Written in Stone (13 page)

“Man, I love that show. Alec Baldwin is a genius.” Harris glanced at Millay. “Do you
want to hang out before your shift starts?”

“Only if you’re willing to let me kick your ass again at Don King Boxing,” she said
and he instantly agreed.

Seeing that their party was breaking up, Olivia experienced a fleeting moment of panic.
With her friends gone, she’d also have to go home. There, in the quiet house, she’d
throw open all the windows and listen to the murmur of the surf curling into the shore.
She’d flop on a deck chair and wait for the moon to climb higher in the indigo sky.
And, whether she wanted to or not, she’d picture Willis’s face over and over again.
She’d see him talking, laughing, gesticulating. And inevitably, she’d relive his fall,
the feel of his burning skin, his final whispers.

Pushing the memory aside, she told her friends she’d see them tomorrow night and waved
off their attempts to pay for their meals.

Rawlings didn’t leave with the others, but his body language betrayed his restlessness.
Olivia watched his fingers drum against his beer glass as his gaze flickered between
the boats and her face.

“What are you thinking?” she asked him.

“That I’d like to know exactly what happened to Natalie Locklear.” He scooted his
chair closer to hers and reached for her hand. “I’ve been trying to piece together
a connection all day. I’ve got nothing and I’m tired, Olivia. The Nick Plumley case
wore me out. Wore me down. I can handle petty crime, like women ramming into tourists
driving orange Corvettes”—he gave her a sly smile—“but I’m man enough to admit that
I’m not ready to see this town and the people I care about torn apart again.”

She nodded. She felt fragile too. And now she had Hudson’s bizarre vision to add to
her list of concerns.

“On the other hand,” Rawlings continued, “I think we’re being pulled into the middle
of something. The coincidences are piling up and you know I don’t believe in coincidence.
For my own peace of mind, I need to be sure that a healthy, twenty-one-year-old man
truly died from accidental causes. I need to read the facts relating to his mother’s
death. And I want to know everything there is to know about this casino deal.”

Olivia ran her fingertips over the knuckles of his hand, tracing the ridges and the
fine lines crisscrossing the skin. “Are you going to the station?”

“I am.” He finished his last swallow of beer and brought her hand to his cold lips,
kissing the soft flesh of her palm. “Will you be all right?”

“I will. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Olivia gave him an encouraging smile as he stood
up. She didn’t watch him leave, preferring to keep her eyes locked on the sky. All
traces of orange and gold were gone, replaced by a luminescent shade of blue purple.
A bright star hung just above the tallest boat mast, and Olivia stared at it until
fatigue washed over her. Suddenly eager to escape the din of the restaurant, she paid
the bill in cash and went inside. Haviland was dozing in the manager’s office.

“Home, Captain,” she whispered to him. He rose slowly, yawning, and followed her to
the Range Rover.

Entering her quiet house, Olivia opened the back door and gave Haviland the go-ahead
to run to the beach and revel in the night air. She sat on a deck chair with her MacBook
on her lap and searched for a photograph of Natalie Locklear née Mitchell.

It didn’t take her long to find a website link devoted to former winners of the Miss
Lumbee title. Olivia began scrolling back in time, starting with the full-color image
of last year’s crown holder, and carefully examined each of the dark-eyed, dark-haired
girls. As their photographs passed by, she noted how the straight hair and subtle
makeup of the nineties gave way to the highly teased hair and sequined gowns of the
eighties. Then the winners from the seventies appeared, looking younger and more innocent
than those from the twenty-first century.

Olivia was discouraged to find that the photos became grainy and rather out of focus
as the years descended. By the late sixties, the quality was so poor that the girls,
with their long, black hair and white dresses, looked more like ghosts than beauty
queens.

“I must have passed her,” Olivia mused aloud and scrolled the page until she could
see the winners from the late seventies again. She found Natalie’s picture all the
way to the left.

She’s a Lumbee Charlie’s angel
, Olivia thought, studying the girl’s feathered hair and shiny lipstick. Her dark
eyes had been rimmed with black eyeliner and were framed with a sweep of curled lashes.
She wore a liberal amount of blush and her shiny lip gloss captured the light.

Olivia couldn’t stop staring at the stunning young woman. Natalie held her chin high
and her gaze was both wary and challenging. She didn’t have a beauty queen’s smile.
Her face didn’t glow like the other girls’ and her expression was more serious, conveying
a blend of pride, strength, and determination. She reminded Olivia not of a pageant
princess but of a warrior maiden.

It was easy to see where Talley’s good looks had come from. But while Talley resembled
Munin, Natalie did not. Natalie had a softer mouth, a sharper nose, and a less intense
stare. Perhaps Talley’s father was related to Munin.

“How do you fit into this puzzle?” Olivia asked the beautiful woman wearing a rhinestone
tiara. As she stared at the Natalie of long ago, Haviland bounded up the stairs to
the deck and sniffed at the door. He was ready for bed.

“One more minute,” Olivia promised the poodle.

Opening a new window on-screen, she tried to discover more about Natalie Mitchell
both before and after she became Natalie Locklear, but came up dry. She then searched
for Munin Cooper and struck out. Olivia closed the laptop’s lid with an irritated
sigh.

She was too tired to sort through more clues, and the rows of lovely, unlined Lumbee
faces on her computer screen made her think of Willis.

As she washed her face and brushed her teeth, Olivia wondered what would have become
of Willis had he lived. Would he have stayed at The Boot Top while the casino was
being built? Did he dream of becoming the head chef of the Golden Eagle’s restaurant?
She could easily picture him doing just that—running a kitchen built on the piece
of land that had belonged to his family. He might have even incorporated traditional
Lumbee dishes into the menu.

After pulling on a soft nightgown and slipping between her crisp, cotton sheets, Olivia
ran her fingers through Haviland’s curls. Eventually, her eyes closed and her thoughts
became random and disjointed. She fell asleep to an image of Talley Locklear holding
the cottonmouth puppet aloft, its giant mouth glowing and its long fangs slick with
venom.

More than once, Olivia’s hand reached out, seeking the comforting warmth of Rawlings’
body. And though Haviland slept in a ball by her feet, he could not soothe her when
she cried out in the night as oversized serpents and men in white hoods invaded her
dreams.

Chapter 12

All our progress is an unfolding, like the vegetable bud, you have first an instinct,
then an opinion, then a knowledge, as the plant has root, bud, and fruit. Trust the
instinct to the end, though you can render no reason.

—R
ALPH
W
ALDO
E
MERSON

O
livia woke to a cloudless, heron blue sky.

After opening the deck doors to invite the sea-scented air inside, she brewed coffee
and transferred four cups’ worth into a small thermos, served Haviland breakfast,
and stuck a peach and a granola bar into her backpack. Pulling her metal detector
from the storage closet beneath the deck, she climbed over the dunes, her fingertips
reaching out to touch the tufted heads of the sea oats as she and Haviland made their
way to the water’s edge.

Though it hadn’t rained for the past few days, the Carolina coast was often hit with
an afternoon thunderstorm during the summer months. Heavy banks of fierce gray clouds
would amass with surprising speed, and within minutes, a hard rain would fall, pockmarking
the sand and sending people scurrying for cover. Sheets of lightning would illuminate
the sky, and the sound of water falling from the rooftops and splattering against
the roads and sidewalks was nearly deafening.

But then, as if someone flipped a switch, the storm would stop. The skies would clear,
the sun would reappear, and the tourists would breathe a sigh of relief. These brief
storms kept the gardens of Oyster Bay green from March until November. They also stirred
up the ocean, coaxing the sand from the lightless bottom to roil and shift. Other
things would move then too. Shells, seaweed, trash, and trinkets would become dislodged
from the wet sand’s possessive grasp and find their way onshore.

There were dozens of treasure hunters in Oyster Bay, but Olivia had a stretch of beach
virtually to herself. She owned a significant portion of the spit of land called Tern’s
Point. The other residents were older couples who rarely ventured over the uneven
dunes, so she usually had the run of the beach.

Today, Olivia was happily alone again. With the exception of a few scuttling crabs
and waterfowl, the shoreline was deserted. She walked until the lighthouse shrank
behind her and then switched on her Bounty Hunter Discovery 3300. Adjusting the headphones,
she slowed her pace and listened to the device’s familiar clicks, whirrs, and beeps.

The mechanical conversation was one-sided, but Olivia found it comforting. For an
hour, she could shut out the rest of the world and focus on the warmth of the sun
on her shoulders, the kiss of the breeze on her face, and the flashes from her metal
detector’s display.

She was just about to stop for a breakfast break when the machine alerted her to the
presence of precious metal. Easing her pack to the ground, she removed a sieve and
a trench shovel and called for Haviland.

“Time to dig, Captain!���

The poodle bounded out of the surf, shook himself thoroughly, and trotted over to
join Olivia.

According to her Bounty Hunter, the metal object wasn’t buried deep, so she only dug
out a few shovelfuls of sand before using her hands to scoop piles of it into the
sieve. Haviland, who was well trained in the art of searching for small items, dug
slowly and deliberately with his front paws, pausing every now and then to sniff the
edges of the expanding hole.

Less than ten minutes later, something rattled around in the sieve.

“What do we have here?” Olivia asked, brushing the sand away from surface of a thumbnail-sized
piece of yellow gold. Unable to recognize the shape, she walked to the water, bent
down, and washed off her find.

“Looks like a pendant,” she told Haviland, drawing the piece of jewelry closer to
her face. An androgynous, curly haired angel reached its arms out to hold on to a
sphere. The top of the sphere was fashioned into a loop, but the pendant’s chain was
no longer attached.

Olivia ran her fingertip over the cherublike child’s face and then realized that a
second pair of hands was fastened to the sphere. These hands were identical to the
first, and she assumed that another angel, a mirror image of the first, had broken
off.

Wondering if the pendant had belonged to best friends, sisters, or a pair of twins,
Olivia studied the lone angel, feeling inexplicably sad that it had lost its other
half.

Sighing, she slipped the piece of jewelry into her pocket and took the peach out of
her backpack. Returning the trench shovel and sieve to the bag, she switched the metal
detector off, and turned toward home.

The peach was ripe and delicious. She bit into it and sticky juice ran down her chin.
For a moment, the fruit’s sweetness was marred as Olivia thought about Willis Locklear
and how he would never eat a peach again. He wouldn’t walk on the beach or see a sunset
or dive into the cool water. Such simple pleasures were beyond his reach.

Olivia wallowed in these morbid thoughts until she stepped into the shadow cast by
the lighthouse. She looked at the cozy keeper’s cottage and remembered that she hadn’t
finished editing Sawyer’s chapter, which would be up for review that evening.

Shoving the granola bar into her pocket, she turned to Haviland and said, “I’d rather
have blueberry pancakes anyway. Are you up for breakfast at Grumpy’s?”

Haviland barked his assent and Olivia had no doubt that the poodle was envisioning
a plate piled high with plump sausages and thick strips of bacon.

Without bothering to change out of her loose linen pants or faded navy T-shirt, Olivia
drove into town and skillfully maneuvered the Range Rover into a tight spot between
two minivans. Commandeering her favorite window booth, she took her laptop from its
case and waved at Dixie.

Dixie skated over, her purple and blue tutu bobbing like a buoy. She kissed Haviland
on the nose and then gave Olivia an assessing stare. “You’ve got bags under your eyes.
Good Lord, ’Livia, tell the chief to ease off a bit. You gotta get
some
sleep!”

“I was alone last night, thank you very much,” Olivia growled. “How about some coffee?”

“Right away, your highness,” Dixie retorted and zipped off, her tutu flouncing in
indignation. Haviland watched her disappear into the kitchen, his mouth curved into
a smile and his eyes hopeful.

When Dixie returned carrying a carafe of her wonderful coffee and a clean mug, Olivia
apologized to her friend. “I’m all out of sorts because of what happened yesterday,
but I shouldn’t take it out on you. Did you hear about Willis Locklear?”

Dixie perked up immediately. There was nothing she liked better than a fresh piece
of gossip. “Don’t know the name. Should I?”

Adding a splash of cream to her coffee, Olivia watched the white liquid spiral outward,
lightening the deep brown to a warm shade of tan. She told Dixie everything and her
friend listened without interrupting or paying the slightest heed to the couple in
the
Tell Me on a Sunday
booth who had pushed their empty plates to the edge of the table, signaling their
desire to pay for their meals and leave.

“Ah, hon.” Dixie made a sympathetic face. “You can’t seem to catch a break. Maybe
you and your man should take a little trip. Get out of here for a spell.”

“Because death follows me?” Olivia asked. She’d meant to sound glib, but her near
whisper betrayed her anxiety.

Dixie swatted at her with the dishtowel she kept in her apron pocket. “No, ’Livia!
Because once trouble comes around, you can’t walk away from it. I know you love this
place—every buildin’ and dock and grain of sand, but enough already. Let go for a
bit. You’re wound tighter than a fishin’ reel.”

Olivia had to admit that the idea of driving to the mountains and holing up in a cabin
with Sawyer had its appeal. She could imagine spending hours in a rocking chair with
a good book. Or she and Sawyer could both work on their novels while Haviland pursued
a host of woodland animals.

“None of this mess happened in Oyster Bay, so there’s a limit to how much I can be
involved.” She gave Dixie a reassuring smile. “But forget about all that, I’d do anything
for a plate of Grumpy’s blueberry pancakes.”

Dixie nodded. “I’ll put in two orders. Millay’s crossin’ the street and she looks
as wrung out as you do.” She leaned down and whispered to Haviland, “And I won’t forget
a tasty morsel for you, you handsome devil.”

Haviland licked her hand in a show of gratitude.

Olivia looked out the window and grinned. Millay was standing on the double yellow
line, glaring at the oncoming motorists until they stopped and waved her across the
lane. Dressed in a lime green miniskirt, a black AC/DC T-shirt, and her trademark
patent leather knee-high boots, the black-haired bartender certainly stood out among
the crowd of tourists and locals.

Shoving the diner door open, Millay slid into the vacant seat in the window booth,
grabbed Olivia’s coffee cup, and without waiting for permission, drank the entire
contents in several gulps. Slamming the cup down, she looked around for Dixie.

“Rough night?” Olivia asked, trying not to grin.

“I didn’t sleep much.” Millay touched a strand of hair dyed the same lime green as
her skirt. “But I know who wrote that poem we found in Willis’s bag.”

Olivia caught Dixie’s eye and held up her empty coffee cup. Dixie winked and then
handed the disgruntled
Tell Me on a Sunday
couple take-out boxes containing pecan pie and assured them she was terribly sorry
for having kept them waiting. The couple walked out of the diner wearing satisfied
smiles.

Millay unfolded a piece of paper and pushed it across the table. “The poem’s called
‘My Lost Youth.’ It’s by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Apparently, he was a master of
metaphor and this piece is chock full of them. I read an analysis on this website
for English geeks, and Longfellow was supposedly writing about this idyllic place
near the sea, where a boy could be happy and totally carefree. So part of the poem
is like this golden childhood memory. Longfellow is celebrating a boy’s ability to
imagine and dream, and then the War of 1812 comes along and changes everything.”

Scanning the first two stanzas, Olivia quickly became absorbed in Longfellow’s coastal
imagery. As one who’d grown up alongside the sea, she admired the poet’s ability to
evoke its beauty and mystery. “Anything else?”

“At the end, the speaker or whatever he’s called, wants to go back in time and capture
his lost youth, but of course he can’t. He hears this song he’s heard since he was
a boy and it tells him that his childhood has passed him by. It feels sad to me, like
he really misses who he once was.”

“The verses Willis had in his bag described him well,” Olivia said, moving her gaze
to the seventh stanza. “The line that says the song will sing on and never be still.
Willis was like that. He was so full of life, so full of energy. But now that I’m
reading the whole poem, that line feels negative. Like the song is a restless spirit.
A ghost that can’t find peace.” Her hands curled around the edge of the paper and
she swallowed hard. She wanted to rip it to shreds, but that would do nothing but
relieve her of a fraction of her anger.

Millay sighed in relief when Dixie skated over with the coffee carafe and an extra
mug. “Your food will be out in a sec.” She held up a warning finger and wagged it
at Millay. “And don’t tell me you’re not hungry, missy. Your face is almost as green
as your hair. You need to fill up that flat belly and get some pink in your cheeks.”

“I hate pink,” Millay grumbled.

Dixie covered her ears in mock horror and zipped off to the kitchen.

Olivia poured coffee for Millay and refilled her own cup. “Did you research this after
giving up on sleep?”

“Yep.”

Olivia studied her friend. “Were you upset about Willis?”

Millay was quiet for a long time. She sipped her coffee and gazed out the window.
Without turning to face Olivia, she began to speak softly, almost inaudibly. “What
happened to Munin really got to me. I didn’t even know her, so it doesn’t make sense,
but this stuff with the KKK makes me so angry I can’t see straight . . .” She drew
in a deep breath. “Look at me. I’m a mutt. A potpourri of races.” She snorted. “That
will be the only time you’ll hear me use the word potpourri in a sentence.”

Sensing she needed encouragement, Olivia said, “Do you think Munin was an outcast?
Do you identify with that?”

At first, she didn’t think Millay would reply, but she finally met Olivia’s eyes and
nodded. “Do you know what it was like to be in a southern school with my skin tone,
my eye shape, and my hair color? Harris had it right when he said high school was
hell.”

Olivia was stunned. “But you’re gorgeous. You could be on the cover of any beauty
magazine. Are you telling me that being exotic caused you pain?”

“Yeah, and you nailed the reason why. Exotic isn’t in when you’re a teenager. Tall,
blond, bouncy, and white is in. I’ve been called everything from a gook to a spick
to a towel head. Those dumb-ass bitches in my school actually thought I was Middle
Eastern. To them, anything different was bad. Worthy of punishment. I got notes in
my locker, had people get up and move if I sat at their lunch table, and heard my
name whispered seconds before the whole class bust out laughing. This lasted for four
years. I wasn’t invited to parties, I had no date for the prom, for homecoming, for
anything. That’s why I ended up with older guys. They didn’t seem to mind that my
skin was the color of café au lait or that I could curse in Filipino. Of course, my
being with those men provided the blondies with fresh fodder. They added ‘slut’ to
my long list of flattering nicknames.”

“That’s awful, Millay,” Olivia said. After her grandmother had whisked her away from
Oyster Bay and placed her in an elite boarding school, Olivia found herself on the
social fringes too. In the eyes of both the teachers and students, a family’s lineage
carried the upmost importance, so when it became known that Olivia’s father was a
lowly fisherman, her classmates excluded her from activities and complained about
the presence of rotten fish odor whenever she was around.