A Killer Plot (2010)

up a solid recommendation.

“I don’t know, Captain.” Olivia concentrated on her omelet, trying to imagine reading page after page of grammatically incorrect, verbose claptrap, or florid romances such as the woman Laurel was penning. “I wonder what the rest of them are writing?” she asked her dining companion and stole a glance at the writer’s group.

In addition to Laurel, there was a stunning young woman with glossy black hair tarnished by stripes of electric purple. She had large, sable-brown eyes and tea-hued skin, which she had pierced in multiple locations as though she’d deliberately set out to mar her exotic beauty. She wore a tight tank top embroidered with a pirate’s flag, and her exposed arms were muscular and sinewy. Olivia had no difficulty picturing the girl creeping out at night in the form of a sleek black panther.

Sitting across from her was a young man in his mid to late twenties with a dramatic case of rosacea. His unfortunate skin condition precluded one from seeing that he was handsome, in a boyish way. With his elfin eyes, brilliant smile, and waves of reddish, unkempt hair, he reminded Olivia of Peter Pan.

The well-groomed, middle-aged man in the expensive peach silk shirt completed the assemblage of writers.

As Olivia blatantly stared at them, the man in peach caught her looking. He murmured something to his group and they quickly dispersed, their laughter trailing them out the door. He then settled onto the stool next to Olivia’s and began to study her as she renewed her pretense of being fascinated by the day’s news.

“I come in peace,” the man said and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “In fact, Dixie advised me to speak to you, but to use extreme caution.” He smiled, showing off a row of chemically whitened and perfectly straight teeth. “She spoke as though I’d be approaching a coiled cobra instead of the vision of feminine power and beauty that sits beside me.”

Haviland whined and the man laughed. “Oh, you’re right, friend. I’m laying it on too thick. But seriously.” He focused on Olivia again. “Dixie says you might be able to solve our problem.” He looked pained. “Our little critique group is looking for a new place to meet. I simply cannot concentrate within miles of that Jesus Christ Superstar poster.”

Amused, Olivia struggled to keep her expression neutral as she openly assessed her neighbor. “What do you write?”

“I pen a celebrity gossip column. Under a female pseudonym, of course. Ever heard of Milano Cruise? That’s me. But don’t go shouting that from the rooftops or I’ll be out of a job.” He wiggled a pair of neatly curved brows. “Most of my stories find their way onto the Internet. Milano’s MySpace page is one of the most popular in the world.”

“You hardly need a critique group for that kind of work,” Olivia said with a dismissive wave of her fork.

“No, indeed,” the man agreed with a laugh. “I must confess that I’m quite good at my craft. However, I’m spending the summer in Oyster Bay in order to work on a top secret story. You see, it’s my intention to create a fictionalized biography of sorts. Names and dates changed—that sort of thing.” He lowered his voice. “Everyone would know who I was writing about, but I can’t get sued this way, you see?” He cleared his throat and puffed his chest out. “There are just piles of money waiting to be made on my idea.”

Olivia found herself warming toward the man. Firstly, Haviland seemed comfortable in his presence, and Olivia found him refreshingly candid. Most importantly, he was well mannered and clearly intelligent. “I have a banquet room in my restaurant, but it would be rather costly. How often do you meet Mr.... ?”

“Camden Ford, at your service.” He bowed his head in exaggerated gallantry. “We’ve only had two meetings, but we’d like to gather once a week. And costly isn’t really the adjective to which I was aspiring.”

“What about the library?”

“Those spectacled harpies won’t let us partake of any alcohol.” He smirked. “How can we be proper writers without booze? Coffee and eggs are not acceptable substitutes for old scotch or a fine cabernet. Also, two of my fellow writers have scheduling conflicts with morning meetings. One has to care for a pair of imps in diapers while the other sleeps until noon so she can work the night away sliding beer bottles across a dirty, sweating bar to equally dirty, sweaty mean.”

A laugh escaped Olivia’s throat. She felt inclined to introduce herself and Haviland to the entertaining newcomer.

“Limoges?” he asked in interest. “As in the fine porcelain?”

Pleased, Olivia nodded. “My family name comes from the French city where the porcelain was produced.”

“’Tis also the birthplace of my favorite comic hero, Asterix, mais non?” Camden stirred sugar into his coffee. “So are you a fabulously wealthy porcelain heiress?”

“Oak barrel heiress, actually.” Olivia passed him the cream. “The kind specially produced for storing fine cognac.”

Camden looked dutifully impressed. He then made a sweeping gesture with his arms. “Oyster Bay’s not the type of town where I’d expect to meet someone like you. Unless you’re hiding from a sordid past? An abusive lover? The IRS... ?”

Olivia disregarded his speculations. “We’re hardly Beverly Hills gossip material either. There’s neither a renowned plastic surgery center here nor an exclusive detox facility, so whose trail are you following?”

After taking a dainty sip of coffee, Camden winked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Indeed she would. Olivia liked to be informed about the goings-on in her town, no matter how insignificant. “Do tell.” She came close to pleading and then decided to come off as unconvinced. “There can hardly be any celebrity news to be gleaned in Oyster Bay.”

“That is where you’re mistaken, dear lady.” He rose. “Come, let’s move to a booth where I can gaze into your Adriatic blue eyes.”

Olivia took her coffee and laptop and relocated to the vacated window booth. As soon as they were settled, Haviland ducked under the table, stretched out his front legs, and put his head on Camden’s shoe. Olivia was surprised. It normally took the poodle quite a while before he felt comfortable with a stranger. The gossip writer seemed content to provide a pillow for the groggy canine. “Do you know the Talbot family?” he asked.

“Certainly. The Talbots are real estate developers.”

“Not developers. Tycoons. Think big. As in Donald Trump big.” Camden lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “That’s just the parents. There are three kiddies too. The daughter designs haute couture and sleeps with NFL quarterbacks. The older son likes snorting coke and fondling beautiful young men, and the baby boy is the lead singer of a hot punk band. He’s nailed half the starlets on E!’s up-and-coming list, and I know for a fact that he’s brought his latest paramour here, to the Talbot beach house. Oh, and did I mention that the gorgeous creature he’s wooing is barely legal? And she’s appearing in two big-budget films this summer after wrapping a third season as the star of a hit television show?” He crossed his arms smugly. “Manolo Cruise will dine off this story for years, thank you very much.”

“Are the Talbots the family you plan to write about in your novel?”

Camden put a finger to his lips. “Absolutement. I wrote the first three chapters on the plane from LA to DC, but I require help choosing which of the so very, very juicy, dark, and scandalous events I should focus my poison pen upon.” He stroked Haviland’s soft ears, and both man and poodle sighed contentedly. “Madame Limoges, we need an alcoholic haven in which our creativity can flow. Dixie mentioned an unused cottage on your property. An isolated lighthouse keeper’s house with the ambiance sure to encourage even the most reluctant of muses. Would you open it up to us for an hour or two each week?”

Olivia signaled Dixie angrily with her eyes. “That place has been uninhabited for years. It’s falling apart— utterly unsuitable for your purpose at this point in time.”

“At this point in time,” Camden repeated. “Dixie also relayed that your work in progress is historical fiction and that you’ve reached an impasse.” He looked at Olivia warmly. “We need one another, my dear. Join the dark side. Sweep the dust out of that cottage, share your manuscript, and let’s hit the bestseller list together.” He reached over and gave her forearm a playful swat. “Don’t pout, ma cherie. It’ll be fun. I’ll handle all the insipid, organizational stuff.”

Olivia was silent for a long time. It was impossible to remain unaffected by Camden’s charm. “I’ll think about both offers,” she promised sincerely.