Writing All Wrongs

Praise for the
New York Times
Bestselling Books by the Bay Mysteries

Lethal Letters

“This charming series gets better with each book . . . The author does not disappoint . . . The book is well plotted and will keep cozy mystery readers guessing.”

—MyShelf.com

“There is a lot more than just a mystery to solve in this one . . . Adams did a fantastic job of bringing it all to life.”

—Debbie’s Book Bag

“[A] charming series that never shies from darker themes, even while entertaining with delightful characters, a beautiful setting, and a love of all things literary.”

—Kings River Life Magazine

Poisoned Prose

“A true whodunit . . . Adams’s latest, like its predecessors, is rich with coastal color, an intriguing heroine, and a fine balance between the story line and the changing personal lives of the Bayside Book Writers. Like the good storyteller she is, Adams excels at varying her plots and developing her characters, and
Poisoned Prose
confirms her bona fides in the genre and the stature of this superior series.”

—
Richmond Times-Dispatch

“An excellent series with fun dialogue, likable characters, and themes that will resonate with readers long after the book is closed.”

—Kings River Life Magazine

“Another fantastic story from this fantastic storyteller. You cannot go wrong with a book by Ellery Adams!!! I highly recommend each and every one!!!”

—Escape with Dollycas into a Good Book

Written in Stone

“
Written in Stone
is written with skill, as Adams continues to entertain her readers with a clever story and further develop Olivia, one of the most intriguing heroines of the genre and one created by a maturing and empathetic author.”

—
Richmond Times-Dispatch

“Well-paced mysteries, interesting back story, and good characters make this a must-read mystery.”

—The Mystery Reader

The Last Word

“Adams concocts a fine plot . . . But the real appeal is her sundry and congenial characters, beginning with Olivia herself . . . [An] unusual and appealing series.”

—
Richmond Times-Dispatch

“I could actually feel the wind on my face, taste the salt of the ocean on my lips, and hear the waves crash upon the beach.
The Last Word
made me laugh, made me think, made me smile, and made me cry.
The Last Word
—in one word—AMAZING!”

—The Best Reviews

“The plot is complex, the narrative drive is strong, and the book is populated with interesting and intelligent people . . . Oyster Bay is the kind of place I’d love to get lost for an afternoon or two.”

—The Season

A Deadly Cliché

“A very well-written mystery with interesting and surprising characters and a great setting. Readers will feel as if they are in Oyster Bay.”

—The Mystery Reader

“Adams spins a good yarn, but the main attraction of the series is Olivia and her pals, each a person the reader wants to meet again and again.”

—
Richmond Times-Dispatch

“[A] terrific mystery that is multilayered, well thought-out, and well presented.”

—Fresh Fiction

“This series is one I hope to follow for a long time, full of fast-paced mysteries, budding romances, and good friends. An excellent combination!”

—The Romance Readers Connection

“[Ellery Adams] has already proven she has a gift for charm. Her characters are charismatic and alluring, and downright funny. Not to mention, the plot is an absolute masterpiece as far as offering the reader a true puzzle that they are thrilled to solve! . . .
A Deadly Cliché
is a solidly great, fun read!”

—Once Upon a Romance

A Killer Plot

“Ellery Adams’s debut novel,
A Killer Plot
, is not only a great read, but a visceral experience. Olivia Limoges’s investigation into a friend’s murder will have you hearing the waves crash on the North Carolina shore. You might even feel the ocean winds stinging your cheeks. Visit Oyster Bay and you’ll long to return again and again.”

—Lorna Barrett,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Booktown Mysteries

“Adams’s plot is indeed killer, her writing would make her the star of any support group, and her characters—especially Olivia and her standard poodle, Captain Haviland—are a diverse, intelligent bunch.
A Killer Plot
is a perfect excuse to go coastal.”

—
Richmond-Times Dispatch

“A fantastic start to a new series . . . With new friendships, possible romance(s), and promises of great things to come,
A Killer Plot
is one book you don’t want to be caught dead missing.”

—The Best Reviews

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Ellery Adams

Charmed Pie Shoppe Mysteries

PIES AND PREJUDICE

PEACH PIES AND ALIBIS

PECAN PIES AND HOMICIDES

LEMON PIES AND LITTLE WHITE LIES

Books by the Bay Mysteries

A KILLER PLOT

A DEADLY CLICHÉ

THE LAST WORD

WRITTEN IN STONE

POISONED PROSE

LETHAL LETTERS

WRITING ALL WRONGS

Book Retreat Mysteries

MURDER IN THE MYSTERY SUITE

MURDER IN THE PAPERBACK PARLOR

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

WRITING ALL WRONGS

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2015 by Ellery Adams.

Excerpt from
Breach of Crust
by Ellery Adams copyright © 2015 by Ellery Adams.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information, visit
penguin.com
.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-13730-1

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / November 2015

Cover illustration by Kimberly Schamber.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To my favorite Coastal Carolinians, Mead and Deborah Briggs, with
love

Draw your chair up close to the edge of the precipice and I’ll tell you a story.

—F. S
COTT
F
ITZGERALD

Marriage—a book of which the first chapter is written in poetry and the remaining chapters in prose.

—B
EVERLEY
N
ICHOLS

“N
o one ever told me that marriage was murder,” Olivia Limoges complained while pouring cream into her coffee.

Dixie Weaver, Olivia’s longtime friend and proprietor of Grumpy’s Diner, put her hand on her hip and smirked. “You haven’t been married long enough to be comparin’ the holy state of matrimony to a capital offense.” She pursed her lips, which glistened with frosted pink gloss. “It’s only been three months. What could be wrong?”

“Me. I’m what’s wrong.” Olivia stirred her spoon around and around, creating little whirlpools in the mug. “I’ve lived by myself all my life, Dixie. And though the chief and I spent a great deal of time together before we were married, he often slept at his house so he’d be close to the station. He kept things at my place—clothes and toiletries—but now his stuff is
everywhere
. It multiplies when I’m not watching, I swear.”

Dixie shot a quick glance around the dining room. Her customers were either eating or chatting amiably over cups
of coffee, and no one appeared to need her. “What did you think would happen? That he’d go on livin’ out of a drawer? The man’s your husband now, ’Livia.”

Olivia shook her head in exasperation. “That’s not the problem. It’s not about his things or the way he leaves globs of toothpaste in the sink. It’s not about how he snores like a freight train when he sleeps on his back or how he’ll finish the milk but won’t add it to the shopping list. I can handle that stuff. It’s having him around all the time that’s hard. I’m not used to having someone around
all
the time. Only Haviland.” She looked down at her standard poodle with affection and he gazed up at her, his caramel-brown eyes smiling.

Dixie gave the poodle’s neck a fond pat. “You can’t hold the chief up to Captain Haviland’s standards. The poor guy is only human. And a damned fine human at that.”

“I know.” Olivia’s voice crackled with anger. “He’s a far better person than I am. He has no idea why I’ve been so moody. I’d just love to have my house to myself for a few days. Is that so strange?”

Dixie frowned. “Do you want your house to yourself? Or your life to yourself? ’Cause that’s how this works. You’re either together or you’re not. You need to figure this out, hon. Aren’t you headin’ out on your delayed honeymoon in two days?”

Olivia nodded.

Dixie pointed at the television set mounted high behind the counter. Permanently tuned to The Weather Channel, the television’s volume was muted, but the screen was visible from most of the Andrew Lloyd Webber–themed booths. The locals were always interested in the forecast. This was especially true for the fishermen, dockhands, and day laborers who filled the diner before the sun had risen. They’d order Grumpy’s early bird special—a hearty breakfast of eggs, sausage, toast, and hash browns—and drink cups of black coffee while watching the forecast. The tourists liked
to keep tabs on the weather too. They’d plan their days based on what they saw while savoring Grumpy’s maple pecan pancakes or three-cheese omelets.

“You’re still leavin’ on Tuesday?” Dixie asked. “Even though the tropical storm will hit Palmetto Island tonight?”

Olivia shrugged. “Rose is a category-two storm. I’m not discounting its potential for making a mess, but even if Palmetto Island loses power, which is quite likely, we’ll be fine. We’ll do jigsaw puzzles, read by lantern light, and sit out on the deck with glasses of wine. If we want to have a honeymoon before the rest of the Bayside Book Writers join us, then we need to check in to our rental house as scheduled.”

A customer in the
Evita
booth signaled for the check. Dixie nodded in acknowledgement and then wagged her finger in warning at Olivia. “If there’s trouble in paradise before the honeymoon, then this trip could make things worse. You’d best not pack your problems in your suitcase.”

Having delivered her advice, Dixie skated across the linoleum floor. When she reached the
Evita
booth, she executed a graceful one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, causing her diaphanous tutu to float around her legs like a surfacing jellyfish, and handed her bemused customer the check.

After that, Dixie cruised around the dining room refilling coffee cups, clearing dirty plates, and collecting credit cards. Olivia watched her pensively. Even with the extra height lent by her roller skates and her blond hair, which had been sprayed into place until it resembled a shellacked soft-serve cone, Dixie was barely five feet tall. For someone with diminutive stature, her personality was large and loud. She spoke her mind without fear of consequence, and Olivia had always found that to be one of Dixie’s most admirable qualities.

“She’s right, Haviland. I need to deal with my issues before we leave. If not, our honeymoon will feel like a prison sentence.”

*   *   *

“Have you seen the storm footage?” Rawlings asked Olivia later that night. “Rose is raging up the Cape Fear River. How do you think our rental house weathered the high winds?”

Olivia speared a piece of flounder and swirled it around the puddle of butter, lemon juice, and fresh dill on her plate. “It’s probably seen worse. Hurricanes Floyd and Isabel, for example. Still, I can get by without electricity for a day or two.”

Rawlings laughed. “I can’t picture you eating pork and beans out of a can.”

“As long as we can heat up grits in the morning and soup or pasta for lunch and supper, we won’t suffer.” She examined the food on her plate. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to ask one of the sous chefs at The Boot Top Bistro to pack us a hamper.”

“There you go again.” Rawlings made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Abusing your power.”

“Me?” Olivia poked Rawlings with her fork. “What about you? Taking a vacation weeks before the season’s officially over.”

Rawlings studied the back of his hand with exaggerated concern. “It’s September. Things are calm now that the season’s over. Sure, they’ll be a few more drunk and disorderlies and a scattering of reckless driving citations, but in another two weeks, things will be quiet, verging on dull.”

Maybe that’s my problem
, Olivia thought.
I’ve been involved in so many of Rawlings’s cases—the serious and scary ones. Maybe I don’t know how to be with him when things are peaceful.

“Where did you go just now?” Rawlings asked, calling Olivia back to the moment.

“I’m afraid I’ve been analyzing us,” Olivia confessed. “I’ve been wondering why I’ve been restless since we exchanged vows. After all, you’re the anchor I was looking for—the
person I needed to save me from drifting. So why do I feel like cutting the mooring line? Just for a day or two?”

Such candor would have rankled other men, but not Rawlings. He gave Olivia a warm smile and covered her hand with his. “You’re not the only one having trouble adjusting. I haven’t put my house on the market, have I? I like to go over there and putter around. I like to paint in that garage. The lighting’s crap, the floors are hard, and it’s cold as a meat locker. But it’s my space. I’ve used every tool on the pegboard, built furniture on that workbench, and spent endless hours trying to turn a blank canvas into art. I can block out the world there.”

“I guess this whole house has been my garage,” Olivia said.

Rawlings nodded. “And now I’m here. Every night. Every morning. You’ve lost your garage moments—that time when no one’s watching. That’s when you spill coffee all over your shirt and don’t bother changing. Or sing along to some cheesy rock ballad at the top of your lungs. Or eat junk food like a varsity football player. Garage time.”

Olivia grinned. “You haven’t had much of that lately either.”

“I know. I felt like I was supposed to be here. With you.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “But we’re both accustomed to time to ourselves, so let’s take it when we need it. When we get back from our trip, we’ll figure out how to do that.”

“Okay,” Olivia said, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. “Have you thought about what you want to pack?”

“A little. The whole station thinks we’re nuts to combine a honeymoon with the Legends of Coastal Carolina Festival, but what do they know? Three days celebrating the history and lore of our coast sponsored by the Department of Tourism. There’s something for everyone at this festival. Writing workshops, history lectures, ghost stories around a bonfire, hobnobbing with celebrities, amazing barbecue—who
wouldn’t
want to go?”
After pouring more white wine into Olivia’s glass, he added a splash to his own. “The guys hassled me most about our spending part of the week with the Bayside Book Writers.”

Olivia arched a brow. “What’s wrong with that?”

“They think it’s weird that we’re not planning on spending the week in bed.”

“That’s because most of them are twenty years younger than us.” Olivia scoffed. “Did you mention that we’re bringing a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle along?”

Rawlings wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I omitted that detail. In order to maintain my manly man status, I focused on pirate reenactments and the fact that Silas Black would be on the island scouting locations for his hit TV series. When they heard Mr. Black was also the headliner at the festival, they stopped giving me grief and begged me to get paraphernalia from his show—preferably autographed.”

“Harris is ecstatic over the idea of rubbing shoulders with Silas Black. He’s read all of his novels and is a huge fan of his show. What’s it called again?”

“
No Quarter
,” Rawlings said. “You and I might be the only people in Oyster Bay who aren’t parked in front of the television from nine to ten every Sunday night. It’s all anyone talks about at the station on Monday mornings.”

Olivia cleared their dishes and began to rinse them in the sink. “I’m not surprised. After all, the series was partially filmed in New Bern and Ocracoke. Personally, I’m for it because the film industry stimulates the local economy.” She paused in the act of loading a plate into the dishwasher. “However, I read something in the
Gazette
several months ago about the liberties Mr. Black has taken with our region’s history.” She tried to remember the details. “Something about how vicious he made the pirates. And there was criticism about his use of violence—that he’s crossed the line with his graphic rape and torture scenes.”

“Sounds like most of the programs on the premium cable channels.”

“That’s why I stick to
Masterpiece Theatre
,” Olivia said. Satisfied that all the plates were neatly aligned, she closed the dishwasher door.

Rawlings took Olivia’s place at the sink. This was a nightly ritual. Olivia handled the dishes while Rawlings cleaned the pots and pans. “According to water cooler gossip, Mr. Black is attempting to ingratiate himself with the inhabitants of Palmetto Island by financing the recovery of a shipwreck near Frying Pan Shoals. Apparently, the tropical storm preceding Rose carried the ship into shallower waters. Mr. Black hoped it would be a schooner from North Carolina’s golden years of piracy, but it’s a Civil War blockade-runner.”

Olivia passed the dish towel to Rawlings. “So let me get this straight. Not only are we attending the Legends of Coastal Carolina Fest, but we’re also going to be sharing an island with television people, underwater archaeologists, pirate reenactors, novelists, fans of the crime genre, and our friends?”

“Don’t forget the conservationists. The Society for the Protection of the Loggerhead Turtle has been protesting a land development proposal for weeks. To raise money for their cause, they’re hosting a moonlight march around the island. I think the walk takes place the same night that the festival starts. The pirates sail in the following day.”

Olivia picked up both wineglasses and pointed her chin toward the back deck. Rawlings opened the door and Haviland shot outside, barking in anticipation. He raced down the stairs and over the rise of dunes, the sea oats parting as he ran. Olivia drew in a deep breath of salt-laced air, and a breeze tinged with a metallic scent lifted her hair off her forehead.

“I can smell the storm,” she said.

Rawlings stared out over the water, his gaze fixed to the south, where they’d soon be traveling. Eventually, he turned
to look at the lighthouse, standing proudly on its bluff. “Not too long from now, we’ll be seeing another lighthouse. The oldest in North Carolina.” He smiled wistfully. “I climbed to the top dozens of times when I was a boy. It’s what I remember most about the island. That, and the spit of land called Cape Fear. I always thought it was a strange name for a place of such incredible beauty. A place, for those not traversing the dangerous waters surrounding it, that was anything but fearful.”

“Leona showed me some old maps of the island when I stopped by the library last week,” Olivia said. Overhead, a scattering of stars tried unsuccessfully to burn through the cloud cover. Their soft, gauzy light made them look more like pearls than stars.

Not a helpful light. No good for a sailor navigating in the dark
, Olivia thought. Aloud, she said, “Cape Fear used to be a sharper point. It jutted out into the ocean like a stingray tail. If you stood on its tip, you could see a virtual highway of ships in motion. Leona also showed me the area’s shipwreck map. There are tons of wrecks around the island, Sawyer. Schooners, steamers, blockade-runners, fishing trawlers, pleasure boats. The Graveyard of the Atlantic, indeed.”