Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

away to bring her town any relief.
    As night fell, Olivia sipped her scotch, watched the lightning burn the sky, and thought about betrayal.

Chapter 10
    Thunder is good. Thunder is impressive. But it is lightning that does the work.
    — M ARK T WAIN
    T he next morning Olivia woke to an empty bed. She didn’t expect Rawlings to be there, but Haviland wasn’t curled up in his usual spot at her feet either. The room felt uncomfortably cold.
    Outside her window, the sky was overcast. The pale light leaking through the haze made the water look dull and sluggish. Remembering the storm front that had gathered offshore during the night, Olivia gazed down at the sand, hoping to find it damp from a strong rain, but it was dry and dusty.
    As she walked through the hushed house, Olivia found Haviland waiting by the kitchen door. He thumped his tail in greeting and nudged the doorknob with his nose. She let him out, and he spent less than a minute doing his business before sitting on his haunches next to the Range Rover and issuing a single bark. Olivia shook her head.
    “Come back inside, Captain. There’s no Grumpy’s today. You’ve had way too much pork lately. It’s chicken, rice, and veggies for you this morning.”
    Haviland snorted and turned away from the door. He put his paw in his food bowl and tipped it over in protest.
    “After breakfast, we’re going to take a walk. We haven’t found a single thing for this summer’s pickle jar in nearly a month. Something has to be out there.”
    Olivia fed Haviland and then let him out again. She drank a cup of coffee while perusing the
Gazette
and ate a bowl of Greek yogurt mixed with fresh berries and granola as she listened to the weather report on TV. She dismissed the meteorologist’s prediction of a possible afternoon shower, turned off the set, and dressed in sweatpants and an old T-shirt. Grabbing her metal detector and backpack from an exterior storage closet, she headed down the path leading to the water’s edge.
    As she crested a dune, she paused to inhale a deep lungful of air. It had a slight metallic tinge, and Olivia sensed the only thing the storm had given the town had been this acrid odor and a night filled with flashes of lightning. She was disappointed that the rain had remained out to sea, having wanted to wake to a freshly washed world. Instead, the dust and grit continued to cling to every surface. It would be another day of brown hues and feelings of unquenchable thirst.
    Once she and Haviland had walked a mile beyond the lighthouse, Olivia unshouldered the Bounty Hunter and switched it on. Its clicks and beeps sang through her headphones and then immediately fell silent.
    Sweeping the device back and forth as she moved over the sand, Olivia wondered if Rawlings had made any progress in the investigation. Her mind then drifted to thoughts of Flynn McNulty. She marveled over how little she truly knew him, even though they’d been lovers for months. Olivia wasn’t one to volunteer details about her past, and Flynn hadn’t seemed at all curious about her life before he became a part of it. At the time, she’d found his lack of interest refreshing. Living for the moment was all both of them wanted. But now she couldn’t help but dwell on his history. Had his beginnings been as humble and difficult as Violetta’s? Olivia doubted it. Flynn was always so cavalier. He didn’t behave like someone who’d survived hardship. He bore no visible scars.
    “So why is he more intriguing now that I know he’s from the mountains?” she asked aloud. “Because he might be connected to Violetta? Am I still in her thrall even though she’s dead? Was her spell that powerful?” Olivia knew there was no sense denying it. Thoughts of the storyteller were never far from her mind.
    Suddenly irritated, Olivia glared at the metal detector’s display. It continued to remain stubbornly mute. Once again, the trench shovel she carried in her bag would remain folded. She wouldn’t unpack her sieve, and Haviland wouldn’t be called to help her dig. The pickle jar would stay empty.
    “You always send things for me to find,” she complained to the sea. “Why are you holding on to your treasure now?” The regular rhythm of the waves breaking onto the shore told her nothing. Sighing in frustration, Olivia turned back for home.
    Haviland jogged ahead, raising his nose every now and then as if the air were still charged with electricity. As he passed beneath the