Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery) (5 page)

“Is that why your stories feel so real? Because you’ve been cold and hungry? Because you figured out how to survive using your wits and courage?”

A humorless laugh bubbled from between Violetta’s lips. “That makes me sound like some storybook hero. Things were the same for all of us mountainfolk. Ain’t nobody drivin’ Mercedes where I come from. Bein’ rich meant that your ribs weren’t stickin’ through your skin. Everybody struggled.”

Olivia didn’t want to steal Laurel’s thunder, but she couldn’t help but ask, “How did you discover your gift?”

Violetta shrugged. “My daddy and granddaddy told their tales to me. Most nights, it was how we passed the time. I didn’t think I could ever tell ’em like they could. In the beginning, I was scared that I was no good, but I got over that. Soon as I saw that lots of folks wanted to hear our stories, I tried real hard to tell them like no one else could. I’d rather sing for my supper than spend my days scratchin’ in the ground and sewin’ quilts.”

“Did you ever marry?”

“Nope. You?”

Olivia smiled. “Never even came close.” She didn’t want to talk about her relationships, past or present, so she waved her arm around the room. “Why are you more comfortable in the shadows?”

Violetta’s eyes flashed, and Olivia wondered if she’d crossed a line. She was about to apologize when the other woman touched her cheek with her fingertip. “I have things to hide. More than most folks.”

When it became clear that she would say no more and moved to rise, Olivia said, “Trust me, I have my share too. Old family secrets. Things I can’t talk about even with those who know me best. Those who love me for who they think I am.”

Violetta waited a few heartbeats before speaking again. “I’m the last true Devereaux. When I die, the whereabouts of a certain treasure will die with me. That’s a relief to me and a source of mighty vexation to others.” She grinned, her thick makeup nearly cracking with the strain. “Fools. The place has been tucked away inside my stories for years. But what isn’t meant to be found shouldn’t be found. Some secrets are a curse.”

Olivia thought of the discovery she’d recently made in which she’d learned that the man she believed to be her dad was the twin brother of her biological father. Her real father, a successful television exec named Charles Wade, had had an affair with Olivia’s mother, Camille. When Camille realized that Charles wouldn’t leave his wife, she cut all ties with him and married his brother so that her child wouldn’t be born a bastard. Olivia ended up being raised by one parent who doted upon her and another who saw the brother he’d come to hate every time he looked at her.

Camille had locked Olivia’s birth certificate in a safety deposit box, no doubt waiting for the right time to tell her daughter about her true parentage, but she died in the midst of a hurricane when Olivia was seven. Thirty-odd years later, Olivia had met her true father and disliked him on sight. He treated Oyster Bay and its people with disdain, and that was something Olivia just wouldn’t stand for. She felt no connection to Charles Wade.

Her lack of interest in the man who’d sired her was the polar opposite to what she was experiencing now: a strong feeling of connection with the woman across the aisle. Olivia wanted to know Violetta’s secrets. No longer out of curiosity, but because she had a strange desire to befriend her.

“When you first came onstage tonight, you said that you’d be a ghost before long. What did you mean?”

Violetta folded her hands in her lap. “Jesus knew Judas would betray him from the very beginnin’. I was born knowin’ I’d be kissed like that one day. My Gethsemane is this town.” She fixed her blue gaze on Olivia. “But it’s a good place. I like how the water stretches on and on until you can’t tell the difference between earth and sky. Last night I saw a million stars. They were floatin’ on the water like diamonds. Bits of fiery ice.”

Olivia smiled. “You should climb to the top of the lighthouse tonight. The view will take your breath away.”

“Maybe I will, but for now, you’d best go on.” Violetta abruptly rose to her feet. “I’ll see you in the parkin’ lot directly.” She paused. “Remember. If you’re brave enough to put your real story down on paper, then it will speak to folks. It’ll be a gift to them. But pourin’ out your heart is only part of it. After you’re done with that bit, you’ve gotta spin the most complicated yarns you can. The best stories are equal part truth, equal part lie.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Olivia promised. “Thank you for talking with me.”

With a nod, Violetta walked off toward the stage, and Olivia picked up her handbag and headed out of the room. As soon as she entered the hallway, she heard the din coming from the reception up ahead. The lobby had a high glass ceiling and a marble floor, so sounds echoed around the space as if they were reverberating inside a large cave.

Edging her way through the crowd, Olivia noticed several flamboyant outfits. One woman was wearing a turquoise caftan dress and a necklace of orange beads while another was dressed like a Romani gypsy complete with hoop earrings, peasant blouse, and head scarf.

“They must be the other storytellers,” Olivia murmured to herself, stepping to the side as a man gesticulated with a serpentine-shaped walking stick.

Leona Fairchild was standing near the buffet table. She held a plastic champagne flute in one hand and gave Olivia a thumbs-up with the other. Olivia smiled at the head librarian, equally pleased by the event’s success, and continued winding her way past Oyster Bay’s art patrons, the library staff, and the mayor.

Dixie and Grumpy were positioned near the rolling cart of used books for sale just inside the front doors. Dixie’s plastic flute was empty, and she was reaching for her husband’s when Olivia approached. “That was somethin’, wasn’t it?” Dixie said.

“Indeed it was. And I can see how invaluable Lowell is to Violetta. He keeps everything moving along so that the stories can flow into each other without interruption.”

Beaming with pride, Dixie elbowed Grumpy in the ribs. “I told you he’d straighten out.” She turned back to Olivia. “Grumpy doesn’t trust Lowell as far as he can throw him. He doesn’t like it that I’m lettin’ him stay at our place.”

“We don’t have any room,” Grumpy said, his voice a low growl.

“Two of the kids could sleep in a tent in the yard. They love bein’ in the open air.”

Grumpy frowned. “Yeah, because then they can sneak out with their friends and get into all sorts of trouble. And we’d never know they were gone unless one of their brothers or sisters decided to rat on them.”

Olivia knew that the Weaver children were a handful. Each of their four or five kids—Olivia was constantly forgetting how many they had—seemed to be more mischievous than the next.

“It seems to me that Violetta needs Lowell around for more than just performances,” she said, hoping to distract the married couple before their argument could escalate. “He handles her bookings too.” Olivia pointed at Dixie’s roller skates. “Since I haven’t seen him in a pair of those, does Violetta do all the driving or does Lowell have a modified car?”

“He was one of the first dwarves I knew with a pedal extender,” Dixie boasted. “Put it on his car himself when he was only seventeen. He was always good with tools.”

“Yeah, especially with lock picks and bolt cutters,” Grumpy muttered, and Dixie gave him a slug to the stomach.

Olivia pointed at Dixie’s glass. “I think you need a refill. See you two later.”

Dixie raised her brows. “Where are you goin’? The chief’s still here, so are you runnin’ home to warm up the bed for him?”

“I’m on a mission,” Olivia replied. “One you’ll read about in the
Gazette
, I hope.”

Leaving Dixie to mull over her enigmatic statement, Olivia stepped into the humid night.

The chill she’d felt inside the library instantly became a memory, and she shucked off her sweater. By the time she reached her Range Rover, she was already thirsty. Tossing her sweater on the passenger seat, she leaned against her car and drank from the tepid bottle of water she kept in the center console. As she rehydrated, she gazed at the dull-gray sky.

“Everything looks washed out,” she murmured to herself. The moon was as colorless as sand, and even the stars seemed to have lost their luster, turning as dry and gritty as the rest of the North Carolina coast.

Olivia decided to ask Violetta if she knew any stories about drought once Laurel was done with her interview. She sipped her water and reflected on how she could apply Violetta’s advice to her novel. After ten minutes passed, and then another five, she grew restless.

“Where are they?” she demanded of the silent parking lot.

The lights from the library shone in the darkness, and swarms of gnats and moths gathered around the streetlamps lining the sidewalks. Olivia’s gaze followed one of the lit paths that curved behind the library. Wondering if Violetta was waiting for her by the staff entrance, she tossed her empty water bottle onto the passenger seat and headed for the back of the building.

However, she saw no sign of Lowell or Violetta, and when she tried the door that led into the conference room, it was locked. She found that strange. After all, she’d seen Lowell exit through it twenty minutes ago.

Olivia was rapidly becoming irritated. Laurel would undoubtedly have reached the lighthouse keeper’s cottage by now and would be pacing the floorboards in anticipation. The thought increased Olivia’s indignation.

“Hello!” She pounded on the door. “Lowell? Violetta?”

She put her ear against the warm metal and listened for the slightest sound, but she heard nothing.

“Damn it all,” she muttered and strode around to the front entrance again. Shoulders squared, she pushed through the boisterous crowd. She was just about to break free from the press when a hand closed around her arm.

“I thought you’d gone,” Rawlings said.

She shook her head. “I’m supposed to have left, yes. Violetta told me to wait in the parking lot, but she’s never come out.”

Rawlings shrugged. “She’s an artiste. It’s in her DNA to be theatrically late.”

“I don’t do late,” Olivia replied with a scowl and continued down the hall. She hadn’t made it very far when Lowell came racing toward her. He was moving as fast as he could on his short legs, his body wobbling from side to side in his haste. His face was ashen, and his brown eyes were dark with fear.

Seeing Olivia, he stretched his arms out as if preparing for an embrace. And the second he reached her, he clamped his hands around her wrists. His entire body was trembling violently.

“What’s wrong?” Olivia said, looking him over for any sign of injury.

Lowell’s only reply was to utter a string of expletives. He couldn’t seem to stop. They shot out of his mouth like gunfire.

“Lowell!” she shouted. “Lowell! Is it Violetta?”

He stopping cursing and nodded wildly. Without another word, Olivia dashed down the hall and into the conference room.

The space felt empty, but Olivia cast a quick glance down each row as she rushed toward the small room behind the stage. Violetta was in a chair, her head tilted backward at an awkward angle, her hair tumbling down her shoulders in black waves, her eyes open wide. She stared at the ceiling, unblinking, and her tongue protruded from between slack lips. Her face and neck were blue. Olivia had the absurd thought that the shade was beautiful. It reminded her of the ocean beneath a summer sky.

Violetta Devereaux, the famed Appalachian storyteller, was dead.

As the truth of this washed over Olivia, she retreated two steps, covering her mouth in horror.

This fascinating and enigmatic woman who’d breathed life into so many tales, who’d amazed audiences all over the country with her incredible voice, had been forever silenced.

“You’ve been murdered,” Olivia whispered, forcing herself to look at Violetta’s tortured expression, blue skin, and swollen tongue once more. “Strangled.” And then she remembered that Rawlings was in the building.

Rawlings.
She seized on the name.
Rawlings.

She ran to him. She ran in search of comfort and safety, and to tell him that something evil had stolen into the library. At that very moment, a killer was exiting the building or hiding in the stacks or casually sipping champagne in the lobby.

Olivia burned with anger as she rushed down the hallway. This place was sacred. Her mother had worked in this library. She’d been absolutely content here. She’d smiled brightly when she assisted patrons and hummed softly while shelving materials. This building was a sanctuary to so many, and a killer had dared to taint it with violence. Olivia wanted someone to answer for that.

And so she ran.

I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot. I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.

—
J
ACK
L
ONDON

R
awlings saw Olivia coming. He also saw something in her expression that conveyed her urgency. Tossing his plate on the closest table, he moved to meet her.

When they were near enough to touch, he bowed his head close to her lips so that whatever she had to say would be heard by him alone.

Olivia grabbed his left arm with both hands. “Violetta’s dead. Someone’s killed her.”

She could feel his body stiffen beneath her fingers. “Show me.”

As they hurried down the hallway, Olivia had the sense that she was in an underground tunnel. The fluorescent ceiling lights cast a sickly yellow glow on the gray carpet, and the door to the conference room seemed to recede as they walked toward it. Olivia felt like she was in a Lewis Carroll story.

“Steady,” Rawlings said. He took her elbow, and before she knew it, they’d passed the rows of chairs and were confronted by Violetta’s blue face. Olivia couldn’t help but stare at the sight as if she hadn’t seen it just a few moments ago. She expected the color to have drained away somewhat by now, leaving a doughy white in its stead, but the summer-sky hue remained. Even in death, Violetta Devereaux possessed an otherworldly beauty.

“Did you touch anything?” Rawlings asked, reaching for his phone.

“No.”

Rawlings gave a series of terse instructions to the officer on the other end of the line and then stood in silence for a long time.

Finally, he looked at Olivia. “Can your librarian friend stay calm in a crisis?”

“She’s a rock.”

“Good. Have her lock all the doors. No one gets in or out without my say-so. If she asks why, tell her we have an emergency on our hands, but don’t go into any detail.”

“Understood.” Olivia hustled back to the lobby in search of Leona Fairchild.

As Olivia hunted for the librarian, she also kept an eye out for Lowell. Rawlings would need to speak with him sooner rather than later. Pivoting this way and that, she stood on her tiptoes and studied the sea of faces in the lobby, but she didn’t see Lowell or Ms. Fairchild anywhere. What she did notice was that a group of people were saying their good-byes and heading for the front door. Olivia felt a stirring of panic.

She pushed ahead of them, ignoring their indignant looks.

“What in the world—?” Dixie began when Olivia rushed over and clamped her hand on Grumpy’s wrist, exactly as Lowell had grasped her wrists ten minutes earlier.

“I need you to block this exit,” she told Grumpy. “No one can leave. I don’t care what you tell people, but no one gets out of this building. Chief’s orders. Something horrible has happened. More cops are on the way, and they’ll take over when they get here. Until then, you must guard this door.”

Dixie fired off a series of questions, her voice becoming more shrill and more demanding with each one, but Olivia didn’t even look at her friend. Confident that Grumpy would take charge, she went off to resume her search for Lowell and Leona.

She found the librarian coming out of the staff kitchen. A woman wearing a white chef’s coat embroidered with the words
“
Roll With It Catering
”
followed her. The caterer carried a tray of finger sandwiches while Leona had a pitcher of soda in one hand and ice water in the other.

“Excuse me,” Olivia said, blocking the librarian’s path. “I need to speak with you immediately.” She took the pitchers from Leona and entered the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” The librarian drew her brows together. She was displeased by Olivia’s abruptness but too concerned to object.

Olivia placed the pitchers on the counter, splattering droplets of brown cola over the surface. She hadn’t meant to make a mess, but her hands were shaking too violently to avoid it. “Violetta Devereaux is dead. Please don’t ask me for details. All I can say is that we have a . . . situation. Rawlings would like you to lock all the doors right away. We need to keep everyone inside the building until his team arrives.”

Leona went pale. She drew in a deep breath and steadied herself on a chair back. Olivia watched the older woman push down her emotions, nodding to show Olivia that she understood and was prepared to follow the chief’s orders. She pulled a set of keys from her pants pocket and gripped them hard in her right hand. “What should I tell people?”

“That you’re merely following instructions given by the police, who will brief them as soon as possible. Don’t say anything else.”

By the time Olivia returned to the conference room, Rawlings had finished his preliminary examination of the scene. He met Olivia halfway up the center aisle. “Where’s her assistant?”

“Lowell may have left already,” Olivia said. “I didn’t see him anywhere.”

“My officers are two minutes out. Can you stand guard over her? Make sure no one comes close?” Rawlings gestured to where Violetta sat lifeless in a chair, her unseeing eyes fixed on the ceiling tiles. Olivia followed her dead gaze, wishing that the storyteller could have died looking at something beautiful, something full of color.

Olivia’s throat tightened. She glanced at Rawlings and nodded.

Once again, she was alone in the conference room, but this time, she no longer sensed Violetta’s presence. She was gone. The echoes of her last words were gone. There was only an oppressive silence. Olivia stood in the middle of it, feeling the weight of too many unanswered questions.

• • •

The police separated people alphabetically, took their statements, and eventually had to release them. As soon as she finished giving her statement, Olivia sent Laurel a text saying that the interview with Violetta was canceled and that she was sorry not to have let her know sooner. She told Laurel to go home and that she’d call her first thing in the morning. Olivia then retreated to the staff kitchen to escape the sight of the coroner’s men rolling their gurney down the hallway. She didn’t want to witness Violetta’s departure from the building. She didn’t want to think of the captivating storyteller being zipped into a body bag, like a butterfly being tucked back into its cocoon.

“Laurel will be furious with me when she finds out what happened,” Olivia told Leona with a weary sigh. She longed to climb into bed, Haviland curled up at her feet, and burrow under the covers until the sun painted her room a warm bronze. “She’ll have plenty of time to file a piece on Violetta’s death tomorrow. Someone might as well rest tonight.”

The librarian took off her reading glasses and wiped the lenses with a tissue. “I’d like to think that Violetta will have a little peace too—just a few hours before every part of her life is scrutinized under a magnifying glass—but I’m sure there’s already a post on Facebook. There’s no privacy in this modern world. Not even for the dead.”

“At least they’re beyond caring,” Olivia said, but she was troubled by Leona’s remark. She knew what a murder investigation would entail. She was all too aware of how the secrets, memories, and relationships that formed Violetta’s history would be brought to light for dozens of strangers to analyze. Nothing was off-limits. Nothing was sacred. Everything would be typed into black-and-white reports and scoured by police officers, and later by journalists and inquisitive members of the public.

Leona looked tired. Her face was drawn and her movements were slow and clumsy. It was unsettling for Olivia to watch her go through the simple steps required to brew a pot of coffee. Leona was brisk and efficient, but that was before someone had died in her beloved library, before she had puzzled out that the death was a suspicious one.

“Why?” she said to Olivia as she filled the coffeepot with water. “Why would anyone harm a storyteller? Why here? She was from the other end of the state. Why now? In
my
library?”

Olivia gave a weary shrug of her shoulders. “I have no idea. Maybe there was animosity between her and another performer.”

Leona turned, paper filter in hand, and frowned. “Oh, please. Does that sound like a reasonable motive to you? Where is Violetta’s assistant?”

“I think he bolted after telling me about her,” Olivia admitted. “Not through the front door though. Grumpy and Dixie didn’t see him. And he obviously didn’t use the conference room exit.”

“That leaves only the exit near the book drop.” Leona’s frown deepened. “But we keep that locked, so he either slipped past Dixie or he’s still in the building.”

“Hiding in an air duct?” Olivia shook her head. “No, he’s gone. You should have seen his face. He was terrified.”

Leona put the filter in the basket and began to scoop grounds into it. “He could have been putting on a performance.”

Olivia hadn’t considered that. Lowell had seemed genuinely stricken. She could still feel his grip on her wrists, how his thick fingers had trembled. His hands were exceptionally strong. They’d left bruises on her skin. Bruises that were already darkening from a yellow blue to a plum purple. Olivia recalled how Lowell had dragged the laden steamer trunk across the stage. He was certainly powerful enough to have strangled his boss, but why would he?

The treasure
, she thought suddenly. Violetta had mentioned that people had been trying to locate the treasure for her entire life—that she’d hidden the clues to its whereabouts in her stories. Thus far, no one had been able to solve her puzzle. Had Lowell begun working for Violetta in hopes of finding the treasure? Had he grown tired of listening to her tell the same tales over and over without his ever getting closer to the prize?

“What are you thinking about?” Leona asked above the gurgle of the coffeemaker.

“That you’re right. I don’t know Lowell from Adam. He could have been playing me.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. A headache had bloomed there an hour ago and showed no signs of ebbing. “I’ve learned by now that no one is as they appear.”

Leona put a hand on her back and rubbed it gently. “Some of us are, hon.”

Olivia opened her eyes and smiled up at the woman she’d known all her life. “Is that coffee any good?”

“No,” Leona replied. “Would you like a cup anyway?”

“Yes. It’ll give me something to do for the next five minutes.”

She was about to take her first sip when Rawlings entered the kitchen. He didn’t look tired at all. He seemed taller and more broad-shouldered than when he’d simply been another guest attending Violetta’s performance. Now he was the picture of authority, despite the fact that he wasn’t in uniform and had left his sidearm at home. Olivia stared at him, slightly awestruck by the ease with which he was able to morph into his chief of police persona, shucking his civilian demeanor like a reptile shedding its skin.

“Dixie’s asking for you,” he said. “Everyone’s free to leave, and I think she’d like to see you before she and Grumpy head home.”

Olivia bid Leona goodnight. As soon as she and Rawlings were out in the hall, she said, “Did you find Lowell?”

He shook his head. “I sent an officer to the B&B and one to the Weaver residence. No sign of him at either location.”

“It doesn’t look good for him,” Olivia said.

“No. Running never looks good,” Rawlings agreed.

When they reached the lobby, Dixie was sitting on a wooden bench, idly spinning the wheels of her left roller skate around and around with the flat of her hand. She jumped up when she saw Olivia and the chief.

Olivia paused and touched Rawlings on the arm. “Call me when you can.”

“I will.” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “Are you all right?”

“Sure,” she lied, gave him a little smile and walked away.

Dixie waited for Rawlings to leave before speaking. “Lord have mercy, ’Livia! Folks are whisperin’ that Violetta was killed and that Lowell might have had somethin’ to do with it.” Her ale-brown eyes grew moist. “He’s done bad things, but he wouldn’t go and kill anybody!”

“Have you seen him?” Olivia asked.

Dixie looked hurt. “No. Not since the show. I was sure he’d find me straight off, actin’ all high and mighty because he’s workin’ with the famous Miss Violetta, but he never made it to the lobby. Next thing I know, Violetta’s dead and he’s gone.”

Grumpy slung an arm around his wife and propelled her through the doorway. “Come on, babe. He’s sure to call you. He doesn’t know anybody else in this town, and he’s probably real shaken.”

“You go get the car, shug.” Dixie scooted out from beneath his arm. “I wanna talk to Olivia for a sec.”

Grumpy bent down, kissed Dixie on the crown of her head, and walked into the parking lot. The shadows had deepened around the cars, and a scattering of wispy clouds covered the moon. The night felt old, and Olivia was eager to get home.

“What don’t you want to say in front of Grumpy?” she asked Dixie.

“That Lowell could be hidin’ in the woods near my place,” she said. “He’s got a record, ’Livia. He’s goin’ to expect folks to point a finger at him.”

Olivia studied her friend. “And if he is there when you get home? What will you do?”

Dixie’s jaw tightened in anger. “What would you do if it was your brother?”

That gave Olivia pause. Would she deceive Rawlings to protect Hudson? How far would she go to shelter someone she loved, even if it meant breaking the law? “I don’t know,” she admitted.

“That’s the difference between us, then,” Dixie said. When Grumpy pulled up with the car, she climbed in without saying goodnight. The door slammed and the engine growled. A pair of red taillights glared at Olivia through the darkness.

• • •

The next morning Olivia was jolted awake by the persistent ringing of the phone and, assuming the caller was Rawlings, she answered. Laurel was on the other end of the line, and she didn’t sound happy.

“You sent me home!” Laurel cried indignantly. “I’m a reporter! A reporter who’s been scooped thanks to you.”

Olivia lay back on the pillows. Her body felt stiff and sore, as if she’d run for miles without stopping. Her mouth was dry and gritty. She drank some water from the glass on the nightstand while Laurel ranted.