A Killer Plot (7 page)

Now Olivia was certain the chief was being more friendly than necessary. “I’m mulling it over, Chief. But right now, I need to get these paintings home. Thank you for loading them, but if you’ll excuse me...”

“You need to go home
after
you visit Mr. McNulty, you mean,” Rawlings reminded her with a teasing smile. “He had some fine recommendations for me.”

“And what do you read? Police procedurals? Mafia thrillers?” Olivia lightly mocked the lawman as she turned on her engine.

Unperturbed, the chief pointed his finger at her. “I see you tend to pigeonhole, Ms. Limoges. I read everything, including the books you mentioned, but my latest Amazon box contained some classic literature, poetry, and cook-books. But it looks as though my online ordering is over now that Mr. McNulty’s here. Have a nice day, ma’am.” With a subtle bow, the chief walked away.

“Remarkable. Our chief is an interesting character,” Olivia announced and then drove to the western fringe of town where Flynn McNulty had converted the ground floor of a former commercial fishing supply warehouse into his new bookstore. Upon passing through the wooden doors, Olivia expected her olfactory senses to be assailed by the taint of old fish and saltwater, but she smelled Murphy Oil Soap instead. The inviting aroma was only the beginning of the pleasant surprises. Without doubt, she had stepped inside a reader’s paradise.

The front portion of the store contained oversized antique wardrobes. Standing shoulder to shoulder, these massive pieces of vintage furniture had their doors thrown open, inviting browsers to glance inside at the treasures held within. Rare books, coffee table books, art books brimming with color plates, and signed first editions took residence in the polished interiors made of walnut and southern yellow pine. Small framed signs describing the contents of each case had been tastefully mounted in the center of each wardrobe’s crown molding.

“I’m hoping to see your works in this armoire one day.” Flynn had appeared silently next to Olivia. He now gestured at a stunning English oak arts and crafts wardrobe that bore the sign: “Coastal North Carolina History / Local Authors.”

“Where did you find all of these incredible pieces?” Olivia asked in admiration.

Flynn gazed at his collection with pride. “Several belonged to my aunt. The rest I found in antique malls, thrift stores, or at auctions. It took me over a year to clean them all up, and if this place shows a profit, I plan to keep on buying. So far, only the front of the store has wardrobes, but one day, I’d like every book to be displayed like these sections.” He held his arm out in front of his body. “May I give you a tour?”

Olivia paused. “That depends on how you feel about dogs entering your shop.”

“Well-mannered canines are welcome.”

Pleased by his answer, she asked him to wait a moment while she retrieved Haviland from the Range Rover.

“Come in, Captain. We can add this to the list of places that recognizes the superiority of your breed.”

Barking with eagerness, Haviland bounded toward the door and then sat on his haunches, as if to show Olivia that he would be calm and dignified inside the place that smelled, to his finely tuned nose, faintly of fish.

Flynn knelt and held out his hand. “Flynn McNulty. And you are?”

Haviland offered Flynn his right paw.

“This is Captain Haviland,” Olivia made the introductions.

Flynn grinned. “Limoges and Haviland. A fine match. Do you collect porcelain by chance?”

“I have a few pieces,” Olivia replied enigmatically as they walked deeper into the store. Here, standard wooden bookshelves had been bolted into the wall around the perimeter. To the left, Flynn had arranged works of fiction and to the right, nonfiction. The center of the room contained a grouping of upholstered chairs, end tables, and an enormous coffee table. The table was built with a glass top. A drawer slid out from beneath the glass and Flynn had cleverly displayed magazines for sale within the drawer.

“All you need now is a cappuccino machine,” Olivia commented.

“You haven’t read the sign next to the register yet.” Flynn jerked his head toward the front room. “Free coffee with any purchase.” He placed a hand on Haviland’s head. “I can see I’m going to need to buy a jar of dog biscuits as well.”

Haviland licked Flynn’s hand and smiled at him. The trio continued into the back of the building, where a curtain of shimmering fabric made of floor-to-ceiling rainbow stripes created a distinct separation. To gain entry to this area, one had to pass through a particularly wide wardrobe whose feet had been cut down. The doors were propped open and held fast with rows of string tied with colorful bows.

“Those look like kite tails,” Olivia said, fingering a red and white gingham bow.

Flynn’s eyes twinkled, but he said nothing.

Together they walked through the wardrobe and stepped into a world of color. Above their heads, kites, model airplanes, papier-mâché balloons, and glittery stars hung from invisible threads. Beanbags in primary colors were dumped haphazardly on a rug designed to resemble a large box of crayons. Beneath a sign reading “Fantasy Land” was a wooden chest stuffed with pirate hats and eye patches, fairy wings, sparkling wands, and tiaras. Under a sign in gold script that said “Dr. Seuss Stage” was a wooden puppet theater complete with a box of Dr. Seuss character hand puppets. Another station, called “Wild Adventures,” featured a table shaped like a crocodile surrounded by four plush chairs in the form of a lion, a monkey, a zebra, and an elephant. Instrumental music featuring flutes and oboes filled the room with an aura of magical serenity.

Olivia was impressed. “Every mother in Oyster Bay is going to be here when word gets out about this room. And the free coffee.” She made a mental note to tell Laurel.

“I certainly hope so.” Flynn surveyed his handiwork and folded his arms in contentment. “Feel free to browse around and let me know if you need anything.”

Olivia walked around the entire adult section again. She didn’t have much time, but she wanted to buy something from Flynn to show her support. Suddenly, she spied a section of gift books and was attracted to a group of writing journals. The blank pages were lined and the top of every page featured an inspirational quotation on the art of writing. Olivia scooped up six journals and a coffee table book called Outer Banks Edge: A Photographic Portfolio and brought her purchases to the register.

With three customers ahead of her, Olivia had the chance to study Flynn further. He wore a navy polo shirt over khakis and a pair of leather sandals. His movements were relaxed and his smile seemed genuine as he thanked each patron and handed them a disposable coffee cup.

“Pour yourself some of the Wardrobe House Roast,” he ordered good-naturedly. “And next time, feel free to bring your own coffee cup.” He pointed at a rack holding a single coffee cup showing a cardinal sitting on a dogwood branch on a field of cobalt. “Just label it with permanent marker and I promise to take them all home to the dishwasher every night.” He winked at Olivia. “I hope you’ve got a not-so-fine porcelain mug to bring in here.”

“I’m sure I can dig up a suitable cup,” Olivia replied, stunned by the realization that two men had winked at her in the same afternoon. And while Flynn was both interesting and attractive, it wouldn’t do to express undue interest without getting to know him better. For all Olivia knew, the bookstore proprietor was happily married. His ring finger was bare, but she was aware that the lack of jewelry meant nothing. For all she knew, he had a life partner, eleven children, two hamsters, and a parakeet. Putting on her business face, Olivia smiled pleasantly. “Perhaps you can introduce me to some new historical fiction writers when I return.”

“I believe I’m up to that challenge,” Flynn remarked, handing her a receipt and a coffee cup. He then turned his attention to the next customer.

Olivia frowned as she eyed the large coffeemaker. She doubted that the bookstore brew would be to her liking. It certainly wouldn’t be made from Kona beans, but for some reason she didn’t want to offend the good-looking bookstore owner, so she poured herself half a cup. Adding a splash of cream, she took a sip and forced herself not to grimace. The flavor wasn’t unappealing, but it was far too weak for her tastes. Taking the unfinished cup outside, she furtively tossed the remnants into the flower bed.

—ERICA JONG

 

 

 

 

T
he furniture movers were standing, arms folded in irritation, in front of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage when Olivia pulled up behind them.

“Hello, gentlemen. I trust you haven’t been waiting long.” Without pausing for their reply, she unlocked the front doors and hurried inside, eager to inspect the transformed building for the first time. Taking a brief glance at the polished wood floor, she entered the old living room first.

Her decision to cover the dark walls with Benjamin Moore’s Wilmington Tan, with a bright white trim on the windows and wainscoting, had given the room an instant lift. The antique-style bronze sconces and ceiling fan, which spun in a lazy, almost hypnotizing circle of maple blades, added to the room’s new warmth. Olivia was pleased by the transformation.

Stepping back outside, she waved at the disgruntled deliverymen and then proceeded to boss them about until the rug was placed in the exact center of the room and her paintings were hung with mathematical precision. Just as both men were close to throwing their leather gloves on the ground and storming off, Olivia handed them each an envelope containing one hundred dollars in tip money and then inquired if they minded moving some potted ferns from the back porch of the main house.

“You’ll have to put them in the truck. They’re heavy as anchors.”

The men fingered their five, crisp twenties and agreed to the one final task. Soon, they were gone completely and Olivia sat alone in the cottage, which seemed cleansed of poor choices and bad memories.

The past is buried, she thought, pulling Camden’s chapter onto her lap. She uncapped the green pen Harris had given her and continued where she had left off the night before.

Olivia tapped the end of her pen against her lip. She reviewed her notes on the earlier sections of the chapter in which she had complimented Camden on the strength of voice in the first six pages and how well he had conveyed the emotions of his characters. She also suggested that he might incorporate more setting details and questioned the choice of Bradley Talcott’s name.

Isn’t that rather close to the young man’s real name?
she had written on page one.

Frowning, Olivia put down her pen and walked over to the window. She checked her watch and then waved at Haviland. “Let’s grab some dinner before our fellow writers appear.”

An hour later, the members of the Bayside Book Writers began to arrive. Harris was the first to use the polished brass knocker in the shape of a starfish. It looked just like the necklace belonging to Olivia’s mother and Olivia felt it was a fitting memorial to the person she’d cherished most.

When she opened the cottage door to welcome Harris inside, he unsettled Olivia by giving her a hug and a quick, friendly peck on the cheek.

“This place is awesome!” he said, the ruddy skin on his face deepening a shade as he removed his arms from Olivia’s shoulders. “It’s the perfect setting for discussions. We are going to accomplish things here!”

“That’s what I was going for,” Olivia replied with a smile, surprised at how much she had wanted Harris to respond exactly as he had. She hadn’t realized, until the moment the first Oyster Bay member had entered, how much she was looking forward to this meeting.

Millay appeared shortly afterward, wearing a shredded Japanime T-shirt and a purple miniskirt. Her hair was now black and blue and had been styled so that the ends fell in sharp points against her neck. “I hate fresh paint smell,” she said by way of hello. “But it sure beats the diner. I used to walk out of there reeking of bacon.” She looked around. “Cool colors.”

Olivia nodded at the compliment. She offered the pair wine or iced tea, telling them to help themselves and then settled into one of the club chairs. She felt that it was important not to act as hostess.