A Killer Plot Read Free

fourteen.”
    Dixie whistled. “That ain’t too early to be a conniving slut. You walked into a high school lately?” Turning to nod at her impatient Phantom customer, Dixie said, “It seems to me that you’d describe the palace at this point in your story. How did folks treat this girl? Where is she sleepin’? Did she get a bunch of fancy clothes and jewelry when she moved in? Does everybody hate her ’cause she’s the new girl? Are the other girls from foreign places? What does she eat? Folks love to read about food, ya know.”
    Olivia cut off a corner of her omelet. “I wish you’d read what I’ve written so far. I think you’ve got an editorial ear.”
    “No chance in hell, ‘Livia. You’re one of the few people I call friend. I am not gonna mess with what we’ve got by pullin’ apart your novel.” Dixie turned away. “If you want to get someone’s opinion, get off your rump and go talk to that writer’s group. I’m tellin’ you, they are what you need.”
    Haviland opened his eyes wide and made a sneezing noise—a signal to Olivia that his canine ears had picked up a solid recommendation.
    “I don’t know, Captain.” Olivia concentrated on her omelet, trying to imagine reading page after page of grammatically incorrect, verbose claptrap, or florid romances such as the woman Laurel was penning. “I wonder what the rest of them are writing?” she asked her dining companion and stole a glance at the writer’s group.
    In addition to Laurel, there was a stunning young woman with glossy black hair tarnished by stripes of electric purple. She had large, sable-brown eyes and tea-hued skin, which she had pierced in multiple locations as though she’d deliberately set out to mar her exotic beauty. She wore a tight tank top embroidered with a pirate’s flag, and her exposed arms were muscular and sinewy. Olivia had no difficulty picturing the girl creeping out at night in the form of a sleek black panther.
    Sitting across from her was a young man in his mid to late twenties with a dramatic case of rosacea. His unfortunate skin condition precluded one from seeing that he was handsome, in a boyish way. With his elfin eyes, brilliant smile, and waves of reddish, unkempt hair, he reminded Olivia of Peter Pan.
    The well-groomed, middle-aged man in the expensive peach silk shirt completed the assemblage of writers.
    As Olivia blatantly stared at them, the man in peach caught her looking. He murmured something to his group and they quickly dispersed, their laughter trailing them out the door. He then settled onto the stool next to Olivia’s and began to study her as she renewed her pretense of being fascinated by the day’s news.
    “I come in peace,” the man said and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “In fact, Dixie advised me to speak to you, but to use extreme caution.” He smiled, showing off a row of chemically whitened and perfectly straight teeth. “She spoke as though I’d be approaching a coiled cobra instead of the vision of feminine power and beauty that sits beside me.”
    Haviland whined and the man laughed. “Oh, you’re right, friend. I’m laying it on too thick. But seriously.” He focused on Olivia again. “Dixie says you might be able to solve our problem.” He looked pained. “Our little critique group is looking for a new place to meet. I simply cannot concentrate within miles of that Jesus Christ Superstar poster.”
    Amused, Olivia struggled to keep her expression neutral as she openly assessed her neighbor. “What do you write?”
    “I pen a celebrity gossip column. Under a female pseudonym, of course. Ever heard of Milano Cruise? That’s me. But don’t go shouting that from the rooftops or I’ll be out of a job.” He wiggled a pair of neatly curved brows. “Most of my stories find their way onto the Internet. Milano’s MySpace page is one of the most popular in the world.”
    “You hardly need a critique group for that kind of work,” Olivia said