Written in Stone (4 page)

“Thank you. It’s delicious,” she said.

Munin dipped her head in acknowledgment and brought her own mug to her lips.

“You are taller than Camille, but otherwise, you could be her sister.”

Olivia nodded. “I don’t favor my father at all.”

Munin’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I see him plain enough.”

“You met Willie Wade?”

“I’ve seen your daddy many times,” she answered cryptically. “But it was your mama
I came to know. An unhappy woman, to be sure. A sad and lonely woman. Lovely too.
From her face right down to her soul. Uncommon that. You don’t warm to people like
she did. I can see that plain enough.”

Though she knew this to be true, Olivia felt slighted. But she said nothing, choosing
to study the rest of the interior instead. Opposite the bookshelves of jars were tall
stacks of newspapers. They occupied the entire wall and had been divided into six
towers. Olivia suspected these papers were the source of Munin’s knowledge.

“It’s here, girl. What you came to see.” The witch pointed at a lump near her feet,
which was roughly the size and shape of a gallon milk jug. Munin pulled off the burlap
sack covering the object with a slow flourish. Her face was unreadable.

It was a jug made of ruddy brown clay. Nearly every inch of its surface had been covered
by the commonplace items Munin stored in her glass jars. However, in between the buttons,
nails, and bottle caps were more valuable items. Olivia saw a pearl ring, a Cameo
brooch, a gold chain, a silver cross, and a framed daguerreotype.

“It’s a memory jug,” Munin said. “Some say the slaves made them to put on the graves
of their loved ones. Others say the Victorians came up with the idea since they were
so keen on preserving the past. And there are those who think the early settlers made
them on dark evenings to fight off boredom.” She gestured at the jug. “Go on, I can
see that you wanna touch it.”

Olivia drew the piece closer. It was heavier than she’d expected. Carefully balancing
it on her knee, she tilted it toward the candlelight.

“The boredom theory holds the most water with me,” Munin continued. “I’ve made them
for half a century now. Harlan takes the jugs to town and mails them off to some gallery
on the West Coast. The lady who owns the gallery sends him money and he buys me the
things I need. Like my papers.” She waved at the stacks of newspapers without looking
at them. “Harlan told me they call me the Gypsy Potter of North Carolina in that gallery.
I’m right fond of that name.”

Casting a glance at Munin’s rattling ankle bracelets, Olivia said, “Are you a gypsy?”

Munin shrugged. “I’m a mix of things, just like that pot.” She raised the hem of her
trousers an inch, allowing Olivia a clear glimpse of her bracelets. They were made
of the teeth and bones of small animals.

Forcing herself to not recoil, Olivia met the old woman’s dark gaze. “Why did you
want me to come?”

Reclaiming the jug, Munin put it back in the burlap sack. “Because the last jug I’m
ever gonna make is for you. Because your mama cared for me once when I was real sick.
She brought medicine from town and spent the night here. Not many would do that.”

“How did you come to meet her in the first place?” Olivia demanded.

“Same way I meet most folks. She needed help no one else could give her.” The witch
held out her hand, palm up. She wasn’t going to answer any more questions. It was
time to collect her payment. “What have you brought me?”

Olivia’s fingers reached for her backpack, closing over her treasure. In the witch’s
gloomy hole, surrounded by the rows of dusty jars and the disintegrating newspapers,
she was reluctant to bring it forth, let alone hand it over to the crone.

“Ah, it pains you to think of me having your prize.” Munin’s face wrinkled in delight.
“Then it’s a worthy sacrifice. Give it to me.”

Unzipping the backpack, Olivia stalled a moment by offering Haviland a dried beef
stick. She hated being controlled by the strange woman, and all because she claimed
to have known Olivia’s mother. But every story of Camille Limoges enriched Olivia’s
own memory of her, rooting her orphaned daughter to a family tree, to the town of
Oyster Bay, to a special place in one person’s heart. She knew she’d trade nearly
anything in exchange for information on her mother, the person she had loved the most.
The only person who’d truly loved her in return.

Her hand closed around the witch’s payment and she passed it over without further
hesitation.

Munin unwrapped the protective layer of tissue paper to reveal an exquisite wood carving
of a young girl standing in the lee of a lighthouse, her hand shielding her eyes as
she stared outward in search of something.

“It’s you,” the witch said. “Looking for your daddy, right?” She touched the wooden
girl’s skinny arm with a hooked fingernail. “And you think your search is over, but
it’s not.”

Anger flared within Olivia. “Enough riddles. What do you want?”

Munin leaned closer, her dark eyes locking on Olivia’s. “Death is coming to this forest.
It doesn’t want you, but it’ll take you if you get in its way. Be wary. Protect your
friends. You will all be close to danger.”

Olivia pointed at the newspaper on Munin’s bookshelf. “Did you read about the food
festival? That’s how you know I’ll be in the forest.” She made a derisive sound. “Is
that all there is to your hocus-pocus?”

“In part.” Munin grinned, unfazed. “I am Memory. I collect memories and I put them
on my jugs. The past helps me see into the future. And I use other methods too. The
land is rich with plants that aid my visions. Jimsonweed, heliotrope, passion flower.”

Eying her tea suspiciously, Olivia set the mug aside, causing Munin to laugh. The
sound was like the rustle of dried leaves. “I haven’t drugged you, girl. I mean you
no harm, which is a good thing, for harm seems to find you. Death is attracted to
you.”

“I assume you’re referring to the murder that happened a few months ago? Again, you
read about my involvement in the paper.” She narrowed her eyes at the old woman. “And
if you knew it would happen, why didn’t you send a warning?”

“I don’t see in straight lines, child. I knew that the man calling himself Plumley
would pay a steep price. There is always a price, as there was for your friend—the
one who’s in jail now. He has peace for the first time in his life. You don’t have
to grieve for him anymore.”

Olivia felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up
.
Only Dixie, Rawlings, and the Bayside Book Writers knew how she felt about the events
of the past spring. How she’d mourned the loss of a friend and how her guilt over
helping the authorities bring him to justice had weighed her down for months.

“Many of my visions are filled with nightmares,” Munin suddenly hissed. “Ugly things
that will come to pass. But that does not mean I should interfere. I stay away from
such things unless I have a debt to pay. I have survived by staying away.” The fire
in her eyes died as quickly as it had flared and she settled more deeply into her
chair and drank her tea. “I kept others safe for a long time by removing myself from
the world, but even I cannot hide forever.”

There was a scuffing noise outside the house. “Harlan’s emptied my traps. Would you
like to stay for supper? If there’s quail, I can roast them on a spit and make you
a bracelet from their bones. Or would you prefer fresh squirrel?” She cackled.

“Thank you, but, no. Please go on. I’ve paid you,” Olivia reminded her. “I am waiting
for my story.”

Picking up the carving Olivia’s father had made, Munin studied it again. A flicker
of sadness crossed her weathered face.

“For your gift, I will tell you two things. The first is that I met Camille Limoges
when she was carrying you.” She stopped suddenly and stared at Olivia. “Did you never
wonder why such a woman—beautiful, kind, wise—would marry an uneducated fisherman
who loved whiskey more than any living being?”

“Of course I have!” Olivia snapped, growing tired of the witch’s enigmatic manner
of speaking. “A million times over. My grandmother couldn’t explain it. No one could.”

Munin looked exceedingly pleased. “But I can. She had no choice. Consider that, girl.
The man who should have raised you couldn’t claim you. Couldn’t claim your mother
either. Poor, sweet fool.” She slowly raised herself out of the chair. It creaked
in protest until her weight was transferred to her dirty feet. “Soon, many paths will
cross in this forest. People who have carried anger around with them too long will
meet. People who have swept too many secrets into a dark corner will see them exposed
to the light. Death is coming and you’ll be in the middle of it all. Again. Be wary.
That is all I have to say.” She turned toward the door. “Harlan!”

Harlan pushed open the metal door and poked his head inside. “You all set?”

Olivia was on the verge of protesting when Munin said, “I am tired. The jug on the
ground is ready to be mailed, Harlan.” She looked at Olivia. “The one by the foot
of the bed is for you, girl. It holds all of the answers you seek as well as those
you might not want to know. My gift can protect you in the days to come. It can also
undo you. The truth waits inside.” She stroked Olivia’s carving, her eyes distant.
“I do this for your mother. My debt to her is paid. Go now.”

Suddenly, Olivia saw Munin not as a witch, a crazy hag, or a malicious crone, but
as a tired, lonely old woman who’d lived without companionship, without laughter for
far too long. When had she last shared a meal with another human being? When had she
been given a scrap of comfort during times of sorrow or illness? Was Camille Limoges
the only person to show her kindness?

Shadows from the candle flame played across Munin’s face, and as Olivia studied the
creases and the lines, mapping out the old woman’s solitary existence, she realized
that it had either taken incredible strength or immense fear or a combination of both
to live this woman’s life.

Before she lost the courage to do so, Olivia reached both hands behind her neck and
unclasped the gold chain holding her starfish pendant. She gently placed the treasure
in Munin’s hand and closed the old woman’s fingers around it.

“This is my most precious possession,” she said. “It always made me feel like my mother
was near. Maybe you’ll feel her too.”

Munin accepted the gift with a grave nod. “Thank you, child. I will be in need of
comfort soon. I should have known that Camille’s daughter would be the one to offer
it to me. I should have known that there is hope in the next generation . . .”

And with that, she turned away.

Olivia gathered the burlap sack containing her jug and stepped from the gloom of Munin’s
home into the harsh midday light. She winced, her eyes filling with tears, and motioned
for Haviland to heel.

Harlan forged ahead, his walking stick brushing idly against the carpet of leaves
until it gave way to the tall grass once again.

“You did a good thing back there,” he said when the Whaler came into view again. “Will
you come again?”

Feeling the solid weight of the jug in her backpack, Olivia paused on the muddy bank,
watching a cloud of gnats descend toward the water. “Maybe,” she said, but doubted
it. There was something final about her parting with Munin.

After helping her aboard, Harlan started the motor and coasted toward the mouth of
the creek. As the warm wind pushed strands of Olivia’s pale hair into the air, she
stared at the desolate underbrush and blank sky and recalled a poem by Katherine Mansfield.
It might have been written for the woman she’d just met.

Olivia spoke a few lines in a soft murmur, sending the words aloft on the salty breeze,
unaware that, in her own way, she was delivering the witch’s eulogy.

Through the sad dark the slowly ebbing tide

Breaks on a barren shore, unsatisfied.

A strange wind flows . . . then silence. I am fain

To turn to Loneliness, to take her hand,

Cling to her, waiting, till the barren land

Fills with the dreadful monotone of rain.

Chapter 4

I write for the same reason I breathe—because if I didn’t, I would die.

—I
SAAC
A
SIMOV

A
week after Olivia’s trip to the swamp, the Bayside Book Writers assembled in the comfortable
living room of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage and helped themselves to beer, wine,
or, in Olivia’s case, a tumbler of Chivas Regal. There was also a selection of tasty
tidbits from The Boot Top to sample, including lemon and garlic grilled shrimp skewers,
fried crab wontons with a ginger soy dipping sauce, roasted avocado and asparagus
wraps, and prosciutto rolls stuffed with goat cheese and dates.

“Anyone else going to the Coastal Carolina Food Festival next weekend?” Laurel asked
as she poured herself a generous glass of chardonnay. “I volunteered to cover Saturday’s
events for the
Gazette
.”

Olivia was delighted to hear that Laurel would be attending, especially since Michel
no longer had a crush on her. “I’ll be there. Michel too. We’ve been asked to serve
as celebrity judges for some of the cooking competitions. Apparently, the Foodie Network
will be filming several segments over the weekend. And Hudson’s going to run a Bayside
Crab House tent on Saturday.”

Harris pointed a shrimp skewer at Olivia. “You get all the glamorous jobs. I have
to go because my company wants to develop a new game called Koko’s Kitchen. It’s supposed
to appeal to five- to eight-year-olds and there are a bunch of kid-focused cooking
demonstrations at the festival, so guess who has to watch all of them to get a feel
for the graphic design? Why can’t I go to Comic-Con to check out the outfits worn
by barbarian warrior maidens instead?”

Millay dunked a wonton into the bowl of ginger-soy sauce and grinned at Harris. “Hey,
at least you’re getting paid to hang out at a fair. I mean, do you really need to
conduct much research to design cyber spaghetti or chicken tenders?” She turned to
Laurel. “That’s pretty much what kids eat, right?”

Laurel nodded glumly. “I used to cook the twins all kinds of things. Their plates
were colorful and oh so healthy, but now I hardly bother. All they want is mac and
cheese, pizza, or Happy Meals. And I give it to them.” She sighed. “I won’t be winning
a Mother of the Year award anytime soon.”

“Getting kids to try new foods is the whole point of this game!” Harris exclaimed.
“There’ve been all these studies showing that kids are more likely to eat unfamiliar
food if they cook it themselves. Especially vegetables.”

“In that case, I’d like to preorder a copy,” Laurel said. “Or do you need a few test
subjects? My kids are all yours if you do. In fact, they could just move in with you
for a weekend. What do you say?”

Harris blanched.

Olivia savored the exchange of easy conversation, imagining the words floating through
the house on currents of cool air and eventually coming to rest in the cracks of the
old pine floorboards. She liked the idea of the entire structure being filled with
talk and laugher—the writers coating every surface with a patina of friendship.

Not so long ago, the cottage had felt uninviting, haunted. Olivia had avoided the
painful memories lingering within its walls by completely ignoring its existence.
But then her friends had given her a reason to exorcise its ghosts and she had renovated
it from the roof down, turning it into the perfect meeting place for small groups.

Now, as she stood by the window overlooking the ocean, she marveled over how her life
had changed for the better since she’d become a member of the Bayside Book Writers.
They’d rescued her from decades of loneliness and neglect, just as Olivia had rescued
her childhood home.

“Can I interrupt your space-out session?” Millay asked, breaking into Olivia’s reverie.
“I really need a napkin.”

Seeing the dribble of soy sauce on Millay’s chin and the brown splotches on the counter,
Olivia laughed and handed her friend a paper towel. “Are you working at Fish Nets
or will you be at the festival?”

“I’m only going if there are free samples,” she said. “If there aren’t, I might as
well walk around Costco. If I go around the whole store three times, that’s lunch.”

Olivia settled into one of the plush club chairs facing the water and gave Millay
a bemused look. “I think the food you can taste at the event will top the corn dog
bites and protein bars you’ll be offered at Costco. If nothing else, Hudson will feed
you. The Bayside Crab House is setting up a tent in the vendor area.”

“In that case, I’m in,” Millay said and Olivia caught the gleam of happiness in Harris’s
eyes. She studied her ginger-haired friend. Had his boyish, Peter Pan appearance changed
since he’d been shot? Yes, he did look different. He was still as smooth faced and
bright eyed as ever, and his cheeks still dimpled when he laughed, but he seemed bulkier
and much more confident than the lean, uncertain young man she’d first met over a
year ago. He was coming into his own.

Olivia couldn’t help but wonder whether Millay was seeing him through new eyes too,
or if Harris would end up being just another man she dated for a spell before growing
bored and moving on to the next bad-boy type. Harris was nothing like the surfers,
punk rockers, bartenders, or mechanics Millay was typically attracted to. It was clear
that he was in love with Millay, that he’d been in love with her since the first meeting
of the Bayside Book Writers. Whether Millay was capable of returning those feelings
was another story. However, Olivia had no interest in getting involved in someone
else’s romantic drama. Having one of her own was enough.

Rawlings’ name surfaced in her mind, making Olivia acutely aware of his absence. She
glanced at her watch. The critique session would start within minutes. Laurel already
had her copy of Harris’s chapter on her lap, the notes she’d taken in green pen clearly
visible in the margins.

“Am I ever going to stop being nervous about handing a chapter over to you guys?”
Harris asked, trying to catch a glimpse of Laurel’s comments.

“Probably not,” Laurel said. “And that’s a good thing. It shows that you want to improve—that
you care what your readers think.”

Harris smiled warmly at her. “Even if you ripped me to shreds once a month, I’d still
write. I’ve scribbled sci-fi stories since I could hold a pencil. I think we were
all born with the writing chromosome. We can’t stop. It’s a part of our genetic makeup.”

Millay snatched the bottle of beer from Harris’s hand and headed to the sofa. Flopping
onto the soft cushions, she kicked off her trademark black boots and put both feet
on the coffee table. She gave her toes, which were encased in pink and green argyle
knee socks, a satisfied wiggle and then pulled a stack of papers out of her messenger
bag.

“Okay, Harris ‘Watson-and-Crick’ Williams, just promise not to turn into a total sellout
when you finally get published. Half of the authors on the bestseller list don’t give
a crap about the quality of their writing anymore. They discover a profitable formula
and wham!” She snapped her fingers. “All they do after that is pump out the same book
over and over again.”

“That’s still an accomplishment. I can’t imagine what it would be like to write more
than one book,” Laurel said. “The whole process is so unpredictable. I was cruising
along on
The Wife
. It was practically writing itself until, at about sixty thousand words, I hit a
wall.”

Olivia gave her friend a sympathetic look. “You’re trying to sort out some big issues
right now, Laurel.” She paused and then gently asked, “How are you and Steve doing?”

Laurel shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Better.” She took a sip of chardonnay. And another.
“We’re being so polite to each other now. So careful not to hurt each other’s feelings.
It’s weird. I hate all the tiptoeing.”

“You just need to have a huge fight followed by drunken make-up sex,” Millay said.
“Smash some plates, rip off some clothes, and you’ll be good to go. You can say please
and thank you
after
you’ve done the horizontal tango.”

For a moment, Laurel’s eyes went wide, but then she laughed. “Actually, you’ve given
me a great idea for my next chapter. Thanks for curing my case of writer’s block.”

“I won’t charge you. This
time,” Millay said wryly and then glanced at Olivia. “So what gives? Where’s the chief?”

“Late again,” Olivia said. She’d been wondering the same thing. “But he knows the
deal. We start on time as long as the author’s here. Ready, Harris?”

Harris devoured the last prosciutto roll on his plate and nodded. “Fire away.”

Olivia looked down at her notes. Harris’s science-fiction novel featured a complex
heroine named Zenobia. Following the tragic death of her parents, this young woman
had unexpectedly become the ruler of the entire Zulton race and was tasked with relocating
her people from their dying planet to a more viable one.

In the first half of Harris’s book, Zenobia had successfully maneuvered through a
political minefield and honed her skills as warrior. However, she refused to bend
to the customs of the nobility and spent most of her free time alone in a simulation
room.

During Harris’s last critique session, the Bayside Book Writers had pointed out that
they knew very little about Remus, Zenobia’s new planet, and he’d responded by having
Zenobia lead a team into a vast cavern system in search of a valuable mineral. In
one of the deeper caves, Zenobia’s party had been attacked by a creature unlike any
Zenobia or the Bayside Book Writers had ever encountered before.

Olivia thought he did a good job with this scene, though she still had difficulty
picturing the beast in her mind. Apparently, so did Millay.

“Is it part dragon or part alligator?” she asked. “I get it that’s it big and drools
and has four eyes, but I can’t really see it.”

“But it’s sci-fi,” Laurel argued. “He can’t compare it with things on Earth. If he
says it had the head of a crocodile, it takes away from the sense that everything
is alien.”

Millay offered suggestions on how Harris could describe the beast more effectively,
while Laurel insisted that too much detail would detract from Zenobia. “She’s the
star.”

Olivia told Harris that she liked both the pacing and descriptive detail, but didn’t
understand why Zenobia was disappointed over being hailed as Hunter, a rare and special
title given to only the bravest of leaders. “You show us her emotions, but don’t explain
why she feels the way she does. And what about the mineral they went to mine in the
first place? Are they going back for it or are there more creatures in those caverns?”

Harris was about to reply when a ping came from Olivia’s cell phone, indicating she’d
just received a text message. “I’d better see if that’s Rawlings,” she said, getting
up from the club chair and moving into the small kitchen. Scooping her phone up from
the counter, she glanced at the text box and read the enigmatic message from Rawlings.

“Is it the chief?” Harris asked. “I hope he shows up. I need a guy’s take on this
chapter. No offense to the ladies, of course.”

Millay hit him in the face with a throw pillow. “Offense taken, loser. Your book features
a female protagonist! If you want to resonate with female readers, then you should
count yourself lucky to have three savvy chicks reviewing your drafts.”

Harris protested until Laurel cut him off by saying, “I hear a car.”

“That’s Rawlings.” Olivia held out her phone and pointed at the text window. “He asked
me to meet him outside. Alone.”

Millay’s brows rose. “Oooooh! A tryst? Right in the middle of our critique session?”

Olivia glowered at her. She had done her best to act casual in Rawlings’ presence,
to understate her relationship with the chief whenever anyone else was around, and
she didn’t like Millay calling attention to it. “He didn’t text me a bunch of
x
s and
o
s,” she said tersely. “I don’t know what he wants, but it can’t be good if he won’t
talk about it in front of everyone. Be right back.”

Haviland jumped up from his position next to the sofa and joined Olivia as she made
her way outside. Rawlings, who was dressed in uniform, was talking on his cell phone.
When he saw Olivia, he quickly finished his conversation and tossed the phone onto
the driver’s seat.

“Am I under arrest?” Olivia teased, holding out her wrists. The chief’s mouth narrowed
to a grim line and he stiffened his shoulders, making it clear that he was in no mood
for jokes.

Rawlings gave Haviland’s head a cursory pat and then moved closer to Olivia.

“We need to talk,” he said, and in his voice Olivia heard an unmistakable command.
He hadn’t asked her to step outside because he wanted to have an intimate personal
exchange, but because he had something to tell her. Something unpleasant.

She folded her arms defensively over her chest, as if to shield herself from whatever
Rawlings had to say. “What’s going on?”

Casting a quick glance at the house, Rawlings took Olivia’s elbow. “Let’s go down
by the water.”

Sensing that Laurel, Millay, and Harris were watching them from the living room window,
she nodded and turned toward the beach. Haviland darted ahead, eager to chase the
few shorebirds wading through the shallows before day gave way to night.

The approach of twilight had painted the sky with strokes of pink and orange. The
colors shimmered on the surface of the glassy ocean and the pastel hues seemed to
be coming in on the tide. Olivia longed to hold on to this picture of beauty, to delay
Rawlings for a moment or two.

“I know,” he said as if she’d spoken aloud. “It’s stunning. The end of a summer day.
The citrus shades will be replaced by soft purples and blues. The first star will
appear out there, low on the sky, and a breeze will move through the dune grasses.
It’s my favorite time of the day, Olivia, and I’d love to take your hand and walk
on the beach until the moon rises, but this can’t wait. I have to ruin this moment.
I’m sorry.”