Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

its airy bells, recalling the little shop in Paris where she’d bought the clock from a stooped gentleman with half-moon glasses and a merry laugh.
    This was her home, where she was surrounded by memories and keepsakes from her past. Everything had its place in her haven. Her sanctuary. Could she throw open her doors and invite Rawlings to share it? To alter it?
    “Not yet,” she whispered in the dark. Pulling the cashmere lap blanket she’d bought in Nepal over her shoulders, she closed her eyes and dreamt of snow-covered mountains.
    • • •
    The next morning, Olivia was at her usual window booth at Grumpy’s Diner when Laurel found her.
    “Rough night?” Laurel asked playfully as she sat down across the table.
    Olivia didn’t smile back. She raised her coffee mug and said, “This is my second cup. By the time I’m done with my third, I might be able to have a civil conversation. Until then . . .”
    “Got it.” Laurel turned to greet Haviland, who was much more enthusiastic in his hello, and then waved at Dixie.
    Dixie collected menus from the family at the
Tell Me on a Sunday
booth and then skated over to Laurel’s side. She peered at Olivia’s cup but didn’t top it off. “I know better than to mess with her brew,” Dixie explained to Laurel. “Especially when she hasn’t had her beauty sleep. How about you? Want somethin’ to eat?”
    Laurel said, “I had breakfast hours ago, but I’d love a muffin and some hot tea, please.”
    Dixie nodded and turned to Olivia. “Grumpy said to come on back once the caffeine’s done its thing. His folks get up as early as we do, so Grumpy’s already chatted with them.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “He was on the phone for twenty whole minutes. I don’t think they’ve talked that long since his granny passed on and they wanted to know if Grumpy wanted any of her things.”
    Olivia put her coffee cup down. “I’m ready if he is.”
    “No, you are not.” Dixie scowled. “You sit and sip and visit with Laurel. Grumpy has to get these brunch orders cooked before he starts chewin’ cud. A distracted cook is a bad cook.”
    “That’s true,” Laurel agreed. “I can’t even have the radio on when I’m fixing supper. Steve has to keep the boys out of the kitchen or I’ll burn everything.”
    Dixie nodded. “There’s a fine line between crisp and charred, and Grumpy knows not to cross it, but if his mind wanders . . . well, let’s just say I’ve made him redo plenty of orders since we opened this joint. Usually happens when he’s worried about one of the kids. Today, he’s wound tighter than a fishing reel. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come back.” Dixie gave them a little curtsy and skated off.
    Olivia took another swallow of coffee, reveling in the feel of the hot liquid sliding down her throat. “Rawlings told me to thank you for the files on Violetta. I read through most of them last night, but I don’t think I learned anything of value. Harris is searching through genealogical records, and I’m hoping that Grumpy’s parents can tell us more about her childhood. They live a town away from where Violetta grew up.”
    Laurel’s blue eyes went wide. “What a small world. Did Grumpy know her?”
    “When they were kids, but he hadn’t seen her for decades.”
    “I wrote a short piece for the
Gazette
this morning, and it read like most of the articles I gave the chief. Violetta’s professional life completely overshadowed her private one. I interviewed a bunch of the other storytellers, but none of them seemed to really know her intimately. The only interesting thing I learned from them was that she was a genuine recluse. Painfully withdrawn. She always dressed in long skirts and long-sleeved blouses, and she either went straight back to her hotel or drove home directly after a performance.”
    Olivia frowned. “Then why come to this storyteller’s retreat at all? She didn’t need to hone her craft, and the money she earned from Saturday’s show could hardly have been worth a trip across the state. We need to ask Flynn how he contacted her. Did he speak with Lowell? Convince him to travel to Oyster Bay?”
    “I don’t know, but I wrote down the names of at least two storytellers who were seriously jealous of her,” Laurel said. “Both of them believe Violetta used her fear of people to manipulate judges into awarding her grants and monetary prizes. One of them, an Amabel Hammond,