Written in Stone (14 page)

She shared this with Millay. “I guess that’s why we get along,” Olivia said to her
friend.

“And I guess that’s why we write.” Millay moved her coffee cup to make room for platters
of blueberry pancakes and sausage and watched as Dixie put a dish of eggs scrambled
with ground sirloin on the floor for Haviland.

“Get that down your throats, gals,” Dixie ordered and skated over to the
Cats
booth.

Olivia doctored her pancakes with butter and syrup and then began to cut them up into
bite-sized pieces. “After I finish critiquing Rawlings’ chapter, I’m going to call
the Locklears’ attorney. I’d like to see if there’s anything I can do for Talley,
but I also want to find out more about their family. Especially Natalie. And then
I’ll track down the Lumbee chief. If there were any hate crimes directed toward her
people, she’d know.”

Millay swallowed a mouthful of sausage. “The chief’s a woman? That is so cool. But
why would she tell you anything? You’re a total stranger.”

“True, but I have a feeling that Munin wasn’t. I’ll use the memory jug as my ice breaker
if need be.”

The two friends finished breakfast in silence. Lost in their own thoughts, they watched
townsfolk and tourists pass by the window, looking carefree and unhurried on the picture-perfect
late summer morning.

“I’m going to bounce,” Millay said, gazing forlornly into her empty coffee cup. “Now
that my stomach’s full, I’m turning into a zombie. It’s nap time.” She reached down
and gently scratched behind Haviland’s ears.

“Go to bed,” Olivia said. “I’ll call you if there’s any news.”

“Just let me know when you’re heading out to the festival. I’ll come with. And I know
Harris and Laurel want to go too, so we might as well go green and carpool.” She gestured
at her skirt and Olivia laughed.

Every man in the diner turned to watch Millay’s departure. Olivia knew that Millay
believed she drew stares because of her Goth clothing, facial piercings, and dyed
hair, but she could do nothing to obscure her unique beauty.

Olivia briefly reflected on the damage teenagers were capable of inflicting upon one
another and then pulled Rawlings’ chapter from her bag. Millay’s chapter was up next
for the group critique, but Rawlings had asked Olivia to take a peek at his if she
had the time. Since she’d already finished with Millay’s, she’d been happy to oblige.

She flipped through pages in which the protagonist, an eighteen-year-old boy named
Pete, was in danger of failing his second semester of college because he spent too
much time researching North Carolina’s most infamous pirates. Pete’s grandfather had
spent a lifetime collecting books, maps, and documents about Blackbeard, and on his
deathbed, had whispered to Pete about buried treasure. No one had listened the old
man. They thought he’d squandered his savings on a fruitless hunt. He was pathetic.
Pitiful. And thanks to Alzheimer’s, his family also believed he’d gone completely
mad by the end.

But not Pete. At least not after he’d unearthed an old captain’s log in his grandfather’s
dinghy describing a specific location along the banks of the Neuse River. According
to legend, a small cache of Blackbeard’s gold had been buried under “Teach’s Oak,”
near this spot.

Olivia had read up to the part in which Pete was perusing the diary of a young woman
who’d almost been seduced by Edward Teach, aka Blackbeard, beneath a massive oak tree.
As she continued with the chapter, she scribbled notes in the margin. Rawlings was
treading a fine line between writing a novel and a history text. At some points, the
voice sounded too young and at others, too mature. She wanted to circle specific passages,
but found that she couldn’t focus on Pete or Edward Teach anymore.

With a waitress’s keen sixth sense, Dixie suddenly appeared, cleared the table, and
placed the check next to Olivia’s coffee cup. “Where you headin’ next? You’ve got
that look. The one that says, ‘Don’t mess with me. I’m on a mission.’”

Taking her phone and wallet out of her purse, Olivia said, “I’m going to track down
the Lumbee chief and Willis’s lawyer. I’ve got questions for both of them.”

“Is
your
chief comin’ along?”

Olivia hesitated. “No. They might not talk openly in front of him. But the rest of
the Bayside Book Writers want to tag along and that’s fine by me. We work well as
a team.”

Dixie put her hands together in a gesture of prayer. “A miracle has just occurred
in my diner! Olivia Limoges would rather be with her friends then go it alone.” She
swiveled on her skates and shouted, “Praise Jesus!”

A few customers echoed her sentiment and then turned back to their food. Scowling,
Olivia slapped a few bills on the table and stood up.

“Come on, Haviland. We’ll make our calls from the car. We wouldn’t want to interrupt
Dixie’s moment of rapture.”

Dixie’s theatrical cries of “It’s a miracle!” and “Hallelujah!” followed her all the
way outside.

*   *   *

Thirty minutes later, with every seat in the Range Rover occupied, Olivia headed to
a coffee shop in the town of Havelock. Fletcher had graciously invited her to join
him, Judson, and Annette Stevens at a place called Uncommon Grounds before they all
returned to the powwow.

Leaving Haviland in the car, the Bayside Book Writers exchanged determined glances
and entered the small café.

Olivia wasn’t interested in more coffee, but for the sake of appearances she ordered
a café au lait and then introduced her friends to Fletcher and Judson, ignoring the
baffled look on the senior attorney’s face.

“We’re quite a party now, aren’t we?” he said, recovering quickly. He pulled a vacant
table over and gestured at a black-haired, middle-aged woman with a round face and
dark, intelligent eyes. “This is the Honorable Tribal Chair Annette Stevens.”

The woman shook hands with Olivia. “Most people call me Annette.” She indicated the
empty seat beside her. “Please, join us.”

Olivia sat down and Annette openly studied her. “I hear you were with Willis when
he . . . fell.”

“Yes,” Olivia replied softly. She cupped her hands around her warm mug. “How is Talley?”

“I stayed in her room at the Hampton Inn last night.” Annette shook her head sorrowfully.
“She can’t accept that he’s gone. To tell you the truth, none of us can. Who could
have foreseen something like this happening? Willis was full of life. He had so much
to look forward to.”

“Like selling his land?” Olivia asked, fully aware that she was being crass.

Laurel jumped in. “I heard about the Golden Eagle deal through a colleague. I’m a
reporter.” She gave Annette a disarming smile. “It must be really exciting for your
tribe. For the whole town of Maxton.”

A flicker of alarm crossed Annette’s face before she pasted on a politician’s smile
and said, “It will certainly give our local economy a boost.”

“How did two kids younger than me end up with all that land?” Harris asked, sounding
completely innocent.

Annette and Fletcher exchanged a brief, anxious look. Judson fidgeted with an empty
sugar packet, twisting it with his fingers while he kept his eyes fixed on his coffee
cup.

“The land belonged to their father, Bo Locklear,” Fletcher said after a pregnant pause.
“Land has always been treasured by the Lumbee Nation. But until Annette came along
and made sure the tribe was recognized by the federal government, there was no hope
of opening a casino. Now, thanks to her efforts, things are about to change for the
better.”

“I’m not surprised that a woman finally forced the politicians to pull their heads
out of their asses,” Millay said. “I hope Talley is as tough as you.”

Annette rewarded her with a smile. “I believe she is. In fact, she insists on dancing
this afternoon. She said that she needs to be onstage and that Willis would want her
to perform, but right now, she’s still asleep. She finally took the sleeping pills
the doctor gave her.”

“Willis told me that she planned to sell crafts this weekend as well,” Olivia said.
“What will happen to her booth?”

“I don’t know,” Annette said. “Frankly, I hadn’t thought about that.”

“We can run it for her,” Laurel offered. “We’d love to do something to help.”

My friends are much slier than I realized,
Olivia thought, smiling inwardly.

“That would be really nice,” Annette said. “Talley is proud of her baskets and rightfully
so. She does some of the most intricate weaving I’ve ever seen.”

“Maybe you can find something for your house, Harris,” Millay said. “Add a splash
of color to all those drab grays and browns.”

Harris turned to Judson. “Every woman I know wants to mess with my bachelor pad. Last
week, my mom mailed me curtains.
Gingham
curtains.”

Judson’s laugh sounded forced.

Fletcher asked if anyone wanted a refill and, receiving no takers, got up to order
another Café Americano.

“You want them?” Harris continued bantering with Judson as if he hadn’t noticed the
tension in the air. “Just write down your address and I’ll box them up for you.”

“I practically live at the office,” Judson said. “The glamorous life of a paralegal.
I only go home to eat and sleep. If I have any free time, I spend it volunteering
at an animal clinic. I like to walk the dogs.”

Olivia tried to sound apologetic. “Oh, I assumed you and Fletcher were partners.”

Judson shrugged. “I could barely afford community college, let alone law school. Fletcher
was groomed to run his daddy’s practice, while the only thing I inherited from my
parents was a pile of debt. Anyway, Fletcher doesn’t treat me like I don’t count just
because I don’t have a bunch of framed diplomas over my desk. He was more interested
in where I was going than where I came from. He’s a great guy.”

“And you work harder than a dozen lawyers put together.” Annette gave Judson an affectionate
pat with her right hand. And that’s when Olivia noticed the chief’s ring.

It was gold and had a bright green stone and block letters encircling the stone.

Olivia leaned over to sip from her coffee cup and stole a glance at the lettering.
She could see only the first half of the school’s name, but it was enough.

The tribal chair had gone to Littleton High.

Her ring matched the one on the memory jug.

Thinking furiously on how to broach the subject, Olivia watched Fletcher return to
the table. He didn’t sit, but tore open a sugar packet and poured it into a take-out
cup.

Olivia nearly gasped when she noticed the wink of gold on his right hand.

Fletcher Olsen also wore a class ring from Littleton High.

It’s like we’ve stumbled on some secret society,
Olivia thought, recalling the strange looks passing between Annette and Fletcher.
The tension in Judson’s fingertips.
But what do they want to keep secret?

Chapter 13

The heart will break, but broken live on.

—L
ORD
B
YRON

“W
e’d better move along,” Fletcher said. He hadn’t returned to his seat after getting
his refill and his closed expression made it clear that he wasn’t interested in prolonging
their conversation.

Annette quickly agreed. “Yes, there’s so much to do before the parade begins.”

“If I could just ask you both one more question,” Olivia said. “It concerns the Battle
of Hayes Pond. Willis told me that the Lumbee will be celebrating their victory at
today’s powwow. Is that right?”

The chief’s shoulders relaxed and she smiled proudly. “We certainly are. There’ll
be storytelling, dancing, and we’re presenting special medals to the tribe members
who were there that day.”

“Wow,” Harris breathed. “I’d love to watch that.”

“I was curious about the tribe’s interaction with the Klan in the years following
that event,” Olivia continued as if Harris hadn’t spoken. “But when I broached the
subject with Willis, he got very quiet. It seemed to upset him. Can you tell me why?”

Judson raised a finger. “I can. After his mom died, Willis became the head of the
family. Talley was still in high school and Willis was taking classes at Robeson Community
College when their house was vandalized.” He stopped, clearly unwilling to elaborate,
but Millay wasn’t going to let him off that easy.

“What was it? Graffiti? Racial slurs?”

Fletcher put a hand on Judson’s shoulder and the paralegal immediately fell silent.
“Oh, it was more like baseball bats to the mailbox and that sort of thing,” the attorney
said breezily. “Probably a bunch of kids testing their limits. They’ll do anything
to be on YouTube. Now, if you don’t mind, we need to get going.”

“Of course.” Olivia stood up. “I hope you’ll forgive me for prying. It’s just bothering
me that I might have contributed to Willis’s stress level yesterday by bringing up
the KKK.” She lowered her voice. “He looked scared when I mentioned the subject. Like
he’d been recently frightened. Was he being threatened? Was someone out to do him
harm?”

Fletcher’s mouth drew into a tight line. “Are you suggesting murder?”

Annette sucked in a quick breath, her eyes going wide. “That’s ridiculous. We know
what happened to him!”

Olivia couldn’t help but wonder why Fletcher had brought up the idea of murder, but
now that he had, the word hung in the air like a thundercloud, robbing the space of
light and conversation.

The chief put both hands on the table and pushed herself out of her chair. With trembling
fingers, she reached for the purse hanging from the back of her chair. Catching it
by one handle, she tipped it forward and its contents spilled out onto the hardwood
floor.

“Let me help you.” Laurel jumped out of her seat and began to pick up pens, a glasses
case, a set of keys, and a tin of mints. “What time should we meet you at Talley’s
booth?”

An orange pill bottle rolled under Olivia’s chair. She bent over and closed her fingers
around it. Giving the label a cursory glance, she saw the name “A. Stevens” and the
word “olanzapine” before returning the bottle to Annette.

“No more caffeine for me today.” Annette issued a hollow laugh and handed Laurel a
sheet of paper. “This is a map of the booths. I circled Talley’s. The woman selling
quilts in the next booth has Talley’s petty cash box and receipt book. She’ll fill
you in on what to do. Thank you for your help.”

Abandoning his take-out cup, Fletcher took the chief by the elbow and steered her
to the exit. Judson trailed behind, looking more like a penitent child than a man
in his fifties.

“That went well,” Millay said after they’d gone.

“You’re being sarcastic, right?” Laurel asked and then turned to Olivia. “What were
those pills, Olivia? The ones Annette had in her purse?”

Olivia made a hurry-up gesture at Harris. “Can you look up the name before I forget
it?”

He whipped out his phone. “Hit me.”

She spelled the drug and Harris found a useful result within seconds.

“It’s prescribed for people with bipolar disorder,” he said, raising his brows. “The
chief’s taking an antipsychotic?”

Olivia shrugged. “I can’t say for sure. The label did say A. Stevens.”

Millay tugged on Harris’s sleeve. “What does it do? The drug?”

“It’s basically a mood stabilizer.”

“Do you think this is relevant?” Laurel asked. “To Willis or Munin or anything?”

“I don’t know,” Olivia admitted. “But both Annette and Fletcher were wearing rings
from Littleton High.”

“I noticed that too!” Harris exclaimed proudly. “Their graduation years are safely
stored in my massive brain. Now we just have to see if they match the year on the
ring on the memory jug.”

Laurel bit her lip. “That means breaking it, doesn’t it?”

Ignoring her, Olivia’s gazed into the middle distance. “Why did Fletcher raise the
possibility that Willis didn’t die because of an arrhythmia?” She blinked and turned
to Harris. “What are the side effects of this olanzapine stuff?”

Harris squinted as he read the tiny font on screen. “There’s the usual list: dizziness,
restlessness, drowsiness, dry mouth, weight gain, constipation, and lack of sex drive.”
He elbowed Millay. “Bummer, huh?”

Millay said, “Depends on who your sex partner is.”

“Go on,” Olivia said impatiently.

“Okay. According to this website, there’s a chance that these meds can cause something
called neuroleptic malignant syndrome. This can result in some super fun symptoms
like muscle rigidity, high fever, irregular pulse rate, sweating, and irregular heartbeat.”
He pushed out his chest. “Man, I feel like Dr. House.”

Olivia didn’t hear his last comment. She’d gone back in time to the previous day and
was kneeling beside Willis again, feeling his fever-hot skin and the strange tautness
of his arm muscles.

“So the official cause of death was an irregular heartbeat.” Laurel’s voice shook
a little. “But what if someone . . . ?” She trailed off, looking at her friends. No
one completed her thought.

Harris shoved his phone back into his pocket. “We’d better talk to Rawlings. If we’re
considering the possibility that Willis was murdered, he needs to know.”

“I agree, but whatever went down—and I’m not sure anything did—it went down outside
his jurisdiction,” Millay said. “He can’t walk around the campground interrogating
people.”

“Maybe not,” Harris replied. “But I’d rather be investigating with the chief than
selling baskets. There might be a killer on the loose.” He hesitated. “Then again,
there might not be. We have no idea what’s going on.”

Laurel opened her notebook. “So far, I’ve got these key words written down: Munin,
KKK, Lumbee, Locklear deaths, land deal. We still need a better picture of the Locklear
family.”

Olivia’s phone buzzed. She examined the new text message and touched Laurel on the
shoulder. “We’re about to learn all there is to know. Rawlings is waiting for us at
the Cedar Point campground entrance with a folder’s worth of info on the Locklears.
And we’ve got our own news to share with him.”

Millay held out her hand. “Don’t back out of the parking lot just yet. If I have to
stay awake for the rest of the day
and
have our meeting tonight, then I’m gonna need a double espresso.” She looked thoughtful.
“And maybe a six-pack of Red Bull.”

*   *   *

Rawlings was pacing around the campground entrance when the rest of the Bayside Book
Writers arrived. Olivia carried the memory jug in her arms, eschewing the crate and
dolly. Even though the bubble wrap stuck to her warm skin, the press of the jug’s
curve against her chest and stomach felt good. She liked being able to hold on to
something solid, especially when her thoughts seemed as vaporous as fog.

“There’s a picnic table down this trail to the left,” Rawlings said after greeting
his friends. “It’ll give us the privacy we need.”

Her curiosity piqued, Olivia tried to elicit information from the chief as they walked,
but he wouldn’t say a word until they were away from the rest of the public. Haviland
jogged by the chief’s side and gazed up at him with smiling eyes.

“I don’t know what you fed him yesterday,” Olivia said, pointing at her poodle, “but
he’s obviously hoping for more.”

“That’s a secret between us guys.” Rawlings gave Haviland an affectionate pat.

The moment they reached the picnic table, Rawlings’ demeanor abruptly changed. His
body stiffened and his shoulders and jaw tightened as he transformed from friend and
fellow writer into Oyster Bay’s chief of police. Opening a manila folder, he pulled
off his sunglasses and focused on the top sheet of a thick stack of papers. “You know
this already, but let me just review it. Natalie Locklear died from complications
that arose during surgery. She slipped and fractured a bone in her leg and died on
the operating table.”

“Does that report list her symptoms?” Olivia gestured at the file folder. “‘Complications’
is a vague term.”

“Not in much detail,” Rawlings answered and looked at Olivia. “Why are you interested
in her symptoms?”

Olivia told him about Annette Stevens’ prescription.

“That’s troublesome,” he mumbled.

Laurel took her notebook out. “What happened to Mr. Locklear?”

Rawlings searched for another piece of paper in his file. “Car accident. He was driving
under the influence and plowed into a tractor-trailer. The truck driver wasn’t injured,
but Bo Locklear died upon impact. Willis and Talley would have been fairly young when
this happened. They probably don’t remember him much, if at all.”

“This is a seriously unlucky family,” Harris pointed out.

Millay sighed in exasperation. “Come on. Do you actually think the Locklears are cursed?
That Munin was a real witch who had a set of Locklear family voodoo dolls? Or
maybe
”—she tapped her chin, her voice dripping with sarcasm—“these
unlucky
deaths have something to do with the piece of land they own?”

“I spent half the night trying to put together a picture of this family,” Rawlings
said. “Therefore, I don’t have much info on the land. But I can tell you this much.
Grandpa Calvin Locklear never married. And when Bo was five years old, Calvin disappeared.
He just up and vanished and no one ever heard from him again. Bo was raised in another
county by a childless Lumbee couple. Right before he disappeared, Calvin bought a
piece of land and eventually Bo came back to Maxton to live on it.” He tapped the
stack of papers. “That’s not all, folks. No matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find
a birth record for Bo that listed his mother’s name. The Locklear family really is
shrouded in mystery.”

“Weird.” Laurel was about to add to her sentence when the sounds of drums and a chant
of “Go, Diego, go!” emitted from her cell phone. “The boys picked my ringtone.” She
said, looking at the incoming caller’s number. “This is a colleague of mine from the
Robesonian.
I asked him to check into the casino deal. Ugh, I only have one bar.” Grabbing her
notebook while answering her phone, she edged toward the main path, and then stopped,
listening raptly. Two minutes later, she rejoined her friends.

“Whatchya got, Brenda Starr?” Millay asked.

“Lots. The land once belonged to the Dawson family. They ran a large, successful farm
for many years, but fell on hard times in the early sixties and ended up selling the
acreage and the house to Calvin Locklear for less than its appraised value. Here’s
the kicker.” Laurel’s light blue eyes were dancing with excitement. “The Dawsons received
offers from two other local parties prior to the sale. The Olsen and Stevens families.”

Harris ran his hands through his ginger-colored hair. “I need one of those Red Bulls
just to keep up with all of this.”

Rawlings ticked off the names on his fingers. “Locklears, Olsens, Dawsons, Stevenses.
What’s the connection? And why would the Dawsons undersell their land? With no income,
they’d have to live on the money from the sale of their farm for years to come.”

“There’s more.” Laurel paused to make sure she had their full attention. “My guy at
the
Robesonian
heard rumors about Calvin. Said everyone was shocked when he bought the Dawson farm.
Turns out he never got the chance to live there because he took off with another man’s
wife. The farm was abandoned until Bo came of age and moved in.”

Millay winced. “That had to piss the Dawsons off. They sold their place only to see
it go to pot? Ouch.”

Laurel nodded. “Now fast forward another fifteen years and you’ve got Bo carrying
his new wife Natalie over the threshold. According to the Robeson County rumor mill,
the marriage was doomed from the start. Bo was lazy and Natalie was a go-getter. And
even though they had two kids together, they were always fighting over money and how
badly Bo ran the farm. Natalie actually seemed happier after Bo’s death.”

“Was anyone in that family normal?” Millay thumped the table in frustration. “We need
to talk to Talley. If the lady chief and that smooth-talking lawyer have anything
to hide, they won’t tell us a damn thing. Maybe they want the land to themselves—to
make up for their families not getting it the first time. Who knows? Talley could
be feeling scared and alone. I want to make sure she’s okay.”

Olivia put a hand on Millay’s arm. She knew that her friend was having a strong reaction
to the possibility that a young woman of color was being targeted and that this same
young woman had no family to protect her. “I think we should talk to her too, but
she’s probably still at the hotel. We’ll have to be patient.”

Millay crossed her arms over her chest and sulked. For a moment, she looked like a
vulnerable child.

“Let’s find her booth and get to work. She’s bound to stop by eventually,” Harris
suggested and then turned to Rawlings. “We volunteered to sell her baskets for a while.”