Written in Stone (11 page)

Rawlings finished talking, shook hands with the two men in uniform, and walked over
to join the Bayside Book Writers.

“Willis’s effects?” he asked Harris.

Olivia didn’t care for the sound of the word “effects.” It was too clinical. Too removed
from the vibrant young man she was just beginning to know. “They came from his pouch,”
she answered before Harris could. “As well as that slip of paper.” She passed it to
him.

The four friends watched as Rawlings’ eyes darted over the lines several times. “Sounds
like poetry,” he said. “But I don’t recognize it. Does anyone know the author?”

A collective shake of heads.

“I’ll google it.” Harris brandished his smartphone and began to type while Millay
held out the paper for him.

Rawlings touched Olivia on the arm. “I told the uniforms what happened. There’s a
deputy at the hospital already—some kid set off fireworks inside a convenience store
and ended up with mild burns—and he’s going to radio an update on Willis’s condition.
Do you want to talk to someone about the memory jug while we wait?”

“I guess we have time to kill,” Olivia muttered darkly. Her fingers curled around
the dolly’s handle and she nodded. “Sorry. We did come here with a purpose. Maybe
one of the craft vendors can help.”

Harris put Willis’s things back in the pouch and Laurel stored the whole bundle in
her cavernous shoulder bag. She pointed at a booth up ahead. “I’m going to photograph
those adorable Lumbee dolls. You should get one for your niece, Olivia. They make
me wish that I had a sweet little girl at home instead of my hang-from-the-chandelier
boys.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Olivia said, drawn to a booth across the path. While
the rest of the Bayside Book Writers paused to examine a vendor’s exquisite needlework,
Olivia admired a collection of oil paintings. Most of the subjects were Lumbee women
in ceremonial dress, but there were also black-and-white portraits of elderly Lumbee
men.

These were close-ups of weathered faces, showing every furrow and wrinkle. The subjects
gazed at some point in the distance, their proud, dignified features tinged by a hint
of sorrow. Or perhaps regret. Olivia wasn’t sure which emotion the artist was aiming
for, but she found his work stirringly beautiful.

“Can I help you?” a plump woman wearing a tight T-shirt and cutoffs inquired. She
smiled at Haviland and then, after asking Olivia’s permission, reached out to stroke
his curly fur.

“Are you the artist?” Olivia asked.

The woman laughed at the idea. “Heavens, no! I can barely draw a circle. My grandfather
made these. He’s sitting in the shade over there.” She pointed to a copse of trees
where a group of men sitting in folding chairs were chatting and sipping from beer
cans tucked inside paper bags.

Taking note of the signature in the corner of the closest portrait, Olivia eased the
memory jug from the crate and approached the men. “Graham Wright?”

She was surprised when a man with fair skin and gray eyes raised his hand. “That’s
me. You interested in my art?”

“I am, yes. I particularly like the black-and-white portraits, but I also need your
help. May I join you?”

At this, all of the men gave her their full attention.

“You’d best sit down.” Graham gestured at the large cooler to his left and Olivia
perched on its plastic seat. Haviland trotted a few feet away and settled down on
a carpet of pine needles.

Olivia held out the jug. “I was wondering if anything on this piece was familiar to
you?”

The old man grasped the jug tightly, almost reverently around its base. “Well, now,
I haven’t laid eyes on one of these for years.” He began to rotate the jug, his eyes
glimmering with delight.

“The pennies are from 1958,” Olivia said. “Does that year have special meaning to
the Lumbee?”

Graham nodded. “Only because of the Battle of Hayes Pond.”

“Anything else?” she asked.

The old man thought for a moment. “Nothin’ comes to mind, but when you get to be my
age, it’s hard to pick apart the years. They lump together, kind of like that clay
this jug was made from. You could talk to the chief. She put our whole history on
the computer. Folks can look up all sorts of things. Pictures and stories and newspaper
clippin’s from way back when.”

“Your chief’s a woman?” Olivia was surprised.

The men nodded proudly.

“She’s a warrior, that one,” the old man next to Graham said and cackled. “We set
her loose on those jokers up in Washington and she helped get the government to admit
that we’re a real tribe. Took a hundred years for that to happen.”

“That gal’s tough as nails,” another man agreed.

Olivia was impressed. She sensed this group was sparse with their praise. “She sounds
like a force to reckoned with. So what’s her name and where can I find her?”

Graham checked his watch. “Her name’s Annette Stevens and she’ll be crownin’ the winner
of the beauty pageant. The boys and I have a little wager on who’s gonna be Miss Lumbee,
but I know who’s sure to win.”

The man to his left spluttered. “Talley Locklear’s not the only pretty girl in the
tribe. My granddaughter will give her a run for her money.”

At the sound of Talley’s name, Olivia had a flash of the young woman’s anguished face
as she climbed into ambulance.

“I don’t think she’ll make it,” she said and hurriedly added, “To the pageant, I mean.
Her brother’s sick.”

Graham cocked his head. “Willis Locklear? I just saw the boy an hour ago. He couldn’t
be too poorly.”

Olivia hated to be the bearer of bad news. “I’m sorry, but he collapsed after Talley’s
performance. An ambulance was called. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

“Probably heatstroke,” said a man with a long, silver braid and a gold tooth. “These
kids run all day without drinkin’ a drop of water. Then they pass out. We see it happen
every year.” He waved a finger at Olivia. “You look a bit worse for the wear yourself,
young lady.”

Olivia hadn’t been called a young lady for decades, and she couldn’t help but smile
at the man. His face was similar to those in Graham’s portraits, etched with deep
lines and loose skin, but his eyes didn’t reflect the same mixture of sorrow and hope.
They were bright and inquisitive and Olivia was certain very little escaped his keen
gaze.

As if to prove her point, he pointed at something over Olivia’s shoulder and said,
“I think that fellow’s lookin’ for you.”

She swung around. Rawlings was pocketing his cell phone and walking toward her. She
didn’t like the set of his jaw. She didn’t like the sweat shining on his forehead
or how he motioned for Laurel, Millay, and Harris to stay where they were. She didn’t
like his resolute stride.

“I . . .” Olivia began, rising slowly to her feet. “I need to go.”

Graham glanced up at her. “Somethin’ wrong, hon? He botherin’ you?”

But Olivia couldn’t answer. Part of her mind registered the concerned looks being
exchanged among the old men. The other part plotted an escape route. There, to the
right was a narrow gap between the trees. She and Haviland could vanish deep into
the forest. They could run to the heart of the woods, to a spot where light barely
penetrated the dense canopy overhead.

“Olivia.” Rawlings took hold of her arm.

She kept her gaze fixed on the narrow trail leading away from the campground.

“Look at me,” Rawlings commanded gently.

She knew what he needed to tell her. It was too late to flee from the knowledge. Slowly,
she met his eyes. The splinters of gold she often saw in his muddy green irises weren’t
there. They’d been replaced by shadows.

“Willis is gone, Olivia.” He held tightly on to both of her arms and she dug her fingertips
into his flesh. “He died on the way to the hospital.”

The old men cried out. Rising to their feet, they hammered Rawlings with questions
and shouted their disbelief, but when he told them who he was, their protests gave
way to shock. In the dappled light, they reached out to each other with gnarled and
trembling hands, trying to make sense of the senseless.

Olivia drifted away, returning to the stall filled with Graham Wright’s portraits.
She stood in front of a drawing of a majestic old man and allowed grief and anger
to wash over her. Her fingers curled into fists as she stared and stared at the image
of a man who’d walked the earth for at least eight decades.

And then she began to cry.

She cried because Willis Locklear would never have the chance to attain such a beautiful,
timeworn face.

Chapter 10

If only. Those must be the saddest words in the world.

—M
ERCEDES
L
ACKEY

T
he news of Willis’s death moved from tent to tent like electricity, rocking the Lumbee
tribe to the core.

Olivia watched people leave their booths, moving with the hesitant gait of those who
don’t want to believe what they’ve been told. Holding on to each other’s hands, they
slowly made their way to the place where Willis had collapsed. It looked like some
invisible force was pulling them to the spot and Olivia felt compelled to follow.

The Lumbee made a loose circle around the patch of grass where Willis had fallen,
crying quietly and shaking their heads over the senselessness of his passing. Men
and women of all ages seemed to be waiting for someone to explain what had happened.
A hundred pairs of dark eyes cast about for an authority figure, for someone to calm
and assure them. But no one came. No one had any answers.

Finally, the park ranger Rawlings had spoken with earlier came forward and addressed
the distraught group. He told them that there were no updates from the hospital regarding
the cause of death and that it might be hours before that information was released
to Talley. He advised them to return to their respective booths.

“I realize what a horrible shock this is . . .” he began and then stopped, uncertain
of what else to say. He put his palm on his walkie-talkie, perhaps wishing a more
competent voice would emit from the speaker and release him from his unpleasant task.

At that moment, the middle-aged man who’d been talking to Willis prior to Talley’s
performance appeared, his fair skin looking nearly translucent with shock. A portly
man dressed in a white polo shirt and pressed slacks walked by his side, dabbing at
his cheeks and forehead with a blue handkerchief. He was older than the first man
by ten years and the crowd immediately fell silent, waiting for him to speak. He thanked
the park ranger and held his hands out as if to embrace the entire assemblage.

“My dear friends, I’ve heard the terrible news,” he said in a languid drawl tinged
with sadness. “Judson and I will go ahead to the hospital and get some answers. I
know you’re torn to bits by this awful, awful thing, as are Judson and I. There’s
nothing I can say to lessen your heartbreak, but Willis would want this celebration
to go on. He loved days like these. Am I right?”

There was a murmuring of agreement. “That boy was one of the finest dancers I’ve ever
laid eyes on,” the man continued. “But the rest of those excellent performers are
here in front of me. Dance for him today, folks. Make his spirit smile.”

Olivia wondered if the speaker was a tribal elder, but he was as blue eyed and fair
skinned as the man named Judson. The two men began to walk away and Olivia and Haviland
rushed after them.

“Excuse me!” she called, causing both men to turn. “I’m Olivia Limoges. Willis worked
for me,” she said breathlessly.

“We’ve heard of you, of course. Willis was thrilled when he was hired to work at your
restaurant. Fletcher Olsen, at your service.” The man in the pink shirt held out his
hand. “And this is Judson Ware, my associate.”

Judson stepped forward and Olivia squeezed his hand, moved by the grief she saw in
his face. He gave Haviland a sad smile but didn’t speak.

“The Olsen law firm has represented members of the Lumbee tribe for over seventy years.
We attend all the powwows.” Fletcher mopped his forehead again. “Never has this celebration
been marred by such a tragedy. Willis was a fine young man.”

“I can’t wrap my head around it,” Olivia said in a low voice and then turned to Judson.
“I saw you and Willis talking before Talley’s show. Did he seem okay to you then?”

Judson nodded. “He was the same exuberant Willis I’ve known since he was a kid. He
was smoking more than usual. Said he’d been through a whole pack already, but I guess
he’d been on edge over an argument he’d had at the other campground.”

An argument? Olivia felt the air rush out of her lungs. She could already picture
the face of Willis’s enemy. “With whom?”

“He said the fellow was his boss,” Judson replied after a slight pause.

Olivia fought to mask her anger. “He was probably referring to Michel, The Boot Top’s
head chef. I own the restaurant, but Willis works”—she corrected herself—“worked under
Michel.”

“Willis said the guy’s bark was worse than his bite—that he was used to him,” Judson
said. “But I told him that he shouldn’t have to accept disrespect in or out of the
kitchen. No one should put up with—”

“Well said, Judson,” Fletcher interrupted smoothly. “However, that doesn’t matter
now. We need to find out what happened to Willis, call the tribal chair, and get to
Talley’s side as quickly as we can. Willis was the only family she had left and we
don’t want her to go through this nightmare alone. So if you’ll excuse us.” He gave
Olivia a little bow.

She handed the attorney her business card. “Please call me if there’s anything I can
do. As Willis’s employer, I feel a responsibility to his sister.”

“That’s mighty kind of you. I’ll be in touch,” Fletcher promised.

Judson gave her another sad smile and then the two men strode up the trail toward
the exit.

Olivia headed back to the copse of trees where she’d left Rawlings and the memory
jug. The Bayside Book Writers were waiting for her there. They looked at her with
a mixture of concern and curiosity.

“The chief told us that you think Talley looks like Munin,” Millay said, the question
in her tone evident.

Relieved that she could focus on something other than Willis’s death for the moment,
Olivia nodded. “They have the same nose, face shape, and eyes. But it’s more than
that. The way Talley carries herself reminds me of Munin too. She has Munin’s piercing
stare.”

“Willis didn’t react at all when you mentioned Munin’s name,” Rawlings reminded her.

“No, but he certainly reacted to the Klan token.” She turned to Harris. “Can you do
some research this afternoon? Find out if there are any documented hate crimes against
the Lumbee following the Battle of Hayes Pond?”

Harris checked his watch. “I can, but not until after the kids’ cooking demonstration.
I’m supposed to be working, and if I don’t show up on Monday with ideas for the company’s
new game, I’ll lose my chance to take the lead on the project.”

Olivia glanced at Laurel. “I know you have to stay. You’ve got a bigger story to cover
now.”

Laurel sighed. “I’m not looking forward to gathering quotes on Willis while people
are still trying to digest the news. At least I can bring the jug with me. Maybe someone
will recognize one of the mystery objects.” She shook her head. “I’m going to be home
late again. Guess I should grab a snack before I get started. Be right back.”

Millay picked at her chipped purple nail polish as though standing still were causing
her physical pain. “I don’t have to be at the bar until nine, so if you need help,
just say the word.”

“We need to get a complete picture of the Locklear family,” Olivia said.

“Sure. I can surf a few of those genealogical sites. Harris isn’t the only one who
can find stuff on the Internet. I can be a wicked cyber geek too.”

Harris scowled. “The only sites you have bookmarked on your laptop are soft-core porn
featuring a bunch of half-naked vampires.”

“There’s nothing
soft
about them,” she protested. “And they’re totally naked. I mean, who needs clothes
when you can’t feel the cold?”

“What makes dead guys so damn hot?” Harris grumbled. “It’d be like sleeping with a
six-foot ice pack.”

Olivia put out her hands to stop Millay from continuing the conversation. “Enough.
Why don’t we all meet again for dinner at The Bayside Crab House? I’m sure by seven
we’ll all need a margarita or a tall glass of beer.”

“Order me a pitcher,” Millay said, pivoting on her heel. “Of each.”

Rawlings, who’d been noticeably quiet during this exchange, shook his head in frustration.
“Don’t you think you’re jumping to conclusions?” he asked. “You met Munin once. You
met Talley once. And suddenly they’re related and possibly the victims of a hate crime?”
He moved to touch her and then abruptly changed his mind. “It’s all right to be upset
about Willis. That’s what death does to us. It throws us off balance, makes our world
tilt. But you can’t restore order by involving everyone in an investigation. This
thing with Munin, it’s a long shot at best.”

Wounded, Olivia brushed past Rawlings and eased the memory jug back into its crate.
When she looked at him again, she knew her eyes were angry. “Don’t you want justice
for her? Or were you just pretending so I’d be more compliant? Invite you into in
my bed more often?”

“That’s ridiculous and you know it,” Rawlings retorted, moving directly in front of
her. “And compliant is that last word anyone would use to describe you.” He grabbed
her by the arms. Haviland was instantly at Olivia’s side, watching Rawlings warily.
The chief ignored the poodle. “I want to find out what happened to Munin just as much
as you do, but I have no jurisdiction, so we need to be discreet. It’s one thing to
show the others the jug, but asking them to poke around in the Locklears’ past? What
do you expect to find?”

Olivia shrugged him off. “I don’t know, but the jug won’t give up its secrets easily
and Munin put that KKK token on it for a reason. She put my mother’s necklace on it
for a reason. She said that I’d be involved in a death and here I am, involved in
two of them!” Kicking at a pinecone, she sent it skittering across the ground. “Now
I’m repeating her predictions as if they were fact. Just shoot me, Sawyer, before
I start buying tarot cards and following my horoscope.”

“Don’t disregard the jug.” Rawlings’ voice was gentle. “Let Laurel have it for the
afternoon, and if she comes up dry, then you’ll have to consider doing something you
don’t want to do.”

Gazing over his shoulder, she could see Laurel heading toward them, a grease-marked
brown bag in her right hand. Olivia wheeled the dolly out from under the trees. “I’ll
break it, but not until tomorrow. Enough damage has been done today.”

*   *   *

Olivia dropped Rawlings off at his house and drove straight to The Boot Top to confront
Michel.

Flinging the back door open, she was surprised to hear the sound of a woman’s laughter
reverberating from within the kitchen. Haviland darted inside, no doubt anticipating
a tasty treat from his favorite chef.

It was too early for dinner preparations, yet Olivia knew that Michel liked to be
alone in the kitchen for an hour before the rest of the staff arrived. He was here
now, perched on a stool at the counter and watching in fascination as Shelley Giusti
made herself at home in his realm.

“Hello,” Olivia said, unable muster a smile. Her mouth simply wouldn’t curve upward.
It drew down at the corners in a clear sign of disapproval.

Looking abashed, Shelley wiped her hands on her borrowed white apron. “I heard about
what happened to the young man who worked here. I’m so sorry.” She gestured helplessly
at the mixing bowls and soufflé dishes set out before her. “When I want to comfort
people, I cook them things, so I asked Michel if he’d allow me to make dessert for
the entire staff. Chocolate always makes me feel better when I’m upset.”

Olivia inhaled the aroma of rich chocolate and melted butter and nodded in agreement.
“That’s very kind of you. Don’t mind me. I just need to borrow Michel for a few minutes.”

Michel was immediately nervous. “Let me make you a drink first. Gabe’s not in yet,
but I know my way around the bar well enough.”

Olivia signaled for him to leave the room. “I’ll meet you there in a minute.”

Shelley gave Michel an encouraging smile and Olivia couldn’t help but wonder if the
pastry chef was always so positive. She decided to find out. “Are you traveling alone
or did your husband come along?”

“My husband?” Shelley was flustered enough to drop the spoon she was holding. “How—”

“Your ring.” Olivia pointed at Shelley’s finger.

“Right. Of course. Sometimes I forget that I still wear this.” Pivoting her hand,
she examined the gold band with a grim expression. “I was married. My husband passed
away three years ago. It was very unexpected.”

Olivia felt like a heel. “I’m sorry. I had no right to pry.”

Turning her attention to the ramekins, Shelley began to fill them with the soufflé
mixture. “The doctors told me it was an arrhythmia. There’s nothing we could have
done to prepare. One day he was fine. The next, he was gone.” Her gaze grew distant.
“He had the most beautiful hands. Michel’s are just like them. The hands of a passionate
man. They make for great artists and even greater lovers.”

“I’ll take your word on that.” Olivia hid her discomfort by excusing herself and ducking
into the walk-in refrigerator to gather ingredients for Haviland’s supper. Pausing
before the crates of fresh fruits and vegetables, it struck her that Willis wouldn’t
be at his station tonight. He wouldn’t stand hour after hour, dicing onions, julienning
carrots, or carving radishes until they resembled delicate orchids. His orange peel
flowers wouldn’t grace the edge of the dessert plates. One of the other sous-chefs
would be tossing salads, steaming rice, and mashing potatoes, reluctantly occupying
the space that had once been Willis’s small domain.

“I need a cocktail,” Olivia said to a shelf filled with plump tomatoes and waxy cucumbers.
She closed the door against the cold, left the kitchen, and headed for the bar.

Michel was pacing around the lounge’s sitting area. He’d made himself a gin and tonic
and was sipping greedily when Olivia approached.

“I am a terrible man!” he cried as she reached for the tumbler of twenty-five-year-old
Chivas Regal. Michel had poured generously, adding a splash of water to the smooth
Scotch whiskey.