A Killer Plot (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

the use of the banquet room of her restaurant, The Boot Top Bistro.
    “Just this once,” she informed him firmly. “By your next meeting, I’ll have arranged for a more permanent gathering place.”
    “Splendid!” Camden gushed. “And will your supple slave girl be making her debut at our meeting? Kamila, Queen of the Harem! Ruler of Pharaoh’s ruler.” He chuckled wickedly.
    Olivia smiled at the other end of the phone. Ever since she’d put on her mother’s necklace and awoke each morning to the sounds of hammering, nail guns, shouting, swearing, and salsa music coming from the crew working on the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, she’d felt lighter in spirit than she had in years, but there were limits to how much change she could handle at once. “I think I’ll stick to eavesdropping,” she replied, though part of her longed to take a risk and open her work up to criticism. “I’m not quite ready to commit”
    “I suspect you’ve said that phrase many times in your life,” Camden commented without judgment. “Darling, life is messy, but sometimes it’s fun to get a little dirty . Spread your wings, jump off the diving board, make mud pies—I’ll keep going with these clichés until you agree.”
    “Save them for your book,” Olivia parried playfully and then changed the subject. “What about food?”
    “Oh, whip us up some tapas-type tidbits,” Camden ordered casually. “I’ll treat this time, since we’ll be celebrating our freedom from all things Andrew Lloyd Webber.”
    They discussed the meeting time and then said good-bye, but not before Camden threatened to call Fodor’s and AAA and complain about cutting his tongue on a shard of shell found in The Boot Top’s clam chowder if Olivia didn’t agree to become a member of the Bayside Book Writers.
    Olivia hissed, “You wouldn’t!”
    “I won’t, because you’re going to be at the meeting. I won’t make you read this time, but consider it your only reprieve.” Olivia heard the smile in Camden’s voice. “I told you, my blond Amazon, we need one another.”
    Feeling momentarily expansive, Olivia answered, “As I’m being forced against my will, then I might as well see to the drinks. I can’t sit through any more heaving bosoms without bourbon.”
    “Purely medicinal,” Camden agreed readily and hung up.
     
     
    A few evenings later, Olivia realized that the food she had chosen to serve the writers was completely wrong.
    Michel, her chef, had outdone himself in producing a selection of succulent hors d’oeuvres. When a waiter had delivered the polished silver trays laden with black truffle canapes, smoked salmon roulades, prosciutto and gruyere pinwheels, shrimp won tons, and lamb meatballs in a pinot noir sauce, Olivia had been pleased with the artistic arrangement of the epicurean fare. But for a reason she could not fathom, the food had barely been touched by the author hopefuls gathered in the private banquet room.
    Should I have served beer instead of wine? Olivia second-guessed her decision to decant two bottles of Meritage. Were the vintages too cigar box to the taste, too fruity, or overly hefty for her guests’ palates? They had barely sipped from their Reidel tumblers.
    Olivia’s hands itched to be wrapped around a glass filled with half a finger’s worth of twenty-five-year-old Chivas Regal, her customary evening intoxicant. Having become rather immune to the comfort or contentment of other people (unless they were patrons of The Boot Top), Olivia found her desire to gratify these strangers unsettling.
    I should have ordered Dominos and served wine in the box, she thought, growing more irritated by the moment. The silence in the room was cloying and she distracted herself by fiddling with the floral centerpiece. That done, she checked her watch again. Where the hell is Ford?
    “I suppose we should tell you who we are.” The husky, melodious voice emanated from the exotic, part-Asian beauty whose black hair was now pink striped. Her dark brows were pierced with rows of silver hoops and she wore a diamond nose stud. She was attired in a short plaid skirt, a faded Hello Kitty shirt, and black leather boots. “Name’s Millay Hallowell. Twenty-four years old, artist, and bartender. I’m writing a young adult fantasy novel. You know—the spicy kind where a bunch of sheltered virgins get raped by satyrs and stuff.”
    “Did I hear someone mention being ravished by goat boys?” Camden Ford inquired as