Written in Stone (8 page)

“I have a waiting list a mile long,” the pretty hostess said when Olivia emerged from
her office. “We could have charged our customers double for this meal. They’re all
dying to be on TV.”

Olivia shook her head, perplexed. “I will never understand the allure of reality shows.”
Then she grinned and tapped the reservation book. “But I love a full ledger and am
over the moon with the menu Michel’s chosen for tonight. He’ll dazzle them all.”

She walked into the kitchen to watch Michel in action and saw a cameraman waiting
to zoom in on the first entrée. Michel slid a filet of cornmeal-crusted flounder from
a sizzling frying pan onto a pool of lemon mustard sauce. He then drizzled more sauce
on top and garnished the dish with clover sprouts and twisted slivers of lemon.

“More entrées!” Noah mouthed and Willis rushed forward balancing three dinner plates.
Olivia smiled in pleasure as she watched the sous-chef present a filet of beef sautéed
in white wine and rosemary, Thai spareribs, and shrimp paella. He quickly stepped
back, allowing Michel to return to the counter. The head chef garnished a plate of
chicken with asparagus and fried capers and then hurried to fill a wide bowl with
Asian noodles tossed with barbecued duck confit. Noah beckoned a cameraman to get
a close-up of a plate of scallops and bacon with port reduction and then instructed
another crewmember to take shots of waiters delivering the entrées to the dining room.

Michel didn’t break stride for a second. As the filming continued, Olivia found the
process repetitious and rather dull, so when the dinner orders increased in number
and the kitchen fell into its customary rhythm, she decided to go home. Her business
would flourish because of today’s events, but the success was marred by her inability
to identify the class ring. Having gone through the entire list of North Carolina
high schools, Olivia had yet to find one whose mascot was a bee or a wasp.

And though she planned to leave, she didn’t. She tarried at the restaurant long enough
to feed Haviland and have a drink, and thirty minutes soon turned into an hour. Then
two. She ended up chatting with some of The Boot Top’s most loyal customers, including
the mayor and his wife, until it was well past her own dinnertime.

Back in the kitchen, Olivia had an array of delectable dishes to choose from. She
opted for the scallops and ate the succulent dish at one of the long counters, contentedly
watching her employees wash, chop, toss, tenderize, sauté, flash fry, mix, plate,
and garnish the evening’s menu items. This was one of her favorite places to sit,
and she smiled as Michel barked orders like a drill sergeant, his demeanor unaffected
by the presence of the
Talk of the Town
crew.

Noah, who’d snacked throughout the day on mixed nuts, carrot sticks, and strips of
dried fruit, was being treated to beef carpaccio with Parmesan, a mango and avocado
salad, and tuna tartare. He’d also decided to dine in the kitchen and sat down next
to Olivia, looking tired but content. “We’ve wrapped for today,” he said. “Got some
really good stuff, but we’ll be back tomorrow. I want to film desserts and do a sidebar
on Willis.”

Olivia didn’t want the crew to invade her restaurant for a second day, especially
since she’d planned on spending a few hours at The Bayside Crab House, but after glancing
at Michel’s flushed and happy face, she nodded in acquiescence.

“I have to admit,” Noah said after swallowing a bite of tuna. “I had my doubts about
what kind of talent we’d find here, but I am seriously impressed.” He gestured at
the plates in front of him. “Michel could open a raw food restaurant in LA and make
a fortune.”

“He could make a fortune anywhere, but he’s content in Oyster Bay,” Olivia said, hoping
she spoke the truth.

“Then he’s found his place.” Noah polished off his meal and left the kitchen in search
of Candice and his cigarettes. He was back minutes later, complaining that Candice
was nowhere to be found.

“Willis! Can I bum a smoke?” he shouted amicably to the sous-chef.

To his credit, Willis finished steaming a pot full of vegetables and dumped them into
a colander before offering Noah his entire pack.

The director shook out a single cigarette and then asked Willis for a lighter. “Want
to take a break?”

Willis shook his head. “Sorry, I’ve got sides to plate.”

Noah gave the sous-chef a thumbs-up and proceeded outside. At that moment, Olivia
happened to glance over at Michel. She saw something dark flit across the chef’s face
and realized that he wasn’t watching the director. He was glaring at Willis.

He’s jealous,
Olivia thought. At any other time, she might be amused by Michel’s juvenile behavior,
but the dining room was filled with customers and a negative mood could affect the
chef’s cooking. When he was truly miserable, he tended use too much salt or was heavy-handed
with sauces, ladling them on until they threatened to overpower the entire dish.

“I’m going home,” she told him as he drizzled soy sauce over a tangle of Asian noodles.
“You’ve outdone yourself today, Michel. Shelley Giusti is sure to sit up and take
notice.”

Upon hearing the name of the lovely pastry chef, Michel perked up immediately. “You
think so?”

Olivia nodded. “The whole crew’s been talking about how great it was to watch you
do your thing.” She gestured at Willis, who was busy arranging the steamed vegetables
on two dinner plates. “He works for you, Michel, and he happens to have an interesting
heritage. If Noah ends up filming his story, a five-minute interview focusing on your
sous-chef’s American Indian background won’t diminish your segment. In fact, anything
Noah films from this kitchen enhances your reputation. Isn’t this your domain? Aren’t
you the king of this castle?”

She smiled, perfectly aware that she was laying it on thick, but Michel’s face smoothed
over and the shadow she’d seen cross his features vanished.

“Dodged that bullet,” she told Haviland as they got into the Range Rover.

At home, she changed into a nightgown and sat in the living room, the memory jug on
the coffee table. Despite The Boot Top’s success, Olivia felt deflated. The meaning
behind the jug’s decorations remained elusive, and though she stared at it and talked
to it and touched it, it refused to divulge a single secret.

When the moon rose above the ocean, painting the water with a soft, white glow, she
turned away from the jug, climbed up the stairs, and went to bed. It didn’t take long
before the sound of Haviland’s breathing, mingling with the sigh of the waves, lulled
her to sleep.

*   *   *

Olivia was reluctant to spend another day with the
Talk of the Town
crew, preferring to wile away the morning walking on the beach followed by breakfast
and a writing session at Grumpy’s Diner.

However, she wasn’t about to leave Noah Wiseman on his own in her restaurant. If they
could just make it through today’s filming, the director would take his cameras elsewhere.
He’d head to the docks to shoot the fishermen unloading their catch of fish, shrimp,
oysters, muscles, and crab, drawing a crowd of curious onlookers and suspicious glowers
from the vessels’ captains. Early the next morning, he’d capture the colors and energy
of the farmers market and then wander around downtown until lunchtime, searching for
the quintessential summer moment, such as a child licking an ice cream cone, or two
lovers sharing a milkshake.

But right now, he was at The Boot Top, nibbling almonds and making demands of Candice.

As the crew got to work, Michel and the rest of the kitchen staff prepared a stunning
array of desserts. By the time the dishes—chocolate soufflé with a side of hazelnut
ice cream, lemon cheesecake with cherry compote, Grand Marnier crème brûlée, apricot
and candied ginger pie, white chocolate espresso torte, peach sorbet with sesame brittle—were
lined up on a white tablecloth to be filmed, the kitchen was redolent with the caramelized
scent of warm sugar and melted butter.

“Brilliant!” Noah declared and gave Michel a pat on the back. “I love it! All of it!”
He then mimed a smoking motion to Willis and the pair disappeared outside.

Michel came into Olivia’s office and flung himself down on the extra chair. He looked
exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin wan.

“You’d better go home and put your feet up for a few hours,” Olivia suggested.

“What, and have Willis get picked up for his own show while I’m gone? Not a chance.”
Michel wasn’t too tired to sulk.

Olivia hid a smile. “You were a triumph. Pierce Dumas will see it, as will Shelley
Giusti and a million television viewers. This is what you wanted. Try to enjoy it.”
She reached over and touched his arm. “Have you ever worked this hard before? Weren’t
the dishes you made over the past two days some of the finest of your career?”

He nodded.

“Then be happy! You’ll be on camera again this weekend as a celebrity judge. Before
long you’ll be a media sensation and I’ll have to worry about you leaving me.”

“Never,” Michel said solemnly. “Who else would put up with my artistic temperament?”
His forehead creased as he frowned. “But if Willis Locklear makes one move to take
my place in the sun this weekend, I will kill him.”

Olivia knew Michel was merely being dramatic, but the person standing in her threshold
didn’t know Michel the way she did.

Candice glanced at Michel, her expression that of a spooked animal. Olivia took note
of the young woman’s wide eyes and then her glance moved to the crewmember beside
Candice. His handheld camera was pointing at Michel and the red record light was on.

Olivia smiled and calmly assured Candice that Michel was only kidding. Then, she stood
up and gently closed her office door in their faces.

On the other side, she distinctly heard Candice say, “Didn’t sound like he was kidding
to me.”

Chapter 7

Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who
wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet.

—P
LATO

O
n Friday morning, Olivia woke slowly, swimming to consciousness from a lovely dream
that slipped away the moment she tried to hold on to its memory.

Without opening her eyes, she moved closer to Sawyer Rawlings’ body. She listened
to him breathe, to the slight sawing noise that rose from low in his chest whenever
he slept on his back. She longed to touch him, to slide her hand across his collarbone
and let it come to rest on his shoulder, but she didn’t want to wake him, so she settled
for laying her cheek against his upper arm.

At the foot of the bed, Haviland stirred, his paws twitching as he chased imaginary
shorebirds. Olivia heard him whine once and then sneeze and knew the poodle would
soon press his moist nose against her palm, silently asking to be let out. The moment
she opened the deck door, he’d take off like a racehorse out of the starting gate,
tearing over the dunes until he reached the water line. In the peach light, he’d send
crabs scuttling into their burrows and force the gulls to take to the air, his caramel
brown eyes shining with such unadulterated joy that he often made Olivia wish she
were a dog.

A soft gurgle sounded from the kitchen. The coffee machine was brewing twelve perfect
cups of coffee. Olivia sighed. She’d have loved nothing better than to spend the morning
in sweatpants and a T-shirt, drinking cup after cup as she and Rawlings read the paper
and then took a lazy stroll on the beach. But they’d have little time to dawdle today.
They had to be on the road by midmorning in order to make it to the Croatan National
Forest for the opening of the Coastal Carolina Food Festival.

Thinking of the presence of television crews, festivalgoers, and the hours she’d committed
to judging made Olivia want to linger in this moment even more. She lifted her hand
and laid it gently on Rawlings’ chest. She could feel his heart beating, its pace
steady as a clock’s, and she suddenly yearned to feel it leap beneath her touch.

Using the pad of one finger, she made circles around his nipple and then traced the
outline of his pectoral muscles. Goose bumps erupted over his skin and he shifted,
his breath becoming shallower as he was pulled toward wakefulness.

Without making a sound, Olivia eased her nightgown over her head. She tossed it on
the ground and then draped a long leg over Rawlings’ leg, pressing her bare stomach
and breasts against his body. His hands reacted instantly, curling around her back
and traveling down over the curve of her buttocks. His fingers dug into the soft flesh
of her thighs, pulling her naked body more firmly against him.

Olivia rolled on top of Rawlings, erasing the space between them. She felt him grow
hard under her and his response quickened her own yearning. Kissing his neck just
below his ear, she tugged at the waistband of his boxer shorts with one hand and buried
the other in his thick hair.

Fully awake now, Rawlings kicked off his shorts and flipped Olivia onto her back.
He pinned her hands above her head and kissed her deeply. She closed her eyes as his
lips moved down her body, moaning softly, and then with more urgency as he entered
her. He kept her hands captured, forcing her to surrender control. She gave in to
his will, letting him manipulate her until desire threatened to burn her from the
inside out. Without warning, she became a supernova, a mass of white light and intense
heat, exploding into the quiet darkness of space.

Afterward they lay panting, their bodies entwined like a pair of twisted roots. Wrapped
in each other’s arms, Olivia and Rawlings silently watched as sun rays painted their
skin pink and gold.

Haviland, who’d left the room when Olivia had thrown her nightgown on the floor, returned
wearing such a disdainful expression that Rawlings had to laugh.

“I’ll let him out,” he offered.

“No, you’ve already outdone yourself.” She leaned over him to examine the clock on
the nightstand. “And it’s not even eight.”

“I could get used to being woken up like this,” he said, giving her another long kiss
before letting her go. “Sure beats an alarm clock.”

Olivia got out of bed and crossed the room to her closet. Pulling on a silky robe
covered with dogwood blossoms, she paused in the doorway and smiled at Rawlings. “You
were good, but I’m not serving you breakfast in bed. Coffee’s ready whenever you want
to come down.”

Rawlings stretched his arms and yawned. “I’ll be there in a bit. I’m going to wallow
in the afterglow a little longer.” Grinning, he grabbed Olivia’s pillow, hugged it
against his chest, and closed his eyes.

Olivia followed Haviland downstairs to the sliding glass doors in the living room.
After the poodle darted outside, she headed into the kitchen to make him breakfast
and pour herself some coffee.

She’d just added a splash of cream to her cup when the phone rang. It was too early
to be a business-related call, so she examined the caller ID box before answering.
The name and number belonged to Fred Yoder.

Olivia felt a thrill of excitement. Had he confirmed his hunch about the gold medal
embedded in the memory jug?

Picking up the phone, she said, “Hello,” as brightly as possible, but her voice was
still husky from lovemaking.

“Uh, Ms. Limoges? I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Fred said and Olivia’s mouth curved
into a small smile, thinking that it was a good thing the antique store proprietor
hadn’t called fifteen minutes earlier.

“Not at all. Haviland rarely lets me sleep in.”

Fred chuckled. “Tell me about it. Duncan is capable of producing some of the most
noxious odors known to man between the hours of five and six in the morning.” He cleared
his throat. “Anyway, I called because I believe I’ve located a photograph of the medal
on your jug. It’s a rather unique item, and as I mentioned the other day, it’s . . .
controversial. The kind of thing only a few dealers will sell. I’d be glad to explain
everything in more detail, but I need to show you a photograph to do so. I’ll be at
the store by nine thirty if that suits you.”

“I’ll be there. Thank you, Fred.” She cast a glance at the memory jug, which continued
to occupy a prominent place in the center of her kitchen table. “No matter what you’ve
found, I’d be grateful to have one of Munin’s riddles solved.”

Fred hesitated and then said, “I wouldn’t count on that, Ms. Limoges. You’ll understand
when we meet, but I suspect I’m only going to increase the jug’s mystique. In any
case, make sure to bring Haviland along. Duncan would love to see him again.”

Olivia assured the shopkeeper that she rarely went anywhere without her poodle and,
after thanking Fred again for his help, hung up. Pouring Rawlings a cup of coffee,
she forgot all about her claim that she wasn’t going to serve him in bed and hurried
upstairs.

She found him standing in front of the oversized window facing the ocean. Setting
the coffee cups down, she moved to his side. He put his arm around her waist and pulled
her against him.

“Why do I get the sense that a phone call is about to ruin my chances of getting you
back into bed?” he asked, frowning.

“Because you have a cop’s instincts.” Olivia loosened the sash of her robe, lifted
one of his hands, and invited him to slip his fingers beneath the silky material.
Pivoting, she pressed her bare breasts against his chest. “We do have someplace to
be,” she whispered. “But there’s still time . . .”

Rawlings didn’t need any further encouragement. He lifted Olivia into his arms and
carried her to bed, laying her down on a rectangle of yellow white light. “There’s
still time,” he repeated, lowering himself until his lips met hers. He kissed her,
his hands moving over her body until she forgot about Fred, Munin, and the memory
jug. There was only Rawlings, the heat, and the shooting stars behind her closed eyes.

*   *   *

Fred unlocked Circa’s front door and invited Olivia and Rawlings inside. Rawlings
carried the memory jug while Olivia held the door for Haviland and presented Fred
with a small gift bag.

“Organic treats for Duncan,” she said. “These are Haviland’s favorites.”

Fred peered into the bag. “Oh, these look fancy. I’ll give one to each of the boys
so they have something to chew on in the back room. I want to show you some images
on my computer.”

With Duncan and Haviland happily settled in the kitchen, Fred sat down at an old desk
with a cracked leather blotter and gestured for Olivia and Rawlings to take a seat
in a pair of Victorian side chairs upholstered in rose-colored brocade. Placing the
memory jug on the desk, Fred swiveled his computer screen so that it faced his guests
and then pointed at a photograph.

“This is a Ku Klux Klan medal,” he said. “They’re also called tokens. This is a very
rare item that it was only available for purchase during the Klan’s march through
Washington, DC, in 1926.”

Olivia was stunned. “The Klan?” She moved to the edge of her seat to get a closer
look. “Are you sure?”

Fred touched the PC’s screen. “This image shows the reverse side of the medal. A triangle
sits atop a cross that’s surrounded by sun rays.” His eyes met Olivia’s. “The rays
are what first tipped me off. You don’t see this many on coins.” His finger moved
to the lower half of the onscreen medal. “The Klan motto, ‘One Country, One Flag,
One Language,’
curls around the bottom edge. “

“What does the acronym, the AKIA, inside the triangle stand for?” Rawlings asked.

“‘A Klansman I Am,’” Fred said, maintaining his professional neutrality. “These other
initials in between the rays are KIGY, and mean ‘Klansman, I Greet You.’”

Olivia glared at the medal. “I almost hate to ask what was on the front.”

Fred scrolled to the top of the screen and pointed at another image. “In the center
is a blood tear and the year 1866, which is probably when the Klan was founded, but
don’t quote me on that. The tear is set inside a hero’s cross and the mottos on each
side read, ‘Without Fear’ and ‘Without Regret.’ Along the bottom edge is the date
and place of the march. See?” He indicated the text. “Washington, DC, 1926.”

“I’m not familiar with the Invisible Empire’s demonstrations,” Rawlings said, failing
to keep the disgust out of his voice. “What was the Klan doing in Washington?”

“Having their sheets dry-cleaned?” Olivia asked snidely.

Fred pulled up another website. “Look.”

When the black-and-white photograph filled the screen, Olivia gasped. Hundreds of
Klansmen, dressed in white robes and peaked hoods, marched down Pennsylvania Avenue
in a calm, orderly fashion. The costumed men carried banners bearing the names of
states. The two states depicted in the photograph were Connecticut and Rhode Island,
and Olivia was shocked by the sight of so many white-robed figures. Row after row
stretched all the way down the avenue.

“There were so many,” she breathed, both horrified and fascinated. “My God. So many.”

Rawlings looked from the image to the memory jug, his forehead furrowing. “So Munin’s
medal is a KKK token?”

Fred nodded. “I believed it the moment I made the rubbing, but I wanted to take measurements
and compare it with the real thing. I know the dealer who posted these photos online
and he helped me confirm my hunch.” Brushing the gold medal with his fingertips, he
cast a sidelong glance at Olivia. “Of course, the only way to be sure is to break
the jug. I’m willing to bet the token’s obverse side is in better shape than the reverse.”

Olivia put a protective hand over the jug’s spout. “No. The real question isn’t about
this being a genuine Klan medal or not,” she said. “The real question is why Munin
put it on the jug at all.”

Rawlings stroked his chin and stared off into the middle distance. Olivia could see
that he was searching his memory for a clue. When his eyes came back into focus, she
knew that he’d come up with a hit.

“Do have a copy of yesterday’s
Gazette
?” he asked Fred.

Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, Fred said, “In the kitchen. I’d just spread it
out on the table when you knocked. Would you like to see it?”

“I can probably find this needle in a haystack on the
Gazette
’s website instead. There was teaser on the Coastal Carolina Food Festival in yesterday’s
paper and a few lines about the Lumbee Indian powwow. I remember seeing a sentence
or two about an event the tribe was celebrating.” He shook his head, as if willing
the memory to sharpen. “I could have sworn it had something to do with the KKK.”

Olivia had looked through yesterday’s paper too, but without the same attention to
detail. She always read Laurel’s articles word for word, but often passed over other
pieces if she had a busy day ahead of her.

Fred vacated his chair and invited Rawlings to sit in front of the computer. Within
seconds, the chief found what he was looking for. “Here it is. Saturday evening at
the Cedar Point campground—that’s where the Lumbee events are being held—will feature
songs, dancing, and storytelling to celebrate the tribe’s victory at the Battle of
Hayes Pond.”

“What’s that?” Fred wanted to know.

“I’ll read you a direct quote,” Rawlings said. “‘The Battle of Hayes Pond occurred
after Klan leader James “Catfish” Cole decided to put the Indians in their place.
Calling his fellow Klansmen to arms, he gave them instructions to gather in the small
town of Maxton. Very few responded, while the Lumbee showed up en masse, sending the
KKK packing and turning their rally into a night of shame and regret. The Lumbee typically
commemorate their victory during the month of January, but due to a history of inclement
weather, tribal elders voted to hold the event in conjunction with the annual powwow.’”
He looked up from the screen. “If we want more details, we can read about the battle
on the Lumbee’s official website.”