A Killer Plot (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

Olivia paused, removed her trench shovel from her backpack, and began to dig. She could have ordered a top-of-the-line detector—one with an attached digger, incredible depth perception, and the ability to function underwater, but she preferred the challenge offered by the simpler model.
    “Help dig, Haviland,” Olivia commanded her dog in much the same tone she used on the employees of her restaurant or the tenants of the buildings she owned downtown.
    Haviland responded immediately, his front paws burrowing into the soft, damp sand. Olivia waited until the poodle had created a pile behind his hindquarters the height of a termite mound and then she began to shift through the sand too.
    “Nothing. Let’s see if we need to look deeper.” Olivia leveled the detector over the hole and it chirped excitedly. She turned the volume down and nodded at her canine assistant. He resumed his work.
    Then, Olivia saw a flash of metal beneath Haviland’s right paw. “Whoa, Captain.”
    Haviland’s liquid brown eyes were sparkling in the morning sun. Olivia grinned at the poodle, her blood quickening in anticipation of their find.
    Rubbing clots of sand from the rectangular metal object, which was slightly larger than a matchbook, Olivia held her new treasure flat on her palm so that it might be bathed in the newborn light.
    “It’s some sort of box.” She eased open the case and upturned it, shaking loose a sprinkle of sand. The interior was empty. Olivia closed her eyes and lifted the box to her nose. There were no lingering scents, no telltale remnants of a heady perfume or an exotic spice. “There are letters here, Haviland.” She peered at the lid. “Something illegible and then the letters E period M period. Doesn’t sound familiar. Ah! There may be some writing on the front too, but it’s covered by splotches of rust. We’ll have to soak this for a spell.”
    Stroking the soft curls between the poodle’s ears, Olivia stood and slipped the small box into her pocket. “Breakfast time, Captain.”
    Haviland barked and the pair retraced their steps. The Bounty Hunter, now rendered mute as its owner was always satisfied with a single discovery, was slung over Olivia’s shoulder like a rifle. The pair walked for a mile, Haviland trotting faster as soon as he caught the sight of the orange “No Trespassing” signs flanking the path that wound through the dunes toward Olivia’s low country-style home. She paused to appreciate the sunlight dazzling against the bank of windows facing the Atlantic. The gray stonework seemed to absorb the hesitant warmth, and Olivia never failed to gaze upon her custom home without a feeling of deep contentment.
    Haviland raced ahead of her toward the Range Rover, but Olivia pointed at the house. “It’s not a Grumpy’s day. We’ve got quite a list of errands to do.”
    Although she had a state-of-the-art kitchen with cherry cabinets, soapstone countertops, and a bevy of quiet and efficient appliances, Olivia wasn’t much of a cook. Most mornings, she microwaved a bowl of instant oatmeal or grits, mixed the cereal with a thick pat of butter, and then rounded out her meal by eating a banana or a handful of pitted prunes. If she didn’t feel like dirtying a bowl, she went to Grumpy’s.
    As Haviland pressed his wet nose against her leg, indicating an eagerness for his meal, Olivia rummaged around in her deepest cabinet. “I’ll have you know that I only bought this double boiler for you, Captain. Your polenta will be ready in no time. What would Michel or I have done if I hadn’t discovered such a glorious list of healthy recipes on that fantastic Coddled Canine website? Why right now, you might be eating canned dog food!” Haviland flattened his ears as Olivia crashed pot and pans. “We’re lucky Michel doesn’t mind cooking for you. He’s told me you’re to expect chicken liver dumplings for dinner. Ah, here’s that double boiler.”
    After stirring together the mixture of cornmeal, milk, and Parmesan cheese and leaving it to simmer, Olivia sat down in front of her MacBook. She pushed her partially completed critique of Camden’s chapter to the far side of the desk and directed her mouse to Google’s home page. The rectangular container she and Haviland had unearthed on their walk was now soaking in vinegar, but she had brushed off enough of the heavy clots of rust using baking soda and a toothbrush to reveal an acronym reading, “G.E.M.” Olivia took a bite of