Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

believe it at first, because it just sounded crazy. A ghost? Come on! But I was leafin’ through a catalogue last night—a hunter’s catalogue that Grumpy gets—and I think I might know how a man could turn himself into a ghost.” She took a sheaf of thin, glossy paper out of her apron pocket. “I was gonna show the chief, but I want you to tell me if there’s somethin’ to my idea first.”
    Olivia accepted the paper. It took her a moment to understand what she was looking at, but when the image became clear, she exclaimed, “Oh, I see it now. Yes.” She glanced from the picture to Dixie and back again. “Yes! Especially with the snowfall and the moonlight. There would have been shadows everywhere, so the pattern shown here is perfect. And it also speaks of premeditation,” she added softly.
    “Snow camo,” Dixie said. “The killer would’ve had to be watchin’ the weather. He knew when Hicks was goin’ up the mountain. He knew that it’d be after sundown and the group would get caught up in a storm.”
    “You’re brilliant, Dixie.” Olivia scanned the product description. The white coat and pants, which were covered with irregular black and dark brown markings, were called “Ambush Gear.” The outfit was designed to protect the wearer against bitterly cold conditions and was guaranteed to blend into most hunting environments. “Do you want me to bring this to Rawlings?”
    Dixie nodded. “Please. It’s hard for me to get out of here before two, and I wanna go to the hospital right after we close.” She pointed at Olivia’s empty mug. “Refill?”
    “How about a pair of take-out cups? I think I know where to find Rawlings, and I want him to see this right away.”
    “Thanks, ’Livia. No matter what happens, I know that you did all—”
    “None of us will give up until someone’s behind bars, Dixie. Not the chief, not me, and not the Bayside Book Writers. And don’t you give up on Lowell.” She tapped her temple. “He’s in there, fighting. They say one should talk to coma patients, and I’ve never met anyone who could outtalk you.”
    Dixie threw her head back and laughed. It was the most wonderful sound Olivia had heard for days.
    • • •
    Armed with the best coffee in Oyster Bay, Olivia made her way to The Yellow Lady. The maize-colored mansion, with its wraparound porch and lavender front door, was known for being an oasis of green grass, colorful blooms, and charm. But not today. Olivia hadn’t been to the B&B for a long time. When she’d last visited, her purpose had also been tied to a murder case, so the three police cruisers parked in front of the quaint Victorian brought back a host of unpleasant memories.
    After telling Haviland to wait on the porch, Olivia walked into the lobby, half-expecting to see the former owners, Roy and Annie Kraus, stationed behind the mahogany concierge desk. However, the person leaning on the leather blotter was an ashen-faced young woman. She stared blankly at Olivia and then seemed to suddenly remember that she was the innkeeper.
    “May I help you?” she asked, her voice a tremulous whisper.
    Olivia produced her friendliest smile. “Hi there. I’m looking for Chief Rawlings.”
    The woman was on the verge of answering when the sound of a heavy footfall echoed down the stairwell. A moment later, Officer Cook appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Seeing Olivia, he frowned.
    “Officer Cook. I know you’re busy, but I need to speak with the chief. Is he here?” Olivia did her best to sound cordial. She and Cook had never really gotten along, but over time, Olivia had had to admit that the young officer was dedicated to his profession and deserved her respect. In turn, Cook had grudgingly accepted the fact that not only was she the chief’s lady, but she and her writer friends had proved to be useful during past investigations.
    Cook shook his head. “The chief’s overseeing interviews at the station.” Glancing at the paper in her hands, Cook asked, “Can I help?”
    Olivia gestured toward the front porch. “Could we talk outside?”
    The moment they were out of the new proprietor’s earshot, Cook folded his arms over his chest and gave Olivia his sternest glare. “We’re in the middle of conducting a thorough search of the premises, Ms. Limoges, and—”
    “Just take a look at this.” She brandished the catalogue page. “I think this explains why no one saw Alfred Hicks’s murderer. Someone wearing snow camo