The Last Word (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

Haviland headed home. Instead of going inside, the pair strolled along the beach. Olivia removed her shoes and stepped into the cold water, staring at the distant lights of the boats in the harbor and the illuminated windows of town buildings.
    Olivia considered Laurel’s words about the celebrity writer. Was Plumley lonely? Had she completely misjudged him? Being a writer could be a lonely existence, and not everyone cherished solitude like she did. Perhaps he was looking for a little companionship.
    By the time Haviland was ready to call it a night, Olivia had grown bored of brooding.
    “I’m a hypocrite,” she told the poodle. “Just because Plumley’s rich and acts a bit eccentric doesn’t mean he’s full of character flaws. People have judged me by the same standards and I’ve resented them for it. Starting tomorrow, I will try to get to know Nick Plumley. Maybe then, he’ll willingly share his secrets.”
    After kissing Haviland on the nose, Olivia collected her shoes and turned toward home, where she planned to slip between her cool, clean sheets and allow the whisper of the surf to ease her into a dreamless sleep.
    It would be the last restful night she would have for a long time to come.

Chapter 5
    It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.
    —OSCAR WILDE

    B y Tuesday, Olivia hadn’t even looked at the chapter she was supposed to e-mail to her critique group by Friday morning. The Bayside Crab House was set to have its grand opening on Friday night, and a million tiny details had to be seen to before the mayor cut the yellow ribbon and eager diners were treated to a half-price menu and a free pint of beer.
    From the beginning, Olivia decided that the crab house would not accept reservations. The new hostess was trained to create a wait list and encourage hungry patrons to linger in the bar until their names were called. It was a time-honored trick in the restaurant business to funnel customers into the bar, as the sale of alcohol was more profitable than that of the food. Of course Olivia planned to sell a great deal of both and hoped to create a loyal customer base like The Boot Top Bistro enjoyed.
    After a brisk walk on the beach, Olivia drove into town and headed to Grumpy’s for breakfast, which she planned to follow by a marathon writing session. She dined on a short stack of fluffy whole-wheat pancakes bursting with tart raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries. Haviland filled his belly with scrambled eggs and beef and then stretched out on the floor to take a nap. Olivia smiled indulgently as the poodle got comfortably settled, and then booted up her laptop. She read the last couple of paragraphs she’d written and the diner quickly faded away as the world of her Egyptian courtesan drew her in.
    In Olivia’s previous chapter, the mighty and powerful pharaoh, Ramses the Great, had decided to include Kamila in the small entourage accompanying him on a trip to Thebes. The king planned to inspect the progress of his tomb and to make certain that the priests he’d hired to care for the tomb of his father, Seti I, were being diligent in their duties.
    Kamila traveled with the other high-ranking servants and did not see the king. She wasn’t called to Pharaoh’s tent until the third night of their stay in Thebes, and only then was she washed, oiled, perfumed, and dressed in a nearly transparent white shift. A wig was placed on her shaved head, and her eyes were rimmed with kohl and painted with a powder of green malachite. Lastly, a ring of lotus blossoms encircled her neck. The king was particularly fond of the flower’s heady scent.
    Olivia was so lost in the scene that the sounds of clinking silverware and conversation fell away. Raising her hands, she began to type.
    The tent of Ramses II was richly decorated. Lush carpets covered the ground, and chairs, tables, and a bed made of ebony and gold stood against the rear wall. Servants had laid out bowls of honeyed dates and pitchers of water and wine. Incense burned in every corner, and Kamila felt a little dizzy as she fell to her knees and prostrated before the Living God.
    “Come,” he told her in his rich voice. He gestured at a rug made of leopard pelts. “Sit.”
    Kamila did as Pharaoh commanded, keeping her shift drawn demurely over her legs. She was a concubine and belonged to the king, but since he had never claimed his right, she felt like a shy child in his presence. It was true that Ramses called her