Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery) (9 page)

They made love feverishly and then lay back breathing hard. Haviland had relocated to the closet and only reemerged after Olivia and Rawlings began to whisper about the case.

When they were too tired to speak rationally, Rawlings said, “It may not seem like it right now, but it helps me to talk things over with you. You and I are good together in so many ways, Olivia. We should do something about that.”

Olivia felt a stirring of alarm. “What do you mean?”

Rawlings sat up on one elbow and looked down at her. His face was in shadow, but every contour and line was familiar to her. She could feel him frown as he searched for the right words. “This business of me keeping a change of clothes and toothbrush here. It’s not enough. I want more than a drawer.”

Relieved, Olivia smiled. “You can have the whole dresser. I’ll empty it tomorrow.”

“I’m not talking about a piece of furniture. I’m talking about us merging our lives.”

“What, like living together?” Olivia asked.

“For starters,” Rawlings said.

Despite the fact that she was too exhausted to consider such a major decision, Olivia envisioned the chief’s poetry books on her nightstand, his shampoo in the shower, his family photos on the bureau. Instinctively, she drew away from him. “Why can’t we just stay as we are? We’re happy.”

Rawlings flopped onto his back again. “We are. But I want to take the next step. I want to come home at the end of the day and see you. Or be waiting for you when you’re done at the restaurant. I don’t want us to have to plan to get together. I want us to just be together. Permanently.”

Turning her face toward the window, Olivia stared at the pale moon. “Let’s talk about this another time. I’m so tired that my head feels foggy.”

Rawlings put a hand on her shoulder and traced small circles on her skin. “Just think about it, okay?”

She didn’t answer, and within a few minutes, his breathing slowed and his shoulders rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Olivia was too unsettled to follow suit, and after tossing and turning for almost an hour, she went downstairs and reclined on the sofa. Haviland followed her, looking confused, but after she stroked his head, he stretched out on the rug and closed his eyes.

Olivia’s gaze drifted over her tidy bookshelves, taking in Egyptian sculptures, miniature paintings from Russia, Greek amphorae, carved jade from China, Lalique crystal, and other souvenirs from her extensive travels. She’d never shared her space with another human being, and though she loved Rawlings, she didn’t know if she wanted his things in her house. She didn’t know if she wanted him here all the time either.

I’m too used to being alone
, she thought as the French carriage clock on the mantel chimed out the hour. Olivia listened to its airy bells, recalling the little shop in Paris where she’d bought the clock from a stooped gentleman with half-moon glasses and a merry laugh.

This was her home, where she was surrounded by memories and keepsakes from her past. Everything had its place in her haven. Her sanctuary. Could she throw open her doors and invite Rawlings to share it? To alter it?

“Not yet,” she whispered in the dark. Pulling the cashmere lap blanket she’d bought in Nepal over her shoulders, she closed her eyes and dreamt of snow-covered mountains.

• • •

The next morning, Olivia was at her usual window booth at Grumpy’s Diner when Laurel found her.

“Rough night?” Laurel asked playfully as she sat down across the table.

Olivia didn’t smile back. She raised her coffee mug and said, “This is my second cup. By the time I’m done with my third, I might be able to have a civil conversation. Until then . . .”

“Got it.” Laurel turned to greet Haviland, who was much more enthusiastic in his hello, and then waved at Dixie.

Dixie collected menus from the family at the
Tell Me on a Sunday
booth and then skated over to Laurel’s side. She peered at Olivia’s cup but didn’t top it off. “I know better than to mess with her brew,” Dixie explained to Laurel. “Especially when she hasn’t had her beauty sleep. How about you? Want somethin’ to eat?”

Laurel said, “I had breakfast hours ago, but I’d love a muffin and some hot tea, please.”

Dixie nodded and turned to Olivia. “Grumpy said to come on back once the caffeine’s done its thing. His folks get up as early as we do, so Grumpy’s already chatted with them.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “He was on the phone for twenty whole minutes. I don’t think they’ve talked that long since his granny passed on and they wanted to know if Grumpy wanted any of her things.”

Olivia put her coffee cup down. “I’m ready if he is.”

“No, you are not.” Dixie scowled. “You sit and sip and visit with Laurel. Grumpy has to get these brunch orders cooked before he starts chewin’ cud. A distracted cook is a bad cook.”

“That’s true,” Laurel agreed. “I can’t even have the radio on when I’m fixing supper. Steve has to keep the boys out of the kitchen or I’ll burn everything.”

Dixie nodded. “There’s a fine line between crisp and charred, and Grumpy knows not to cross it, but if his mind wanders . . . well, let’s just say I’ve made him redo plenty of orders since we opened this joint. Usually happens when he’s worried about one of the kids. Today, he’s wound tighter than a fishing reel. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come back.” Dixie gave them a little curtsy and skated off.

Olivia took another swallow of coffee, reveling in the feel of the hot liquid sliding down her throat. “Rawlings told me to thank you for the files on Violetta. I read through most of them last night, but I don’t think I learned anything of value. Harris is searching through genealogical records, and I’m hoping that Grumpy’s parents can tell us more about her childhood. They live a town away from where Violetta grew up.”

Laurel’s blue eyes went wide. “What a small world. Did Grumpy know her?”

“When they were kids, but he hadn’t seen her for decades.”

“I wrote a short piece for the
Gazette
this morning, and it read like most of the articles I gave the chief. Violetta’s professional life completely overshadowed her private one. I interviewed a bunch of the other storytellers, but none of them seemed to really know her intimately. The only interesting thing I learned from them was that she was a genuine recluse. Painfully withdrawn. She always dressed in long skirts and long-sleeved blouses, and she either went straight back to her hotel or drove home directly after a performance.”

Olivia frowned. “Then why come to this storyteller’s retreat at all? She didn’t need to hone her craft, and the money she earned from Saturday’s show could hardly have been worth a trip across the state. We need to ask Flynn how he contacted her. Did he speak with Lowell? Convince him to travel to Oyster Bay?”

“I don’t know, but I wrote down the names of at least two storytellers who were seriously jealous of her,” Laurel said. “Both of them believe Violetta used her fear of people to manipulate judges into awarding her grants and monetary prizes. One of them, an Amabel Hammond, accused Violetta of faking the whole condition in order to win competitions. This woman also knew Professor Hicks. They went to grad school together, and she now teaches at Appalachian State, which isn’t too far from where Hicks taught at Western Carolina University.”

Olivia knew that Sawyer Rawlings didn’t believe in coincidences, especially when it came to murder investigations, and made a mental note to share this detail with him. “And the other storyteller?”

Laurel pulled a small notebook from her purse. “Greg Rapson. He grew furious when he talked about how Violetta had been dubbed ‘A Living Legend’ and the ‘Virtuoso of the Spoken Word.’ He said she was overrated.”

“Furious? That’s a pretty strong emotion.”

“I know. But he called Violetta really nasty names. Late-night cable terms, if you know what I mean. I was especially shocked because he teaches college kids. What kind of example is he setting for them?” She scratched behind Haviland’s ears, and he licked her hand in gratitude.

Olivia nodded. “Okay, so he’s crass, but is he a murderer? Does he or Amabel have what it takes to win competitions?”

“Apparently they do. They’ve both placed second behind Violetta a number of times.” Laurel jabbed her finger into the soft notebook paper. “The strange thing is that they acted pretty neutral about her at the beginning of our conversation. But after they’d had a few beers, they began to show their true colors. It was Millay’s idea to seek them out when they were drinking, so I tracked them down at that bar within walking distance of their B&B. I felt kind of slimy because I didn’t tell them I was a reporter, but I thought the chief should know what they said.”

Dixie reappeared with a cup of tea and a softball-sized banana-nut muffin. After serving Laurel, she pulled a jar of honey out of her apron pocket and handed it to her. “This is the good stuff. I only give it to folks I like. Liquid gold, Grumpy calls it.” She eyed Olivia’s empty coffee mug. “All right then, you can come on back.”

Grumpy was frying three eggs and half a rasher of bacon when Olivia entered the kitchen. She sat on a stool and watched him work without speaking. The bacon grease sizzled and spat, and Grumpy’s spatula clanked against the griddle, flashing silver like a startled trout. He plated the food and slid a pile of crisp hash browns next to the bacon. “Order up,” he said to Dixie. “Anything else?”

“A short stack of blueberry pancakes. Sausage on the side.” She picked up the platter and skated out of the kitchen.

Grumpy had the pancake batter all ready to go. He gave it a quick mix with a whisk and then poured three identical circles of batter onto the griddle. While air bubbles formed in the cooking pancakes, Grumpy strode into the walk-in and reemerged with a bowl of fresh blueberries. “My folks remembered Violetta’s family well enough,” he began. He put two sausage links on the griddle. “Decent, hardworking people. Kept to themselves, but that describes most folks on the mountain. Anyhow, my ma and pa only saw Josiah during wintertime. He didn’t go to church, and Ira handled all the town business. Word was that he had some kind of disease that forced him to stay covered up all the time.”

He was blue
, Olivia thought, her pulse quickening. Was that the family’s secret? Was their blood disorder a treasure or a curse? And did it factor into Violetta’s murder? Or Hicks’s?

Grumpy dropped blueberries onto the cooking pancakes. They sank into the dough, and he waited a moment before flipping them with practiced flicks of the wrist. He then gave each sausage a quarter turn. “Ma also told me something sad. And I want you to know that she’s not one to stretch the truth,” he added.

Olivia could imagine Grumpy’s parents as plain, no-nonsense people who knew how to do hundreds of things most of contemporary society couldn’t do. His mother probably canned her own fruits and vegetables, dried her own herbs, and sewed most of their clothes and bedding while his father built their house from the ground up, raised livestock, grew most of their food, and could repair cars, appliances, and farm equipment.

“Go on,” she said.

“A few days after Elijah died, Ira Devereaux broke down in the general store. My ma was there and took her home and gave her coffee with whiskey. Ira told her that Elijah could have been saved had Josiah been willing to send for the doctor and get him the medicine. Ma said that folks rarely sent for a doctor. They cost too much, and times had been especially tough for the Devereauxes. Still, Ira told my ma that Josiah was really rich. Kept some secret stash buried in the heart of some trunk. Ira didn’t know where it was, or she’d have dug it up herself. But he wouldn’t fetch it. Said it was cursed and he wouldn’t touch it even to help his own son.”

Olivia was hanging on his every word. “And because Elijah didn’t get the help he needed, he died?”

“That’s what Ira believed, and when Violetta found out about all this, she went half-crazy. Said she’d never look on her pa’s face for the rest of her days. Her ma’s neither. Folks say her hollers echoed up and down the mountain. And then she left home for good.”

He slid the pancakes into the middle of a white plate and lined the sausages up on the side. “She never went back. Even when her folks died.”

“And her sisters? Did your mother know what happened to them?”

Grumpy nodded. “They got married and moved west. Utah and Oregon, I think. Except the sister closest to Violetta in age. She became a college teacher. Said she was going to have a better life than her folks did. I knew her as Mabel, but my ma said she changed her name. I can’t remember what she said. Anna. Annabelle. Something highbrow sounding.”

“Amabel?”

“That’s it.” Grumpy rang a bell, signaling that an order was ready for pick up. “How’d you know?”

Olivia pointed to where Laurel sat. “Laurel interviewed her last night. Amabel’s here. In Oyster Bay. I find it very strange that she hasn’t admitted to being related to Violetta. Even worse that she doesn’t seem upset by the fact that her sister’s been murdered.”

Grumpy wiped his hand on his apron. “Sounds like she’s got something to hide.”

“Yes, it does.” Olivia didn’t think Amabel was the only one. “People have come to our town with their stories. But it seems they’ve brought their secrets along too.”

If you’re a pretender, come sit by my fire, for we have some flax-golden tales to spin.

—
S
HEL
S
ILVERSTEIN

W
hen Olivia told Laurel that Amabel Hammond was Violetta’s sister, Laurel nearly spat out a mouthful of tea.

“What kind of journalist am I? How did I miss that?” she cried and pushed away the remains of her muffin.

“Amabel isn’t her legal name. It’s Mabel. I assume she got married,” Olivia said. “Look, what’s important is that you learned there’s no love lost between Amabel and her sister. I think you should tell the chief everything you, Amabel, and Greg talked about last night.”

Laurel put some bills on the table. “I’ll call him on the way to Through the Wardrobe. Pay up. You should come too.”

“Why?”

“Amabel and Greg Rapson are doing a joint program for the kids there in fifteen minutes. Steve’s bringing the boys so we can blend in while spying on the storytellers.”

Olivia added more cash to Laurel’s pile. “I hope they’re not putting on a puppet show,” she joked.

Laurel scooted out of the booth, Haviland close on her heels. “What do you and Millay have against puppets?”

At the mention of Millay’s name, Olivia decided it would be a good idea to have her join their investigative party. After years tending bar, she was adept at reading people.

“You’re kidding, right?” was Millay’s response when Olivia called her.

“No, I’m not. We must get to know this woman quickly. Rawlings will look into her alibi, but she’s already been deceitful by omission. I doubt she’ll volunteer anything of significance to the police. After all, she failed to mention that she was Violetta’s sister.”

“She’s
what
?” Millay asked, and Olivia knew she was hooked. “Fine. But I don’t exactly blend in with the soccer moms, you know.”

“They don’t matter. Only the storytellers do, and you’re on the road to becoming a published novelist. That’s sure to impress them. You all tell tales. Yours are just in print form.” Olivia opened the Range Rover’s back door and gestured for Haviland to jump in. He did his best to look offended when Laurel sat in the passenger seat.

“I’ll meet you there, but I’m not talking up my book to these people,” Millay said. “And I’m only coming because Violetta was awesome and I’m pissed off that she was killed. Nothing else would convince me to spend a Monday afternoon in a store filled with kids. I’ll be there in ten.” She hung up.

“My turn?” Laurel dialed the chief’s number while Olivia waited for a break in the traffic. Seeing her chance, she shot out in front of a pink VW Beetle convertible being driven by a young woman balancing a cell phone against her steering wheel. As they drove down the street, Olivia darted glances at the Beetle in her side and rearview mirror. More than once, she saw the car drift over the double yellow line and back again.

At the next stoplight, Olivia’s eyes were locked on the young woman. The top half of her face was hidden behind the brim of a tennis visor and a pair of bug-eyed sunglasses, but judging by the frantic movements of her fingers, she was busy texting. When the light turned green, the driver behind her lightly honked his horn to encourage her to move. In response, the woman raised her middle finger and accelerated. She swerved around Olivia and floored it across a pedestrian crosswalk, causing an elderly couple to jump backward in alarm.

Olivia growled and Haviland mimicked the sound. The traffic grew thick again near the Methodist church, and Olivia found herself trailing the pink bug. This time, the Beetle was fading to the right, coming dangerously close to clipping the side mirrors of the cars parked along the street.

Laurel was too engrossed in her conversation with Rawlings to notice the angry set of Olivia’s jaw, but when she deliberately passed the turn leading to Through the Wardrobe, Laurel put her hand over the phone and whispered, “Where are you going?”

“I just need one red light,” Olivia said. “Don’t worry, we won’t be late.”

At that moment, the pink car edged into its neighbor’s lane, forcing a minivan to abruptly swerve away. The driver honked and shook his fist. Olivia noticed a pair of car seats in the back of the van, and her anger escalated.

“Yes!” she exclaimed when the next traffic signal turned red. Jerking her gearshift into park, she leapt out, jogged up to the pink convertible, and yanked the rhinestone encrusted cell phone from the young woman’s hands.

“Hey!” the girl shrieked, and Olivia instantly recognized her. It was Estelle, Harris’s annoying ex-girlfriend. “Give me that!”

Ignoring her, Olivia jogged over to the sidewalk and dropped the phone in a trashcan. “You know that expression ‘hang up and drive’?” she shouted at Estelle as she headed back to her car. “Well,
now
you can drive.”

“I’m going to call the police!” Estelle threatened, her cheeks flushed pink with indignation.

“With what phone? Oh, wait, my friend is talking to the chief right now.” Olivia pointed at Laurel. “Would you like to speak with him? Explain how you’ve nearly killed two senior citizens? How every time you send a text you’re inches away from getting in an accident or committing property damage?”

“You’re just doing this because I broke up with Harris!” Estelle yelled.

The signal turned green, and Olivia paused before getting in her car. “I did it because you’re an idiot. And Harris broke up with you. Probably because you’re an idiot. Now get out of the way, or I’ll give the chief your license plate number.”

After calling Olivia a string of choice expletives, Estelle drove off.

Next to her, the minivan driver, a handsome man in his midthirties, began to clap. His kids joined in and so did Laurel.

“Bring on the puppets.” Olivia grinned.

When they arrived at the bookstore, however, there wasn’t a puppet in sight. Flynn had cleared the children’s area of its usual assortment of pint-sized chairs and beanbags, leaving the rectangular alphabet-block rug free for the children to sit on. In addition to the rainbow-colored kites suspended from the ceiling, a sign welcoming the storytellers was hanging from the basket of a papier-mâché hot air balloon.

“I didn’t know you were so crafty,” a woman in a plaid golf short teased Flynn as she pushed her child toward the rug.

“I’m not. Jenna made the balloon. She also designed the ‘Stories Take Us to Other Places’ poster. We’re selling them for ten dollars apiece.” Flynn gave the woman his most charming smile.

She responded instantly. Touching him on the arm, she said, “I’ll take two.”

“He’s got the soccer moms eating out of his hands,” Millay said, coming up behind Olivia, Laurel, and Haviland. “I can’t believe you used to date him.”

Olivia frowned. “Flynn wasn’t like that with me. He’s an incorrigible flirt, but only when he thinks it will lead to a sale.”

“So what’s the plan?” Laurel asked. “Rawlings said to simply observe Amabel’s demeanor. He’ll be picking her up for additional questioning when this event is over. I got the sense he was in the middle of something when I called.”

Olivia wondered if the chief had decided to have another talk with Lowell. Looking around the familiar bookstore, she felt some of the weekend’s tension ebb a little. She truly loved this place. Flynn had replaced nearly all of the traditional bookshelves with antique wood wardrobes. He’d refinished each one by hand and lovingly polished them with lavender beeswax. The store always smelled of books, beeswax, and coffee.

Upon spotting Olivia, Flynn extricated himself from the clasp of another female customer and came over. He held out his hand to Haviland, who carefully placed his paw onto Flynn’s palm. “Hello, sir. Care for a treat?”

Flynn had begun keeping a small jar of organic dog treats next to the register. Olivia knew that he was catering to Haviland because she was one of his best customers, but she didn’t mind. Though she’d avoided Through the Wardrobe for several weeks following her breakup with Flynn, she and her former lover were now back on amiable terms.

“How’s Diane?” Olivia always asked after Flynn’s girlfriend, who also happened to be Haviland’s vet.

“She’s probably at home burning pictures of me.” Flynn drew a finger across his throat. “We’re not seeing each other anymore. She wanted to move in together and I wasn’t ready.” He shrugged. “Guess I’m just one of those confirmed-bachelor types. I don’t suppose you and the chief have had to tackle that issue yet. But get ready, Olivia. Eventually, it’ll come up. At our age, it always does.”

Recalling her late-night conversation with Rawlings, Olivia averted her eyes and tried to think of something to say. Millay saved her from having to respond by slinging an arm over Flynn’s shoulder. “Are you going to make me sit on the rug, Mr. McNulty?”

“With all the leg you’re showing in that miniskirt? Not a chance. Every male in the room would be staring at you instead of focusing on the performers.” He glanced in the direction of the stockroom and then checked his watch. The show was scheduled to begin in five minutes. “These storytellers are good, too. Theirs is a different type of performance than Violetta’s, but . . . well, there’s nobody like her . . . she was one of a kind.” His face darkening, he turned to Olivia. “I know you can’t tell me anything, but at least give me hope that the cops have a lead on her killer.”

“I honestly don’t know anything, Flynn,” she said. “I wish I did.”

He accepted her answer with a solemn nod and was silent for a long moment. However, it wasn’t in his nature to be glum, so when Laurel’s twins, Dallas and Dermot, arrived, he exchanged a complicated series of playful high-fives, knuckle knocks, and chest bumps with the pair.

Laurel sat near her boys on the rug while Steve settled into one of the folding chairs positioned in a semicircle behind the kids.

“I think it’s time,” Flynn said with a smile and then glanced over Olivia’s shoulder. “Ah, your niece and nephew are here. Now we can definitely get started.” He winked at Olivia and headed for the back room.

Olivia saw Caitlyn rushing toward her and immediately opened her arms to receive the little girl’s embrace.

“I didn’t know you were coming to the show, Aunt Olivia!” Caitlyn broke away to hug and kiss Haviland.

Kim was carrying Anders. The baby was dressed in a darling sailor suit and white socks covered by tiny blue anchors. He smiled at Olivia and then stuck his fist in his mouth and gurgled. “I think he’s getting another molar,” Kim said. “He chews on everything, and he’s been drooling like a bloodhound.”

“A fine breed, the bloodhound,” Olivia said, caressing the baby’s chubby cheek. “Affectionate, loyal, and gentle. Sounds just like my sweet niece and nephew.”

“You’ve never seen either of them throw a tantrum. You think they’re perfect, and you spoil them rotten,” Kim scolded.

Olivia knew her sister-in-law didn’t really mind. “Haviland’s spoiled too, but it hasn’t affected him adversely.”

At that moment, a drum began to beat from somewhere in the back of the store, and Flynn came out of the storeroom wearing an American Indian headdress. He danced forward until he stood at the edge of the alphabet rug and then froze. “Who wants to hear a story?” he asked in a dramatic whisper.

“We do!” the children shouted in unison, and Olivia sensed this wasn’t the first time they’d been entertained by Flynn.

“We have two special guests here today. One of them is from the mountains like me, and the other guest was born in South Carolina. Have any of you been to South Carolina?”

Hands shot into the air. “Daddy took us to the giant peach water tower!” a boy declared. “My brother said it looked like a huge butt crack!”

Laughter erupted from the audience, and even Millay, who looked like she hadn’t gotten much sleep lately, couldn’t help but smile.

Instead of shushing the boy, Flynn pretended to be very interested in his comment. “I don’t believe Mr. Rapson is going to share any stories about enormous butt cracks, but then again, he just might. Let’s see what happens, okay?”

The kids giggled and nodded in agreement.

The drumbeats continued, and a man and woman emerged from the back room. The man held a gray wolf mask in front of his face. Its mouth was set in a toothy snarl, and some of the children stiffened at the sight of it. The second wolf was white and appeared to be grinning. Both of the storytellers wore black clothes and long tails made of mop heads.

“This is the story of two wolves. It is called ‘The Two Wolves Within,’” the woman began in a booming voice.

“It comes from Cherokee legend,” the man said, lowering his mask. “I am the grandfather and this is my grandson.”

The woman put her mask aside and squatted. She rubbed her hands together and held them out as if she were warming herself at a campfire.

The grandfather sat in a chair and mimed smoking a pipe while his grandson complained about a boy who’d been mean to him that day. Olivia recognized it as a tale about bullying, and she could see that many of the children identified with the grandson. Many of them shook their heads or frowned over the cruelty inflicted on Amabel’s character. It was obvious that they no longer saw her as an adult woman. To them, she’d become another child.

Olivia studied Amabel carefully. She was an attractive woman with molasses-brown hair and eyes the color of deep water. Her face was so expressive that Olivia could read each of the grandson character’s emotions perfectly, and when she told the grandfather that her heart was filled with hate, her eyes burned with such a cold light that Olivia had to repress the urge to shudder.

Millay leaned over and murmured, “She’s creepy.”

“If you hold on to hate, it will poison your heart.” The male storyteller spoke in a slow, deep voice. He sounded ancient and wise. “I have an angry wolf inside me too. We all do. Listen.” He held up the mask and growled, startling several of the children. A little girl climbed into her father’s lap and hid her face.

Amabel raised her mask. “I know that a kind wolf also lives inside you and me. He doesn’t like to fight. He tries to get along with everyone.” She
woofed
like a playful cub and then moved the mask again. “But how do you decide which wolf to listen to, Grandfather?”