Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

starts being really cool.”
    Olivia’s gaze traveled up and down the jug’s surface. Nestled among buttons, marbles, animal teeth, shells, bottle caps, beads, pennies, and marbles were several unique decorations.
    There was a gilt-framed mirror the size of a ladies’ compact, some kind of gold medal whose emblem had been filed or melted away until it was unrecognizable, a class ring, which was so buried in epoxy that only half of the ruby-colored stone and the letters “IGH SCHOOL” could be read, an old skeleton key, and a starfish necklace. Camille Limoges’s necklace.
    Millay put her fingertip on the pendant and Olivia had to quell the urge to swipe it away. “Is this yours?” She turned to examine Olivia’s bare throat.
    “No. It was my mother’s.” Olivia laid her left hand over the hollow between her collarbones.
    Harris whistled. “Oh, man. Did you know that you and your mom had matching necklaces?”
    “I don’t remember seeing her wear this.” Olivia stared at the gold starfish and the delicate gold chain, which curved around the top half of the tiny mirror.
    Rawlings cleared his throat, eager to get to the business at hand. “Okay, folks. Let’s assume the bones, shells, bottle caps, and the like won’t tell us much about Munin other than she was a dedicated scavenger. Many of these things could have easily been found in the forest, especially around the recreation areas. What significance might the other items have?”
    Laurel retrieved a notepad and pen from her purse and studied the jug. “I’ll make a list. Then we can brainstorm theories about what connects them to Munin or to each other.”
    “We can start with the three pennies,” Olivia said. “Are they unusual in any way?”
    Harris pulled the jug closer and squinted at each coin. “Yeah. They were all minted in 1958.”
    “Munin’s date of birth?” Millay guessed.
    Rawlings shook his head. “No. She was at least twenty years older. But 1958 must mean something. She deliberately added three coins from that year.” He looked at Olivia. “Did that date mean anything to your mother?”
    Olivia drifted back in time until she saw herself curled up in the window seat in the library at her grandmother’s sprawling country estate. Leaning against a plump silk pillow, she turned the pages of a scrapbook. There were dozens of photos of Camille Limoges.
    Whether the images were of a chubby toddler, a thin, freckled adolescent, or a tall, strikingly beautiful young woman, Camille’s expression was always the same. She smiled with her whole being—a smile that radiated from every pore and created sparks of light in her eyes. She never seemed to pose, but had simply been caught by the camera in the middle of private joke, a pirouette, or a song. Whether holding a blue ribbon in a horse show or a Christmas gift, Camille Limoges made it clear that she found joy in every moment.
    Olivia, who was driven by loneliness to the scrapbook every day after tea, had a hard time understanding this joie de vivre. She’d memorized all of her mother’s expressions, the tilt of her chin, the pattern of her freckles, and the way her body lengthened and softened as she matured. She studied her report cards and awards, her summer reading lists and her birth certificate. Knowing everything there was to know about Camille Limoges might keep Olivia from forgetting her. And despite the pain of having been separated from her by tragedy, she did not want to forget a thing.
    Coming back to the present, Olivia shook her head and said, “’Fifty-eight doesn’t match her birth date, high school or college graduation dates, or the year she got married. The pennies must relate to Munin, not to my mother.”
    Rawlings rubbed his chin. “Maybe there’s a link to the forest. We’ll have to do some research on the park’s history.”
    Harris held up his laptop case. “I’m on it.”
    “What’s next?” Rawlings looked at Laurel.
    She slid the jug away from Harris until it sat directly in front of her. “One old key. Reminds me of the kind that could open the front door to a big old house. It’s iron or steel. Nothing fancy, and I can’t see any writing on it.”
    Millay frowned. “Oyster Bay isn’t exactly overflowing with historic mansions. Even the oldest homes were fairly simple. This key seems like it would open a heavy door. Maybe a warehouse or something?”
    Harris pointed at his MacBook’s screen. “According to this website, this type