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Authors: Ellery Adams

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BOOK: A Killer Plot
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“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.”
BOOK: A Killer Plot
2.19Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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