A Killer Plot (2010)

Chapter 1

Writers should be read, but neither seen nor heard.

—DAPHNE DU MAURIER

Two of Oyster Bay’s lifelong citizens were in line at the Stop ‘n’ Shop, gossiping over carts stuffed with frozen entrées, potato chips, boxes of Krispy Kremes, and liters of soda when Olivia Limoges breezed through the market’s automatic doors.

“Here she comes, Darlene. The grouchiest woman on the entire North Carolina coast,” the first woman remarked, jerking her head toward the produce department.

“And the richest.” Darlene watched as Olivia examined a pyramid of peaches, turning the fruit around and caressing the flushed, velvet skin of each golden orb before placing it in her cart. “She’s good-lookin’ enough. Doesn’t have the curves most men wanna hold on to at night, but with all that money, you’d think she could net at least one fish.”

“She might have more money than Oprah, but she ain’t exactly a ray of sunshine,” her companion pointed out. “Half the town’s scared of her.”

“That’s because half the town works for her, Sue Ellen.” Darlene pulled a sour face as her friend dumped a family-sized Stouffer’s lasagna on the moving belt.

“She ever smile at you, Mandy?” the woman named Sue Ellen questioned the cashier.

Mandy cracked her gum and shrugged. “Ms. Olivia is nice enough, I reckon.”

“Maybe she likes younger men. You know, one of those male models or somethin’. Or maybe she wants ’em to be rich and speak three languages and be as high and mighty as she is. She’s too fussy if you ask me. That’s why she doesn’t have a man,” Sue Ellen whispered, clearly impressed with her own insight as the cashier ran her friend’s check through the register. “Who knows what’s goin’ on in that big ole house of hers?”

Darlene’s dull brown eyes turned misty. “If I had all that money, I’d go on one of those cruises with them chocolate buffets. You ever heard of such an amazin’ thing? Whole fountains of chocolate! You can dunk strawberries or cookies or little bits of cake right in ’em. Lordy! I’d eat chocolate until I couldn’t move.”

Sue Ellen unloaded two jumbo-sized bags of potato chips and a bouquet of scentless carnations onto the belt. “She oughta give back to the community. After all, she grew up in Oyster Bay. Lots of folks kept an eye on her when her daddy was off on one of his trips.”

“Which trips?” Darlene snorted cruelly. “The fishin’ trips or the ones where he drifted along the coast with a net in the water and a case of whiskey by his side?”

“Either one. With her mama passin’ on when she was still at such a tender age, that girl needed folks to look in on her. I recall my mama bringin’ her a tuna casserole more than once. And how about that lighthouse cottage?” Sue Ellen was becoming flushed in righteous indignation. “The way she’s lettin’ it fall to pieces—it’s a disgrace! She should fix it up and let the town use it. It’s not our fault her daddy left her all alone out on that boat in the middle of a storm for—”

Bam! The woman’s words stuck in her throat as a twenty-pound bag of lams Premium dog food was slapped onto the belt, instantly flattening the potato chips and the tight cluster of carnations.

“Good morning, Mandy.” The tall woman with white blond hair greeted the cashier as though the other customers did not exist. “Just the peaches and the dog food, please. And whatever you’ve already scanned from my neighbor’s cart. You can charge me for the chips and flowers twice, seeing as they’ll both have to be replaced.”

Mandy nodded, biting back a smile. She rang up Olivia’s fruit and kibble as well as the other woman’s frozen dinners, rump roast, potato chips, flowers, cookie dough ice cream, and maxi pads. Olivia swiped a credit card through the reader, shouldered the dog food bag as though it was filled with helium, grabbed her peaches, and wished Mandy a pleasant day.

She walked out of the store, squinting as the sun bore down on her. She slid glasses over eyes that had been fiery with anger a moment ago but had now returned to a placid, lake-water blue.

Inside her Range Rover, Captain Haviland, her black-furred standard poodle, barked out a hello.

“You may find that a portion of your kibble’s been pulverized into crumbs, Captain. I’m afraid my temper got the better of me.” Olivia gunned the engine, drove seven blocks north, and swung into an available handicapped parking space. Haviland barked again and added an accusatory sniff.

“It’s tourist season. There’s no place else to park and if I do get ticketed, that’ll just add more funds to the community treasure chest. Apparently, I don’t give back enough,” Olivia snidely informed her dog and together, they marched into Grumpy’s Diner. Olivia established herself at the counter, ordered coffee, and perused the headlines of The Washington Post. However, her concentration was repeatedly broken by a group of people seated at the diner’s largest booth. They were tossing out words like “dialogue,” “point of view,” and “setting,” and since Olivia had been trying to write a book on and off for the past five years, her curiosity was aroused.

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 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, Astérix, 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 chérie. 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.

“I have long since learned to take all I can get. Do call me if you’re willing to take a chance, my dazzling, halo-haired Duchess of Oyster Bay.” Camden placed a business card next to her water glass and then gently slid his foot out from beneath Haviland’s snout. “Excuse me, my fine sir.”

Olivia watched him walk away, strangely conflicted by the encounter. Camden was quite charismatic and she would enjoy spending more time in his company. But to commit to his group required some adjustments on her part. For one, such a change meant she’d have to walk into the home of her childhood. A structure haunted by loneliness and loss.

“Is Dixie right? Am I living with ghosts?” she murmured to the snoozing poodle. “Perhaps I am, or near enough anyway. Perhaps the time has come for an exorcism.”

Olivia examined herself in the reflection of the mirror lining the back wall. She didn’t see the handsome, confident woman her neighbors saw, but a skinny, frightened, and friendless child with white blond hair and eyes that spoke of the sea’s secret depths.

Blinking, Olivia passed her hand across her face, as though she were wiping it away in the mirror. She nodded to her reflection and Haviland stirred as his mistress squared her shoulders and came to a decision.

Her purposeful feet might not have carried her so lightly through the door had she known that one of the diners she’d seen at Grumpy’s that morning would soon be dead.

And it would be a death the likes of which the residents of Oyster Bay could never have imagined.