Poisoned Prose (A Books by the Bay Mystery) by Ellery Adams

over their shoulders, and at one another. Their faces were filled with curiosity and nervous excitement.
    These feelings heightened until, finally, a dwarf stepped onto the stage. He moved slowly, using both hands to drag a large trunk from one end to the other. When he reached his destination, he paused and fitted a key into the large silver padlock and unlocked the trunk. He lifted the lid, tossed the lock inside, and dusted off his hands.
    “That must be Lowell, Dixie’s cousin,” Olivia whispered to Rawlings.
    The dwarf was dressed in tan pants with patches on both knees, a charcoal-gray T-shirt, and a blazer of plum-colored corduroy. He wore a yellow bandana around his neck, and his hair was sandy brown and shaggy.
    “Who cares about stories anymore?” he asked the audience, and perched on the edge of the low stage, as if this were the beginning of a casual conversation. When no one answered, he uttered an exasperated sigh and leaned back on his palms, swinging his legs a little and glancing up at the ceiling. He looked like a bored child.
    “The story is everything,” came a voice from the darkness. It was a woman’s voice, deep and resonating. It echoed through the room, and Olivia felt it curl around her shoulders like a heavy shawl. “Stories last longer than deeds,” the voice said. The woman wasn’t speaking loudly, but her voice was almost a tangible entity, seeping over them like a powerful current.
    The dwarf was clearly unimpressed by her reply. “We have books now,” he argued. “We have television and movies. We have Twitter and Facebook and the wonders of the World Wide Web.”
    “And why do you think you turn to those things?” the voice asked softly, dangerously. “Every tweet, every post, every group of lines that you type is a story. Human beings connect with other human beings through stories. That’s why you stare at the screen for so many hours. You are looking for other people’s stories. And you want to share your own. You want your voice to be heard among all those other voices.”
    Shaking his head, the dwarf persisted. “Come on, stories are for kids. Look at us.” He swept his arm out in front of him, incorporating the entire audience in his gesture. “We’re adults. We’ve got no use for once upon a time.”
    There was a long pause. It was so long that Olivia grew uncomfortable. Why wasn’t the woman answering? Harris had said nearly the same thing as the dwarf at dinner. So why didn’t the woman hurry up and tell them what they’d all come to hear?
    “Once upon a time, on a night so cold that the stars nearly froze in the wide, black sky, a man told a story to his son,” the voice finally said, sounding a little less distant now. Less disembodied. The voice now spoke with a country accent. It was more familiar, more approachable. It was wise without being intimidating. “The son told the story to his son. Back when we huddled in caves and our bellies were never full and we were always cold. So cold. And the dark seemed to last for years. The son told the story to his son. History was born with that story. It told the secrets of survival. Spoke of a code of conduct. All that makes us human, all that separates us from animals came from that story. And we are still telling a version of it, thousands and thousands of years later.”
    The dwarf rubbed his chin, considering this answer. “Stories help us through the long, dark nights. Stories are the light of our souls moving out into the world.” He stood up, walked to the trunk, and reached inside for an object. Taking out an oil lamp, he carried it to the front of the stage. Setting it down on the floor, he lit a match and put it to the wick. A blue flame instantly bloomed upward. The dwarf replaced the glass cover, blew out the match, and backed away.
    “The story will outlast us all,” the voice said. “But if we’re lucky, we can become part of one.”
    A woman who looked to be in her early forties stepped