Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

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