Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery) (15 page)

“What did she think of you?”

Flynn shook his head. “I have no idea. After the slap, she just walked away. I yelled after her that she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever laid eyes on and that I’d do anything to see her again, but she didn’t turn around.”

“That’s a pretty good line.”

“It wasn’t a line. I meant every word. The next time she came, I asked a friend to stall Mabel while I brought Vi a bag of peaches. She still didn’t talk. Just grabbed the bag and took off running. For months, I offered her little treats like that. The first words she ever spoke were to tell me how much her brother loved the bubble gum I’d given her. And then she smiled, and man, I was a goner.”

Olivia could tell that Flynn was miles and years away.

“She started telling me stories about her life,” he continued. “We never had much time, so this all happened over a long period, though I’d fallen in love with her the moment I saw her. The more I got to know her, the stronger my feelings grew. Vi worked so hard and had experienced so little in the way of pleasures. The rest of the girls I knew were shallow and silly. Not Vi. She was as deep and unfathomable as a cave lake.”

“You became lovers?”

Flynn nodded. “We were together when Elijah died. Vi might have married me if that boy had lived. My whole life would have been different. Damn her father. Damn that man to hell.”

Olivia kept her gaze on Flynn’s clenched fists. Very gently, she said, “What happened?”

“I don’t know exactly. Vi came to me a few weeks after the funeral and totally broke down. She didn’t just cry. She wailed. She raged. Chunks of her hair were missing, and there were scratches on her cheeks and chest. When she calmed down enough to speak, she said that her daddy had a treasure hidden away—one that could have saved Elijah. A treasure so valuable that it could have given them all a different life, but her father wouldn’t touch it. He said that Elijah’s fate was in God’s hands, not man’s.”

Now Olivia was certain that the treasure was real. Violetta wouldn’t make up a story in the midst of such intense grief. “What was so valuable?”

Flynn grunted. “All I know is that she didn’t have it. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have asked me for a loan. I gave her everything I had. She promised to explain why she needed the money when she came back from wherever she was going. But she never came back.” He relaxed his hands and laced his fingers together. “I tried to find her. For two years, I thought about nothing but her, but then the company offered me a promotion and I decided to get on with my life. I moved to Raleigh and did my best to forget her.”

“And did you two ever meet again? Before this retreat?”

He nodded. “I went to one of her performances shortly before moving to Oyster Bay. When she came onstage, it was like I’d been sleeping for years and had been waiting for the sight of her face, the sound of her voice, to bring me out of my trance. I hung around until the end of the show and then followed her out to her car. She looked at me as if I were a stranger. She told me that I was part of her old life—that
that
Violetta Devereux was dead. She wore lots of makeup and was dressed like you saw her Saturday night, but I only saw the young woman I fell in love with. I knew then that I’d never stopped loving her. Never would.”

Olivia considered her feelings for Rawlings. He was the only man she’d ever known who was just the right fit for her. With him, she could let down her guard. She trusted him with her heart, and in return, he treated it with the utmost tenderness. She’d found love in her middle age. Flynn had found his as a very young man. Olivia knew that love didn’t abide by anyone’s rules. It came along unexpectedly, tiptoeing like a thief, and changed everything. It was obvious that Flynn had been terribly wounded by love. The question was, had his feelings for Violetta turned black and bitter? Had he sought vengeance against the woman who’d run off with his money and his hopes for happiness?

“Were you the man in Violetta’s hotel room Thursday night?”

A noise rose from deep in Flynn’s chest, somewhere between a growl and a moan. It took Olivia a moment to recognize that the sound was the word “no.”

“Flynn, if you know who wanted Violetta dead or sought the Devereaux treasure, you should tell me. Don’t you want to see her killer brought to justice?”

Flynn stared out into the night. “What if it was me? What if I couldn’t stand to be ignored? Why do you think I set up this whole retreat? I wanted her to come to Oyster Bay, to come to me. I called Lowell and arranged everything. She came to perform, to receive the adulation she craved, but did I get what I wanted? No. In the end, she turned me away. She turned me away. Again.”

Olivia remembered what Leona had said about Flynn the night Violetta was murdered—how he’d gone into the restroom looking distressed. And that his tie was loose and askew. Was he in turmoil because he’d just killed the only woman he’d ever loved?

Before she could ask him anything else, Flynn got to his feet. “Believe what you want about me,” he said wearily. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Flynn stepped around Haviland, who watched him with wary eyes until he was halfway between Olivia and his car. The poodle edged closer to Olivia, his ears raised and his body alert and ready for action.

“You shouldn’t drive!” Olivia called when Flynn opened his car door. Ignoring her, he slid behind the wheel, turned on the ignition, and backed slowly down the driveway.

She waited until the beam of his headlights had been swallowed by the darkness before going inside.

• • •

Rawlings found her on the deck an hour later. She was wearing a white cotton nightgown and sipping very slowly from a glass of sparkling wine.

Pulling a chair closer to hers, he sank into it and took her hand. “Hi.”

Olivia turned and gave him a tired smile. His hand felt good in hers. Warm and strong and solid. “Flynn was here a little while ago. I don’t know if he was confessing to murder or to something else entirely.”

Rawlings went rigid. “And you let him in? Seriously, Olivia. This is yet another reason for us to live together. Dangerous men wouldn’t show up at your door if they knew it was my door too.”

“I didn’t ask him in for tea and crumpets,” Olivia snapped. “He was sitting on my steps when I got back from the restaurant, and I maintained a safe distance the whole time. Besides, Haviland was here.”

Rawlings released an exasperated sigh. “Haviland can’t protect you from everything.”

“Neither can you,” Olivia said. “And I’m not looking for a protector. Never was.”

They both fell silent. Olivia tried to quell her frustration and allow the gentle whisper of the waves to ease the tension growing between her and Rawlings.

Eventually, Rawlings withdrew his hand, but not before giving hers an apologetic squeeze. “How did things go at the Crab House?”

Olivia refilled her wineglass and passed it to him. “Prosecco. Not my usual poison, but it’s very refreshing. I feel completely dried out and the wine helps. And you’ll need it because this is going to take a while.”

While Rawlings drank, Olivia told him everything that had happened at The Bayside Crab House and at her place afterward.

When she was done, he didn’t speak, and she knew he was processing every detail, trying to form a clear picture in his mind. “A man was in her room at The Yellow Lady,” he said. “A lover. Why didn’t anyone come forth with this information before?” He stared angrily at the ocean. “I don’t think the man was Flynn. He was a part of a past she wanted to forget.” He paused. “No. ‘Forget’ isn’t the right word. She wanted to deny it. And that would mean denying him.”

Olivia nodded in agreement. “And so he was spurned again. His plans and hopes dashed. What would that do to a man?”

“Nothing good. Mr. McNulty is definitely a suspect in my book, but we have to consider who might have been with Violetta on Thursday. Did she ultimately reject him too? Are the other storytellers covering for him?” He frowned.

“You’ll be busy tomorrow. Interviews at the B&B, another round with Flynn, and then there’s the subject of the treasure. It must exist, but what is it?” When Rawlings didn’t answer, Olivia followed his gaze. She willed the sea to calm her, but the multitude of thoughts churning in her head wouldn’t be still. “Did you find anything in Violetta’s trunk?”

Rawlings gave her a thin smile. “Your instincts were spot on, Olivia. There was a space behind the velvet lining. When Officer Cook peeled the material away, he found an old photograph of a little boy. I’m guessing it was Elijah.”

The triumph Olivia felt over having her theory proven correct vanished when she pictured Violetta hiding the image of her beloved brother under the velvet so she could carry him with her everywhere she went. Olivia’s eyes filled with tears. “That was all?”

“Yes.” Rawlings sighed. “It would have been wonderfully convenient had there been a solid clue, but there wasn’t. And I’m not sure why she hid the photo. Why not keep it in her purse? Did she feel guilty about his death?” He set the wineglass on the deck rail and turned to Olivia. “I need to get some sleep. I have an early start tomorrow.”

“Me too. I want to see Dixie before the diner gets busy. I’ve also sent a text to the rest of the writer’s group asking them to mull over the words you found in Lowell’s pocket.” She paused. “Has there been any change in his condition?”

Rawlings shook his head. “No. And he was definitely the victim of foul play. A nurse showed me a bruise on his back likely caused by someone kneeling on him. There’s other physical evidence that he struggled while his assailant held his head underwater. He has mud under his nails, and his palms are covered with cuts and scrapes, as if he tried to unseat his attacker by pushing off the bottom.”

“God, that’s awful.” Olivia shuddered. She hesitated for a long moment and then said, “Maybe he’ll . . . heal as he sleeps. Now that he’s in a safe place. Maybe he can rest for a while.”

Rawlings reached for her. She got up and came to him, lowering herself onto his lap and resting her head against his sturdy chest. “Keats would have agreed with you,” he whispered. “He wrote:

‘O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,

In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,

Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws

Around my bed its lulling charities;

Then save me, or the passed day will shine

Upon my pillow, breeding many woes.’”

Olivia put her arms around Rawlings’ neck and ran her fingers down his bristly cheek. “You never cease to amaze me, my chief. Let’s go inside and forget about our many woes for a brief time.”

Rawlings responded by holding her tightly against him. “I’m shooting for more than a brief time. How about the rest of our lives?”

Olivia stood and held out her hand. The moonlight fell over her shoulders and set her white nightgown aglow. “No more talking. No more thinking,” she murmured. “It’s our turn to hide away. If only for tonight.”

Nodding in surrender, Rawlings took her hand and followed her inside.

And when I breathed, my breath was lightning.

—
B
LACK
E
LK

O
livia woke before dawn. A splotch of pale pink hovering over the ocean hinted at daylight, but the world beyond her window was still hushed. The gulls hadn’t started crying, and the sandpipers had yet to emerge from their nests.

Creeping downstairs, Olivia found Rawlings and Haviland already in the kitchen. Rawlings sat at the table with a cup of coffee and a pad of paper in front of him, and Olivia could see that he’d covered an entire page with notes. Haviland, who was stationed by his empty food bowl, glanced over his shoulder at her, doing his best to look deprived.

“How long have you been up?” she asked Rawlings in a hushed voice.

“An hour or so. I jerked awake and started thinking about the search warrants I’ll need and the teams I have to send to The Yellow Lady and to McNulty’s house. I want to get inside all of the storytellers’ cars too. I got the ball rolling on most of this stuff yesterday, but I have to do this by the book. No mistakes. And the time for polite chats over coffee is finished.”

Olivia nodded. The storytellers had been told that they weren’t free to leave town, but Rawlings couldn’t keep them in Oyster Bay indefinitely. Eventually, he’d have to charge someone or let them all go. The clock was ticking. Olivia knew that Rawlings had to solve the riddle of Violetta’s murder and apprehend Lowell’s assailant soon or the killer might never be caught.

Standing behind Rawlings’ chair, Olivia leaned over and wrapped her arms around him. She placed her smooth cheek against his rough one and closed her eyes. The two of them stayed that way for a moment, wordlessly strengthening and supporting each other. Then Rawlings capped his pen and got to his feet. He put his coffee cup in the sink and gave Haviland a parting scratch behind the ears.

“It’s too early to visit Dixie,” he said, scooping his keys off the counter. “Will you go back to bed?”

Olivia shook her head. “Michel wants to increase our shrimp order, so I’m heading to the docks. If I’m lucky, I’ll catch them before they leave for the day.”

Rawlings stared down at the pad of paper in his hand. “I envy those men. They go out each day, casting a wide net into the water. They know exactly what they hope to catch. I feel like I’m fishing in the dark with an unbaited hook.”

“Those guys aren’t so different from you,” she said. “They trap the wrong fish all the time and end up having to throw them back into the sea. It takes endless patience and perseverance for them to come home with a filled hull. And like you, they must pay attention to a hundred different factors. The wind, the weather, the tides, and most of all, their instincts.”

Smiling, Rawlings opened the back door. “Well, I’m off to cast my net in the murky waters. But unlike your fisherman friends, I’m not looking for shrimp or grouper. I’m hunting a shark.”

Thirty minutes later, Olivia pulled into a parking spot at the docks and let Haviland out of the car. The poodle grinned happily as he jogged on the rough wood jutting into the water like a thick arm, glancing this way and that. Olivia sensed that he hoped to locate the source of the tantalizing smells and be rewarded with a snack of fresh fish.

“You’re going to be disappointed,” she told Haviland.

Captain Fergusson was coiling a length of rope as Olivia approached
Clara Sue,
his trawler.

“Permission to come aboard?” she asked.

Fergusson made a noise of assent and offered her a scarred, calloused hand to help her up the wobbly gangplank. Once she had both feet on the deck, he removed his battered baseball cap and said, “Morning, Miss Olivia. You’re up mighty early today.”

Olivia watched Haviland trot across the gangplank, his nose quivering in excitement. “I couldn’t sleep. Something about the pink sky made me think of you. So here I am.”

“It’s a shrimp sky,” Fergusson said, lifting his weathered eyes to the horizon. “A good omen. We’ll bring home a fine haul today.”

“That’s excellent news for my customers. They’ll be served the freshest fish in all of North Carolina tonight. Speaking of which, I’d like to add to my original order.”

While she and the captain talked business, two other men prepped the boat for departure. One of them bore a close resemblance to Fergusson.

“Is that your son?” Olivia asked the captain. She’d never seen the young man before.

A sadness surfaced in Fergusson’s eyes. “Aye. He’s joined the family business. Not by choice, by God. Not by choice.”

Olivia sensed the subject was fraught with emotion, so she didn’t reply. Instead, she took the piece of lightning glass she’d found on the beach out of her purse. Peeling away the bubble wrap, she handed it to Fergusson. “Have you ever seen one of these?”

“Once. They don’t come along too often.” He turned the fulgurite around and around. “The one I saw was black. A wicked-looking thing—all burned and jagged. You could still feel the lightning trapped inside. Belonged to a man who used to work for me, but I wouldn’t let him bring it aboard.”

“That’s because you’re insanely superstitious,” said a voice from behind the captain. It was Fergusson’s son. He smiled indulgently at his father and then turned to Olivia. “Hi. I’m Toby.”

He and Olivia shook hands. Close-up, she realized that he couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen, which meant that Fergusson was old enough to be his grandfather.

“He’s our youngest by a decade,” Fergusson said, answering her unasked question. “A late-in-life surprise.”

“That’s me.” Toby grinned. “The impressive product of a cold night and a few shots of whiskey.”

“Mind your tongue, boy,” Fergusson growled, but his eyes glimmered with amusement.

Olivia took an immediate liking to Toby. “Why haven’t I seen you before?”

“I was away at college,” he explained, a cloud passing over his face. Gesturing at the lightning glass, he asked to hold it. He ran his finger over the gritty exterior and whispered, “Beautiful. I know a few professors who’d kill to see this.” He looked at Olivia. “I was studying to be a meteorologist.” He jerked a thumb at his father. “Growing up around this guy, I heard about the weather twenty-four/seven. But now I’ll get to see how it affects us firsthand.”

“Go on back to work now, son,” Fergusson commanded, but not unkindly.

When Toby had moved off to the stern, Olivia touched the old fisherman lightly on the arm. “That time in Fish Nets, when we were discussing a possible drought, you told me that words have power. Remember? You also said that words could be dangerous. Do words have something to do with why Toby is on this boat?”

Fergusson’s eyes darkened with anger. “A lady cousin on my mama’s side passed away a few days before I saw you at the bar. Promised to leave enough money for Toby to finish college. He’d have been the only Fergusson to do that, but I guess we didn’t grovel enough, because my cousin gave all her money to a bird sanctuary. She wrote a letter saying that Toby would waste her money just like all us Fergussons waste money. She finished off by writing that Mary and me had been too old to have Toby and that we’d have to live with our mistake and not expect her to fix things for us.”

“How nasty,” Olivia said.

Fergusson clenched his jaw. “My boy heard every word of that woman’s poison. We never considered him a mistake. He’s been nothing but a blessing, but she made him doubt the truth of that. I hope the devil’s poking her in her bony ass with his sharpest pitchfork.”

Olivia shook her head in disgust. “No one can hurt us like a family member. I’m sorry. For both your cousin’s cruelty and for the interruption of Toby’s education. Are there any scholarships or grants available?”

Fergusson shrugged, shamefaced. “I don’t know about that kind of thing. I reckon Toby hasn’t looked into it because he thinks we need him on the boat. But we’ll be fine. We’re always fine. I want a different life for him. I want him to get out of this town and live big. His smarts are wasted on this boat. He’s meant to be more.”

Olivia was moved by the captain’s distress. “Would you allow me to make a few phone calls on Toby’s behalf? See if there’s any money sitting around that your son might claim? He doesn’t even need to know unless I can come up with something useful.”

Fergusson hesitated, and Olivia sensed he was wrestling with his pride. Finally, he gave her a single nod and walked off.

Olivia watched Toby work for a moment, but her mind drifted to thoughts of other children: two sisters named Mabel and Vi who’d clawed their way out of the poverty of a small mountain town. How many disappointments had they known? How many dangerous words had they heard and repeated? How many had they turned into stories?

On impulse, Olivia walked to the stern and handed Toby the lightning glass. “I’d like you to have this. For luck.”

His eyes went wide and then dropped to the fulgurite. “The heat required to make this is incredible—it’s the kind of pressure needed to produce a diamond. A fulgurite is better than a diamond to a weather freak like me. Thank you, ma’am. I’ll take good care of it.”

Olivia waved good-bye as she and Haviland disembarked.

Halfway to the car, Olivia came to an abrupt halt. “Could it be?” she said out loud, her brows furrowed. And then she turned to stare out over the water. After a long moment of reflection, she hurried to her car and drove away.

• • •

Grumpy’s Diner was quiet when Olivia and Haviland entered. A few men sat at the counter fueling themselves for a long day of manual labor with sausage, eggs, hash browns, toast, and Dixie’s famous coffee, but all the booths were empty.

Olivia barely recognized Dixie when she skated out of the kitchen with a basket filled with paper napkins and silverware. There was a noticeable absence of hot pink, glitter, frills, stripes, or lace on her outfit. She wore a denim skirt, tube socks, and an Atlanta Braves T-shirt.

“Hey,” Olivia said, making no move to sit at her usual booth even though Haviland had already settled on the vinyl cushion and was gazing out the large picture window.

Easing the basket from Dixie’s hands, Olivia pulled her friend close and put her arms around her. Because Dixie was on roller skates, the embrace ended up being more forceful than Olivia had intended.

“No need to mug me!” Dixie scolded, pushing herself backward. Her grim face looked a little brighter, however. “You manhandle the chief like that?”

Olivia smiled. “Whenever I get the chance.”

Dixie pointed at the basket. “You gonna set the tables?”

“Yes, I am. I’ll work while you talk.” Olivia placed four napkins at each booth and was in the middle of putting forks down when Dixie touched her on the arm.

“There’s isn’t much to report. Lowell’s not gettin’ better.”

Olivia stopped what she was doing and looked at her friend. “I imagine it’ll take time for his body to recover. From what Rawlings told me, he came awfully close to . . .”

Dixie held out her hand. “Don’t say it.” She gestured at the utensils. “Keep on with this. I’m gonna grab you a coffee.” She jerked her head in Haviland’s direction. “And a few scrambled eggs for the handsome gentleman in the window booth. You know I like ’em furry.”

When Dixie returned, Olivia had finished setting the tables and had taken a seat across from Haviland. She watched as the men at the counter left en masse, thanking Dixie on their way out. One of them lingered behind. Hands in pockets, he said, “We’re all praying for your cousin, Dixie. If you find out who’s responsible, you let me know. We’ll see that justice is done.”

Dixie nodded. “Thanks, Bill.”

When he was gone, Dixie sat down next to Haviland and served him a platter of eggs. “Don’t worry,” she said to Olivia. “I’m not gonna let them form a lynch mob. Those fellows mean well, but they’re not the sharpest knives in the drawer. Shoot, they’d probably rough up the wrong person. The mayor or a minister or some homely-lookin’ grandma.” She grinned briefly and then quickly grew solemn again. “Have you learned anythin’ new? About Violetta or those storytellers?”

In between sips of Dixie’s fortifying coffee, Olivia told her everything that had happened the night before.

When she was done, Dixie shook her head in disbelief. “Flynn? You think you know a person and then—Jesus!” She shook her head again. “But he wouldn’t hurt Lowell. Why would he?”

“For the treasure,” Olivia said. “I have no doubt that it exists. I also believe that Alfred Hicks was killed because of it. And none of the likely suspects—Flynn, Amabel, and Greg—have cast-iron alibis for the night Hicks died. As for where they were when Lowell was attacked? Rawlings is looking into that. He was up while it was still dark this morning, making a list of what he had to do to put an end to this mess.”

“I’ve been thinkin’ about Lowell’s story,” Dixie said. “I didn’t believe it at first, because it just sounded crazy. A ghost? Come on! But I was leafin’ through a catalogue last night—a hunter’s catalogue that Grumpy gets—and I think I might know how a man could turn himself into a ghost.” She took a sheaf of thin, glossy paper out of her apron pocket. “I was gonna show the chief, but I want you to tell me if there’s somethin’ to my idea first.”

Olivia accepted the paper. It took her a moment to understand what she was looking at, but when the image became clear, she exclaimed, “Oh, I see it now. Yes.” She glanced from the picture to Dixie and back again. “Yes! Especially with the snowfall and the moonlight. There would have been shadows everywhere, so the pattern shown here is perfect. And it also speaks of premeditation,” she added softly.

“Snow camo,” Dixie said. “The killer would’ve had to be watchin’ the weather. He knew when Hicks was goin’ up the mountain. He knew that it’d be after sundown and the group would get caught up in a storm.”

“You’re brilliant, Dixie.” Olivia scanned the product description. The white coat and pants, which were covered with irregular black and dark brown markings, were called “Ambush Gear.” The outfit was designed to protect the wearer against bitterly cold conditions and was guaranteed to blend into most hunting environments. “Do you want me to bring this to Rawlings?”