A Killer Plot (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

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