Read Online A Killer Plot (A Books by the Bay Mystery) by Ellery Adams - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ellery Adams
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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.
Chapter 4
Everyone has talent. What is rare is the courage to follow the talent to the dark place where it leads.
—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.
Bradley Talcott put his feet up on the counter in front of an illuminated makeup mirror. His metal-studded boots knocked aside containers of face foundation, brown eye shadow, and black eyeliner as well as an empty bottle of Absolut and a vial of amphetamines.
“It’s time to rock, bro.” The spiked-haired drummer rattled his sticks against the doorjamb. “We got a hot crowd out there.”
Tossing a lit cigarette onto the counter, Bradley stood. “We could be bigger than this, damn it! I’m sick of playing these shitty clubs. It’s time for a tricked out tour bus and twenty-five, sold-out, big-city shows a year.”
“But your punk-ass old man didn’t give you the cash to back a tour, dude, so get on that stage and start singing.” Seeing the flash of anger in his bandmate’s eyes, the drummer retreated a step. “Come on, man. Just think about the fine booty we get to tap after the show.”
The drummer departed and Bradley languidly rose to his feet. He leaned into the mirror and snarled at his reflection. “I’m not going to live like this much longer. I’m no kid. I’m in control of my own future!”
With abrupt vehemence, he pushed the contents of the counter onto the floor. Vials of pills and makeup bounced off the floor, but the vodka bottle shattered in a loud crash. Bradley looked at the result of his rage with satisfaction. He bent over to retrieve one of the shards and, after examining his face in the fragment, muttered, “I am in control.”
Then he strode
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.
Chapter 4
Everyone has talent. What is rare is the courage to follow the talent to the dark place where it leads.
—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.
Bradley Talcott put his feet up on the counter in front of an illuminated makeup mirror. His metal-studded boots knocked aside containers of face foundation, brown eye shadow, and black eyeliner as well as an empty bottle of Absolut and a vial of amphetamines.
“It’s time to rock, bro.” The spiked-haired drummer rattled his sticks against the doorjamb. “We got a hot crowd out there.”
Tossing a lit cigarette onto the counter, Bradley stood. “We could be bigger than this, damn it! I’m sick of playing these shitty clubs. It’s time for a tricked out tour bus and twenty-five, sold-out, big-city shows a year.”
“But your punk-ass old man didn’t give you the cash to back a tour, dude, so get on that stage and start singing.” Seeing the flash of anger in his bandmate’s eyes, the drummer retreated a step. “Come on, man. Just think about the fine booty we get to tap after the show.”
The drummer departed and Bradley languidly rose to his feet. He leaned into the mirror and snarled at his reflection. “I’m not going to live like this much longer. I’m no kid. I’m in control of my own future!”
With abrupt vehemence, he pushed the contents of the counter onto the floor. Vials of pills and makeup bounced off the floor, but the vodka bottle shattered in a loud crash. Bradley looked at the result of his rage with satisfaction. He bent over to retrieve one of the shards and, after examining his face in the fragment, muttered, “I am in control.”
Then he strode
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