Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

and coastal Carolina books. Olivia leafed through a book on indigenous flora and fauna wondering if Oyster Bay would ever turn green again. She missed the purplish pink of the large swamp flowers, the cheerful yellow buds of Saint-John’s-wort, and the star-shaped petals of the dotted horsemint. Even the fiery blossoms of the gaillardia, which the locals called the Indian Blanket, were no longer sprinkling the dunes with color. Only the sea oats, with their thin stalks and brown, featherlike heads, flourished.
    Eventually, only the storytellers and a handful of customers remained in the store. Olivia covertly observed Flynn’s interaction with Amabel and Greg. He thanked them both for coming and vigorously shook their hands. They chatted for a moment and then Greg left. Amabel lingered behind, but Flynn had turned away to speak with a customer.
    As soon as he was free again, Amabel shouldered her purse and walked up to him. She leaned in, put her palm flat on his chest with an intimacy that clearly surprised him, and whispered into his ear. His eyes went wide, and she laughed at his reaction. She walked out of the bookstore, and he watched her cross the street. Flynn’s body was still as a stone, but Olivia craned her neck so she could follow Amabel’s progress. A police cruiser was parked at the end of the block.
    “What was that about?” Millay said, having witnessed the odd interaction.
    Suddenly, Olivia remembered how Flynn had introduced the storytellers. She drew in a sharp breath. “Flynn told the audience that Amabel was from the mountains. He said, ‘one of them is from the mountains
like me.
’”
    Millay frowned in confusion. “I thought Flynn moved to Oyster Bay from the Raleigh area.”
    “Me too. But where was he before that? Does he know some of the storytellers he invited here?” Olivia studied Flynn as he shook himself free of his trance and began straightening a table of new hardcovers. Glancing down at the floor, he bent over to pick up one of the white paper wolf masks. He straightened and eyed it thoughtfully, his expression unreadable. “Which wolf are you, Flynn McNulty?” Olivia asked in a low and troubled voice.

Chapter 9
    The unread story is not a story; it is little black marks on wood pulp.
    — U RSULA K . L E G UIN
    O livia took Haviland to the dog park and sat on a bench in the shade while he chased squirrels and sniffed the base of every bush and tree. When he was panting heavily, Olivia poured water into his travel bowl and watched him lap it up while she wondered what to do next. She had plenty of time to dwell on the riddle of Violetta’s death, which seemed to grow more complicated with every passing hour.
    After Haviland cooled down a little, Olivia told him to heel and headed to Circa, Oyster Bay’s antique shop. The proprietor, Fred Yoder, had become a friend of hers, and she often stopped by to browse his wares or to join him when he took Duncan, his Westie, to the park.
    Inside Circa, Fred was busy showing a sword belt to a customer. “It’s in amazing condition,” he told a middle-aged man in khaki pants and a polo shirt. “The belt plate shows the seal of Virginia, the state motto, and the two brass hangers are intact. The leather has been repaired here, below the wreath, and it was skillfully done.”
    The customer was obviously interested in the belt. He couldn’t stop touching it. “I was supposed to be looking for an eglomise mirror. My wife will kill me if I come home with this instead.”
    Fred smiled. “Well, we can’t have that. Take your time looking around. I’ll be right back.”
    “Where’s Duncan?” Olivia asked when he came over to greet her.
    “Asleep in the kitchen. He’s gotten so lazy that he no longer bothers to get up when the bell above the door rings.” He took Haviland’s paw and shook it respectfully. “Some guard dog, eh?”
    Haviland rolled his eyes, which was the canine equivalent of a shrug. Fred laughed and gave him a hearty pat on his back.
    Olivia gestured at the man examining the belt. “I don’t want to interrupt,” she whispered. “I can see that you’ve got a fish on your line.”
    Fred waved off the notion. “It’s best to give people space where they’re trying to make a decision. And that isn’t an inexpensive item. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”
    “I’d better not. In truth, I stopped by to ask if you could think of an antique specific to the Appalachia region. Something very