Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

sincerely. “But where do I come in?”
    Olivia had to give her former lover credit. He didn’t dance around the point or try to soften her up with compliments. He simply opened his hands so that his palms formed a bowl and said, “I need help funding the event. The expenses were supposed to be covered by the
Gazette
, a grant, and me. Unfortunately, the grant’s fallen through. But we have to go on. Things have already been set in motion. Hotel rooms have been booked. Ads placed. Invitations sent and accepted. The bottom line is that we don’t have enough money to pay for it all. We need a philanthropist, Olivia. The storytellers need you.”
    “Don’t lay it on too thick,” she warned. “How much are we talking about?”
    Eyes flashing in premature triumph, Flynn reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a slip of paper. “I’ve itemized all the costs. This way, you’ll have proof that I haven’t booked a Caribbean cruise at your expense.”
    Olivia didn’t unfold the paper. She tucked it into her Chanel evening bag and promised to look it over in the morning. “I never make decisions when my belly is stuffed with chocolate.”
    Flynn laughed. “An excellent motto. After all, chocolate stimulates the mind’s opioid production, creating feelings of pleasure that will eventually wear off. But if you’d like to prolong the sensation of euphoria, I’d be glad to assist with that.” He stood and held out his hand for her. She took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet, and noted how he held still for a moment in order to study her pale, silvery blond hair, which was swept off her brow in a modernistic wave. He then lowered his eyes to her necklace of moonstones and black pearls. His gaze drifted down the curves of her body, taking in the form-fitting, vintage-style cocktail dress made of black lace with satin trim, and Olivia’s long, tan legs.
    “I’d try to kiss you, but your police chief boyfriend would probably hit me with his baton.”
    Olivia snatched her hand away. “I don’t need him to defend my honor. I can clout you all by myself, thank you very much.” She smiled to take the sting from the words and wished Flynn a pleasant evening.
    When he was gone, she hesitated for a moment at the kitchen door and then decided not to return to the party. She walked down the alley and stepped onto the main sidewalk, heading for the public lot where her Range Rover was parked.
    In order to reach her car, she had to pass by Fish Nets, the bar where her writer friend Millay worked. It was not an establishment Olivia regularly frequented as it reeked of tobacco, body odor, and stale beer. The music was too loud, the entertainment was limited to a stained pool table and decrepit dartboard, and the floor was covered in puddles of spilled liquor, discarded gum, and chewing tobacco spittle. And yet, Olivia had grown up among its clientele. Her father had been a fisherman, and most of the old-timers inside the bar had known her since she was a skinny, towheaded girl with the shy, sea-blue eyes.
    Pausing at the door, she considered how ridiculous she’d look drinking whiskey with a group of work-worn men and women. She’d walk in wearing her cocktail dress and heels while Millay’s patrons would be dressed in soiled and tattered jeans, frayed denim shorts or skirts, and T-shirts that had been washed so often that their logos were no longer decipherable. Their skin would be bronzed by the sun and weathered by wind and worry. Their hands were scarred and dirty and their language coarse, but they knew her. They knew her story. They knew her mother had died in a tragic accident, that her drunkard of a father had abandoned her when she was only ten, and that she’d come back to Oyster Bay after a long absence in order to reconnect with the past and strive for a new and better future.
    They’ve accepted me from the first
, she thought with a rush of gratitude and entered the bar.
These are my people.
    For a moment, her appearance stunned the crowd into silence, but it only lasted a heartbeat. Men and women warmly greeted her with catcalls and raucous shouts. Millay waved her over to the bar and polished a tumbler with a dish towel.
    “Don’t give me the stink eye. This one’s clean,” Millay said before pouring a finger’s worth of her best whiskey into the glass. “It’s the only thing in here that is, besides you. Aren’t you supposed to be down the street with the rest of the snobs?”
    “Why