter. It’s this kind of behavior that makes folks think you’re an odd duck,” a high-pitched voice emanating from Olivia’s left scolded. “Good morning, Captain,” the woman greeted the poodle warmly. “Your usual, sir?”

Haviland issued a polite bark and parted his mouth in order to smile at the familiar speaker.

“Good morning, Dixie.” Olivia folded her paper in half and smoothed out the wrinkles. “And for your information, people think I’m odd because I’m rich and single and perfectly content. All three of those factors are a rarity here in Oyster Bay.” Olivia lowered her empty coffee cup from the counter so the vertically challenged diner proprietor could fill it with her famously strong brew.

At a total height of four feet seven inches tall, including the two inches provided by a pair of roller skates and an inch of comb-teased, sun-streaked brown hair, Dixie Weaver had the body of a kindergartener. She was not as young or as well proportioned as a five-year-old however, being that she was a dwarf.

“Dwarf” was the term Dixie preferred, and the residents of their coastal town had learned long ago never to refer to her as a “little person.”

“I’m of short stature,” she had told Olivia soon after Olivia had moved back to town and had struck up an immediate friendship with the feisty, roller-skating diner owner. “I’m not little. ‘Little’ implies young or innocent. Like a cute puppy or a baby bird. I’m a middle-aged waitress with a litter of children and a permanent tan. I smoke and do shots of tequila and I’m not cute. ‘Sides, I haven’t been innocent since the eighth grade. And do you have any idea how much I hate havin’ to wear clothes from Walmart’s kid’s department? I can’t exactly pull off sexy wearin’ Strawberry Shortcake, now can I?”

Today, Dixie was garbed in denim overalls, a green-and-white-striped T-shirt, and rainbow leg warmers. Her hair was meticulously feathered as though she were a diminutive version of Farrah Fawcett and her large, ale brown eyes were amplified by a layer of frosty baby blue shadow that spanned the entire area of skin from upper lid to brow.

“Someone’s in my booth,” Olivia complained to Dixie, gesturing at the table in the corner of the room. Most of the Oyster Bay residents knew better than to plant their buttocks on the red vinyl cushions of that booth between eight and eight thirty A.M. That was when Olivia frequently showed up at Grumpy’s to claim a booth. She’d then spend the better part of the morning there, eating, sipping coffee, and writing.

It was the only booth not surrounded by Andrew Lloyd Webber paraphernalia as it butted against the diner’s front window. Dixie, who practically worshipped the king of musicals, had filled her establishment with posters, masks, and themed-decorations celebrating the composer’s work. It was an adoration Olivia did not share with her closest friend, and she preferred the street view to being seated beneath a pair of Dixie’s used roller skates and a poster of Starlight Express illuminated by strings of pink Christmas lights.

“You sound like one of the three bears.” Dixie lowered her voice to a squeaky growl. “Somebody’s been eatin’ in my booth and they’re still there!”

The current occupants were not locals. They hadn’t been seated for long either, as they had only been served beverages. Olivia was surprised to see four college-aged boys awake, dressed, and functioning so early in the day. Normally, they’d be slumbering with their mouths open on the floor of a six-bedroom vacation home surrounded by empty beer bottles, brimming ashtrays, and overturned bongs.

“You can eat here at the counter for once. It would do you good to rub elbows with your neighbors. Livin’ out there on the Point, all alone with your ghosts, with only a dog to keep you company.” She quickly stroked Haviland between the ears. “No offense to you, sweet darlin’.” Dixie cocked a hip and rested her elbow on it, holding the steaming coffee carafe aloft. “It ain’t good for you to be all work and no play. Why don’t you take your highfalutin ass over to the Song and Dance booth and join that writer’s club? They call themselves the Bayside Book Writers, and since you’re tryin’ to write, it seems to me like you all were destined to meet”

Olivia grunted. “What do you mean by trying?” Still, she cast a quick glance at the document on her laptop screen and sighed. “I never realized it would be so hard to write a book. Do you know how many times I’ve started this novel? I’ve never consistently failed in achieving a personal goal before.”

Before Dixie could reply, an elderly couple entered the diner and immediately looked befuddled. Dixie skated over, handed them menus, and pointed at the empty Evita booth. She then disappeared into the kitchen for several minutes, which Olivia suspected were spent smoking Parliaments out the fire door. When Dixie reemerged, she was carrying Olivia’s breakfast on a decoupage tray. Pivoting onto the toes of her skates, she pushed the heavy china platter onto the counter.

“One spinach and feta omelet with half a grapefruit.” She slid another plate in front of Haviland. “And scrambled eggs and sausage for you, my pet.”

The poodle held out his paw. Dixie accepted it and then leaned against the empty stool next to Olivia. “So the book’s not exactly writin’ itself then?”

Olivia pushed her laptop aside in order to eat her breakfast. “I’ve reworked the first five chapters a dozen times. For some reason, I can’t seem to move on to chapter six.”

Dixie pretended not to notice a customer signaling for the check. “What’s goin’ on at the end of chapter five?”

“Kamila, my main character, has just been selected to join the harem of Ramses the Second. It’s a huge honor, but she’s determined to become his wife, not just a woman he couples with a few times a year. Once she separates from her family, however, and is inside the palace, she’s terrified and insecure, despite her exceptional beauty. After all, she’s only fourteen.”

Dixie whistled. “That ain’t too early to be a conniving slut. You walked into a high school lately?” Turning to nod at her impatient Phantom customer, Dixie said, “It seems to me that you’d describe the palace at this point in your story. How did folks treat this girl? Where is she sleepin’? Did she get a bunch of fancy clothes and jewelry when she moved in? Does everybody hate her ’cause she’s the new girl? Are the other girls from foreign places? What does she eat? Folks love to read about food, ya know.”

Olivia cut off a corner of her omelet. “I wish you’d read what I’ve written so far. I think you’ve got an editorial ear.”

“No chance in hell, ‘Livia. You’re one of the few people I call friend. I am not gonna mess with what we’ve got by pullin’ apart your novel.” Dixie turned away. “If you want to get someone’s opinion, get off your rump and go talk to that writer’s group. I’m tellin’ you, they are what you need.”

Haviland opened his eyes wide and made a sneezing noise—a signal to Olivia that his canine ears had picked