A Killer Plot (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

loaded. How do you stay in business?”
    Pleased to note that the restaurant was nearly full, Olivia took Millay’s question seriously. “There are quite a few tourists here tonight. We’re always busy from May to October, especially since that famous article about Oyster Bay’s appeal appeared in Time. In the winter, things will slow down, but as you said, people come here for birthdays and anniversaries and such. We also host Christmas parties for many local businesses. And we cater.”
    She looked around at the glazed ochre walls, which were covered by enormous paintings of wine bottles, at the pristine white cloths, and the terra-cotta hued napkin fans on the few unoccupied tables. Votive candles shone through cylinders of dark amber cut glass made in Indonesia. The same shade of amber formed a thick stripe of paint on the walls and seemed to subtly box in the diners, creating an atmosphere of warm elegance with a hint of exclusivity.
    “Interesting,” Millay replied and Olivia couldn’t tell whether she was sincere. “But don’t you think you should consider some cooler music? This soft jazz stuff reminds me of the dentist. I do like the name though. Boot Top. I dig boots.” She lifted both her ankles so that Olivia could admire her lace-up, stiletto-heeled, leather footwear, but Olivia was distracted by the arrival of an unfamiliar middle-aged man.
    “Two fingers of Glenfiddich. No ice, please,” he told Gabe in a pleasant baritone.
    Millay noticed the newcomer in the mirror behind the bar and pivoted in her seat. “What about you?” She grinned flirtatiously. “Do you like my boot tops?”
    The stranger smiled at her but didn’t take his lead gray eyes from her face. “I believe the boot top in this case refers to the russet line on the walls.”
    Looking perplexed, Millay didn’t respond, but Olivia locked eyes with the man and said, “Are you familiar with nautical terms Mr.... ?”
    “McNulty. Flynn McNulty.” Flynn stood in order to shake hands with Olivia. “My knowledge of maritime matters is limited, but I believe that a boot top is the painted line just above the waterline on a seafaring vessel. Am I at least near the mark?”
    “You’re spot-on, Mr. McNulty.” Olivia examined him over the lip of her tumbler.
    Flynn assessed her simultaneously. “Another whiskey drinker?” He raised his glass in a salute. “I may actually be able to live in this town after all.”
    Millay snorted, a noise that seemed incongruent with her beauty. “It’ll take more than booze to make Oyster Bay look good. Where did you live before?”
    “Just outside of Raleigh in the Research Triangle Park area. I’m retiring from cubicle land in order to open a book-shop here. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do and an aunt of mine was kind enough to leave me a small inheritance. I read about the town’s building boom, and since the closest Barnes and Noble is over fifty miles away, I figured this was as fine a place as any to risk it all.”
    Olivia tried to ignore the quickening of her blood. A bookstore was her idea of paradise, but she’d preferred to browse in other people’s shops in place of opening one of her own. She turned to tell Camden the news but saw that he was too engaged in flirting with the bartender to be diverted by anything she could say.
    “Did you say something about books?” Harris inquired, seeking to join their conversation.
    “Shelves of them. I’m out tonight to celebrate. My shop, Through the Wardrobe, will open its doors this Saturday. I was planning on a hugely publicized grand opening in about two weeks, but my stock arrived sooner than expected.” He shrugged. “Now I’ll just hang up some balloons and count on word-of-mouth advertising.”
    Millay pulled a face. “In this town, you’ll get more word-of-mouth than you can stand, believe me.”
    “It’s so awesome that you named your place after a C.S. Lewis novel!” Delighted, Harris finally tore his eyes from Millay’s shapely legs and gave the newcomer his full attention. The two men launched into a discourse on the multifaceted subject matter tackled within The Chronicles of Narnia.
    Clearly displeased over being ignored in favor of C.S. Lewis, Millay poked Flynn in the fleshy part of his thigh. “You might be stocking our books someday, you know. We’re all writers.”
    “In that case, I’d better learn everyone’s names,” Flynn replied gallantly.
    By the time the assembly had consumed three