Written in Stone (17 page)

Without waiting for an invitation, Olivia took a seat next to Fletcher. It wasn’t
long before the rest of the Bayside Book Writers had trailed over to the private nook.

“This is Sheriff Poole,” Rawlings introduced the stout, round-faced man to his left.
“If a crime was committed against Talley, the case falls under his jurisdiction. Together,
with assistance from the Oyster Bay police and the park rangers of the national forest,
we hope to get to the bottom of this.” He looked at Fletcher. “Mr. Olsen, the sheriff
and I would like to ask you and Mrs. Stevens some informal questions about the Locklear
family. In light of Ms. Limoges’s discovery that there might be a predisposition to
malignant hyperthermia in the Locklear family, we now need to take a second look at
the cause of death for both Willis and Natalie Locklear.”

Fletcher was nonplussed. “Malignant what? I’m a lawyer, sir, not a doctor.”

Rawlings gestured for Olivia to handle the explanation. Having already told her friends
about the medical condition on the car ride over, she now gave the attorney a clear
and concise summary. When she was done, she stared hard at Fletcher. “None of your
Lumbee clients have mentioned malignant hyperthermia before?”

“No.” Fletcher sounded sincere, but Olivia didn’t trust the man. With all that had
happened within the last forty-eight hours, she couldn’t take that chance. She flicked
her gaze to Rawlings and knew that he was studying the attorney very closely.

“We’re going to need to get our hands on Natalie Locklear’s complete medical records,
of course,” the sheriff began in a disarmingly pleasant drawl. “But I wonder if you
have anything locked away in your office that could shed a little light on this mess.
Chief Rawlings tells me that Mrs. Locklear nearly died in childbirth. Can you provide
specific details about that event?”

Annette interjected. “I remember hearing that it was a close call. My mother was still
alive then and she told me what happened. The cord came before the baby and Natalie
was rushed into surgery. She nearly died on the operating table.” She turned to Fletcher.
“It was Talley’s birth, right?”

“Yes, and I have loads of documentation on the event,” he said proudly. “You see,
Natalie considered filing a suit against the hospital, but later dropped the idea.
Said she had enough battles to fight and didn’t want to get drawn into another one.
By that time, however, I’d gathered enough information to scare the hospital board
into paying her bill. Without that big bill hanging over her head, Natalie decided
to move forward and focus on her kids instead of suing the hospital.”

Sheriff Poole put a hand under his doughy chin and leaned his elbow on the table.
“I’m going to need to see everything you have on that incident.”

Fletcher didn’t seem surprised by the request. “Oh, here comes Judson, my assistant.
He’ll drive to the office this afternoon and fax over the necessary papers. I can’t
leave Talley. Not now, knowing what we know.”

“What do we know?” Judson asked, his eyes anxious, his hands clenched tightly by his
side.

“That someone might have tried to kill Talley, but she’s going to pull through.” Fletcher
shook his head mournfully. “Judson, Willis may have been murdered. Maybe Natalie too.”
Before Judson could demand an explanation, Fletcher pointed behind him. “You’ll have
a man keeping watch over Talley, won’t you, Sheriff?”

Poole examined his watch. “I’ve got a pair of deputies on the way. I’ll be right outside
her door until they get here.”

Fletcher touched Judson on the sleeve and quietly told him why he had to leave for
Lumberton immediately. The sheriff handed Judson a business card with his cell phone
and fax numbers. Judson accepted the card but seemed unable to leave the waiting room.

“What about Talley?” He was obviously distraught over being sent away in the face
of the shocking events. “What if she needs something when she wakes up?”

Annette smiled at him. “I’m not going anywhere. Fletcher and I will make sure she
gets the best care possible. And we’ll tell her why you had to go. She’ll be grateful
to you for trying to find out what happened to her and her family.”

Judson seemed to be on the verge of voicing another protest, but he finally nodded
and turned to face Poole. “I’ll get those files to you before suppertime.”

Millay, who’d been unusually quiet throughout the discussion, turned to Olivia and
asked, “How could someone drug Willis? You were with him. He didn’t have an inhaler,
so how—”

“He’d just smoked a cigarette,” Olivia said, facing Sheriff Poole. “I’ll never forget
the smell. Someone had given him a clove cigarette to try. That someone must have
been the murderer.”

Both Poole and Rawlings were taking notes. “We’ll have to talk to a doctor about the
nitty-gritty details,” Poole said. “See if it’s possible to load this kind of medicine
into a cigarette filter. This stuff is way above my pay grade.”

“I bet it’s possible,” Harris said. “All you’d have to do is soak the tobacco with
a drug that triggers malignant hyperthermia. Even if it tasted funny, Willis wouldn’t
know why. He’d think he was just smoking a funky clove cigarette when he was really
sucking a bunch of toxic drugs into his lungs.”

“And what kind of drugs could have been made into a trigger? Could you use the pills
in the lady chief’s purse, for example?” Millay was practically snarling. “Did you
grind them up and use them to murder innocent people?”

Annette’s face turned ashen. “W-What? That’s insane! I’ve given my life to the people
of my tribe!” She dumped the contents of her purse on the table and grabbed the pill
bottle before it could roll off the edge. “This is olanzapine. It’s a prescription
for my son, Andrew. He has bipolar disorder.” She handed the bottle to Rawlings. “Count
them if you want. There were thirty pills and Andy’s taken two.” A tear slipped down
her cheek. Fletcher put a protective arm around her and offered her a handkerchief.

Harris was gazing intently at his cell phone’s screen. He looked up, locked eyes with
Millay, and shook his head. “Those pills wouldn’t do it. I found a much more detailed
medical site than I’d been on before and this one says that the catalyst would have
to be an anesthesia inhalant.”

Rawlings returned the bottle to Annette. “Thank you, but I’m sure it won’t be necessary
to examine these.” He spoke very gently. Annette sniffed and returned the pills to
her purse. Millay helped her gather up the rest of her possessions and was clearly
surprised when Annette grabbed her hand and held on to it.

“It’s okay,” the older woman whispered. “I know you were just trying to help Talley
and I’m grateful that she has you in her corner.”

Poole observed this exchange impassively and then focused on Olivia once again. “Did
Willis Locklear mention a name, Ms. Limoges? Did he give an indication about the person
who gave him the clove cigarette?”

“No. If he had, this whole thing would be over already,” Olivia’s said regretfully.

Annette looked at Olivia. “You’re not to blame. I don’t know why someone has it in
for the Locklear family. They’ve never harmed anyone. People have only become familiar
with Willis and Talley because of the casino deal. A deal everyone’s happy about.
I know I’ve said this before, but I can tell you don’t believe me.” She scanned the
faces of the Bayside Book Writers and then her gaze came to rest on Rawlings. “The
tribe voted unanimously to build the Golden Eagle and the residents of Maxton have
smoothed our way at every turn, every town meeting. This is a good thing for all of
us.” She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and sighed. “I can’t see the
rhyme or reason behind hurting the Locklears.”

“My guess is that someone’s
unhappy about the deal and is well practiced at hiding it,” Rawlings answered. “And
since it appears that the casino will be built no matter what, if the crime against
Talley is truly attempted murder, then the killer’s anger is burning brighter than
ever. He or she has nothing to lose, because they believe they’ve already lost. If
that’s the case, these are payback killings. This is a matter of revenge.”

“Thus the time metaphors?” Harris wondered aloud.

“If Natalie was murdered too, then the killer is extremely patient,” Olivia said,
reflecting on the morose nature of the Herrick poem. “He or she has suffered for a
long time and is therefore willing to wait, to
suffer
a little longer because, in the end, the Locklears will pay. For what wrong, we still
don’t know.”

Laurel wrung her hands together. “Then the murderer won’t stop. As long as Talley’s
alive, there’s still a Locklear who’ll live to see the casino’s success.”

Millay rose to her feet, her dark eyes ablaze. “She’d damned well better live.” She
gestured at Harris, Laurel, and Olivia. “We need to look at those memory jug pieces
and solve Munin’s riddle. Now. We can’t sit around and wait for this maniac to strike
again.” She then pointed at Rawlings and Poole. “The rest is on you two. Protect and
serve. Keep Talley safe and find the bastard who did this to her.” And with that,
she shoved her chair backward with such force that it toppled over.

Ignoring the overturned furniture, Millay strode from the room.

Sherriff Poole raised a shaggy eyebrow and looked at Rawlings. “Are all the women
from Oyster Bay that feisty?”

“They most certainly are,” Rawlings said and met Olivia’s gaze. “And I wouldn’t have
it any other way.”

Chapter 16

Fiction is the truth inside the lie.

—S
TEPHEN
K
ING

F
ollowing her departure from the waiting room, Millay had tried to bully her way into
seeing Talley, but she was firmly rebuffed by the duty nurse and told to come back
during visiting hours the following morning.

“I need to check in at home before we reconvene for our critique session,” Laurel
said after glancing at her watch. “Are we still meeting tonight?”

“It’s a waste of time to talk about my dumb book when all of this is going on,” Millay
muttered. “Why don’t we focus on the memory jug instead?”

Olivia steered Millay toward the exit. “We will. Over supper. After that, it’s back
to the business of critiquing. You’re almost done with your novel, Millay. You’re
the closest of all of us to beginning the agent query process. Don’t give up on your
book now.”

Harris slung an arm around Millay’s shoulders and sniffed her neck. “You need a shower
anyway. You smell like funnel cake, fried fish, and sausage grease. Personally, I
find it very attractive, but the rest of—”

Millay walloped Harris in the gut, preventing him from further speech. Over her head,
he winked at Olivia and Laurel and then pretended to stumble out of the ER.

Rawlings promised to show up for the critique session if he could, but he was intent
on obtaining blood samples from Munin and Talley to see if they were related, and
he was already dreading the red tape that task would entail. Once he had that ball
rolling, he planned to join Sheriff Poole’s deputies in canvassing the powwow. They
hoped to track down a needle-in-the-haystack witness—to find someone who’d seen a
man or woman give Willis a clove cigarette or sneak into the tent behind the stage
to tamper with Talley’s inhaler.

As for Olivia, she felt completely wrung out. She drove her friends home and then
headed straight to The Boot Top, where she asked Gabe to fix her a coffee laced with
whiskey. Only when she’d taken several invigorating sips did she make her way to the
kitchen.

It was too early for the sous-chefs to be prepping for the dinner service, so Michel
was alone in his stainless steel kingdom. Perched on a stool near the butcher block,
he was drinking tea and studying the evening’s menu. Without greeting him, Olivia
crossed the room and let Haviland out the back door.

“Well, hello!” Michel trilled merrily. “Are you done powwowing?”

The light in his eyes and the dimples in his cheeks irritated her. Michel’s cheerfulness
was unwelcome at the moment, and though she knew it was unfair, she felt an uncontrollable
urge to wound him. “Where’s your chocolate enchantress?”

Oblivious to the note of sarcasm in Olivia’s voice, Michel raised his mug in a toast.
“Visiting your favorite Realtor, Millicent Banks.”

“Oh?”

“She saw your leasing agent this afternoon, fell in love with the space, toured every
inch of the town, and is now scoping out neighborhoods.” Michel was beaming. “I think
she’ll be hanging up a sign in Oyster Bay by Christmas.”

“Fa-la-la,” Olivia groused and drank more spiked coffee. Feeling dog tired and unkind,
she sat opposite Michel and pursed her lips. “She was married, your Shelley. Her husband
bit the dust. I hear his death was quite unexpected—that he was as robust as an Olympian.
Suddenly developed an irregular heartbeat.” She snapped her fingers. “Gone! Just like
that.”

“Shelley told me all about it,” Michel said. “It must have been horrible for her.
She really loved him.”

“That’s how Willis died, you know. Dropped like a stone. Death by irregular heartbeat.”

Michel cast his eyes down. “I know. And maybe it’s wrong for me to be happy, to be
hopeful after what happened to him, but I can’t help it. Whenever I’m around Shelley,
I feel like anything’s possible. I feel at ease in my own skin. Do you know what a
relief that is?”

Olivia did. It was how she felt whenever Rawlings was around, but she wasn’t in the
mood to congratulate Michel on finding a woman who could truly make him whole. “And
it doesn’t bother you that he and Willis died from the same accidental death?”

“Why should it?” He frowned in confusion. “It’s not like Shelley murdered them both.”
Suddenly, his face flushed with indignation. “What’s wrong with you, Olivia? Not everyone
is a psychopath. Not everyone has closets stuffed with deep, dark secrets. Are you
seriously implying that Shelley Giusti had something to do with Willis’s passing?”

Shame washed over Olivia and she shook her head. “You’re right, it’s an absurd notion.
Forgive me.” She rubbed her temples. “I’m coming unraveled, Michel.”

He took her hand. “Tell me everything.”

When she was done and her coffee cup was empty, Michel disappeared into the walk-in
and came back out a few minutes later with his arms loaded. He placed tomatoes, heavy
cream, an assortment of cheeses, and a mound of fresh basil leaves on the cutting
board. “Go home,” he told her. “Take a walk. Have a hot bath. Put on a pair of sweatpants
and an old T-shirt. A waiter will show up at the cottage at half past five with food
for all the Bayside Book Writers.”

“But—”

Michel began to sharpen a paring knife. “Go! That’s an order. You need some time to
let everything sink in. Kick off your shoes, go down to the beach, and get your feet
wet. The ocean always helps when you’re off kilter.”

He was right about that. She could almost feel the water’s pull, a silent call that
could be heard only by the heart. Longing to gaze upon its blue expanse and to make
contact with the cool waves, Olivia rounded up Haviland and drove home.

Taking Michel’s advice, she walked slowly over the soft sand, her hair still damp
from the shower. Haviland sprinted ahead of her until he was only a black blur against
the horizon. With every step, the riot of thoughts in Olivia’s mind became less frenzied.
On the isolated stretch of beach, she listened to the murmur of the waves until their
steady rhythm calmed her to the core.

By the time Harris, Millay, and Laurel showed up at the lighthouse keeper’s cottage,
Olivia was relaxing in a wing chair, a tumbler of Chivas Regal in her hand.

“What smells so good?” Laurel exclaimed when she entered the tiny kitchen.

Olivia gestured at the pot simmering on the stove. “Michel made us creamy tomato soup
and there are grilled cheddar and asiago cheese sandwiches on herb focaccia bread
warming in the oven. He thought we could use some comfort food.”

Harris opened the oven door and inhaled. “He nailed it. This is exactly what I need.”

The friends ladled soup into bowls and carried plates of grilled cheese sandwiches
into the living room. Harris popped the caps off four bottles of beer while Laurel
passed out napkins and Olivia spread out the shards from the memory jug across the
coffee table.

“So the only thing we haven’t seen before is this little key,” Laurel said after she’d
swallowed a spoonful of soup.

“I think it’ll open a safety deposit box at the Oyster Bay Federal. I have an account
there and my key looks just like it,” Olivia said and then took a long pull of beer,
surprised to find it the perfect complement to their meal. She wasn’t very fond of
beer, but tonight, the bready heartiness of the local microbrew was soothing.

Millay frowned. “Then you’ll have to wait until Monday to see what’s in the box. Unless
you have some kind of ‘in’ with the bank manager.”

“Forget it,” Laurel interjected. “He’s a deacon at my church and would never bend
the rules. You’re not getting in on a Sunday.”

“God-fearin’ folk are no fun,” Millay grumbled and Olivia was pleased to see that
the humorous glint had returned to her friend’s eyes.

“Come on, I thought you lived for hellfire and damnation,” Harris teased Millay.

She raised her bottle and clinked it against his. “Damn straight.”

The friends discussed the memory jug as they ate, but no one came up with a useful
conclusion. Just as Olivia was confessing that the presence of the starfish necklace
among the rest of the clues troubled her deeply, Rawlings walked in. He looked weary
and dejected, and the Bayside Book Writers knew better than to ask whether he’d made
any headway in the investigation.

The chief accepted a bottle from Millay and drank half of it down, eyes closed and
head tilted back. “Man, I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was.”

“There’s food too.” Olivia gestured at the soup pot and oval platter containing the
remaining two sandwiches.

Rawlings loaded a plate, and in between bites of grilled cheese, told them the bad
news. No one had seen anything suspicious at the powwow, lab work on the blood tests
wouldn’t commence until Monday at the earliest, and the inhalants used to spike Talley’s
inhaler—and undoubtedly Willis’s cigarette too—could have been stolen from any number
of places. “A doctor’s office, for example,” Rawlings said. “A hospital. Even dentists
and veterinarians have this stuff on hand.” He sighed and sank down in his favorite
club chair. “All we know for certain is that Talley’s inhaler was tampered with. However,
we have no leads.”

“What about Natalie’s medical file?” Olivia asked.

“There’s a tiny notation on her chart reading ‘MH’ followed by a question mark. That’s
all.” Rawlings took an enormous bite from his sandwich and chewed mechanically, gazing
at some point in the middle distance.

Millay’s eyes narrowed. “So one of the doctors suspected Natalie had malignant hyperthermia
during Talley’s birth, but he scribbled some note in the margin and went on with his
day? She nearly died and he was probably thinking about being late for his tee time.”

“And years later, it did kill her.” Harris looked at the chief. “Right?”

Rawlings nodded. “Natalie was given general anesthesia after fracturing her leg. Neither
Fletcher, Judson, or Annette were within miles of that grocery store the night in
question. I believe it was a genuine accident. A case of bad luck.”

“Well, Willis’s death had nothing to do with luck,” Olivia said very softly. “Look,
I want to go back to Munin’s place tomorrow. We might find an answer in those newspapers
or tucked away in one of her glass jars.” She silently pleaded for Rawlings to agree
with her decision. When he didn’t respond, she squared her shoulders and raised her
chin, making it clear that she wasn’t asking for permission.

“Okay,” he eventually said. “Ask Harlan to take us over and I’ll run it by Sheriff
Poole. But it’ll just be the three of us. Munin’s home is a crime scene now.”

Laurel waved him off. “No worries. If I don’t spend the day with my family, my boys
are going to start calling the nanny mommy. But I’ll type up my interview notes after
church. Maybe there’s a useful nugget hidden in those scribbles.”

“I’m going to the hospital,” Millay said. “Make sure those deputies are staying sharp.”

Harris sulked. “What about me? What can I do?” He directed the question to Rawlings.

“Research.” The chief handed Harris a folder. “I made a list just for you.”

Puffing his chest out with pride, Harris tucked the folder into his laptop case. He
then put a packet of papers on the coffee table and uncapped his green ballpoint pen.
“Shall we commence with the critique?”

“You’re practically drooling,” Millay growled. “Did you hate it that much?”

“Au contraire!” Harris protested. “When Tessa was captured by the Wyvern Warriors,
I thought she was toast. Then I thought the imprisonment scenes would get old quickly,
but being inside Tessa’s head,
really inside
for the first time, has fleshed her out in a way that makes me believe she exists.
I totally have a crush on her.”

Olivia laughed. “A gryphon-riding, tough-as-nails hottie? No surprise there.” She
glanced at her own copy of the chapter and scanned her favorite part, which described
a growing attraction between Tessa and her captor, a handsome, magnetic prince who
ruled over the people who’d been her race’s enemies for millennia.

Looking up from the pages on her lap, Olivia said, “Millay, you always leave me hungry
for more. Take the end of this chapter, for instance. I don’t know if you’re going
to use this newfound romantic tension to bring these warring races together or if
the prince will end up betraying Tessa.”

“He’d better not!” Laurel cried. “And what about that boy from Tessa’s village? The
one she grew up with? I thought she’d end up with him. She thinks about him all the
time when she’s homesick.”

Harris sighed in frustration. “None of that matters if both races are in danger.”
He turned to Millay. “Tessa can’t let the injustices to her people go unpunished.
As a reader, I feel like I know her by now and I don’t think she can move past what
happened to her family. It ticks me off to think some hot prince could make her forget
what defines her.”

Rawlings nodded. “I see what you’re saying, Harris, and I don’t believe Millay’s going
allow Tessa to move ahead without obstacles. Change is difficult. However, this is
a young adult novel and there’s something in me that wants to see peace between these
clans. Isn’t that what we’ve struggled to achieve in our own world? Isn’t that our
hope?”

“But that hasn’t happened for us either,” Harris argued. “What about the racial slurs
on the Locklears’ cars? And the way people treat Millay? The hate and the bullying
didn’t end for her in high school. Not everyone in Oyster Bay thinks she belongs in
our town, and she’s put all that anger in here, into this book. Tessa’s choices have
to mesh with what Millay feels or it’s going to be so transparent to the reader.”

Laurel patted Harris on the leg. “But this is fiction, Harris. Millay can create whatever
outcome she wants.”

“It’s done, actually,” Millay said before anyone else could speak. “The whole book
is done.” She glanced at Rawlings. “I want to believe it’s possible to leave the things
that haunt us behind. I’m sick of thinking about that crap. I want to be over it,
but after being near Talley—after what they did to her—I know I’m not over it. I’m
as pissed as I ever was. Maybe more. And I can’t believe in peace for Tessa or anyone
else unless we make what happened to the Locklears right.”