Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

unlocked it. I remember seeing a flash of metal.” She gently opened the lid. “Does your inventory list include a lock and key?”
    While Rawlings examined the list, Olivia looked over his shoulder. Violetta’s belongings were typed into neat columns—her life reduced to a group of words like “pair of black cotton gloves” or “wooden hand mirror.” Rawlings set the papers aside. “No padlock. Why is it important?”
    “Let me run my theory by Fred Yoder first. I don’t want to waste time chasing a false lead.” She took out her phone. “Just give me one minute.”
    “That’s about all I have to spare,” Rawlings said and began to reexamine the bagged contents from Violetta’s trunk.
    When Fred answered his phone, Olivia hastily explained that she was at the police station and needed help. As was his way, Fred instantly offered his assistance and then listened as she questioned him about antique padlocks.
    “Fred’s seen a variety of heart-shaped padlocks made from the late 1800s to the 1920s,” she said after ending the call. “There were a few models big enough to have hollows inside the center. A person could hide something very small within the padlock and then solder the two halves together. Of course, to get the treasure out, someone would have to remove the rivets. I imagine you’d need a blowtorch to get to the diamonds.”
    “I wonder if Grumpy owns one.” Rawlings ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair, causing strands to stick up in all directions. “The heart of the old trunk was never a tree. It was always
this
trunk. It was probably Quentin Devereaux’s trunk.”
    Olivia nodded. “Alfred Hicks was misled by Violetta’s landmark clues, but Lowell solved her riddle. She added just enough truth in her stories for him to do that.” Olivia touched the soft velvet lining the lid’s interior. “That’s the advice she gave me after her performance. She told me the best stories were an equal blend of truth and lies.” Her fingers made little waves in the velvet. “Violetta also said that Oyster Bay was a good Gethsemane—that she liked how the stars reflected on the water. How they shone like fiery diamonds.” Olivia shook her head. “Why didn’t I remember her saying that until now?”
    Rawlings put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “You spoke with her once, Olivia. And yet, you’ve fought for her as if you two were close friends.”
    “It’ll all be for nothing if we can’t find Lowell and that padlock.” Olivia carefully shut the lid. She stared down at the trunk, unwilling to walk away. Turning to Rawlings, she said, “Could I see Elijah’s photo?”
    He took a cardboard box from a nearby shelf and placed it on a table. Gesturing at the folding chair, he opened the box and removed an item encased in an evidence bag. “Just put it back when you’re done. I’ll call you when I can.” Kissing her on the forehead, he left the room.
    Olivia waited until she could no longer hear his footsteps before she picked up the bag containing the old photograph. The image of Elijah Devereaux was grainy. The black and white had faded to black and grey with spots of brown along the edges of the square paper.
    Elijah was quite young. Olivia guessed that he was five or six when the picture was taken. He wasn’t looking at the camera but seemed to be laughing at someone standing to the right of the photographer. He was a cute boy with a mop of unruly black hair, a wide smile, and luminous eyes. Olivia had no idea if they were the same sapphire hue as Violetta’s, but they were certainly as captivating. His face, neck, and bare arms looked darker than hers, and Olivia assumed that the family’s genetic condition had tinted him a deeper shade of blue.
    “You’re so thin,” Olivia told the boy in the photograph. His limbs were twiglike. His face was gaunt. His oft-mended clothes hung from his slim frame, but his smile spoke of innocent delight, and Olivia hoped Violetta was the cause of his happiness. Because in the moment he’d been captured on film, Olivia believed he’d been happy. She also realized that while Violetta had become a renowned storyteller, she’d never allowed herself to love another person. Elijah had captured her heart, and her heart had broken when he died.
    Maybe Flynn was wrong
, she thought.
Maybe Violetta wasn’t simply looking for a dramatic ending to her story. Perhaps she was tired of grieving. Of being angry and unable to forgive.