Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

valuable.”
    Frowning, Fred rubbed his chin and gave the matter serious thought. “Appalachian antiques? Nothing of note comes to mind. When I come across things from that area, they’re usually quilts, woven rugs, and other textiles. Old farming equipment, tools, household goods like lanterns or tins, but nothing like that sword belt over there. Nothing to give a shop owner the tingles.” He glanced around his establishment. “Honestly, when I think of that part of North Carolina, I think of coal.”
    “Me too,” Olivia said. “What about silver coins?”
    Fred considered the question. “Possibly. Silver was a common form of currency before paper bills came along. They were probably circulated even longer in remote parts of the country, but the mountains aren’t known for being caches of rare coins. I’ve always had the feeling that the people of Appalachia had to use every cent they could lay their hands on just to get by. It’s a hard place, isn’t it?”
    “I believe so, yes. That’s why I keep hitting a wall. I’m trying to figure out what might have been passed down from generation to generation in a mountain family—something that was valuable a long time ago and still worth a notable sum today. But I can’t think of a single object.”
    At that moment, the customer turned to Fred and grinned. “What the hell? I’m going to get it! I might spend a few nights in the doghouse, but it’s worth it.”
    “Sure thing, sir. I’ll be there directly.” Fred smiled and looked at Olivia. “Give me some time to think about your question. Maybe the family had ancestors who lived in a city or immigrated to Appalachia from another country. Maybe that relative brought a prized possession from another area with them. That’s the only theory I can come up with at the moment, but I’ll post a query on my antique forums and see if I get a nibble.”
    Olivia thanked him, accepted a treat for Haviland, and drove home.
    In the spacious silence of her house, she did something she often did when she was having a hard time solving a problem.
    Opening her hall closet, she selected one of dozens of jumbo glass pickle jars from the shelf. She carried one from five summers ago to the Aubusson rug in the living room and got down on her knees. Unscrewing the jar lid, she inhaled a wisp of salt water and then overturned the contents onto the rug. She ran her fingers over shotgun shells, rings, coins, and belt buckles as names passed through her mind. Greg Rapson, Amabel Hammond, Lowell Reid, Dewey Whitt, and Violetta Devereaux.
    “Would Greg really commit murder because he was jealous of another storyteller? He must have a better motive to be viewed as a realistic suspect. Money, perhaps? I wonder how much college professors take home?” Olivia addressed her comments to a battered wheat penny. “After all, there’s no guarantee that he’ll win future competitions even with Violetta out of the picture.”
    Olivia let the penny drop and reached for a ball-shaped earring. “And Flynn? Why would he kill a woman he’d invited here to perform? Unless there was another reason he wanted her to come to Oyster Bay. But what would that be?”
    Tossing the earring aside, she caressed the smooth surface of a brass buckle and considered Lowell. “What about the thief? Was he biding his time? Waiting until this performance to make his move? Did he want information or was Violetta carrying something on her person? Was he hoping Dixie would hide him after he’d gotten what he wanted?”
    She drew the buckle closer. There were too many questions surrounding Lowell Reid. And then there was Amabel. A poor girl from the mountains with the kind of innate intelligence that won her academic scholarships and the chance to escape her family’s hardscrabble lifestyle. Later, after Violetta was already gone, Mabel became a full-time college professor and part-time storyteller. But was the girl named Mabel truly gone? The girl who’d lived in her younger sister’s shadow for years. The girl who had probably fought to be seen and heard in a house haunted by the memory of her brother.
    Olivia assigned a shotgun shell to Amabel, believing she was probably a volatile and unpredictable creature. She might be cool and smooth on the outside, but surely some part of Mabel still existed inside Amabel’s calm and collected casing. If not, why take up storytelling at all? Why cling to a past that was Mabel’s if Amabel wanted to deny her