Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery) Read Free

it,” she said, reciting one of the fishermen’s traditional toasts.
    He nodded and replied with one of his own. “May your troubles be as few as my granny’s teeth.”
    Sipping their whiskey, they fell into easy conversation about the commercial fishing industry. Captain Fergusson supplied both of Olivia’s restaurants with shrimp and had recently expanded his operation. He was now her primary source for blue crab and flounder as well, and she often met his trawlers at the dock when they returned with full cargo holds. Olivia would chat with the captain and his crew as she made selections for her restaurants. She liked Fergusson. More importantly, she trusted him.
    Fergusson had been casting off while it was still dark to fish the waters around the North Carolina coast for the past forty years. And it showed. He was grizzled, his pewter-colored beard was wiry, and his eyes were beady and sunken from decades of gazing into the horizon. He was gruff, blunt, hardworking, and fair, and Olivia had grown quite fond of him.
    As they spoke, other fishermen drifted over and inserted themselves into the conversation. Olivia bought clams, oysters, mussels, scallops, and a dozen different fish from many of them. Before long, she called for shots of whiskey for the entire motley crew. In between swallows, Olivia praised everyone she recognized for the quality of their seafood, and the men and their wives shared their predictions about the summer harvest. This naturally led to a discussion about the weather, and Olivia realized that to a bar filled with fishermen, construction workers, farmers, and yardmen, each day’s forecast had a direct effect on their livelihood.
    “You’d best get ready for a hot, dry summer,” one of the women told Olivia.
    Another woman, clad in a lace-trimmed tank top that was several sizes too small for her generous chest, pointed a cherry-red acrylic nail at a man chalking the end of his pool cue. “Boyd said his pigs have been lying in the mud for weeks.” She cocked her head at Olivia. “Do you know about pigs?”
    “Only that I like bacon.” Olivia smiled. “But I didn’t think it was unusual for them to roll around in the mud. I thought that’s how they kept cool.”
    “Sure is,” a second woman agreed. “But it ain’t normal for them to do it all the time. See, when they carry somethin’ around in their mouths—a stick or a bone or somethin’—then you know it’s gonna rain. When they just lie there in the dirt for days on end, a dry season’s comin’.”
    A man wearing a black NASCAR shirt elbowed his way into the group. “The ants are all scattered too.” He looked at Olivia. “When they walk in a nice, neat line like little soldiers, then we’re gonna have a storm. I got a big nest right outside my front door, and they haven’t lined up in ages. It’s no good.”
    “Woodpeckers aren’t hammerin’ neither,” another man added.
    Someone else mentioned that the robins had left his yard weeks ago and he was certain they’d gone west into the mountains. “The animals know things we don’t.”
    Everyone nodded in agreement, and then one of the women turned to Captain Fergusson. “What’s the sea been tellin’ you?”
    “She keeps her secrets close, but the moon says plenty.” He put his whiskey down. Cupping his left hand, he raised it in the air, palm up. “We got a crescent moon right now, and she’s lying on her back like she’s waiting for her man to come to bed. We won’t see a drop of rain until she gets up again. Mark my words.”
    The women tut-tutted and murmured about summers gone by. Summers of unrelenting heat. Long days of dry wind and parched ground. They talked of how the land had gone thirsty even though the ocean was close enough to touch. The salt had clung to people’s skin, making them sticky, short-tempered, and lethargic.
    Olivia spotted a local farmer, Lou Huckabee, on the fringes of the group. He’d been listening to the exchange