Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

allow the gentle whisper of the waves to ease the tension growing between her and Rawlings.
    Eventually, Rawlings withdrew his hand, but not before giving hers an apologetic squeeze. “How did things go at the Crab House?”
    Olivia refilled her wineglass and passed it to him. “Prosecco. Not my usual poison, but it’s very refreshing. I feel completely dried out and the wine helps. And you’ll need it because this is going to take a while.”
    While Rawlings drank, Olivia told him everything that had happened at The Bayside Crab House and at her place afterward.
    When she was done, he didn’t speak, and she knew he was processing every detail, trying to form a clear picture in his mind. “A man was in her room at The Yellow Lady,” he said. “A lover. Why didn’t anyone come forth with this information before?” He stared angrily at the ocean. “I don’t think the man was Flynn. He was a part of a past she wanted to forget.” He paused. “No. ‘Forget’ isn’t the right word. She wanted to deny it. And that would mean denying him.”
    Olivia nodded in agreement. “And so he was spurned again. His plans and hopes dashed. What would that do to a man?”
    “Nothing good. Mr. McNulty is definitely a suspect in my book, but we have to consider who might have been with Violetta on Thursday. Did she ultimately reject him too? Are the other storytellers covering for him?” He frowned.
    “You’ll be busy tomorrow. Interviews at the B&B, another round with Flynn, and then there’s the subject of the treasure. It must exist, but what is it?” When Rawlings didn’t answer, Olivia followed his gaze. She willed the sea to calm her, but the multitude of thoughts churning in her head wouldn’t be still. “Did you find anything in Violetta’s trunk?”
    Rawlings gave her a thin smile. “Your instincts were spot on, Olivia. There was a space behind the velvet lining. When Officer Cook peeled the material away, he found an old photograph of a little boy. I’m guessing it was Elijah.”
    The triumph Olivia felt over having her theory proven correct vanished when she pictured Violetta hiding the image of her beloved brother under the velvet so she could carry him with her everywhere she went. Olivia’s eyes filled with tears. “That was all?”
    “Yes.” Rawlings sighed. “It would have been wonderfully convenient had there been a solid clue, but there wasn’t. And I’m not sure why she hid the photo. Why not keep it in her purse? Did she feel guilty about his death?” He set the wineglass on the deck rail and turned to Olivia. “I need to get some sleep. I have an early start tomorrow.”
    “Me too. I want to see Dixie before the diner gets busy. I’ve also sent a text to the rest of the writer’s group asking them to mull over the words you found in Lowell’s pocket.” She paused. “Has there been any change in his condition?”
    Rawlings shook his head. “No. And he was definitely the victim of foul play. A nurse showed me a bruise on his back likely caused by someone kneeling on him. There’s other physical evidence that he struggled while his assailant held his head underwater. He has mud under his nails, and his palms are covered with cuts and scrapes, as if he tried to unseat his attacker by pushing off the bottom.”
    “God, that’s awful.” Olivia shuddered. She hesitated for a long moment and then said, “Maybe he’ll . . . heal as he sleeps. Now that he’s in a safe place. Maybe he can rest for a while.”
    Rawlings reached for her. She got up and came to him, lowering herself onto his lap and resting her head against his sturdy chest. “Keats would have agreed with you,” he whispered. “He wrote:
    ‘O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
    In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
    Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws
    Around my bed its lulling charities;
    Then save me, or the passed day will shine
    Upon my pillow, breeding many woes.’”
    Olivia put her arms around Rawlings’ neck and ran her fingers down his bristly cheek. “You never cease to amaze me, my chief. Let’s go inside and forget about our many woes for a brief time.”
    Rawlings responded by holding her tightly against him. “I’m shooting for more than a brief time. How about the rest of our lives?”
    Olivia stood and held out her hand. The moonlight fell over her shoulders and set her white nightgown aglow. “No more talking. No more thinking,” she murmured. “It’s our turn