Written in Stone (5 page)

Olivia heard the regret in his voice. Steeling herself, she said, “Go ahead.”

“Did you pay a visit to Munin Cooper last Saturday?”

Of all the questions Rawlings might have asked, Olivia had expected this one the least.
She relaxed. Hudson, Kim, and the children were safe. Her restaurants hadn’t burned
down. Except for Dixie, her friends were all here in the lighthouse keeper’s cottage.
Haviland was in plain sight. She could let go of the fear.

“I did,” she said. “Why?”

Rawlings was studying her intently. “Tell me about it.”

Olivia paused to consider why she didn’t want to talk to Rawlings about Munin. Yes,
she’d found the experience unnerving. It was something she wanted to shelve and analyze
later, in the quiet hour before sleep came. She still hadn’t examined the memory jug
she’d carried home that day. It was in her bedroom closet, waiting until Olivia’s
time was no longer consumed with preparations for the upcoming Foodie Network taping.

But Rawlings wasn’t making a request. He might have asked her gently, softly, but
it was still an order.

“We might as well sit. This will take a few minutes.” She found a patch of sand unmarred
by scraggly grasses or jagged shells and sat, pulling her knees to her chest.

Rawlings remained standing. He was all cop now. Not Olivia’s lover or a member of
the Bayside Book Writers. He wasn’t going to sit cross-legged on the sand as though
they were going to trade stories around a campfire.

Olivia began by telling Rawlings that she’d first heard Munin’s name from Dixie. She
recounted as much of her conversation with the witch as she could remember, including
Munin’s ominous warning, and only faltered when she came to the moment when she’d
given her treasured starfish necklace to a stranger. She did not want to put that
exchange into words. It belonged to her and no one else had a right to it.

Her fingers went to her throat and Rawlings caught the movement.

“There’s more, isn’t there?” he prompted.

“I gave her my necklace,” Olivia admitted with a trace of irritation.

Now Rawlings squatted down next to her, touching her chin and forcing her to meet
his eyes. “Why? I know what that meant to you.”

Olivia could hear the clamor of insects. She saw the crude shack and felt the moist,
humid air of the swamp pressing down on her. Again, the old woman’s keen loneliness
enveloped her. The terrible isolation. The yellowed newspapers. The jars of knickknacks.
Munin’s gnarled hands pouring tea into chipped mugs. “I just did,” she whispered hoarsely.
“It doesn’t matter why. I just wanted to.”

“It does matter,” Rawlings said, surprising Olivia.

Her patience at an end, Olivia got to her feet, dusting the sand from her shorts.
“Why do you care that I crossed the harbor and spent an hour with this woman? How
do you even know about it?”

Rawlings sighed and stood up. “Because that woman is dead.”

Hearing this, Olivia dugs her toes into the sand, suddenly needing to feel the gritty
grains pressing against her skin, to anchor her body to the soft ground.

Her mind drifted back in time. She recalled Munin’s wrinkled face in the dim light.
Had she seemed unwell? No. Weary perhaps, but not ill.

“What are you thinking?” Rawlings asked gently.

“I was wondering if she died of natural causes.”

Rawlings cast his gaze out over the ocean. A pair of gulls swooped low over the waves
and then lifted skyward again, crying in disappointment after discovering that the
shadow on the water was a piece of seaweed and not an injured fish. “The medical examiner
said she’d been bitten by an eastern diamondback rattlesnake, but the cause of death
was drowning.”

Olivia’s throat constricted. “Where?”

“The stream behind her house. The park ranger who found her thinks she stumbled down
the bank and fell in. That she couldn’t think straight because of the pain.”

Shaking her head in protest, Olivia said, “Munin wore noisy anklets to spook the snakes.
And my guide, Harlan, told me she kept stores of antivenom, which she made using her
goat’s antibodies. This . . . It doesn’t sound right.”

The memory of the gratitude in Munin’s eyes as the starfish necklace settled against
her weathered palm washed over Olivia. It didn’t seem possible that the old woman
was gone, and Olivia was distressed by how she’d met her end. This wasn’t the death
Munin was meant to have. Olivia was certain of that.

“The case isn’t in my jurisdiction,” Rawlings said, pulling a folded piece of paper
from his pants pocket and handing it to her. “And the Craven County Sheriff’s Department
plans to rule it an accidental death. As soon as the deputy in charge has spoken to
you, that is. He’s already tracked down Harlan Scott and you’re the only loose end.
When I heard that you’d be called in for an interview, I asked to take a look at the
case file.” He gestured at the paper in Olivia’s hands. “You’ll see why I’m concerned.”

Olivia unfolded the sheaf and gasped. It was a color copy of a dirt-encrusted hand.
The fingers were milky white and bloated to the size of sausages. A thin, muddy chain
was looped around the middle finger and the pendant at its end had come to rest on
a stainless steel table. The mud had been wiped off the starfish so that its golden
surface gleamed beneath the bright, searing light.

Olivia stared at the image. Why was the necklace in Munin’s hand? Had she been carrying
it around in her pocket? Had she clung to it as the rattler’s venom wreaked havoc
on her body? Or was it possible that she was trying to send a message using Olivia’s
gift?

Rawlings took Olivia’s trembling hand in his. Gently, he reclaimed the paper and put
it back in his pocket. He stroked the skin of her palm with his thumb, his eyes filled
with tenderness.

“She said that death was coming. That many paths were about to cross in the forest.
Her forest,” Olivia said quietly. “I thought she was referring to next weekend’s events—the
powwow and the food fest—things she could have read about in the paper . . .” She
trailed off, not quite knowing what she wanted to say.

“But you think she felt threatened?” Rawlings asked.

Olivia shook her head. “No, not threatened. She acted . . . resigned. Prepared. She
summoned me, Sawyer. It was important to her that I come right away, even though we
were complete strangers. She needed to see me, to give me advice and her last memory
jug. She told me that jug had all the answers I’d need to keep death at bay.”

“This gets more bizarre by the minute.” Rawlings frowned. “I don’t like it. With two
highly publicized events coming up, the sheriff is going to want to wrap up this case
as quickly as possible. He won’t want any media attention.”

“So if I tell him about my visit and explain that I’d given Munin the necklace, then
she’ll just disappear?” Olivia asked, though she already knew the answer. “There’s
no logical reason why I should have a problem with that, but I do.” She searched the
chief’s face and saw her concern mirrored there. “I can’t let her fade away like that,
Sawyer. Like she never existed.”

Rawlings swept his gaze over the water and then pivoted to look at the lighthouse.
As if summoned, Haviland appeared from around the corner of the tower, paused to investigate
an interesting scent in a clump of sea oats, and then trotted toward them. Olivia
held out her hand and he pressed his nose into her palm and then gave Rawlings a brief
nuzzle before heading back up the path to the cottage.

“We need to examine that jug,” Rawlings said. “And find out the rest of Munin’s story.
There’s a reason she removed herself from the world. Very few people live like that
by choice. She was connected to someone once. A mother? A father? Siblings? Someone.”

Olivia nodded. “I think she’s been in hiding for so long that being alone became her
way of life. After enough years had passed, her past, whatever it was, must have seemed
like a dream.” She reached for her necklace, her fingertips meeting only naked skin.
“But after all this time, something from the past must have found her. I believe she
knew it was coming, that there was no place left to run.”

They stood in silence listening to the waves whisper onto the shore. And when the
first star began shining through the canvas of deep blue, they didn’t bother wishing
upon it. Instead, they walked toward the cottage, turning their backs on the beauty
of the night.

Chapter 5

Because we focused on the snake, we missed the scorpion.

—E
GYPTIAN
P
ROVERB

“W
e have to call it an evening,” Olivia told the rest of the Bayside Book Writers apologetically.
Chief Rawlings remained outside, kicking chucks of gravel as he made another phone
call.

Laurel was the first to recognize that something grave had occurred. She tucked Harris’s
chapter back into a folder and clutched it against her chest. Olivia’s eye was drawn
to the red and pink bubbly hearts on its cover. She imagined a working human heart,
sinewy and slick, its powerful muscle contracting. She saw the same heart falling
still, the blood pooling in the four chambers. How had this mighty muscle reacted
to the venom of an eastern diamondback rattlesnake? Had it beat double-time? Or had
it burned in those last moments of life as the poison coursed through its valves?

“Are you okay?” Laurel’s voice brought Olivia back from her gruesome reverie.

“A woman I met for the first time last week has passed away,” she said. “I’m reeling
a bit over the news because . . .” She trailed off, unsure of how much to tell the
other writers.

Millay, sharp as ever, drew her own conclusions. “Because something’s off about her
death? Is that why the chief’s in uniform?”

Harris glanced at her in surprise. “He probably just wanted to tell Olivia in private.”

Millay shook her head. “I doubt it. Olivia said she just met this woman. There’s more
to it than that.” She looked at Olivia closely, her expression softening. “Can we
help?”

Normally, Olivia would have refused the offer, determined to solve any and all problems
without assistance, but the memory jug was a complete enigma and she decided that
a few extra sets of eyes could be useful. Not only that, but by talking to her friends
about Munin, she kept the old woman in the here and now. Kept her from disappearing.

“I hope so.” Olivia explained who Munin was and how she’d been found dead, half submerged
in the stream behind her home.

“How awful!” Laurel put her hand over her mouth and shuddered. “To die from a snakebite
all alone like that. Isn’t it horribly painful?”

Harris nodded. “Yeah. It’s not a good way to go. No wonder you’re upset, Olivia.”

“Millay was right. There’s more to it than that,” Olivia said. “Munin was known as
a fortune teller of sorts. During my visit, she spoke of death coming to the forest.
The Croatan National Forest.” She spread her hands. “Normally, I wouldn’t pay the
slightest attention to that kind of mumbo jumbo, but now I’m wondering if she knew
she was in danger.”

“Munin, huh?” Millay pulled her boots back on and began to slowly lace them up. “I’ve
heard all kinds of stories about her, mostly after midnight during a weekend shift
at Fish Nets. That’s when the real drunks are just getting their second wind. They
start one-upping each other with tall tales at about one thirty in the morning, and
her name’s been dropped more than once. People said she was a witch.”

“A witch?” Laurel’s eyes opened wide.

Millay shrugged. “The fishermen say she could predict the season’s weather better
than Doppler radar. Warned one of them about Ophelia turning into a hurricane and
bearing down on Oyster Bay before she was still a tropical storm in the Caribbean.”
Millay paused, and a moment passed as the group recalled the havoc Ophelia had wreaked
upon their town. “Back when computers weren’t around,” she continued, “the wives would
go to see Munin before letting their husbands go out on long and risky trips. If the
witch said they shouldn’t go, the women would pitch a fit until the men stayed put,
even if it meant going hungry. ‘Hungry’s better than dead’ is a phrase I hear all
the time from these guys.”

Harris had closed his spiral notebook and slid it into a black laptop case. He glanced
up at Olivia from his place on the couch. “Why did you visit her, Olivia? I can’t
see you traipsing through the swamp to get a weather forecast.”

Reluctantly, Olivia told them the truth. “She asked me to come. I wouldn’t have gone
but she claimed to have met my mother once. I guess she also wanted to give me the
jug, but I don’t know why she gave it to me.” She hesitated and then, in a very low
voice, amended the latter phrase. “Well, she told me why, but it’s going to sound
really strange.”

Millay snorted. “This dysfunctional little group has seen plenty of strange. Lay it
on us.”

“The jug is supposed to provide clues,” Olivia said, moving toward the door in preparation
to leave the cottage and walk the short distance to her house.

“To what? The witch’s own death?” Harris furrowed his brows in confusion.

Olivia shook her head over the absurdity of it all. “She said death would come to
the forest and that I’d find answers I was seeking on the jug. I told you it was bizarre.”

“Why you?” Laurel asked.

“Apparently, my mother had been kind to her once and she wanted to repay that kindness
through me. There’s an object stuck to that piece of pottery that she knew I’d want.”

Millay stood up and carried her empty beer bottle into the kitchen. “The guys at the
bar mentioned her weird jugs. They said no one went to the witch without paying a
price. Sometimes she asked for their wedding rings or photographs or some other trinket.
I stopped listening when Crazy Charlie said she collected fingernails and baby teeth.”

Laurel squealed in horror.

Olivia took her by the arm and steered her to the front door. “Don’t worry, I didn’t
give her any DNA samples, but she did have a glass jar filled with animal teeth. Probably
from possums and raccoons. She’d have come across plenty of skeletons in the forest
over the years and she trapped animals for their meat too.”

Harris followed on their heels. “Not to sound callous, but you should write about
this woman, Laurel. She sounds like no one I’ve ever met. It would make a great article.”

“There’s nothing to report!” Olivia said with more heat than she’d intended. “As of
this point, it’s all gossip and hearsay. No one knows her story. Not yet.”

“We know how it ended,” Millay murmured and closed the door to the lighthouse keeper’s
cottage.

*   *   *

Haviland nosed his way into the closet ahead of Olivia and came back out with a tennis
ball clamped between his jaws.

“Sorry, Captain. No time to play tonight,” Olivia said and gave him a bone to chew
on as a consolation prize.

Cradling the burlap sack containing the memory jug in her arms, she carried it into
the kitchen, where Rawlings and the other members of the writers’ group had gathered
around the large pine table. She pulled the sack down and away from the sides of the
jug, like a woman shimmying out of a tight dress, and then unwound layer upon layer
of protective newspaper.

“It seems like you’re unwrapping a mummy.” Laurel let loose a nervous giggle.

No one answered her, for the jug had instantly become a presence in the room. All
eyes were riveted on the shrouded piece of pottery, and when Olivia removed the last
sheet of newspaper, there was only an astonished silence.

The jug was about the size of a table lamp base. It had a barrel-shaped belly and
a pair of sloped shoulders that eventually narrowed into a stumpy spout. The spout’s
opening was half an inch wide and the jug could probably hold two gallons of liquid.
Its brown river clay had been fired in Munin’s wood-burning kiln and then covered
with a gray-hued epoxy. Lastly, the old woman had covered every available surface
with a seemingly incongruent group of objects.

“Whoa,” Harris breathed. “It’s totally ugly at first glance, but when you really look
at all the stuff on here, it stops being ugly and starts being really cool.”

Olivia’s gaze traveled up and down the jug’s surface. Nestled among buttons, marbles,
animal teeth, shells, bottle caps, beads, pennies, and marbles were several unique
decorations.

There was a gilt-framed mirror the size of a ladies’ compact, some kind of gold medal
whose emblem had been filed or melted away until it was unrecognizable, a class ring,
which was so buried in epoxy that only half of the ruby-colored stone and the letters
“IGH SCHOOL” could be read, an old skeleton key, and a starfish necklace. Camille
Limoges’s necklace.

Millay put her fingertip on the pendant and Olivia had to quell the urge to swipe
it away. “Is this yours?” She turned to examine Olivia’s bare throat.

“No. It was my mother’s.” Olivia laid her left hand over the hollow between her collarbones.

Harris whistled. “Oh, man. Did you know that you and your mom had matching necklaces?”

“I don’t remember seeing her wear this.” Olivia stared at the gold starfish and the
delicate gold chain, which curved around the top half of the tiny mirror.

Rawlings cleared his throat, eager to get to the business at hand. “Okay, folks. Let’s
assume the bones, shells, bottle caps, and the like won’t tell us much about Munin
other than she was a dedicated scavenger. Many of these things could have easily been
found in the forest, especially around the recreation areas. What significance might
the other items have?”

Laurel retrieved a notepad and pen from her purse and studied the jug. “I’ll make
a list. Then we can brainstorm theories about what connects them to Munin or to each
other.”

“We can start with the three pennies,” Olivia said. “Are they unusual in any way?”

Harris pulled the jug closer and squinted at each coin. “Yeah. They were all minted
in 1958.”

“Munin’s date of birth?” Millay guessed.

Rawlings shook his head. “No. She was at least twenty years older. But 1958 must mean
something. She deliberately added three coins from that year.” He looked at Olivia.
“Did that date mean anything to your mother?”

Olivia drifted back in time until she saw herself curled up in the window seat in
the library at her grandmother’s sprawling country estate. Leaning against a plump
silk pillow, she turned the pages of a scrapbook. There were dozens of photos of Camille
Limoges.

Whether the images were of a chubby toddler, a thin, freckled adolescent, or a tall,
strikingly beautiful young woman, Camille’s expression was always the same. She smiled
with her whole being—a smile that radiated from every pore and created sparks of light
in her eyes. She never seemed to pose, but had simply been caught by the camera in
the middle of private joke, a pirouette, or a song. Whether holding a blue ribbon
in a horse show or a Christmas gift, Camille Limoges made it clear that she found
joy in every moment.

Olivia, who was driven by loneliness to the scrapbook every day after tea, had a hard
time understanding this joie de vivre. She’d memorized all of her mother’s expressions,
the tilt of her chin, the pattern of her freckles, and the way her body lengthened
and softened as she matured. She studied her report cards and awards, her summer reading
lists and her birth certificate. Knowing everything there was to know about Camille
Limoges might keep Olivia from forgetting her. And despite the pain of having been
separated from her by tragedy, she did not want to forget a thing.

Coming back to the present, Olivia shook her head and said, “’Fifty-eight doesn’t
match her birth date, high school or college graduation dates, or the year she got
married. The pennies must relate to Munin, not to my mother.”

Rawlings rubbed his chin. “Maybe there’s a link to the forest. We’ll have to do some
research on the park’s history.”

Harris held up his laptop case. “I’m on it.”

“What’s next?” Rawlings looked at Laurel.

She slid the jug away from Harris until it sat directly in front of her. “One old
key. Reminds me of the kind that could open the front door to a big old house. It’s
iron or steel. Nothing fancy, and I can’t see any writing on it.”

Millay frowned. “Oyster Bay isn’t exactly overflowing with historic mansions. Even
the oldest homes were fairly simple. This key seems like it would open a heavy door.
Maybe a warehouse or something?”

Harris pointed at his MacBook’s screen. “According to this website, this type of key
was most popular in the late 1800s but was still made well into the twentieth century.
Most were used in homes and on pieces of antique furniture.”

“This is too big to unlock a chest of drawers,” Rawlings said. “And the house could
be anywhere. Unless I can find out where Munin lived before she moved to the forest’s
edge, this isn’t a big help.”

Harris put the jug on the flat of his palm and held on to it by the spout. Slowly,
he pivoted it to the left and right. Some of the beads and bottle caps winked in the
light. “Maybe there’s an identifying mark on the back of the key. And half of this
class ring is buried in clay.” He glanced at Olivia. “Would you consider breaking
this thing?”

“No!” Olivia snatched the piece from his hands, catching a glimpse of her face in
the jug’s tiny mirror. Her sea blue eyes had grown dark with indignation.

Relieved to feel the weight of the piece of pottery, she ran her hands over its curved
side, her fingertips touching the ridges of a seashell, the bump of an animal tooth,
and the smooth surface of a plastic button. “I hope it doesn’t have to come to that.
This was her last one.”

Then the memory of Harlan tucking a second sack into a box in the prow of his boat
came back to her. “Actually, it’s not. There was a second jug.” She told Rawlings
that Harlan was supposed to send the other jug to an art dealer on the West Coast.

“I’ll let the sheriff’s office know,” he said. “I doubt they’ll be interested, but
I can get the dealer’s address from Harlan. I’d like to see images of that piece.”

Together, the five friends spent another hour exchanging ideas about the objects.
They searched for connections on Harris’s laptop, debated possibilities, and ended
up without a single, tangible link between the articles and the jug’s maker.