Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

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