Written in Stone (6 page)

“Let’s call it a night,” Rawlings suggested. “I’ll do a background check on Munin.
Maybe we can make a connection after we take a closer look at her life before she
moved to the swamp.”

Olivia tapped her chin, her expression thoughtful. “An antique store opened near The
Bayside Crab House two weeks ago. I wonder if the owner could shed some light on this
piece.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Rawlings said. “We can stop by in the morning after your interview.”

“What interview?” Laurel asked suspiciously. “This isn’t media related, is it?”

Assuring her that it wasn’t, Olivia escorted her friends to the door. Millay let Laurel
and Harris precede her. Pausing in the doorway, she turned and looked over Olivia’s
shoulder at the jug. “I’ll ask around about 1958 at the bar tonight. Nothing came
up on Google, but if anything juicy happened in these parts during that year, my guys
will remember. They may not be valedictorians, but I’ve never known people with better
memories.”

Olivia had always admired the respect Millay paid to the fishermen and laborers who
gathered at Fish Nets every weekend to drink, smoke, and play a game of billiards
or darts. These grizzled, sun-and-salt-weathered men and women had welcomed Millay
into their fold. They grudgingly accepted her rule when she refused to pour them another
drink, opened the back door for her whenever she struggled to carry out an empty keg
or heavy trash bag, and confided in her.

“Good idea.” Rawlings gave her shoulder a paternal pat.

“What should I tell them about Munin?” Millay asked the chief.

“Just that she’s passed away. Don’t tell them how. Pay attention to the gossip that
flies after you deliver the news,” Rawlings replied. “Like you said, those folks have
long memories. Who knows what kind of dirt will be shaken loose?”

Nodding, Millay stepped out from under his hand and disappeared down the slope of
the driveway.

Olivia lingered by the closed door, watching a trio of moths flutter wildly against
the panes. They were desperate to get inside, to reach the light that was so tantalizingly
near. The dust from their wings left faint marks on the glass, and even though Rawlings
was standing by the sink, Olivia flicked the switch, plunging the kitchen into darkness.

“Why’d you do that?” he asked quietly.

Tapping her fingertips against the pane, Olivia said, “I didn’t want them to die of
exhaustion.”

Rawlings moved closer to her, his breath warm on her neck, his hands on her waist.
“They don’t realize that they’re better off outside. If they reached the light, they’d
only get burned.”

*   *   *

Olivia didn’t like Deputy Bauman of the Craven County Sheriff’s Department one bit.
He spoke to her as if she didn’t understand English and made it perfectly clear that
collecting her statement was a formality. The sheriff’s department was prepared to
rule Munin’s death as accidental. All they had left to do was file the paperwork and
wait for someone to claim the old woman’s remains. If no one did, she’d be cremated
and buried in a potter’s field.

“Did you find antivenom among Munin’s effects?” Olivia asked after Bauman was finished.
Ignoring her, he closed his manila folder and slid his silver pen into the pocket
of his uniform shirt. “I understood that she made her own,” Olivia continued. “Doesn’t
it seem strange that she’d die of a snakebite within easy reach of a cure?”

Bauman ran a hand over his military-style crew cut and frowned. “Harlan Scott asked
us the same thing, but the deceased didn’t even own a refrigerator. Antivenom’s got
to be kept cool. If she had any, we don’t know where she kept it.”

Having conducted an Internet search on antivenom over breakfast, Olivia had already
developed a theory on how Munin kept things cold. “She probably dug a hole in the
floor of her house or stored vials in a watertight container at the bottom of the
stream. She lived primitively, but she was clever enough to survive in isolation for
decades. Did you notice any chains or ropes leading from the stream bank into the
water?”

Bauman guffawed. “Somebody’s been watching too many cop shows on TV.”

Olivia bristled. “Did you look? Because her death doesn’t make sense and if you’re
just trying to brush it aside to avoid bad press before the Coastal Carolina Food
Festival kicks off, then you’re making a mistake. I have a good friend on staff with
the
Oyster Bay Gazette
who’d like nothing better than to poke under the rocks you refuse to turn over.”

“Listen, lady,” Bauman said, angry now. “We know how to do our job. We checked out
the site and the ME went over the corpse. We’ve collected facts and we’re making a
ruling. You want to stir up a handful of locals with some piece-of-crap story on how
we weren’t thorough enough, go right ahead.” He stood up, scraping his chair against
the floor, and tapped his name badge. “Got the spelling down?”

Refusing to let the deputy see how mad she was, Olivia shouldered her purse and rose
to her feet. She walked around the conference table and put herself between Bauman
and the door. Slightly taller than the cocksure deputy, she straightened her spine
and did her best to look down at him. “What if that had been your mother or grandmother
left to die in agony? Alone. No one to hear her cries for help.” She spoke gently
now, pleading with the man. “Please don’t let Munin fade into nothingness. She must
have ties to someone, somewhere.”

Bauman held her eyes. “You’d be surprised how many remains are unclaimed these days.
Sometimes people don’t want to come forward if their relative is a known felon, sometimes
they don’t want to pay the burial costs, and sometimes they just don’t want to deal
with the hassle of it all. It doesn’t happen as much around here as it does in the
cities, but it happens. We investigated this case and we’ve put out the word on this
woman. I bet there’s even a death notice in your friend’s
paper. That’s as far as it goes.” He gestured at the door. “Now if you don’t mind,
I’ve got work to do.”

During the ninety-minute drive from the Craven County Sheriff’s Office to downtown
Oyster Bay, Olivia let her anger simmer. She complained to Haviland about Bauman’s
attitude, but the poodle was far too interested in sticking his head out the passenger
window to pay her much attention. Eventually, she put her own window down and let
the end-of-summer air whisk away some of her frustration.

She was calm by the time she met Rawlings outside of Circa, the recently opened antique
store. Olivia hadn’t met the proprietor, Fred Yoder, but his name was familiar because
he leased space in the revitalized warehouse building she owned.

As was her habit, Olivia left Haviland in the car until she could determine whether
Mr. Yoder would welcome a standard poodle in his shop. Rawlings held the memory jug
in one hand and opened the door with his other. They were immediately greeted by the
sound of barking.

“Duncan!” a man’s voice called with the barest hint of a reprimand, but the blur of
white fur racing to the front door did not reduce speed.

Olivia smiled and knelt down to say hello to an adorable terrier. “A Westie,” she
said and held out her hand, palm up, for Duncan to sniff. He accepted the invitation,
gave her a lick, and then moved in closer to get a good whiff of her shoes.

“Duncan!” A man in his mid-sixties with glasses and pink-tinged cheeks rushed forward.
“Give the lady some space!”

Laughing, Olivia ran her hand through the Westie’s fur, pressing her fingertips through
the wiry topcoat until she reached the soft undercoat. She gave Duncan a gentle scratch
and he gazed up at her with adoration. When she stood upright, he tried to follow.
He raised himself on his haunches and grinned, giving her a full view of his bubble
gum pink tongue.

“Sorry about that.” The man Olivia took to be Fred Yoder pulled Duncan away. “He’s
a big dog in a little dog’s body.”

“No apology necessary. I’m a dog lover too. In fact, Captain Haviland, my poodle,
is right outside in the car.”

Fred didn’t hesitate a moment. “Feel free to bring him in.”

Olivia glanced around at the display shelves stuffed with porcelain plates and figurines,
cut glass, and delicate sterling bud vases.

The spacious interior had been divided into several themes. To the left was a masculine
office complete with campaign desk, bookshelves, hunting prints, and antique weapons.
To the right was a woman’s parlor whose showpiece was a fainting couch. Hundreds of
Victorian knickknacks and a collection of ivory-handled fans and perfume bottles had
been arranged on side tables and stands. Straight ahead was an English dining room
with a heavy Empire sideboard covered by crystal decanters and a sterling silver punch
bowl. A dazzling chandelier hung above the Chippendale table and an Oriental runner
led the way across the hall to an early American bedroom.

“This is wonderful.” Olivia was impressed. “I’m already writing a big check in my
head.”

Fred laughed. “My favorite kind of customer.” He held out his hand and introduced
himself first to Olivia first and then to Rawlings. “I see you’ve brought me something.”

“It’s a memory jug,” Rawlings said. “Know anything about them?”

Opening his hands, Fred smiled. “I know a little bit about everything. Usually just
enough to confuse folks.” His eyes twinkled with a boyish mirth and he waved at the
front door. “Before we unveil your piece, invite your fellow inside. He and Duncan
can hang out in the back room while we talk. I’m about ready for a coffee break.”

Duncan seemed to like the suggestion. He wagged his tail and shot quick, hopeful glances
between Fred and Olivia.

A few minutes later, Fred, Rawlings, and Olivia were seated at a game table exchanging
pleasantries, sipping Fred’s excellent coffee, and watching the two dogs get to know
each other.

During a lull in the conversation, Rawlings placed the jug on the table and removed
it from the bubble wrap. Fred immediately focused on the piece. He began his inspection
by looking at all of the objects, his powder blue eyes taking in every detail. Next,
he touched several of the items embedded in the clay, smelled the jug’s surface, and
then turned it upside down in search of a maker’s mark. There wasn’t one.

“Judging by the clay and the shells, I’d say this was a local piece,” he said, raising
his brows in search of confirmation.

“It is,” Rawlings agreed. “But we can’t seem to find a connection between the objects.”

Fred seemed surprised by this. “Is there supposed to be one?”

“The potter, a woman, told me there was,” Olivia said. “The problem is that we don’t
have any background details on her and have no idea what story this jug is trying
to tell us.”

Clearly intrigued, Fred returned his attention to the jug. “That’s the function of
most memory pieces. They’re like a scrapbook made with found objects. And if this
jug was meant to serve as a record of a person’s life, then it’s not being obvious
about that life. This key could open any old door, the pennies aren’t rare, and the
mirror’s contemporary. I can’t tell where the ring’s from either. But this . . .”
He pivoted the jug, his index finger probing the surface of the circular medal. “This
gold medal—it’s got lines on it. They’ve been filed or melted down, but . . .” He
trailed off and got up to rummage around in a kitchen drawer.

“Is it a sports medal?” Rawlings asked.

“I don’t think so,” Fred replied and there was a sudden wariness to his voice that
hadn’t been there before. As Haviland and Duncan settled onto the floor for a group
nap, Fred rubbed the medal’s surface with a sheet of thin paper and a pencil riddled
with teeth marks. Lines resembling sun rays appeared on the paper. Fred studied his
drawing and grunted. “I’ll need to research this a bit more. How quickly do you need
an answer?” He gave Rawlings a shrewd look. “Is this a police matter?”

Rawlings shifted in his chair. “Not exactly, but if you have a hunch, I’d like to
hear it now.”

Fred shook his head. “You’re the chief of police.” He turned to Olivia. “And you’re
my landlady. I’m not going to identify taboo memorabilia without being sure. It would
be like pointing the finger at somebody without any evidence.”

“Fair enough,” Rawlings answered after a pause.

Olivia touched Fred’s hand, briefly. Her dark blue stare met his sky blue one. “The
case we’re working is technically unofficial, but it’s important nonetheless. To be
honest, it’s personal and I’d appreciate anything you could do to help.” She handed
him her business card. “If you discover anything at all, please call me. I’d love
to welcome you to Oyster Bay by treating you to a meal at The Boot Top. Duncan can
hang out with Haviland in my office while we drink cocktails and talk.”

Fred accepted the card with a grin. “I’d be a damned fool to refuse that offer.”

After thanking him for the coffee and his time, Olivia wrapped up the jug and softly
called for Haviland. She and Rawlings showed themselves out, the poodle reluctantly
parting from his new friend.

“What was that about? His hesitancy?” she asked as they walked to her Range Rover.

“Depends on what Mr. Yoder considers taboo. Could be racial, sexual, political, religious . . .
Who knows?”

Olivia slipped on her sunglasses, her gaze drifting toward the placid harbor. What
could Munin have embedded into the jug to make the affable Fred Yoder uncomfortable?

Like the water behind the warehouse, the medal’s smooth, golden exterior seemed harmless
and pretty. But if it was anything like the ocean, there could be all kinds of dangers
lurking beneath its shining surface.

The image of the green serpent drawn on the western edge of one of Fred’s antique
maps appeared in Olivia’s mind. Staring at the water, she held the jug just a little
bit tighter against her chest and whispered the warning conveyed by the map’s fearsome
symbol, “Here be dragons.”