Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

crap. Someone who uses her brain to get ahead. I don’t want Kamila to win this guy over with her body.”
    Olivia nodded. She knew her friends were right, but had no idea how to empower someone who was in essence a slave. She turned to Rawlings, letting him see the look of appeal in her eyes.
    “What does Kamila really want?” he asked softly. “Security? A baby? To be loved by this man? If those are her goals, then I think you’re writing historical romance and not historical fiction.”
    “No, I am not,” Olivia objected. “I don’t know anything about romance. I want my heroine to matter, for her to push the limits of a woman’s place in society. I want female readers to view her as fierce and strong.”
    Millay gestured wildly with her beer bottle. “But she’s neither of those things. She’s spent sixteen chapters reacting to her fate, not creating it. You don’t have a boring bone in your body, but Kamila is limp as a noodle. I’m sorry, Olivia, but I’ve kind of been hoping an asp would slither onto her sleeping mat and bite her in the ass.”
    After a moment’s pause, Olivia burst out laughing. “At least that would breathe life into my deflated plot.” Her smile vanished. “I don’t know how I lost sight of what I wanted for Kamila. There’s nothing at all heroic about her, and I’m not sure how to change that.”
    “I am,” Laurel said. She helped herself to another slice of pizza, keeping them in suspense until she settled back on the sofa.
    Millay gave Laurel a mock salute. “Our star reporter has all the answers. You’ve come a long way, baby.”
    Laurel cocked her head. “You’re comparing me to the Virginia Slims slogan?”
    “Totally. The other day I saw this sweet tote bag decorated with an iron-on of a woman smoking while her laundry was being blown off the line by the wind. She didn’t give a damn. Just stood there, looking all gorgeous and cool and smoking. You’re like that now. I can picture you letting the dirty clothes pile up to the ceiling while you sit at your computer hammering out award-winning articles.”
    Beaming, Laurel poked Millay in the shoulder. “You’re the one who’s signing with an agent, remember? You’re the star.” She turned back to Olivia. “Anyway, what I was going to suggest was that we all go to see Miss Violetta Devereaux at the library next Saturday. We can watch Harris race in the Cardboard Regatta, grab a bite at The Bayside Crab House, and then head over to the library. It’ll be a memorable day.”
    “Who is Violetta Devereaux?” Rawlings asked.
    “She’s a storyteller. A whole bunch of them will be in town next week for their annual retreat,” Laurel explained. “They’re mostly spending time with each other, honing their craft and exchanging new versions of old tales and such, but the
Gazette
and Through the Wardrobe are sponsoring a few events for the public too.”
    Laurel didn’t add Olivia’s name to the list of patrons, and Olivia was relieved that Flynn had heeded her request to let her donation remain anonymous. She was about to ask Laurel for more details when Harris raised a finger.
    “Will it be more like a ghost story or a one-woman play?” Harris said. “I’ll go to anything as long as there are no puppets. I’ve got a thing about puppets.”
    Millay nodded in agreement.
    “Listen,” Laurel said. “Violetta is quite possibly the most famous storyteller of our time. Apparently, she tells such a compelling tale that you’ll forget where you are when she starts speaking. She’s inspired dozens of novelists, poets, and songwriters—not to mention other kinds of artists. People say it’s impossible not to be forever changed after attending one of her performances.”
    Harris was clearly intrigued. “Whoa, that’s serious.”
    “Hell, yeah,” Millay agreed and sent a fleeting smile his way. “I bet this Violetta could teach us a thing or two about building drama. I’m in.”
    Laurel looked at Olivia. “What do you think?”
    “It sounds like she’s taken the key components of fiction and boiled them down until only the most essential elements are left. That’s what I need to figure out. What is it that pulls the reader in and then refuses to let go? If Violetta can show me how to do that, then I’ll listen to her all night long.”
    • • •
    The day of the Cardboard Regatta began with a hazy sky and cloying humidity. Olivia skipped her walk altogether, hoping to grab breakfast at