Written in Stone (18 page)

The Bayside Book Writers fell silent, nodding in mutual agreement. On Monday, they’d
all return to their regular schedules. They’d go to work, run errands, and try to
act normal. The powwow would be over with nothing left to show that a young man had
lost his life, nothing to mark the moment when his sister nearly died too.

“Let’s call it a night,” Olivia suggested. “We need to come at this fresh and clear-headed
tomorrow.”

“We’re running out of time, aren’t we?” Laurel said, speaking to no one in particular.

Harris sighed in exasperation. “There’s that word again. Time, time, time. The killer’s
used time to their advantage, but it’s totally working against us. And we have to
use that word now. Killer.”

“We still have a trump card,” Rawlings said before Harris could get too worked up.
“Talley’s alive. The killer’s plans for her failed.”

“And we won’t give the bastard a second chance.” Millay raised her bottle in a toast.
“To Talley. A fighter. A survivor.”

They all looked at Millay, who’d risen to her feet and, for a moment, had transformed
into the warrior maiden from her novel. Fierce, beautiful, and brave.

“To Talley!” The friends clinked bottles, cleaned up after their meals, and disappeared
into the night.

Alone with Rawlings, Olivia relocated to the couch and patted the cushion next to
her. The chief got up from his club chair with an exaggerated groan and joined her.
They pressed against each other, drawing strength from each other. Rawlings’ arms
wrapped around Olivia’s waist and their fingers intertwined. They sat like that for
an hour, listening to the surf and watching stars bloom in a field of indigo through
the cottage’s windows. And then Rawlings lifted Olivia’s palm to his lips and kissed
it softly.

“I have to go,” he whispered, explaining that he couldn’t sleep without reviewing
his notes another time and that he needed to be at his own place if he wanted to focus
on his work.

Olivia knew he’d read every fact, random note, and wild theory over and over again—that
he’d finally nod off sitting up in his bed, the lamp on the nightstand burning, papers
scattered across the blue comforter. She thought of how his glasses would slip down
his nose as his head sank against his chest and he’d begin to snore, his hands refusing
to let go of the pen, which he’d been using to circle names or dates.

She pictured all of this and loved Sawyer Rawlings for it. And yet, she didn’t tell
him so. With the words sticking in her throat, she kissed him and let him go.

*   *   *

Harlan was more than willing to ferry Olivia, Haviland, and Rawlings across the harbor.
He’d been eager to search Munin’s place himself, but hadn’t had the heart to return
to the site of her death.

Both he and Olivia were eager to leave as early as possible, but Rawlings had stayed
up most of the night and needed a few hours of sleep, so Olivia and Haviland decided
to grab a bite at Grumpy’s and fill Dixie in on all that had happened over the weekend.

Olivia settled in at her customary window booth, surprised to note the amount of empty
tables.

“Folks are either at church or out fishin’,” Dixie said when Olivia asked what Dixie
had done to scare away her customers. “We’ve got a big storm comin’ in this afternoon
and it’s supposed to last through ’til tomorrow. I already told Grumpy to whip up
some chowder. A heavy rain makes people crave soup.”

“Michel made us creamy tomato for our meeting last night,” Olivia said. “It was the
best part of my day.”

Dixie poured Olivia coffee and then perched on the end of the vinyl booth cushion
while Olivia recounted her tumultuous Saturday. When she was just about finished,
she noticed Fred Yoder seated toward the back at the
Starlight Express
booth. He looked up, caught her eye, and waved.

A minute later, he made his way to her booth, coffee cup in hand. “Howdy,” he said
with a cheerful smile. “I’m not even going to pretend that I didn’t come over here
to pry.” He put his cup on the table and reached down to greet Haviland. “About the
mystery jug. Did you make any progress?”

Olivia motioned for Dixie to slide over. “Join us.”

Fred hesitated. “What about your other customers? I don’t want to pin you in.”

“Handsome fellow such as yourself? Feel free to pin me anytime you want,” Dixie teased.
“And don’t worry about that couple in the
Cats
booth. They’re cuttin’ coupons from the paper. They’ll be there another hour and
I’ve already topped off their coffee twice. I give ’em any more and they’re going
float away.”

“Where’s Duncan?” Olivia asked once Fred was comfortably seated.

“He’s worn out. He and I hit the beach at first light. He’ll be in a canine coma until
lunch after all the seagull chasing he did this morning.” Fred smiled. “How about
you? Has Haviland gotten his paws wet already?”

Olivia shook her head. “There’s no playtime for us today.” She filled him in on recent
events and then pulled the bag containing the pottery shards from her purse and showed
him the safety deposit key. Fred examined all the pieces with a collector’s curiosity,
but didn’t comment on any of them.

“The only thing that the Locklears had going for them was their land,” Olivia said.
“That’s why we’re assuming that the casino deal somehow triggered the murders.”

Dixie whistled. “And some white supremacist whacko’s involved? An ugly business, Olivia.
I hope you’re watchin’ your step.”

Olivia ignored her friend and traced the outline of the Klan token.

“What about the ring?” Fred asked. “Did the year hold any significance?”

“It says nineteen seventy-something, but we can’t read the last digit. It’s not the
year Fletcher or Annette graduated and it’s way too old to have belonged to Willis
or Talley.”

Fred reached for the piece containing the old key. He stroked the metal with his fingertips
and pivoted it toward the light. “Maybe it’s not about the land. Maybe it’s about
a house. Perhaps there’s something inside this house—the danger that Munin warned
you about.” He glanced out the window, unseeing. “The Battle of Hayes Pond started
a chain reaction. Therefore Munin selected the token and the pennies for the jug.
The land and the house were sold to the Locklears for next to nothing. And two kids
were going to become wealthy from selling it to others.” He slid the key over to Olivia.
“What’s on the other side of the door? Why does the house matter?”

“You’re a genius, Fred,” Olivia said. “I never thought about the house itself. None
of us did. We were so focused on the land because of the casino deal.”

“The house might be torn down to make room for a shiny new buildin’. Maybe that idea
has the killer seein’ mad-bull red.” Dixie pointed at the ring. “Someone who went
to Littleton High School.”

Olivia’s cell phone buzzed as she received a text from Rawlings. He planned to meet
her at the dock in five minutes.

Placing several bills on the table, Olivia shook Fred’s hand. “I’m buying you breakfast.
You earned it.”

“I’ll only accept if you promise to tell me how this story ends.” He gave Haviland
a fond pat. “We can meet at the park so the boys can race after squirrels.”

Haviland’s ears pricked at the mention of squirrels and Olivia had to tell him that
they were not going to the park. The poodle whined once and stared plaintively at
Fred.

“Sorry, fellow. I should’ve known better than to speak the magic word out loud.” Fred
did his best to appear penitent.

Dixie gave Fred a playful elbow. “Okay, lemme out. I’ve got to grab some take-out
cups for Olivia and the chief.” She wagged a finger at Olivia. “But I’m only gonna
give them to you if you promise to fill me in at the same time you’re sharin’ with
Fred here. After all, I’ve known you longer, and despite my better judgment, I still
happen to like you.”

Olivia watched Dixie skate off toward the kitchen, slapping a check on the
Cats
table as she passed by. A whirlwind of coupons rose up in her wake, fluttering in
the air like colorful pieces of confetti before drifting to the floor.

After sending a text message to Millay and Harris instructing them to research Talley’s
house and its previous owners in-depth, Olivia looked up in time to see Dixie burst
through the kitchen’s double doors, once again kicking up a maelstrom of coupons.
Savings on peanut butter, laundry soap, cheese crackers, tuna fish, and toilet paper
scattered over the tiled floor like fallen leaves.

Olivia started to laugh. The sound surprised her, but it felt good. In fact, it was
such a glorious release that she kept on laughing. She knew that stress and exhaustion
were behind the giddiness, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

“It’s finally happened,” Dixie told Fred with a resigned sigh. “She’s lost her marbles.”

Fred opened the front door so that Olivia could stagger out. “Maybe those folks have
a coupon for marbles,” he said as Dixie wagged a warning finger at Haviland.

“Watch out for her, Captain,” she whispered. The poodle seemed to understand. He sniffed
in acknowledgment and trotted outside, his ears and nose raised. He caught up to Olivia,
walking so close to her heel that he merged with her shadow.

Chapter 17

It is a fateful part of human destiny that it is condemned to wage perpetual war against
ghosts. A shade is not easily taken by the throat and destroyed.

—V
ICTOR
H
UGO

B
y the time she reached the docks, Olivia’s laughter had died.

Rawlings had already taken a seat in the stern of the Boston Whaler and Harlan was
standing by its prow, bowline in hand. He gave Olivia and Haviland a brief smile as
the pair stepped over the gunwale and onto the boat deck.

Harlan cast off and slipped behind the wheel in a quick, fluid movement. Maintaining
a speed of five knots, the engine purred as they passed slip after slip of luxury
sail and motor yachts. For the past five years, Oyster Bay had been dubbed the sailing
capital of the East Coast and every dock space and harbor mooring now had to be rented
a year in advance.

People were out and about, visiting their nautical neighbors, giving orders to the
boat hands, or lounging on their scrubbed decks reading the newspaper while dining
on croissants and freshly squeezed orange juice.

Olivia didn’t pay much attention to her surroundings. She knew that today’s group
of boat enthusiasts would be gone by next week, replaced by a similar-looking set.
The pattern would continue until after Labor Day. By then, hurricane season would
be in full swing and most of the travelers would forego their pleasure cruises until
spring.

Something on one of the bridges leading down to the last dock caught Olivia’s eye.
A momentary flash, like a mirror catching a beam of sunlight. When the flash winked
out, she saw that it had come from the lens of a man’s sunglasses. He’d lowered them
to his waist to wipe them with a cloth and the light had shot toward Olivia like a
beacon.

Olivia went rigid.

Not again,
she thought.
This isn’t possible
.

At that moment, the mirage of her father glanced out over the water. His eyes widened
and his mouth dropped open. Obviously stunned, he raised his right hand and cried,
“Camille!” in a voice laden with anguish.

Mechanically, Olivia shook her head, refuting the name he’d called her.

Rawlings came to her side, gripping the side rail as he followed her gaze. “Who . . . ?”
But he couldn’t grasp what he was seeing.

“I saw him at the powwow yesterday too,” Olivia said, her eyes fixed on the figure.
The man was now jogging along the bridge in order to keep pace with the Whaler. Harlan
drove on, oblivious to the drama occurring onshore. In a few seconds, he’d increase
his speed and leave the congested harbor behind.

“Camille!” The desperate cry carried across the water.
“Camille!”

Now even Haviland was paying attention. He barked a few times, warning the strange
man that his passionate shouts were unwelcome.

“I’m Olivia,” Olivia said in a near whisper and then she lifted her head and called
out, “I’m Olivia Limoges! Camille’s daughter!”

The declaration seemed to knock the wind out of the man. He stopped abruptly and placed
a clenched fist against his chest as if experiencing the preliminary symptoms of a
heart attack. Then, he dropped his arm, his whole body going limp as he stared at
her.

Harlan turned, studying his passengers. “Everything all right?”

When Olivia didn’t answer, Rawlings put a hand on her arm. “Do we need to go back?”

“No time,” Harlan said. “A storm’s coming in from the southeast. We’ll be lucky to
get to Munin’s and back without getting hit.”

He hesitated for a long moment and, when no one argued, eased the throttle up. The
engine roared and the boat raced forward, its speed increasing as they moved toward
the open water.

The man, Willie Wade’s double, receded. Olivia watched over her shoulder until he
was just a tiny smudge against the horizon.

“That wasn’t your father,” Rawlings said, still holding on to her arm. “For a second,
I thought I was seeing a ghost, but even I can spot the differences. Did your dad
have a brother?”

Olivia was silent for a long time, her brows creased in thought. Finally, she nodded.
“That must be it. He had a brother and I never knew it. They look enough alike to
be . . . twins.” And then, in a rush that knocked the breath from her lungs, she remembered
everything Munin had told her. Staggering to the seat in the stern, she sank down
and tried to draw in a mouthful of air.

Rawlings squatted down next to her. “Focus on a point in the distance,” he said gently.
“Keep staring at it until you can breathe again. There.” He pointed at a fishing trawler
anchored offshore. “Concentrate on that boat.”

She watched the vessel until it became a black dot in the distance and then disappeared
entirely. Rawlings had returned to his seat but she could feel his eyes on her. Not
wanting to shout over the rumble of the Whaler’s engine, she pointed at her lips and
then at the approaching shore, indicating that she’d explain once they disembarked.

Olivia drew in great gulps of salty air, trying to quiet her mind. But as the wind
whipped her hair and tiny grains of salt flecked her skin, she felt more adrift than
ever. If a siren were to break the water’s surface at that moment, Olivia would be
sorely tempted to surrender to the creature’s seductive song.

The engine noise suddenly decreased and Harlan steered the boat as far up creek as
he could and then cut the motor. As they drifted toward the bank, the instant cacophony
of bird and insect noise transported Olivia to her previous visit two weeks ago.

She and Rawlings followed Harlan down the overgrown trail. He swatted at the tall
grass with a stick and Haviland jumped at his side, enjoying a game of keep-away with
the retired ranger.

Olivia let Harlan get even farther ahead before she spoke. “When I was here, Munin
made several cryptic remarks about my father. I gave her the carving he’d made me
in exchange for information on my mother, and Munin recognized that the girl standing
in front of the wooden lighthouse was supposed to be me. She guessed that I was looking
for my father, wondering if he’d ever return.”

“The
Gazette
ran stories about that for days,” Rawlings said. “The whole town knew about his disappearance
and how you were found adrift in that dinghy. It would have been easy for her to glean
that information.”

Olivia didn’t want to dwell on that night of fear and endless fog, when she’d been
left all alone on a vast and angry sea. “Munin said that I was wrong to believe that
I’d found him. She said, ‘you think your search is over, but it’s not.’”

Rawlings shot her a worried glance. “And because you caught a glimpse of a man who
resembles Willie Wade, you think Munin is right?”

“I had more than a glimpse at the powwow. He was only a few feet away. Hudson’s seen
him too. And it’s not just a close resemblance. That man from the bridge is my father’s
identical twin.” Olivia shrugged. “Judging from his clothes and the extra fifteen
pounds, life was kinder to him. But the way he said my mother’s name . . .”

“I heard,” Rawlings said softly. “The longing. And the pain.”

Olivia clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking. “Munin said that the
man who should have raised me couldn’t claim me. Or my mother for that matter. She
asked me to consider why a woman like Camille Limoges would marry an unrefined, whiskey-loving
fisherman. Now I know what she was trying to tell me.”

Rawlings slowed. “And what’s that?”

“The mirror in the jug was meant for me. I was supposed to look at myself, to see
my mother’s starfish necklace, and to question my origins.” Olivia swallowed hard.
“That man cried out my mother’s name like a lover would. If that’s so, whose daughter
am I? Willie Wade’s? Or his brother’s?”

They rounded a bend and Munin’s shack came into view. The forest already seemed to
have closed in around it, shielding the crude structures and beginning to reclaim
the clearing where she’d worked on her pottery.

Rawlings was clearly torn between rushing off to investigate Munin’s possessions and
grappling with Olivia’s theory. “We’ll find the guy when we get back,” he assured
her. “I promise. Until then, you’re taking Munin’s word as gospel just because you
ran into your father’s lookalike.” He took her by the hand. “Please, Olivia. I need
you with me right here, right now. I need you to be sharp. So does Talley.”

“I’m on it.” Olivia reached down with her free hand, searching for Haviland, and he
quickly moved to her side so that her fingers could connect with his fur. “Trust me,
Sawyer. My stuff doesn’t matter now. I want justice for Munin, no matter how much
she’s still screwing with my head. Let’s go.”

Harlan needed to disable Munin’s traps before joining them in the search, so only
Rawlings, Olivia, and Haviland stepped down into the shack’s dark, musty interior.
Harlan had provided them with a pair of battery-powered lanterns and Rawlings positioned
his near the shelf filled with glass jars. Olivia was about to place hers near Munin’s
stack of newspapers when she realized that they were gone.

Lowering her lantern to the ground, she noticed a trail of ashes leading to the hearth.
“The killer came back,” she whispered to Rawlings, feeling a chill race up her spine.
“The killer returned to burn of all Munin’s papers.”

Rawlings followed the scorch marks to the hearth. He bent down and poked at the mountain
of ash using Munin’s walking stick. “Damn! There’s nothing left.”

“Her memories have been destroyed,” Olivia murmured, sinking into the chair Munin
had occupied during their visit. Her chipped pottery mug was still on the mantel and
Olivia recalled the strange, pleasant taste of the old woman’s tea. She had a sudden
yearning to smell the leaves, to let Munin spring to life again through the aromas
of strong black tea, sharp mint, and sweet honey.

While Rawlings pried the lids from glass jars filled with shells, pennies, buttons,
bottle caps, smooth pebbles, pull tabs, marbles, and nails, Olivia opened Munin’s
tea tin and imagined cradling a warm mug in her hands. Acting on impulse, she took
Munin’s chipped mug from the mantel and returned to the chair. She stared into the
gloom and held the mug as if were made of the finest porcelain.

“What’s that?” Rawlings asked.

Only when Olivia glanced down at the mug did she notice a slip of paper nestled inside.
“I don’t know. Should I take it out?”

“No.” Rawlings removed a pair of tweezers and an evidence bag from his kit. He pulled
the paper from the mug and placed it on top of the evidence bag, holding the edges
down with gloved fingers. “Another time metaphor.”

Olivia closed her eyes, trying to force down the rage that seemed to be clawing its
way up her throat. It was as if the killer was mocking them. She hated feeling so
helpless. She hated the thought of the murderer being in complete control while everyone
else fumbled in the dark, always one step behind. “What does it say?”

Time is

Too Slow for those who Wait,

Too Swift for those who Fear,

Too Long for those who Grieve.

They both fell silent, pondering the words of what sounded like another stanza of
poetry.

“More time metaphors,” Rawlings said after a long moment. “Natalie, Willis, Talley,
Munin. Their lives have been defined by Time. It passed quickly for the first three—way
too swiftly for the ones who died. And Munin? Time moved slowly for her. She was here,
alone, waiting. For what, I don’t know, but I believe the killer identifies him or
herself with Time.”

“Then whatever wrong the killer perceives as having been committed must have originated
with Munin,” Olivia said. “I think that’s why she moved out here. To protect her family.
To carry the offense with her, leaving her family to flourish in ignorance. If she
was Talley’s grandmother, Talley never knew it.”

Rawlings slid the strip of paper into an evidence bag. “We need to track down someone
from Munin’s generation. Someone who was at the Battle of Hayes Pond. Maybe interviewing
the older members of the Lumbee wasn’t the direction we needed to take. Maybe we should
have been talking to the aging Klansmen.”

Pivoting, he swung his lantern in an arc around the room and a beam of light fell
on an overturned crate in the corner. Standing on the crate was the carving Olivia
had given to Munin. Olivia reclaimed the sculpture of the little girl and the lighthouse
and held it against her chest. The movement hadn’t escaped Rawlings’ notice and he
lowered the lantern and took her in his arms. “When this case is over, I can get your
necklace back from evidence too,” he assured her. “You don’t need to lose anything
else that matters to you.”

“No.” Olivia shook her head, her voice hoarse. “I want Munin to have it. She was clinging
to it in the end, Sawyer. It meant something to her. Maybe a few seconds of comfort
amidst all that pain.” She cast her eyes around the cabin, at the pitiful remnants
of a woman’s life.

Rawlings nodded in understanding. “All right, let’s go. There’s nothing else we can
do here.”

Outside, Harlan was squatting on his heels and rummaging through a pile of pottery
shards. Haviland was assisting by digging with his front paws. “Anything?” Harlan
asked upon seeing them emerge from the shack.

“The killer burned all her papers,” Rawlings said. “And left a message behind. We’re
done and ready to head out whenever you are.”

Harlan stood up, a broken jug in his hand. He stared at it for a moment, his eyes
filled with sorrow, and then let it fall gently to the ground. “Her cooler of antivenom
is gone. She kept it on the bottom of the creek and the rope tied to the handle’s
been cut. If she died on the bank, then she was just a few feet away from that cooler.
Whoever killed her made sure she couldn’t reach it. That’s why the sheriff’s men never
saw it, but they should have noticed the posts stuck in the ground.”