A Killer Plot (2010)

and tomatoes.

The moment she was finished reading, Olivia began to call her fellow writers in order to plan a lunch meeting for the following day. She phoned Laurel first, assuming the young mother would need to make babysitting arrangements, but Laurel insisted she’d have to bring her children along.

“Tomorrow’s Tuesday. Steve’ll be at work and I can’t hire a sitter unless we’re going out together for a date night,” she explained without embarrassment. “He’s a dentist but he just bought into a practice. I don’t understand it, but he says we really have to watch every penny. And the twins cost so much! The way they grow out of clothes and car seats—and they seem to eat all the time! I never thought having kids would be this expensive.”

Plans foiled, Olivia tried to think of a suitable location in which four adults could hold a serious conversation while a pair of demanding, hyperactive toddlers played in relative safety. She tried to picture them in the lighthouse keeper’s cottage but found the thought incredibly distasteful.

“There’s the playground at the beach,” Laurel suggested.

Olivia predicted that the screeches of dozens of children would repeatedly interrupt their concentration. “We couldn’t talk to one another effectively sitting on those benches because they all face the playground. We need to gather around some kind of table,” Olivia reasoned. “Not only that, but an outdoor meeting at noon in June might be a tad warm.”

“I don’t mind. I love the heat,” Laurel said.

Olivia was pleased to know that another Oyster Bay native loved the summer weather as much as she did. “I do as well, but Millay doesn’t seem overly fond of daylight and I think the UV rays would be too harsh on Harris’s skin.”

“You are so considerate,” Laurel gushed and then went tsk, tsk with her tongue. “Our Harris is such a handsome guy if you look beyond that rash, don’t you think? I wish there was a product to help clear up his face. I can only imagine the effect his condition has on his confidence.”

“He seems to possess a solid level of self-assurance,” Olivia remarked, but even as she spoke she scribbled a quick note to call the spa in New Bern the next morning.

Laurel made a noncommittal noise. “Only around us. He hasn’t had a date since his high school prom and I think his social life exists totally in cyberspace. Facebook and Twitter and places like that.”

Olivia’s glance wandered to her copy of Sunday’s Oyst er Bay Gazette. The local weekly, which went to print Saturday evening and was therefore mercifully free of any dramatic headlines regarding Camden’s death, featured a black-and-white photo and a front-page article about Flynn McNulty and Through the Wardrobe.

“Laurel!” Olivia tapped the photograph of Flynn leaning against one of his armoires, his arms crossed over his chest as he smiled warmly for the camera. “I know where we can meet. Do your sons enjoy books?”

Laurel laughed. “They like chewing on them and hitting each other with them. Does that count? Oh! I’ve heard about that new bookstore from my Mommy and Me group. With the dress-up stuff and the puppets, there’s a chance the twins might stay relatively calm.”

“I’ll bring a large bottle of ether just in case,” Olivia murmured, sending Laurel into peals of laughter.

The other members readily agreed to join them at the bookstore. Harris reminded Olivia that he only had an hour lunch break and then told her how he’d spent most of Sunday reading up on the Talbot family. Being savvier about Internet search protocol, he’d also been more successful than Olivia in retrieving background information on Blake Talbot. He hadn’t stopped with the youngest son, however, and was prepared to present biographic summaries on the entire family.

Olivia called Millay last, and though the younger woman complained she’d normally still be abed at noon, she seemed anxious to discuss Camden’s chapters.

“Will you have time to read them?” Olivia asked her. “Are you working tonight?”

“Yeah, I’m here now. You can only hear me because I’m in the supply closet looking for toilet paper. Totally glam, huh?” She snorted. “But Mondays are slow. Between my breaks and the lulls that’ll come when the guys get too riled up over some stupid NASCAR race to drink, I’ll get it done.” Millay sounded determined. “Even if I have to stay up until dawn, I’ll be ready to contribute. And I’m going to see what I can weasel out of my regulars during my shift too. They’ll talk to me, especially if I don’t water down their whiskey as much as I usually do.”

Olivia was impressed by Millay’s commitment. “That a girl,” she told the bartender. “And be careful.”

Millay blew air out through her lips. “Please. Those men would rather have sex with me than murder me and I don’t intend to let them do either. See you at noon and make sure there’s coffee. Lots of it.”

Recalling Flynn’s unpalatable brew, Olivia frowned. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring a thermos.”

“Then I’ll bring a flask,” Millay said and rang off, leaving Olivia to wonder if the young woman had been serious.

Camden had written nearly one hundred pages of the book he had entitled The Tarnished Titans. The writing was fluid and filled with vivid imagery, but Olivia found the lack of chronology confusing. Chapter one described the sheltered childhood of the “Talcott” siblings, and just when Olivia felt as though she was developing a sense of each of the five family member’s personas, Camden focused chapter two solely on Don Talcott.

Don, who was undoubtedly the titan referred to in the book’s title, was easily the most interesting character. Raised in a blue-collar Brooklyn home, the young man had gotten ahead by any means possible. After spending four years running errands in one of Manhattan’s premier investment firms while he took night classes toward a business degree, Don was finally awarded a desk and assigned the miserable task of cold calls. As luck would have it, the ambitious Talcott was a born salesman and his exceptional skill at “dialing for dollars” earned him the attention of the firm’s board of directors. Ten years later, he was one of them.

Don married the beautiful Broadway sensation, Lana Alexander. At nineteen, Lana’s decision to become Mrs. Donald Talcott immediately resulted in the death of her career. Pregnant three times in less than five years, Lana remained secluded with her progeny behind the tall, ivy-covered fence surrounding their Long Island estate while Don paraded a host of young models, fresh-faced debutantes, and high-class prostitutes into New York’s chicest nightclubs and restaurants.

The book’s next few chapters centered on the Talcott children. According to Camden’s claims, the two boys and one girl were reared primarily by a Hispanic nanny until they were old enough to be sent away to boarding school. Lana spent most of their childhood checking in and out of rehab centers in New York, Beverly Hills, Texas, and across Europe. The last chapter focused on Bradley and was the only chapter already read and critiqued by the Bayside Book Writers prior to Camden’s death.

“There’s nothing specific about what kind of education Blake received,” Olivia said to Haviland as she pulled into a parking space across from the bookstore. “I was hoping to learn that the boy had written poetry since grammar school or something equally obvious. Maybe Harris can paint a more complete picture.”

As she reached for the shop’s brass door handle, her cell phone rang.

“It’s Annie Kraus. I thought you might have tried to reach Mr. Cosmo on his mobile. You see, he left it in the dining room and it plays a little song every time it rings, and since I just happened to see your number on the screen, I wanted you to know he’s all right.” She finally took a breath. “Well, he’s not exactly in good shape, but he’s here at the inn.”

Olivia relaxed her outstretched arm. “Thank you. I’ve called him several times since yesterday afternoon but assumed he wanted some time alone so I let it be.”

“He’s been sleeping most of the time away.” Annie sighed heavily. “The poor boy was completely done in what with the funeral home and then his trip to the police station.” She paused. “I’m afraid I didn’t do him any favors. I brought him a nice bottle of Merlot to go with his lamb chops. He polished that one off and asked for another to take to his room. I couldn’t refuse him—the sweet, sad, sad boy.”

“A few hours of oblivion were probably a gift to him,” Olivia stated. “When he feels like himself again, tell him he can call me if he’d like a drink or a meal at The Boot Top.”

“Will do,” Annie replied. “I’m going to brew some peppermint tea and slice up an apple and a banana. The