The Last Word (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

an English aristrocrat.
    Olivia Limoges, oak barrel heiress, restaurateur, and aspiring author, reached for the pepper shaker and gave her eggs a quick dusting. “A witch? Does she lure small children into her house with candy bars and then lock them inside cages until they’re plump enough to eat?”
    Dixie put a hand on her hip and scowled, her false eyelashes leaving thin stripes of electric blue mascara on the skin above her lids. “I’m not pullin’ your leg. Folks have talked about her for years. The stories have gotten wilder and wilder because only a handful of people have actually been brave or stupid enough to pay her a visit.”
    Watching as Dixie topped off her coffee, Olivia cocked her head to the side and asked, “Where does this supposed witch live?”
    “In the swamp,” Dixie said distastefully. “Word is you can only reach her house by boat, and she’s not shy about greetin’ unwelcome visitors with a few shotgun blasts.”
    Olivia, who owned a rifle and was an excellent shot thanks to regular visits to the shooting range, approved. “Perhaps she values her privacy. People always talk about those who don’t abide by societal norms. I know plenty of locals who believe there’s something wrong with me because Haviland is my constant companion. They disapprove of my refusal to attend every street fair, regatta, shop opening, and ribbon-cutting ceremony. When I don’t buy a dozen boxes of stale Girl Scout cookies or chemically laced Boy Scout popcorn every time I leave the Stop ’n’ Shop, the troop parents fold their arms and shake their heads at me.” She paused to glance out the large picture window at the end of her booth. “Things were getting better, Dixie. I felt anchored here again, like a boat fastened to its moorings. For so long I was drifting, and that finally stopped. But after the events of the past few months, I feel like my tether is frayed . . .”
    Dixie heard the pain in her friend’s voice. “None of that was your fault, ’Livia. You’re givin’ yourself a bit too much credit, don’t you think?” Dixie turned, slapped the coffee carafe on the counter, and faced Olivia again. “Chief Rawlings arrived at the same conclusion before you did.”
    A flush of pink spread across Olivia’s cheeks. She hurriedly cut into her strata with the edge of her fork and filled her mouth with a bite of warm eggs, fresh tomatoes, and melted cheese.
    “I see what you’re doin’,” Dixie said, shaking her pointer finger. “Stuffin’ your face so you don’t have to tell me what’s goin’ on between you and Sawyer Rawlings. The whole town knows you’re an item, so don’t bother denyin’ it. One of the chief’s neighbors saw you doin’ the walk of shame. She said Haviland spent the night too. Must be serious.”
    Olivia bristled. “There wasn’t the slightest trace of shame on my part, but I’m not foolish enough to discuss intimate details with the biggest gossip in all of Oyster Bay. Meaning you.” The barb was softened by a smile, which was quickly hidden behind the rim of Olivia’s coffee cup. “Get back to the witch. That’s a far more interesting topic.”
    “No, it is not, but I’ll play along. Hold on.” Dixie skated over to the Cats booth and slapped a check on the table. She spent a moment chitchatting with an elderly couple clad in matching lighthouse T-shirts and was undoubtedly explaining for the millionth time why she’d decorated the diner using Andrew Lloyd Webber paraphernalia.
    Next, she pivoted and moved on to the Phantom of the Opera table. A jowly man in his late fifties dug around in the pocket of his madras shorts in search of his wallet. Ignoring Dixie’s question as to whether he enjoyed his food, he tossed bills on top of the check in dismissive little flicks of the wrist. His breakfast partner, a skeletally thin blonde in her early thirties clad in a miniskirt and a white tank top stretched taut over a pair of cartoonishly large implants, jabbed at the porcelain phantom mask with a long, curving fingernail.
    From where she sat enjoying her meal, Olivia watched Dixie straighten to her full height. After donning her skates and teasing her hair a vertical inch into the air, she was barely five feet tall, but what Dixie lacked in stature she made up for in fearlessness.
    “Y’all have a nice day,” she said tightly, her farewell clearly meant as a command.
    The top-heavy blonde grabbed her takeout coffee cup and shimmied across the