Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

woman in the
Cats
booth stuff the table’s entire supply of sugar and sugar substitute packets into her voluminous purse before walking out of the diner. Dixie had been right in fearing the disgruntled customer wouldn’t leave a tip, for when Olivia got up to investigate, she saw that the woman had done something far worse than stiff Dixie. She’d left a single quarter sitting in the middle of a puddle of syrup.
    “What a piece of work,” Olivia muttered and dropped a five-dollar bill next to the coin but clear of the syrup. If she left a larger tip, Dixie would surmise that the money hadn’t come from the sugar thief, and she’d be offended.
    Having restored balance on Dixie’s behalf, Olivia signaled to Haviland that it was time to leave, and the pair headed down to the docks.
    “It’s already so crowded,” she told her poodle, but he didn’t seem to mind the mass of people. His warm brown eyes glinted in the sunlight, and his mouth hung open in a relaxed smile. Olivia grinned at him. “You’re just hoping Diane and the gals who groom you will be here. You’re shamelessly greedy. You just had breakfast and you’re dreaming of treats.”
    At the sound of the word, Haviland barked and quickened his pace. Olivia let him walk in front of her. The big black dog cut a path through the throng of merchants and spectators, and Olivia followed in his wake, knowing full well that she’d have to rein him in before they got too close to the shrimp stall. Haviland adored shrimp, but he was restricted to one or two pieces and only if they had been deveined and steamed first. Left to his own devices, he’d gorge on shrimp until he got sick. And because none of the fishermen could resist slipping Haviland a snack, Olivia had to keep a close eye on him.
    “Olivia! Hi!” Laurel called from behind a lemonade stand. “On your way to the waterfront?”
    Whistling for Haviland to stop, Olivia veered away from the boardwalk to the tree-lined lane where vendors were hawking Cardboard Regatta T-shirts, model kits, and an array of carnival-type food.
    “Dallas and Dermot volunteered to help our neighbor sell lemonade before the race,” Laurel explained, smiling proudly at her sons. “The stand is raising money for charity and our neighbor, Bobby, is a Cub Scout. He’ll earn a merit badge for volunteering and when the twins heard what he was doing, they begged to be allowed to assist him.”
    The boys exchanged proud glances and then one of them whispered to the other, “Mom’s happy.”
    Because they were identical twins with no notable differences such as a birthmark or scar, Olivia could never tell Dallas or Dermot apart. When they were little, Laurel dressed Dallas in blue and Dermot in green, but now that the boys refused to be assigned certain colors, Olivia had no idea who was who.
    “Go on.” Laurel nudged the nearest boy. “Try your pitch on Ms. Limoges.”
    “Oh, you don’t have to,” Olivia said hastily. “I’m not thirsty at all, so let me just put some money in your jar or shoebox or whatever you have, and I’ll be on my way.”
    Laurel shook her head and pointed at her sons. “Their preschool teacher said that they mumble too much. This will help them practice their public speaking.”
    Olivia handed one of the boys a twenty. “Okay. Tell me this. Will my donation help someone?”
    “Kids with cancer,” he said in a small, nervous voice, and fixed his gaze on Haviland.
    “There you are. Succinct and to the point. Well done, sir.” Olivia smiled at Laurel and then gestured toward the harbor, which was filled with cardboard boats performing test runs. “Are you going to miss the start of the race?”
    At that moment a woman in a pink and green sundress and a little girl in a matching dress appeared next to Laurel. The woman dropped her designer handbag on the table and declared, “Your relief is here!”
    While Laurel handed over the cash box and key, the little girl took the opportunity to stick her tongue out at Dallas and Dermot. It happened with lightning quickness, but Olivia saw the gesture and was annoyed by it because the girl was at least four years older than Laurel’s twins.
    “I’m sure your boys did the best they could, Laurel,” the mother said with false sweetness and peered into the cash box. “Oh my. There aren’t many large bills at all. Well, never fear! My Ashley-Grace is going to sell more lemonade than any other child on record! She’s a natural salesperson,