Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

that answer and someone will collaborate it. And it’s not like the attendees were checking the time or paying attention to whether someone slipped off down the hall or not. The restrooms are there, so even if someone went missing for five or ten minutes, it wouldn’t seem unusual.”
    Harris pointed his pizza crust at Olivia. “Especially considering how you women chitchat in the ladies’ room. What exactly are you doing in there?”
    “Talking about you men, naturally.” Olivia grinned and then turned to Rawlings. “Go on.”
    “I asked Amabel about her childhood, her schooling, her career, you name it. She kept her answers as terse as possible, and I had no cause to press her. I only saw a flicker of genuine emotion when I mentioned Elijah’s name.”
    Harris got up, grabbed his laptop, and brought it back to the table. He showed Rawlings the image of Elijah’s death certificate. “This is all I could find on him. This and his birth certificate.”
    Rawlings stopped eating. He gazed at the screen, his pond-green eyes solemn. “In the end, is that all we are? A life described on two pieces of paper? That little boy was more than a pair of documents.”
    His words hung heavy on the air. Olivia couldn’t help but picture Anders—round, rosy, and dimpled. She imagined so many different futures for him, each more wonderful than the last. And she was just the boy’s aunt. Olivia couldn’t begin to comprehend what it would feel like to be a parent, to be forced to watch a life so full of promise ebb like the outgoing tide. She wondered how Ira and Josiah had handled such agony. How anyone could handle it.
    “Did Amabel react when you mentioned the treasure?” she asked Rawlings.
    “Not so much as a twitch. She said that Violetta was not only fanciful, but enjoyed manipulating people as well. Created a persona using her stories and her condition.” He explained Violetta’s medical condition to Harris, who managed to look completely fascinated all over again. “The ME told me the actual term, but it’s about twenty syllables long.”
    Harris tapped a few keys and showed Rawlings his screen. Olivia could read the word “methemoglobinemia” just above the arrow-shaped cursor. “This it?”
    “That’s the one,” Rawlings said. “And as interesting as the condition is, I have no idea if it’s relevant to my investigation. What I need and what I’m lacking at this point is a motive.” He stared at the images of the blue-skinned people on the computer screen and then gently closed the lid. “We’ve gone through Violetta’s room at The Yellow Lady. Everything appears in order. Lowell still had her props and makeup kit in his car and has given us permission to search and fingerprint the lot.”
    Olivia was surprised that Rawlings was being so open about the case. He must truly be stymied, must genuinely be in need of help. “What about Hicks? Any anomalies in the file you got from the sheriff?”
    Rawlings hesitated and then seemed to come to a decision. “In fact, there was something in the report that troubled me. A few days after Hicks’s death, the head of his department at Western Carolina asked that his research be sent to the university. I think they were hoping to find something worthy of publication.” He flipped the pages of the notebook he always carried in his shirt pocket. “According to the sheriff’s findings, there were no journals or papers in the cabin Hicks was renting, and his computer had disappeared.”
    Olivia could feel the food sticking in her throat.
    “What does that mean?” Harris asked.
    “I believe Lowell saw something on that mountain that night. Something that frightened him,” Rawlings said with a quiet fierceness. “If I were a betting man, I’d wager that Hicks recorded all of Violetta’s stories and pored over them until he believed he had discovered the location of the treasure. And I think he was killed because of his discovery.”
    Harris snorted. “By a ghost?”
    “By Lowell or Dewey Whitt?” Olivia said.
    “Then it has to be Dewey,” Harris declared. “Violetta pointed out into the audience. The ghost was in front of her. Lowell was behind her.”
    Rawlings rubbed the bristles on his chin. “Whitt’s supposedly on a fishing trip in West Virginia. I spoke with his wife, but I won’t cross his name off my list until I talk with him directly. He doesn’t carry a cell phone, so I have to wait until he comes home.”
    Harris ran his