Written in Stone (9 page)

Olivia sighed. “I don’t get it. What does this have to do with Munin?”

“The battle occurred in 1958. According to the medical examiner, Munin was in her
early seventies at the time of her death. She could have been at the rally.” Rawlings
reached for the computer mouse. “Maxton’s in Robeson County, about a hundred and seventy
miles from her house at the edge of the Croatan Forest.”

“Maybe she had roots in Robeson County,” Fred suggested. “Everyone’s from somewhere.
I don’t know this lady from Eve, but she must have seen something terrible to have
ended up living all alone in a swamp.”

“Was the battle very violent?” Olivia wondered aloud.

Rawlings let loose an uncharacteristic snort. “Hardly. The Klansmen were outnumbered
ten to one and there was a single gunshot. The bullet knocked out the only source
of light, which had been rigged up in the middle of the field. The bad guys scattered,
and Cole, the KKK leader who started the whole thing, ran off. If this source is credible,
Cole’s right-hand man departed in such a hurry that his wife was left behind to fend
for herself.”

Olivia shook her head. “What a gem.”

Rawlings kept his eyes on the screen. “The lady ended up driving her car into a ditch.
Ironically, it was the Lumbee who came to her aid.”

Fred whistled. “Damn, I bet things were pretty chilly between her and her man for
a long time after that.”

Olivia glanced at her watch. She and Rawlings needed to leave if she was going to
make it to the food festival’s opening. “Thank you for everything, Fred. I’ll take
the jug and show it to the people at the Cedar Point campground this weekend. If Munin
has a connection to the Battle of Hayes Pond or to the Lumbee tribe, someone will
know her name or recognize one of the items on the jug.”

“I hope so,” Fred said. “I’m going to lend you a milk crate I’ve attached to a dolly.
With a little cushion of bubble wrap, you’ll be able to wheel that jug across the
state without so much as a chip.” He smiled. “And when you return the dolly, you can
tell me what you found out.” He gestured around the shop. “I haven’t been involved
in such an intriguing mystery since Duncan got into a customer’s car. The young couple
drove all around town without knowing he was in the backseat. Nearly crashed when
a fire truck went by, sirens blaring, and Duncan started to howl like the world was
coming to an end.”

“I promise to fill you in,” Olivia said. “It’s the least I could do.”

Fred began to rewrap the jug and then paused. “That high school ring is a solid clue,
you know. The rest of the school’s name is buried in the clay, but I’d bet the shop
that it’s perfectly legible.”

Olivia knew what he was implying. “I can’t break it. Not yet. Smashing that jug won’t
change Munin’s fate and I . . . I just can’t destroy the last thing she created.”
She swallowed, trying to find a way to explain her reluctance. “Munin won’t be buried
under a marble angel or a grand tombstone. She’ll be cremated and stuck in a potter’s
field. To me, that’s no tragedy. When you’re dead, you’re dead. But what bothers me
is that there’s no one to mourn her. To keep her memory alive.” She laid her hand
lightly on the jug. “In a sense, this is her grave marker. Her epitaph. And she gave
it to me.”

Fred touched her hand, his kind eyes filled with understanding. “I get that. Believe
me, I do. I’ve seen families come to blows over a loved one’s treasure. Sometimes,
by possessing a thing someone else made with the strength of their hands and the sweat
of their brow, we become bound to the maker. I’ve seen how the stories told in a needlepoint
sampler, or oil paintings, or piece of pottery can change a person. Usually, it’s
a wonderful thing to witness, but there are times when the story a piece carries does
more harm than good.”

Olivia didn’t want him to go on, but despite her misgivings, she had to ask, “Such
as?”

“I used to have a shop in Greensboro. One of my regular customers was a wealthy woman
who collected Victorian mourning jewelry. She only wanted pieces showing a child’s
portrait or silhouette or containing a kid’s lock of hair. After being in business
for fifteen years, I eventually learned that this lady had lost both of her children
in a house fire. She never learned to live with her grief. Instead, she became obsessed
with collecting jewelry that belonged to the grieving mothers of another century.”

“How sad,” Rawlings said.

Nodding, Fred gazed intently at Olivia. “Your potter, Munin, obviously felt connected
to you. She gave you clues to her story. Go on and run the clues down, but keep your
distance. You don’t know what kind of insects are hiding under the rocks you’re going
to turn over.”

He pointed at the image on the computer screen, at the hundreds of figures in white
robes and pointed hoods marching through the nation’s capital. To Olivia, the dark
eye slits transformed the hoods into sinister masks. She felt like she was staring
at a parade of soulless wraiths. And that they were staring right back at her.

Chapter 8

Murder is commoner among cooks than among members of any other profession.

���W. H. A
UDEN

T
he Coastal Carolina Food Festival was being held in an area of the Croatan Forest
called Flanners Beach. Olivia, Rawlings, and Haviland joined a large crowd of attendees
heading toward the campground by the Neuse River. They walked up a wide path cut through
the trees where hundreds of vendors were hawking culinary-themed merchandise. From
chef’s knives to homemade jams to personalized lobster bibs, festivalgoers were lured
into stall after stall by the promise of free samples.

“Kudzu jelly?” Rawlings said after waving away a platter of jam-covered crackers being
offered by a pretty girl in a floral skirt. “Doesn’t sound very tempting.”

“At least someone’s found a use for that awful vine.” Olivia elbowed him. “There won’t
be any chocolate milk here, Chief. You’re going to encounter more exotic foods today.”

He shrugged. “As long as no one offers me a grilled, candied, or chocolate-covered
bug, then I’m willing to try anything. It’s all I see on TV. People eating bugs.”

Olivia laughed. “Don’t forget the shows about women giving birth or following the
antics of a gang of cretins from the Jersey Shore. After being exposed to that crew,
I’d rather watch a good-looking man eat a centipede.”

Rawlings shook his head. “Not this man. I’ll have to find other ways to entertain
you.”

“You know how to do that already. You proved that this morning.” Olivia grinned.

The couple strolled deeper into the forest. The soft ground was sun-dappled and the
August morning air was deliciously cool. A breeze drifted in from the Neuse River,
carrying scents of burning wood chips and charcoal as well as more enticing aromas
like sizzling butter, grilling meat, and the saltiness of fried fish.

“There’s the Foodie Network tent,” Olivia said. She examined the map she’d been given
at the park’s entrance. “Looks like they’ve set up a stage and a cooking platform
closer to the beach. That’s where my judging job will take place. I bet Michel is
beside himself. He lives for this show.”

“
Chefs Gone Wild
?” Rawlings read the banner above the seating area. “Never heard of it.”

“Four chefs have to create a gourmet meal using local ingredients and relatively primitive
cooking methods. In this case, they’re obviously going to be given a grill and a camping
stove. But I have no idea what the food items are.” She craned her neck, searching
for Michel’s white chef’s coat amid the audience members and the dozens of crewmembers
in Foodie Network T-shirts conducting last-minute sound and lighting checks.

As the scent of cooking food intensified, Haviland’s nose quivered and his eyes darted
about the campground-turned-television-studio. He then gave Olivia his most expectant
stare.

“You’ve just had a bag of treats,” Olivia scolded. “You’ll have to hold on until lunchtime.”

Rawlings put his hand on the poodle’s head. “Don’t worry, my man. You won’t be eating
bugs. I’m sure there’s a nice hunk of meat with our names on it. I plan to start with
some pulled pork and chase that down with a tower of onion rings, an ear of grilled
corn, and maybe some root beer . . .”

“This isn’t a carnival.” Olivia gestured at the chief’s hot dog and hamburger print
Hawaiian shirt. “Though you’re dressed for one.”

“I know you love my Hawaiian shirts.” Rawlings winked at her. “Ah, here comes Michel.”

The Boot Top Bistro’s head chef was all smiles. He kissed Olivia on both cheeks and
gave Haviland’s neck an exuberant ruffle. “The network is going to kick off the new
season with this episode! By next summer, people will be lining up for a seat at one
of our tables,
ma cherie
!”

“Excellent news,” she said. “And what about Shelley Giusti? Have you seen her yet?”

Michel put both hands over his heart. “She is even more beautiful now than she was
in school. And how I missed her voice! Words flow from her mouth like melted chocolate.
We’ve spent the last hour together and I’m in heaven.
Heaven!
”

Rawlings arched his brows. “Who is this sweet-talking muse?”

“An enchantress and a world-class pastry chef of her own right,” Michel said, his
eyes dreamy. “She’s also one of the celebrity judges, so you’ll see for yourself that
she is
très magnifique
.”

“I look forward to meeting her,” Olivia said as they made their way to a seating area
cordoned off by bright yellow rope and a sign reading “
Chefs Gone Wild
—Authorized Personnel Only.”

Rawlings pointed at the sign and smirked. “Sounds like a spring break special. One
of those featuring girls in bikinis. Or in bikini bottoms at any rate.”

Olivia didn’t have a chance to reply because Noah Wiseman spotted their little group
and sent Candice running over to collect Michel and Olivia.

“We need to get your mics on!” she cried, her face flushed with exertion. Rawlings
took this as his cue to leave and rolled the dolly holding the memory jug over to
a small seating area to the left of the stage. Haviland followed and Olivia paused
a moment to search for the familiar faces of the Bayside Book Writers, but she didn’t
see Laurel, Harris, or Millay anywhere.

“I hate these off-site episodes,” Candice complained. “When we get back to Manhattan,
I’m going to ask to work for a director who never leaves the studio!” She handed each
of them a clip-on microphone. “Feed that under your shirt and through your top button
hole. We’ll test them when you’re seated. God, what I’d give for an iced latte.”

Noah called her name and she pasted on a chipper smile and hurried off, leaving Olivia
and Michel to exchange perplexed shrugs.

“She doesn’t know paradise when she sees it,” said a woman with a silky voice.

Olivia turned to find Shelley Giusti standing beside her. She recognized the chef’s
trademark auburn locks and the sparkle of intelligence and humor in her nutmeg-colored
eyes.

“That’s fine by me,” Olivia said. “Someone’s got to live in the skyscrapers.”

Shelley shuddered. “Not me. I’m done with the urban grind. I need a break from traffic
jams and television shows. I want to open a dessert shop in the perfect small town.
Pastries, baked goods, and fine chocolate. I already have a menu and a name picked
out, but I haven’t found the right—” She stopped midsentence and held out her hand.
“Sorry. Here I am, gabbing merrily away and I haven’t even introduced myself.”

As Olivia took Shelley’s hand, she couldn’t help but notice the thin gold band on
the chef’s ring finger.
Not again!
Olivia thought.
Can’t Michel ever fall for a single woman?

Despite this unpleasant discovery, Olivia asked Shelley if she’d had a chance to visit
Oyster Bay. There was a vacancy in one of Olivia’s downtown buildings and she’d love
to see a dessert shop occupy the prime retail space.

“Not yet.” Shelley reached over and linked her arm through Michel’s. “But I hear there’s
an amazing restaurant there. I also heard that a devastatingly handsome and talented
chef slaves away in the kitchen from dawn to dusk.” She gave Olivia a conspiratorial
wink.

“His hours aren’t quite that bad,” Olivia replied with a laugh.

Shelley and Michel walked arm in arm to the judges’ table, heads bent as they talked,
and Olivia paused for a moment to wonder why a married woman would act so openly flirtatious.
Having never been married, she’d have to ask Laurel what triggered this type of behavior.
Was Shelley trying to make her husband jealous or was she actually interested in Michel?

Olivia couldn’t dwell on the pastry chef’s motives because Noah directed her to take
a seat, her mic was tested, and then Candice reviewed the parameters by which the
contestants were to be judged. By the time she was done, every space in the standing-room-only
audience area had been filled and the cameras were pointed at the black curtain erected
in the front of a large white tent.

Craning her neck, Olivia scanned the faces one more time but was disappointed to find
that her friends still hadn’t arrived.

“Welcome to
Chefs Gone Wild
!” The host, a trim, well-coiffed man in his mid-fifties named Allen Murray, beamed
at the audience. They responded with a roar of applause. Allen waited a beat for them
to quiet before introducing the judges. Olivia and Shelley both received a few whistles
and catcalls, and Michel’s face lit with joy when the crowd clapped and hollered upon
hearing his name.

Next, the black curtain was whisked aside and the contestants were invited to come
out. Two men and two women dressed in chef jackets and aprons jogged to their places
in front of the judges. Allen spent a little more time on the chefs’ introductions,
emphasizing that the contestants worked in some of the nation’s best restaurants in
Las Vegas, Napa Valley, Chicago, and New York.

“And now, let’s show the chefs what they have to work with in their first challenge.”
He moved to a table on which a large stainless steel bowl was covered by a black cloth.
Whisking away the cloth, he waited for the camera to zoom in on the items. “You must
use the following local ingredients in your dish: peaches, molasses, shrimp, garlic,
tomatoes, kale, and barley.” He gestured at the grills and camp stoves set up behind
the chefs. “You have twenty minutes to prepare your dish. Go!”

Olivia noted that in addition to the ingredients set out in the steel bowl, the chefs
had access to an array of spices, butter, and olive oil. She relaxed, taking pleasure
in watching the culinary masters at work. The camera feed was relayed to a large screen
above the audience, and Allen provided a stream of exciting commentary while the chefs
worked. He also asked the judges how they’d like to see the ingredients combined.

“I’d use the barley and molasses as a breading and fry the shrimp in olive oil,” Michel
said. “Then I’d sauté the kale in garlic and make salsa from the tomatoes and peaches.”

Allen nodded and held the microphone near Shelley. “How about you? How would you handle
this challenge?”

“I’d surrender to Michel!” She raised her hands in a show of defeat. “I could make
a dessert dish with the barley, peaches, and molasses, but the kale? No way.”

The twenty minutes passed quickly and the judges were presented with four dishes to
taste. Olivia’s favorite was the barley-breaded shrimp salad.

For the second course, the contestants were given sweet potatoes, pork, cornmeal,
endive, and celery root. This task completed, they were asked to round off the meal
by preparing a dessert using cherries, honey, pecans, mint, and wheat flour. Despite
being given a thirty-minute time allotment, one of the chefs presented the judges
with a treat that stood out among the others: a pecan and cherry brittle drizzled
with a sweet mint sauce. It was one of the best desserts Olivia had ever tasted.

“I can see why people like this show,” she whispered to Michel, covering her mic with
the palm of her hand. All too soon the judges were faced with the difficult task of
choosing a winner.

After a great deal of civilized arguing, they agreed that the female chef from Napa
Valley was the victor. She received a big check and the opportunity to appear on the
network’s
Celebratory Chefs
show. The other chefs were given smaller checks but didn’t seem the least disappointed.
Winning the contest didn’t seem to matter as much as being given the chance to cook
in front of a crowd. They exchanged handshakes and hugs and then walked to the Foodie
Network’s merchandise tent to sign cookbooks.

Because she had authored several cookbooks, Shelley accompanied the other chefs and
Michel disappeared to sneak a cigarette behind the tent. Olivia tried to rejoin Rawlings
and Haviland but was waylaid by Noah Wiseman.

“What did you think?” he asked.

“Honestly, I had a ball. It’s a great show.”

He smiled. “It’s fun to shoot too. And the segment of The Boot Top will appear following
this one, so you’ll have a large viewing audience. The producers have given me the
slot after that to do a special piece on the Lumbee Indians and the foods prepared
by the Lost Colony.”

“If I remember what my fourth grade history teacher told us, those colonists suffered
from malnutrition,” Olivia said.

Noah nodded absently. “I’ll show the viewers examples of a balanced Indian diet, and
raise the theory that they might have taught the colonists how to survive. It’s good
drama.” His voice changed, and when he spoke next, it was with the deep timbre of
a radio announcer. “If only they’d been aware of the bounty within their grasp. Forests
filled with venison, rabbit, nuts, berries, and roots and an ocean teeming with fresh
fish and shellfish!”

Olivia laughed. “I can see you’ve thought this through.”

“And I’ve got another card up my sleeve,” Noah went on. “There’s a theory that the
Lost Colony sought refuge with the Lumbee Tribe. Intermarried and relocated to Robeson
County. Your sous-chef told me all about it. He’s a fascinating kid.”

“Have you filmed his demonstration yet?”

Noah tapped his watch. “Next on my list. He’s cooking in the campground area over
an open fire. He’ll make
Chefs Gone Wild
look like a day at a Beverly Hills spa, but it’ll be worth it.” Glancing toward the
tent, his eyes went wide. “Here he is now! Look at that awesome getup!”

Willis Locklear was truly resplendent. He wore a knee-length scarlet trade shirt,
a tan vest embellished with geometric patterns, fringed buckskin boots, a beaded finger
sash, and a partial turban covered with multihued feathers. As colorful as a rooster,
he wore his costume with confidence, seeming more comfortable in it than he did in
a chef’s jacket and loose pants.

Olivia gave Willis a thumbs-up and then paused, surprised to see Michel trailing behind
the sous-chef, a bag of supplies in each arm.