Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

acknowledge his presence.
    “I’m here,” Olivia said, not knowing what else to say.
    Munin nodded and placed a jar on the shelf. In the weak light, Olivia could see preserves, pickled vegetables, and other foodstuffs on the middle shelves. On the top shelf, almost out of the old woman’s reach, were jars of miscellaneous objects like buttons, soda can tabs, nails, bottle tops, shells, beads, arrowheads, and colorful rocks.
    “Where do you put the gifts the ocean sends you? In jars like these?” Munin’s voice was low and raspy from lack of use.
    Olivia tried to conceal her astonishment. Had Munin known that she kept all the sundry items she and Haviland dug out of the sand in jumbo pickle jars neatly labeled with the year?
    The crone smiled over Olivia’s discomfort, revealing a mouthful of chipped, yellow teeth, and said, “Tea first. Then, we’ll talk.”
    She filled two mugs with boiling water from a kettle hanging over a pair of burning logs. Olivia hadn’t noticed the hearth before. The wood was glowing orange in an alcove of stones and a wide pipe funneled most of the smoke outside.
    Munin opened an ancient tea tin and filled a steel strainer with leaves. After steeping the tea, she opened another jar, and dropped something thick and syrupy into both mugs.
    “The bugs won’t bother you after you drink this.” With a harsh chuckle, she handed Olivia her tea and eased her body into a lawn chair. The frayed material whined as she settled back against the seat and gestured for Olivia to take the remaining chair. Olivia complied and then reluctantly sipped her tea. It was strong and bitter, but Munin had added a hint of refreshing mint and a dollop of honey for sweetness. Olivia was pleasantly surprised by the tea’s complex flavors.
    “Thank you. It’s delicious,” she said.
    Munin dipped her head in acknowledgment and brought her own mug to her lips.
    “You are taller than Camille, but otherwise, you could be her sister.”
    Olivia nodded. “I don’t favor my father at all.”
    Munin’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I see him plain enough.”
    “You met Willie Wade?”
    “I’ve seen your daddy many times,” she answered cryptically. “But it was your mama I came to know. An unhappy woman, to be sure. A sad and lonely woman. Lovely too. From her face right down to her soul. Uncommon that. You don’t warm to people like she did. I can see that plain enough.”
    Though she knew this to be true, Olivia felt slighted. But she said nothing, choosing to study the rest of the interior instead. Opposite the bookshelves of jars were tall stacks of newspapers. They occupied the entire wall and had been divided into six towers. Olivia suspected these papers were the source of Munin’s knowledge.
    “It’s here, girl. What you came to see.” The witch pointed at a lump near her feet, which was roughly the size and shape of a gallon milk jug. Munin pulled off the burlap sack covering the object with a slow flourish. Her face was unreadable.
    It was a jug made of ruddy brown clay. Nearly every inch of its surface had been covered by the commonplace items Munin stored in her glass jars. However, in between the buttons, nails, and bottle caps were more valuable items. Olivia saw a pearl ring, a Cameo brooch, a gold chain, a silver cross, and a framed daguerreotype.
    “It’s a memory jug,” Munin said. “Some say the slaves made them to put on the graves of their loved ones. Others say the Victorians came up with the idea since they were so keen on preserving the past. And there are those who think the early settlers made them on dark evenings to fight off boredom.” She gestured at the jug. “Go on, I can see that you wanna touch it.”
    Olivia drew the piece closer. It was heavier than she’d expected. Carefully balancing it on her knee, she tilted it toward the candlelight.
    “The boredom theory holds the most water with me,” Munin continued. “I’ve made them for half a century now. Harlan takes the jugs to town and mails them off to some gallery on the West Coast. The lady who owns the gallery sends him money and he buys me the things I need. Like my papers.” She waved at the stacks of newspapers without looking at them. “Harlan told me they call me the Gypsy Potter of North Carolina in that gallery. I’m right fond of that name.”
    Casting a glance at Munin’s rattling ankle bracelets, Olivia said, “Are you a gypsy?”
    Munin shrugged. “I’m a mix of things, just like that