Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

back room of the hardware store.
    “Which horse are you gonna back?” Dixie said as she returned with Haviland’s food and a frittata for Olivia. “Harris’s? That boy sure knows how to build a boat. Oh, Grumpy wanted me to tell you that you’ve got cherry tomatoes, goat cheese, fresh basil, and corn mixed in with your eggs. Enjoy.” She put Haviland’s plate on the floor. After he jumped down to eat, she took his seat, folded her hands, and wriggled a little with excitement. “My cousin’s here for the storyteller’s retreat. I haven’t seen him for ages. Probably because he’s been in and out of jail since we were kids.”
    Because her mouth was full, Olivia registered her surprise by lifting her brows.
    “What? Doesn’t everyone have a few thugs hangin’ on the family tree?” Dixie chuckled. “Lowell’s pretty harmless as criminals go. He’s just never been fond of payin’ for things. He’d see somethin’ he wanted, and if he couldn’t afford it, he’d steal it. Most of the time he avoided gettin’ caught, but the older he got, the more darin’ he grew.”
    “So how is he involved in the retreat? Is he going to move through the audience picking pockets?”
    Most people would have been offended by the question, but Dixie let out a roar of laughter. “Don’t give him any notions, you hear?” She flipped the
Gazette
to the back page, pointing to the list of performer biographies. “See? Here he is. Lowell Reid. He’s Miss Violetta’s assistant. Takes care of her bookings, costumes, and props.”
    “That’s a far cry from larceny,” Olivia said. “You must be proud of him for straightening out.”
    “I am, but I’m a bit confused too. Last time I heard from his mama she told me that Lowell had been arrested. He was locked up somewhere in the western part of the state, and after he finally got out, this Violetta lady hired him. Lowell’s mama said she was gonna be real famous soon because some college professor was writin’ a book about her and the history of Appalachian folktales. Unfortunately for her, he died before he could finish his work. See.”
    Dixie pointed at a photograph of a middle-aged man seated in a cabin in the woods. Clutching a notebook and pen, he appeared to be deep in conversation with a very old woman. As Olivia studied the photograph, Grumpy stuck his head out of the kitchen and signaled for Dixie to pick up an order. She excused herself, leaving Olivia to wonder how the professor, whose name was Alfred Hicks, had died. The paper didn’t mention the cause of death, but storytellers from the Appalachian region were quoted as saying they were shocked and saddened by his loss and were dedicating future performances to him.
    As she ate, Olivia continued to read about the participants of both the children and adult programs. By the time she and Haviland had cleaned their plates, Dixie returned with the check.
    “Professor Hicks was by no means old. And he must have been in decent shape to be hiking through the Appalachians,” Olivia mused aloud. “It says here that he was in his late forties. Did Lowell mention how he died?”
    Dixie nodded. Glancing around, she lowered her voice. “The officials said that his death was an accident. Word has it that he went out at night, lost his footin’, and fell. Broke his neck. End of story. But when I talked to Lowell on the phone the other day, he said there was more to it than that. Somethin’ he refuses to talk about. Somethin’ that scared the tar out of him.”
    Intrigued, Olivia stared at her friend. “If Alfred Hicks didn’t slip, then what happened to him?”
    “I wouldn’t say this with a straight face if it hadn’t come straight from Lowell’s lips, but he thinks the professor was killed.” Dixie’s face was pinched and humorless. “Murdered by the light of the moon.”
    “By whom?” Olivia asked.
    Dixie leaned closer and whispered so softly that Olivia could barely hear her say, “By a ghost.”

Chapter 3
    The universe is made of stories, not atoms.
    — M URIEL R UKEYSER
    O livia knew that Dixie was fully prepared to elaborate, but when Grumpy’s face suddenly appeared around the side of the swinging door leading to the kitchen, it was clear that he wasn’t pleased. Scowling, he beckoned for his wife to come into the kitchen.
    “Lord, why do the orders have to stack up just when I’ve got somethin’ interestin’ to talk about!” she complained and skated away.
    Olivia watched the