A Killer Plot (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

speculations. “We’re hardly Beverly Hills gossip material either. There’s neither a renowned plastic surgery center here nor an exclusive detox facility, so whose trail are you following?”
    After taking a dainty sip of coffee, Camden winked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
    Indeed she would. Olivia liked to be informed about the goings-on in her town, no matter how insignificant. “Do tell.” She came close to pleading and then decided to come off as unconvinced. “There can hardly be any celebrity news to be gleaned in Oyster Bay.”
    “That is where you’re mistaken, dear lady.” He rose. “Come, let’s move to a booth where I can gaze into your Adriatic blue eyes.”
    Olivia took her coffee and laptop and relocated to the vacated window booth. As soon as they were settled, Haviland ducked under the table, stretched out his front legs, and put his head on Camden’s shoe. Olivia was surprised. It normally took the poodle quite a while before he felt comfortable with a stranger. The gossip writer seemed content to provide a pillow for the groggy canine. “Do you know the Talbot family?” he asked.
    “Certainly. The Talbots are real estate developers.”
    “Not developers. Tycoons. Think big. As in Donald Trump big.” Camden lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “That’s just the parents. There are three kiddies too. The daughter designs haute couture and sleeps with NFL quarterbacks. The older son likes snorting coke and fondling beautiful young men, and the baby boy is the lead singer of a hot punk band. He’s nailed half the starlets on E!’s up-and-coming list, and I know for a fact that he’s brought his latest paramour here, to the Talbot beach house. Oh, and did I mention that the gorgeous creature he’s wooing is barely legal? And she’s appearing in two big-budget films this summer after wrapping a third season as the star of a hit television show?” He crossed his arms smugly. “Manolo Cruise will dine off this story for years, thank you very much.”
    “Are the Talbots the family you plan to write about in your novel?”
    Camden put a finger to his lips. “Absolutement. I wrote the first three chapters on the plane from LA to DC, but I require help choosing which of the so very, very juicy, dark, and scandalous events I should focus my poison pen upon.” He stroked Haviland’s soft ears, and both man and poodle sighed contentedly. “Madame Limoges, we need an alcoholic haven in which our creativity can flow. Dixie mentioned an unused cottage on your property. An isolated lighthouse keeper’s house with the ambiance sure to encourage even the most reluctant of muses. Would you open it up to us for an hour or two each week?”
    Olivia signaled Dixie angrily with her eyes. “That place has been uninhabited for years. It’s falling apart—utterly unsuitable for your purpose at this point in time.”
    “At this point in time,” Camden repeated. “Dixie also relayed that your work in progress is historical fiction and that you’ve reached an impasse.” He looked at Olivia warmly. “We need one another, my dear. Join the dark side. Sweep the dust out of that cottage, share your manuscript, and let’s hit the bestseller list together.” He reached over and gave her forearm a playful swat. “Don’t pout, ma chérie. It’ll be fun. I’ll handle all the insipid, organizational stuff.”
    Olivia was silent for a long time. It was impossible to remain unaffected by Camden’s charm. “I’ll think about both offers,” she promised sincerely.
    “I have long since learned to take all I can get. Do call me if you’re willing to take a chance, my dazzling, halo-haired Duchess of Oyster Bay.” Camden placed a business card next to her water glass and then gently slid his foot out from beneath Haviland’s snout. “Excuse me, my fine sir.”
    Olivia watched him walk away, strangely conflicted by the encounter. Camden was quite charismatic and she would enjoy spending more time in his company. But to commit to his group required some adjustments on her part. For one, such a change meant she’d have to walk into the home of her childhood. A structure haunted by loneliness and loss.
    “Is Dixie right? Am I living with ghosts?” she murmured to the snoozing poodle. “Perhaps I am, or near enough anyway. Perhaps the time has come for an exorcism.”
    Olivia examined herself in the reflection of the mirror lining the back wall. She didn’t see the handsome,