Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

Regal over to the sofa. “I wonder why.”
    Harris’s eyes flew across the text of an article on Appalachian history. “Interbreeding. That’s the answer, pure and simple. The mountain communities were really isolated. Cousins marrying cousins wasn’t uncommon back then. It didn’t carry the stigma it does now.”
    Olivia nodded. The mountain people wouldn’t have been the first to follow this custom. Throughout history, dozens of secluded societies passed down unique and often detrimental genetic traits as a result of too much intermarriage within a small population. “Josiah found a good place to hide his condition. It was probably a good place to hide his children’s blue skin too. I wonder if that’s why his father left New York. Maybe he was exposed. Even if his skin color were only a little off, he’d have trouble finding work or renting an apartment. Not many people would accept a man who looked so different back then.”
    “I know you’re thinking aloud here, but there’s no way I’m going to be able to track down that kind of needle-in-the-haystack detail. I’d be totally thrilled to find out what street Josiah lived on or where he worked during his years in New York.” Harris finished his beer and carried it to the sink. After he rinsed the bottle and tossed it into the recycling bin, he froze. “Violetta mentioned a curse in the opening of her act. I bet she was talking about having blue skin. Look what it did to her. To avoid being stared at like a circus freak, she had to wear makeup and move around at night like some kind of vampire.”
    Olivia sipped her drink and stared out the window. The stretch of beach was white. Nearly all of the brown and yellow had been bleached away by the sun. The sand was hot enough to scorch. Looking at it now made her think of her closet full of pickle jars. Her treasures. Very few of them were valuable—a handful of old coins or pieces of gold jewelry—and yet she kept things most people would consider trash.
    “What if Violetta’s treasure was sentimental?” Olivia suggested. “Something that only had value to her?”
    Harris touched the top of his chest near his shoulder. The scar from his bullet wound was there, hidden beneath his shirt, and he often rubbed it when he was troubled or lost in thought. “I don’t know. She said the clues were in her stories. Why toss out bread crumbs if you don’t want someone to follow your trail? I think she saw someone in the audience that night at the library—a threat, an enemy, a sister, a person from the past, who knows—and she was, like, taunting them.”
    Outside, Olivia heard the crunch of car tires on gravel. “That must be our supper,” she said and got up. However, she didn’t open the door to a young man wearing a Pizza Bay delivery shirt. Instead, she found Rawlings standing on the welcome mat.
    “Am I interrupting?” He smiled wryly and jerked his thumb at Harris’s car.
    Olivia knew he was teasing, but she chose to ignore the jest. “Drink?”
    “I’d kill for a beer
.
”
    “You won’t have to get violent. I think Harris left you one or two.” She touched him on the arm. “Come on in.”
    He followed her into the cottage and greeted Harris with a tired smile and a firm handshake. After telling Olivia to forgo the pint glass, he took a long pull of beer right from the bottle and sighed. “Now if only I had a slice of pizza, I’d be a happy man.”
    At that moment, the Pizza Bay delivery car pulled in front of the cottage. “Hot damn,” Rawlings whispered and stared at his beer. “Is there a genie in this bottle?”
    Olivia and Harris laughed. Olivia paid for the pizza and gave the gawky teenage delivery boy a generous tip. The trio then settled down to eat, and Olivia refrained from peppering Rawlings with questions until he’d had at least one slice of ham and pineapple. Harris, on the other hand, didn’t grant the chief the same luxury.
    “How was your interview with Amabel?” he asked.
    Rawlings chased a bite of pizza with a swallow of beer. “She’s a hard one to read. When I asked why she hadn’t come forward and identified herself as Violetta’s sister, she told me she didn’t think the information was relevant.”
    Olivia served him a slice of Florentine pie. “Where was she following Violetta’s performance?”
    “In the lobby,” Rawlings said with a hint of annoyance. “At one point, everyone was in the lobby, and so every person I interview can use