Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

As the warm wind pushed strands of Olivia’s pale hair into the air, she stared at the desolate underbrush and blank sky and recalled a poem by Katherine Mansfield. It might have been written for the woman she’d just met.
    Olivia spoke a few lines in a soft murmur, sending the words aloft on the salty breeze, unaware that, in her own way, she was delivering the witch’s eulogy.
    Through the sad dark the slowly ebbing tide
    Breaks on a barren shore, unsatisfied.
    A strange wind flows . . . then silence. I am fain
    To turn to Loneliness, to take her hand,
    Cling to her, waiting, till the barren land
    Fills with the dreadful monotone of rain.

Chapter 4
    I write for the same reason I breathe—because if I didn’t, I would die.
    —I SAAC A SIMOV
    A week after Olivia’s trip to the swamp, the Bayside Book Writers assembled in the comfortable living room of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage and helped themselves to beer, wine, or, in Olivia’s case, a tumbler of Chivas Regal. There was also a selection of tasty tidbits from The Boot Top to sample, including lemon and garlic grilled shrimp skewers, fried crab wontons with a ginger soy dipping sauce, roasted avocado and asparagus wraps, and prosciutto rolls stuffed with goat cheese and dates.
    “Anyone else going to the Coastal Carolina Food Festival next weekend?” Laurel asked as she poured herself a generous glass of chardonnay. “I volunteered to cover Saturday’s events for the
Gazette
.”
    Olivia was delighted to hear that Laurel would be attending, especially since Michel no longer had a crush on her. “I’ll be there. Michel too. We’ve been asked to serve as celebrity judges for some of the cooking competitions. Apparently, the Foodie Network will be filming several segments over the weekend. And Hudson’s going to run a Bayside Crab House tent on Saturday.”
    Harris pointed a shrimp skewer at Olivia. “You get all the glamorous jobs. I have to go because my company wants to develop a new game called Koko’s Kitchen. It’s supposed to appeal to five- to eight-year-olds and there are a bunch of kid-focused cooking demonstrations at the festival, so guess who has to watch all of them to get a feel for the graphic design? Why can’t I go to Comic-Con to check out the outfits worn by barbarian warrior maidens instead?”
    Millay dunked a wonton into the bowl of ginger-soy sauce and grinned at Harris. “Hey, at least you’re getting paid to hang out at a fair. I mean, do you really need to conduct much research to design cyber spaghetti or chicken tenders?” She turned to Laurel. “That’s pretty much what kids eat, right?”
    Laurel nodded glumly. “I used to cook the twins all kinds of things. Their plates were colorful and oh so healthy, but now I hardly bother. All they want is mac and cheese, pizza, or Happy Meals. And I give it to them.” She sighed. “I won’t be winning a Mother of the Year award anytime soon.”
    “Getting kids to try new foods is the whole point of this game!” Harris exclaimed. “There’ve been all these studies showing that kids are more likely to eat unfamiliar food if they cook it themselves. Especially vegetables.”
    “In that case, I’d like to preorder a copy,” Laurel said. “Or do you need a few test subjects? My kids are all yours if you do. In fact, they could just move in with you for a weekend. What do you say?”
    Harris blanched.
    Olivia savored the exchange of easy conversation, imagining the words floating through the house on currents of cool air and eventually coming to rest in the cracks of the old pine floorboards. She liked the idea of the entire structure being filled with talk and laugher—the writers coating every surface with a patina of friendship.
    Not so long ago, the cottage had felt uninviting, haunted. Olivia had avoided the painful memories lingering within its walls by completely ignoring its existence. But then her friends had given her a reason to exorcise its ghosts and she had renovated it from the roof down, turning it into the perfect meeting place for small groups.
    Now, as she stood by the window overlooking the ocean, she marveled over how her life had changed for the better since she’d become a member of the Bayside Book Writers. They’d rescued her from decades of loneliness and neglect, just as Olivia had rescued her childhood home.
    “Can I interrupt your space-out session?” Millay asked, breaking into Olivia’s reverie. “I really need a