Writing All Wrongs (20 page)

Laurel snorted. “Why would any reasonable person agree to such an offer?”

“George Allen was in his nineties,” Rawlings said. “To Ms. Whitlow, he would have seemed harmless. In her mind, this was her last chance to win Silas back.”

“I’m with Laurel,” Olivia said from behind the kitchen counter. “Following a series of random acts of violence, why would Leigh subject herself to such a dangerous situation?”

Rawlings and Harris exchanged a knowing glance.

“What?” Millay demanded. “You guys can’t pull that interdepartmental crap.
We’re
the real team, and you know it.”

“Leigh had a knife with her. She put it inside the lantern as a precaution but was never able to use it.” Harris looked down at his hands. “By the time she realized the figure on the beach wasn’t George, but Boyd, it was too late. Vernon claims that Boyd did the drowning himself. Vernon landed his boat, helped Boyd arrange Leigh’s body, and then tossed Emmett’s bottle opener into the sand. Vernon had lifted it from Emmett’s picnic basket earlier that night. He’d waited for Emmett to leave the bonfire area to take the dogs on a walk. The Allens hadn’t been in on the frame job. They weren’t at all happy about it, but they weren’t about to turn on Vernon at that point in the game either.”

Olivia exhaled slowly, angrily. “Emmett went through hell because of that damned bottle opener.”

In the corner of the room, Haviland groaned in his sleep and rolled over onto his back. His paws twitched in the air as he chased his dream prey.

Harris joined Olivia in the kitchen. Prying the sponge from Olivia’s fingers, he said, “Let the dishes soak for a while. Have another drink instead.”

Taking his advice, Olivia refilled her tumbler, dropped two ice cubes in the glass, and resumed her seat. “At least Silas will serve time for antiquities theft. I just hope Amy doesn’t wait for him. Enough people have wasted their loyalty on that loser.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Millay said and knocked the rim of her beer bottle against Olivia’s tumbler.

Harris filled the sink with soapy water and flopped back onto the sofa. “Speaking of waiting for people, I have some serious cleaning to do at my place. Emily’s flying in on Monday.”

“Is she staying long?” Rawlings asked.

Harris’s cheeks flushed a dark pink. “If all goes as planned.”

Millay kicked Harris’s heel with the toe of her boot. “Are you two upping the ante?”

“I want her to move in with me,” Harris said, his words coming out rapid-fire. “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. A parallel position to the one she has in Texas has come open here. She’d annihilate the competition if she applied for the job. We talked about her moving, and she said she’d think about it. We’re going out to dinner Monday night to talk about it some more.” He shrugged helplessly, boyishly, and Olivia couldn’t stop smiling as she observed the dreamy look in Harris’s eyes. “If all goes well, she’ll be in Oyster Bay by Christmas.”

“In that case, I hope all goes well,” Laurel said. “I just adore that girl!” She turned to Millay. “Now, if we could just find you a—”

“Don’t even start,” Millay said with a glower. “You sound like my mother, and that is
not
a compliment. Besides, I’m fulfilled, okay? I don’t need a yin to my yang or whatever. I’m dating, I’m working, I’m writing.”

Laurel’s hand flew to her mouth. “I can’t believe it! With all this talk of murder, the investigation, Emmett’s coming and Charles’s going—we haven’t focused on your book. Have you heard from your editor? How were the first week’s sales?”

Millay dug the heels of her palms into her eyes. “You’re going to find out eventually, so I might as well tell you.” She removed her hands, but kept her gaze fixed on her boots. “On Wednesday, my editor called to say that
The Gryphon Rider
hit the
New York Times
Bestseller List. It was just the extended list,” she added hastily while glaring at Laurel. “Do not scream.”

Laurel’s mouth hung open.

“You close that maw this instant,” Millay ordered. “Do not shriek, cheer, bounce, or clap, or so help me, I will punch you.” Her voice wavered as she uttered this last threat.

Olivia studied Millay with concern. “You’re not happy about this news.”

Millay shook her head. She was on the verge of tears.

“You think you earned that spot because of publicity and not talent.” Olivia spoke very quietly. “That Silas’s notoriety and the attack at the bookstore got you those sales.”

“Yes,” Millay whispered. “It’s all wrong.”

Olivia gestured at Harris’s laptop bag. “May I?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, fumbling for his computer. He opened the lid, typed in his password, and swiveled the laptop around so that the keyboard faced Olivia.

She brought up a website and began to read. “‘Hallowell’s debut novel kept me reading through the night. Her characters were complex, her plot was riveting, and Tessa is a heroine that women of all ages can identify with. I can’t wait for the sequel.’” Without giving Millay a chance to interrupt, she read another review. And then another. And another.

“Okay!” Millay finally shouted. “So a fifteen-year-old from Nebraska likes my book. What’s your point?”

“What’s
your
point?” Olivia closed the laptop with a soft laugh. “Didn’t you write the novel for the fifteen-year-old from Nebraska in the first place?”

Millay stared blankly at Olivia and then slowly, something shifted in her dark eyes. She sank back against the sofa cushions with a sigh. A weight seemed to lift from her as she gazed into the middle distance. “Yes, I did.”

“Olivia’s right,” Laurel said. “You’ve already gained a significant fan base, so if your sales stay strong, or even gain momentum, it’ll be because a buzz is building among readers. And that buzz will have nothing to do with Vernon Sherrill or Silas Black. Got it?”

“Wow, you used such an even voice just then that I almost mistook you for a journalist,” Millay said, flashing Laurel a wry grin.

Laurel hit Millay in the face with a throw pillow. “Next time, we’ll let you sulk, Miss
New York Times
Bestselling Author.”

“That’s
Ms.
to the likes of you. Make sure you print it correctly. My parents will want to dip that article in fourteen-karat gold and hang it on the living room wall. At last, they’ll have proof that their daughter does more than open beer bottles and pour shots of whiskey.”

Harris looked at Millay. “Will you quit your job at Fish Nets?”

“No way,” Millay said. “Those men and women might not be the cream of society, but they’re like a big extended family to me. They tell me jokes and stories. They talk about their day. Sure, they drink too much and become maudlin and get in fistfights, but they never do any real harm. Besides, the place is a treasure trove in terms of writing material. My customers are tough. They’ve weathered some serious storms in their lives. It’s easy for me to picture them as blacksmiths or wyvern riders. I get new ideas almost every shift.”

“I’m glad you’re not quitting,” Harris said. “I don’t think I can take any more changes.”

Millay elbowed him. “Says the guy on the verge of a
major
commitment.”

Laurel examined her watch. “Speaking of commitments, I’d better get going. We have a full day tomorrow. Church, a soccer game, Cub Scouts.” She sighed. “If I didn’t have this time with you guys, I’d lose my mind. I’m serious. The four of you are my mooring line.”

Millay closed her eyes and pretended to cringe. “Is she going to hug us now?”

“Yes,” Rawlings said, opening his arms. “Come on in, Laurel. I’m ready.”

*   *   *

The next morning, the sun rose boldly over the water, throwing canary-yellow streaks into the sky and bathing the damp sand in a golden glow. Olivia sat on the back deck, wrapped in a cotton shawl, and sipped her coffee. The sun felt glorious on her face, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before one season gave way to another and she’d miss the sun’s warmth on her skin and hair. Haviland too seemed to sense the transience of the mild day. He stretched out on the sand at the base of the deck, wriggling on his back, snorting in pleasure.

Olivia finished her coffee and went inside to fill a thermos. She found Rawlings at the kitchen table, the Sunday paper spread out before him.

“I turned straight to the comics,” he said, smiling up at her. “I don’t think I’m going to read the heavy stuff today.”

“Why don’t you come on a walk with me?” Olivia asked. “It’s beautiful out.”

Rawlings took off his reading glasses and set them on the paper. “Are you sure? You usually like to go alone.”

“Usually, but not always,” she said. “I’ll even share my coffee with you.”

Getting to his feet, Rawlings pulled Olivia close. “Now,
that’s
love.”

“It is,” she agreed and kissed him.

With Haviland trotting alongside, Olivia and Rawlings struck out for the Point. They walked toward the narrow jetty of land dividing sea and sky, shading their eyes against the sun’s glare.

The surrounding light, which reflected off the sand and the water, was such a dazzling white, and shimmered with
such mirage-like brightness, that it was impossible to tell where the sea ended and the sky began.

It was a light that bathed everything in radiance. It was a light that, for a brief moment in time, banished all shadows.

Olivia and Rawlings stayed on the Point for a long while. They stood in silence, holding hands. They gazed into the distance, fixing their eyes on the blue blur of the horizon.

And when the light finally shifted, they turned and headed for home.

Many of you may have guessed that the setting of the first half of this novel is based on North Carolina’s Bald Head Island. I didn’t use the actual name because the existing island isn’t big enough to accommodate a festival of a significant size, and I also wanted to add a library and some other fictitious elements to the setting. However, it might interest you to learn that Bald Head Island was once known as Palmetto Island. In 1916, a developer by the name of Thomas Frank Boyd bought the entire Smith Island complex—Bald Head Island, Bluff Island, Middle Island, and some marshland—and called it Palmetto Island. So in truth, the “fictional” name I use in
Writing All Wrongs
is a throwback name.

Bald Head Island has a fascinating history, and if my novel has sparked curiosity about its past, then I’d highly recommend a wonderful reference book on the subject,
Bald Head: A History of Smith Island and Cape Fear
by David Stick.

As for the ghost stories mentioned in
Writing All Wrongs
, these are fairly common tales told around North Carolina campfires or whispered in the dark during slumber parties.

The tale that is anything but common is the legend of Blackbeard’s skull cup. This is a true mystery and one that I find quite fascinating. I stumbled on the subject by accident several years ago when researching another Books by the Bay novel. Rumors surround this rather gruesome artifact, and I read a firsthand account written by a North Carolina judge by the name of Charles Harry Whedbee, in which the judge claims to have seen and held the cup. Sadly, Judge Whedbee is no longer living, but if you’d like to learn more about his experience, pick up his book
Blackbeard’s Cup and Stories of the Outer
Banks.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for spending time with Olivia Limoges, the Bayside Book Writers, and the rest of the colorful characters of Oyster Bay, North Carolina.

If you’re looking for another cozy and captivating read, I’d like to invite you to visit a rather unusual and intriguing small town. Havenwood, the fictional hamlet featured in my Charmed Pie Shoppe Mysteries, is located in an isolated corner of northwest Georgia. Home to heroine Ella Mae LeFaye, a pastry chef with an uncanny ability to enchant the food she makes, Havenwood is filled with quaint shops, delightful eateries, and a population of magical residents.

In the next installment of the Charmed Pie Shoppe Mysteries,
Breach of Crust,
Ella Mae agrees to help a high-society mother-daughter club celebrate their annual retreat and produce their centennial cookbook by teaching them the fine art of pie making.

Everything seems as sweet as peach pie until one summer night, Ella Mae finds the president of this elite society, the Camellia Club, floating in Lake Havenwood, and she suspects the Southern belles she’s agreed to instruct aren’t as genteel as she originally thought. In fact, one of these ladies might be a murderer.

To whet your appetite, turn the page for a preview of the next Charmed Pie Shoppe Mystery,
Breach of Crust,
coming April 2016 from Berkley Prime Crime.

Thank you for reading and supporting cozy mysteries!

Your Friend,
Ellery
Adams

E
lla Mae cut a wedge of black-bottom peanut butter pie and slid it onto a plate. Wiping away an errant crumb with the edge of a paper towel, she garnished the surface of the peanut butter mousse filling with a drizzle of melted chocolate and then piped three neat polka dots of chocolate directly onto the white plate. Setting the pastry bag of chocolate aside, she reached for a bag filled with whipped cream and piped two peaks in between the chocolate dots. She’d just put the plate on a server tray when Reba pushed through the swing doors leading from the Charmed Pie Shoppe’s dining room into its kitchen.

“You won’t believe this,” she said, pulling a red licorice twist from her apron pocket and dropping on the stool next to the worktable.

Ella Mae shot her a wry grin. “We live in a world where people have magical powers. My aunt Verena knows when people are lying. Aunt Dee can infuse her metal animal sculptures with sparks of life. Aunt Sissy can influence
people with her music. My mother can make plants grow by humming to them. And what about you? How many fiftysomething women could win a mixed martial arts championship with one arm tied behind their back? I can believe in all sorts of things.”

Reba’s expression turned wistful. “I’ve always wanted to try cage fightin’. It looks like so much fun.”

“You know it wouldn’t be a fair fight,” Ella Mae scolded the woman she’d known all her life, the woman who’d been a second mother to her. “It’d be like watching a cat toy with a bird with a broken wing.”

“I guess so. But what about among our kind? It could be a whole new source of entertainment. Just imagine! Saturday-night fights in groves across the world. You could watch me . . .” She trailed off, looking horrified. “I’m sorry, hon. I don’t know why I keep forgettin’ that you can’t enter a grove anymore. I still can’t wrap my head around that.”

Ella Mae pointed at the wedge of pie. “Why don’t you tell me what you came in here to tell me so you can deliver this to our customer? It’s almost closing time.”

Reba searched Ella Mae’s face as though expecting to find signs of regret or pain etched into her smooth skin, but Ella Mae had learned to accept what had happened to her earlier that spring. She only wished her friends and family would make their peace with the fact that Ella Mae was no longer magical. Their constant scrutiny and deliberate avoidance of certain subjects was driving her crazy.

Brandishing the pastry bag of whipped cream, Ella Mae narrowed her eyes and said, “Spit it out, Reba, or I’m going to pipe a Santa Claus beard on your face.”

“Whipped cream and red licorice do not mix.” Reba held up her hands in surrender. “Well, here’s somethin’ you don’t often hear, but the lady who ordered this piece of pie will only taste one bite of it. After that, she’ll put her fork down and push her plate away.”

Ella Mae, who was headed to the sink with a mixing bowl and several utensils, abruptly froze. “How do you know?”

“Because I’ve watched her do the same thing for the past hour and a half. She orders a piece of pie, takes a bite, lays down her fork, and then has a few sips of water. She dabs her lips with her napkin, as prim as the Queen of England, and raises her index finger to signal me—like I’m supposed to come runnin’. When I get to her table, she orders another slice.” Reba looked thoroughly put out. “Ella Mae, after I deliver this pie, she’ll have ordered every pie on today’s menu.”

“She’s probably a food critic.” Ella Mae shifted the bowl to one hand and used her free hand to push a strand of whiskey-colored hair from her brow. “I hope you’ve been patient with her, Reba.”

Reba made a dismissive sound. “She could trash us on the front page of the
Atlanta Journal
and it wouldn’t matter. The Charmed Pie Shoppe will have a loyal customer base for as long as you live and breathe, Ella Mae. Not only did you save the people of Havenwood, Georgia, but you saved plenty of other folks as well. Why do you think we have lines out the door every day? And our catering side has taken off too. Every bride within a hundred miles wants a pie bar at her wedding.”

“Our popularity isn’t what defines us,” Ella Mae said, depositing the bowl in the sink basin. “We must treat every customer as though they were our very first. Bring that lady her pie with service and a smile. If she only eats one bite, that’s her choice.”

Scowling, Reba grabbed the serving tray. “It’s a damned waste. Just because you don’t enchant your food anymore doesn’t mean that it isn’t incredible. No one should be samplin’ the whole menu like this without even takin’ notes. My inner alarm is goin’ off.”

Ella Mae had learned to pay close attention to Reba’s instincts. “Is she the last customer in the dining room?”

Reba nodded.

“Send the rest of the waitstaff home,” Ella Mae said. “If this lady has an ulterior motive, she can make it clear to us privately.”

Reba’s eyes gleamed, and Ella Mae knew her friend was probably envisioning smashing chairs over the customer’s head or body slamming her into a café table.

“Just let her enjoy her pie first!” Ella Mae called after Reba, but the only reply she received was the swinging doors flapping in Reba’s wake.

Shaking her head in resignation, Ella Mae loaded mixing bowls, pots, pans, and plates into the dishwasher. After cleaning the cooktop and prep area, she took a moment to stand and gaze out the window above the sink. It had been a frenzied week, and she was looking forward to having both Sunday and Monday, which was also Memorial Day, off.

Tomorrow, she and Hugh Dylan planned to take their dogs on a hike in the mountains. They were also going to swim in one of rivers that fed into Lake Havenwood. It was only May, but the Georgia summer heat was in full swing, and Ella Mae couldn’t wait to submerge in the cool water. After spending a day in the wilderness, she and Hugh would attend the Memorial Day cookout and concert at Lake Havenwood Resort. There would be food, fireworks, and live music. And maybe, just maybe, Ella Mae and Hugh could stretch out on a blanket under the stars and hold hands like they used to. Back before they’d been forced to keep secrets from each other. Before another woman had come between them.

That’s in the past now
, Ella Mae thought firmly.
We’re starting over. He and I are a fresh piece of dough rolled out on the worktable. We’re not the lovers we once were. Nor can we settle for being the friends we’ve been since childhood. We have to create something new.

Ella Mae ran the dishrag over the spot on her palm where there was once a burn scar shaped like a clover. The scar
was gone now. It had disappeared the same time Ella Mae had poured out all of her magic to defeat a powerful enemy and save her town. She had lost the symbol that marked her as the Clover Queen, but she’d never wanted to rule over anyone. All she’d ever wanted was to prepare delicious food for people. To bake pies in a brightly lit kitchen, filling the warm space with the aroma of melted butter, cinnamon, roasted nuts, sugared berries, and so much more.

“Are you reading your own palm, Ms. LeFaye?” asked one of the college students Ella Mae had hired for the summer.

Ella Mae smiled at the pretty blonde and the two other servers standing behind her. “You caught me gathering wool, Maddie. Enjoy your time off, everyone. You all worked really hard this week, and you deserve a break.”

“So do you, ma’am,” said Royce, the young man in charge of deliveries. “I hope you have good weather for your picnic tomorrow.”

“Me too,” Ella Mae said and bid good-bye to her employees.

Reba reentered the kitchen with her serving tray and the remains of the black-bottom peanut butter pie. One bite had been taken from the slice. Two at the most.

“The lady customer would like to speak with you,” Reba said. “Here’s her card.”

“Beatrice Burbank, Camellia Club president,” Ella Mae read the white lettering on a field of black. The card was thick, elegant, and expensive. Other than the design of a camellia flower in one corner, it was unadorned. “What’s the Camellia Club?”

“No clue,” Reba said. “But this woman is a cool cucumber. When I told her we were closin’ and asked her to settle up, she said she’d make it worth our while to stay open a few minutes longer. When I told her we weren’t interested, she got up, walked up to the counter, and put a hundred-dollar bill in the tip jar.”

Ella Mae sighed. “I’ve had my fill of pushy women, Reba. I don’t care if her wallet is stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. I’m ready to call it a day, and I’m going to march into the dining room and tell President Beatrice Burbank as much.”

Beatrice got to her feet the moment she saw Ella Mae. She smiled graciously and extended her hand, as though she were welcoming Ella Mae to her establishment and not the other way around. “Ms. LeFaye, it is a pleasure to meet you. I haven’t tasted such a wonderfully fresh tomato tart since my grandmother was alive. I had to pay my compliments to the chef in person.”

Despite her determination to dislike the stranger, Ella Mae felt herself softening toward Beatrice Burbank. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Burbank, but—”

“Please call me Bea. I know I’m old enough to be your mother, but ‘Mrs. Burbank’ is so terribly formal, and I’m hoping that by the end of our conversation, you and I will be on our way toward becoming friends.” She indicated the chair opposite hers. “Would you sit with me for just a few moments? I have a proposition for you.”

Ella Mae knew she should be wary. Beatrice was much like her business card: rich, elegant, and understated. She wore a blush-colored skirt suit with a gold camellia stickpin on the coat lapel over an ivory silk camisole. Her silvery blond hair was gathered into a low chignon, and her nails were polished a subtle pinkish beige hue. Her voluminous handbag, in contrast, was a vibrant turquoise, as though she wanted to convey that she had a playful side to her as well.

“I’d be glad to sit for a spell,” Ella Mae said politely. She’d been raised in the South, and it wouldn’t do to be discourteous.

Bea seemed unsurprised by her response. “I tried every pie on your menu. The tomato bacon tartlets in the cheddar cheese crust, the ham and grilled corn, and the chicken potpie. I particularly liked the herb crust on that savory
delight.” She put her hand over her heart. “But your desserts. Oh my, Ms. LeFaye. You have a gift. I promised myself one bite of each pie. One bite of strawberry-rhubarb crisp. One bite of lemon-mascarpone icebox tart, brown-butter raspberry pie, and black-bottom peanut butter pie. But I took two of the last one. I just couldn’t stop myself.”

Ella Mae was about to thank the older woman again when Bea held up a finger to forestall her. “I’m not here merely to praise you. In fact, I’d like to hire you. I came to Havenwood to finalize the details of the Camellia Club’s annual retreat. This year, we’ll be renting a block of rooms at the Lake Havenwood Resort. But we’ll also be renting kitchen space there.”

This caught Ella Mae’s attention. “Oh?”

Bea nodded enthusiastically. “Every decade, the Camellia Club publishes a cookbook of dessert recipes. This year, because we’re celebrating our centennial, we’ve decided to go all out. We’re hiring three of the best chefs in the South. Actually, ‘best’ isn’t the right word. We’ve sought out the most innovative, creative, and hip pastry chefs to teach us what makes an unforgettable dessert.” She paused for effect. “Maxine Jordan, the founder of From Scratch, an organic bakery in Charlottesville, Virginia, came aboard in March, and we secured Caroline James from Carolina’s Cakes of Raleigh last month. All that remained was to find a champion pie baker. I’ve traveled from Texas to Maryland tasting pies, tarts, crisps, and cobblers. I had no idea that I’d find a pie virtuoso practically in my own backyard!” She laughed merrily. “I’m from Sweet Briar, as are all of the members of the Camellia Club.”

Ella Mae had heard of the town. Not far from Savannah, the scenic riverfront community was filled with historic homes, gorgeous gardens, and quaint shops. Sweet Briar was larger than Havenwood and had more restaurants, movie theaters, and nightclubs. It also boasted a thriving art scene and real estate prices that would intimidate anyone without a trust fund.

“And you’d like me to give you and your club members a crash course in pie making during your annual retreat?” Ella Mae asked. “When is it?”

“The first week in August,” Bea said, pulling an envelope out of her handbag. “I realize that I’m asking you to step away from your business for several days in order to instruct a group of women you’ve never met before, but I can assure you that every penny of profit that the Camellia Club makes from our cookbook sales goes toward a worthy cause. This year, we’re raising funds for a young lady who was badly burned at the Georgia State Fair last fall. The dear girl was making funnel cakes when a vat of hot oil overturned, splattering her arms, chest, and face. Her family can’t afford her medical care, and we’ve offered to help.”

Ella Mae’s hand flew to her mouth as she tried to stifle a gasp. Her aunt Dee had suffered terrible burns that spring, and the memories of the fire came rushing back to her now. During that horrible night, her aunt was admitted to Atlanta’s Grady Burn Center, where she’d undergone multiple surgeries, and many weeks later, she’d returned home to her animals and sculptures. Had it not been for the intervention of several brave and selfless people, she could have died in her burning barn, but she would never again be the same person.

Bea touched Ella Mae lightly on the arm. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“My aunt was the victim of a terrible fire not too long ago. She survived, but she will always bear the scars.” Ella Mae pointed at the envelope. “Is that a contract?”

“Yes. I thought I’d leave it with you,” Bea said. “If it’s to your liking, you can sign it and drop it off at the resort. I’m staying through Monday.” She gathered her handbag and stood to leave. “I think you’ll find the remuneration acceptable, and I know all of the Camellias would be thrilled to
have you as a mentor. You, Maxine, and Carolina would truly be our Dessert Dream Team.”

After promising to examine the contract and respond to Bea’s proposal before she left town, Ella Mae walked her guest to the door.