A Killer Plot (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

sound whacked, but I swear I just saw him as I drove past Fish Nets.”
    “Doing what?” Olivia inquired. “Aren’t we here to critique his chapter?”
    Blowing the bangs from her eyes, Millay shrugged. “Maybe he wanted to toss back a shot before we ripped into his writing.”
    Olivia doubted that. “Then you saw him go inside?”
    “Yeah, pretty much.” Millay swished wine around in her mouth as though she were using mouthwash. “He was reaching out for the door when I drove by. If that was even him, but I don’t know too many other guys who’d wear a pink shirt and white pants.”
    “We’ll give him fifteen minutes. Twenty at the most. That should give him plenty of time to finish whatever he’s doing in that place,” Olivia stated crossly. She’d been anxious for Camden’s opinion on her redecorating and was disappointed to have to wait for his special brand of enthusiastic praise.
    “This cottage is lovely.” Laurel cradled her glass of Chablis and looked around appreciatively. Digging a sheaf of crumpled pages from what appeared to be a diaper bag, she inquired, “Do you all think Blake Talbot is really like Camden’s character? I mean—the drugs, the girls, the drinking—that seems like regular rock star behavior, but Bradley seemed really dark.”
    “And angry,” Harris agreed.
    The group talked animatedly about Camden’s chapter until Olivia finally interrupted by saying, “This is ridiculous! We’re starting the critique without the author.”
    Harris checked his watch. “Guess his fifteen minutes are up.”
    “Kind of like fame,” Millay muttered under her breath. “Well, let’s go drag his white-pants-wearing ass out of Fish Nets. For once in my life, I did my homework. I put time into this thing and I’m not letting my efforts go to waste.” She shook the paper sheaves.
    “I’ve always wanted to see the inside of that bar,” Harris stated sheepishly. “But my friends are all afraid to go there.”
    Laurel also seemed frightened by the suggestion and looked to Olivia for guidance.
    Olivia recalled her declaration that she’d never cross the bar’s threshold, but she was so befuddled and irritated by Camden’s behavior that she decided the gossip writer owed them an explanation. Hadn’t she gone through plenty of energy and expense to prepare this cottage for his writing group?
    Rising from her chair, like a monarch preparing to utter a declaration of war, she pulled her car keys from her pocket and gave them an angry shake. Her poodle leapt to his feet at the sound. “Come along, Haviland.” Olivia marched to the front door. “We’re going into town.”
     
     
    Millay led her friends into Fish Nets with the sort of pride one exhibits when inviting another person into a well-ordered and attractive home. Olivia was relieved she’d decided to leave Haviland in the car because she was certain he would have been unhappy over having to breathe the smoke-polluted air while walking on such a disgusting floor. The gray cement had turned nearly black with the sticky grime of spilled beer, cigarette ash, discarded chewing gum, and mucus. It was a foul film that could never completely be cleansed off.
    The decorations were exactly what one would except in a bar named Fish Nets. Cracked buoys, faded life jackets, and life rings no doubt stolen from dry docks up and down the North Carolina coast were haphazardly grouped with an array of plastic lobsters, fish, and rusty, menacing hooks. Photographs of sports fishermen exhibiting their finned prizes by the gills were nearly obscured by thick coats of ash-flecked dust.
    “Any sign of Camden?” Harris asked nervously as they all looked around.
    Millay was right, Olivia thought. A man with white pants and a pink shirt would never blend in with the bar’s regulars.
    Fish Nets was filled with Oyster Bay’s working-class citizens. Some of their faces, the fishermen in particular, were dark and wrinkled as walnut shells. The women had long stringy hair, tight jeans, and generous amounts of exposed cleavage. The conversation of the patrons closest to the door came to an abrupt halt when the group of writers arrived.
    “These your friends, Millay?” A fat woman with a rose tattoo curling up the side of her neck laughed.
    “Hey, Darla. Yeah, they’re with me, but I gotta go talk to Mack, so catch you later.” Millay wove her way toward the bar and began to shout at the bartender over the music, which was louder on the