Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

would I want to sip champagne and devour plates of sumptuous desserts with Oyster Bay’s elite when I could be here, sitting on a wobbly stool and breathing in toxic air?” Olivia gestured at the taps. “Buy you a beer?”
    Millay grinned. “Absolutely. I prefer the ‘King of Beers.’”
    She reached into the refrigerator behind her and pulled out a bottle of Budweiser. Popping the cap off with a neat flourish, she clinked the neck against Olivia’s tumbler. “In the immortal words of Minna Antrim, ‘To be loved is to be fortunate, but to be hated is to achieve distinction.’”
    Olivia laughed. “Despite your best efforts, I believe you are genuinely adored.”
    “In this place, yeah. Beyond these walls, I’m that girl the old biddies point to and frown at in disapproval. I use too much makeup, my skirts are way too short, and I wear black boots all year long. I’m the scourge of the Junior Leaguers, and I take pride in knowing they’re afraid to look me in the eye.” She pretended to claw at the air with her left hand, causing the feathers hanging from her black hair to swing back and forth. Millay’s ancestors, who were a blend of several races, had lent her an exotic beauty, but she preferred to draw attention to her artistic nature by piercing her eyebrows, wearing rows of hoops in her ears, and dyeing the tips of her jet-black hair neon pink, orange, or green. Lately, she’d taken to adding accessories to her textured bob. Tonight, she wore crimson feathers, but at the last meeting of the Bayside Book Writers, the twentysomething barkeep had celebrated the final round of edits on her young-adult fantasy novel by decorating her hair with glittery Hello Kitty clips.
    “That’s why you’re such a talented writer,” Olivia said. “You’re fearless in life and on paper. You have the courage to be you, but you’re also willing to be vulnerable. That’s hard when you’re used to wearing armor. Believe me, I know.”
    Millay shook her head in disgust. “What kind of crack was in that chocolate you ate? Don’t go all fortune cookie philosopher on me, Olivia. Hurry up and finish that whiskey. You need to wash that sugar out of your system.”
    Smiling, Olivia complied. Millay immediately refilled her glass while a man sat down in the vacant stool to Olivia’s right.
    He lifted the faded John Deere cap from his head and said, “Evenin’, ma’am.”
    “Good evening, Captain Fergusson.” She gestured at her tumbler. “Would you join me?”
    “Reckon I will. Thank you, kindly.”
    When Millay had poured two fingers of whiskey, he turned to Olivia and she raised her glass. “May the holes in your net be no bigger than the fish in it,” she said, reciting one of the fishermen’s traditional toasts.
    He nodded and replied with one of his own. “May your troubles be as few as my granny’s teeth.”
    Sipping their whiskey, they fell into easy conversation about the commercial fishing industry. Captain Fergusson supplied both of Olivia’s restaurants with shrimp and had recently expanded his operation. He was now her primary source for blue crab and flounder as well, and she often met his trawlers at the dock when they returned with full cargo holds. Olivia would chat with the captain and his crew as she made selections for her restaurants. She liked Fergusson. More importantly, she trusted him.
    Fergusson had been casting off while it was still dark to fish the waters around the North Carolina coast for the past forty years. And it showed. He was grizzled, his pewter-colored beard was wiry, and his eyes were beady and sunken from decades of gazing into the horizon. He was gruff, blunt, hardworking, and fair, and Olivia had grown quite fond of him.
    As they spoke, other fishermen drifted over and inserted themselves into the conversation. Olivia bought clams, oysters, mussels, scallops, and a dozen different fish from many of them. Before long, she called for shots of whiskey for the entire motley crew. In between swallows, Olivia praised everyone she recognized for the quality of their seafood, and the men and their wives shared their predictions about the summer harvest. This naturally led to a discussion about the weather, and Olivia realized that to a bar filled with fishermen, construction workers, farmers, and yardmen, each day’s forecast had a direct effect on their livelihood.
    “You’d best get ready for a hot, dry summer,” one of the women told Olivia.
    Another woman, clad