Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

of key was most popular in the late 1800s but was still made well into the twentieth century. Most were used in homes and on pieces of antique furniture.”
    “This is too big to unlock a chest of drawers,” Rawlings said. “And the house could be anywhere. Unless I can find out where Munin lived before she moved to the forest’s edge, this isn’t a big help.”
    Harris put the jug on the flat of his palm and held on to it by the spout. Slowly, he pivoted it to the left and right. Some of the beads and bottle caps winked in the light. “Maybe there’s an identifying mark on the back of the key. And half of this class ring is buried in clay.” He glanced at Olivia. “Would you consider breaking this thing?”
    “No!” Olivia snatched the piece from his hands, catching a glimpse of her face in the jug’s tiny mirror. Her sea blue eyes had grown dark with indignation.
    Relieved to feel the weight of the piece of pottery, she ran her hands over its curved side, her fingertips touching the ridges of a seashell, the bump of an animal tooth, and the smooth surface of a plastic button. “I hope it doesn’t have to come to that. This was her last one.”
    Then the memory of Harlan tucking a second sack into a box in the prow of his boat came back to her. “Actually, it’s not. There was a second jug.” She told Rawlings that Harlan was supposed to send the other jug to an art dealer on the West Coast.
    “I’ll let the sheriff’s office know,” he said. “I doubt they’ll be interested, but I can get the dealer’s address from Harlan. I’d like to see images of that piece.”
    Together, the five friends spent another hour exchanging ideas about the objects. They searched for connections on Harris’s laptop, debated possibilities, and ended up without a single, tangible link between the articles and the jug’s maker.
    “Let’s call it a night,” Rawlings suggested. “I’ll do a background check on Munin. Maybe we can make a connection after we take a closer look at her life before she moved to the swamp.”
    Olivia tapped her chin, her expression thoughtful. “An antique store opened near The Bayside Crab House two weeks ago. I wonder if the owner could shed some light on this piece.”
    “Couldn’t hurt,” Rawlings said. “We can stop by in the morning after your interview.”
    “What interview?” Laurel asked suspiciously. “This isn’t media related, is it?”
    Assuring her that it wasn’t, Olivia escorted her friends to the door. Millay let Laurel and Harris precede her. Pausing in the doorway, she turned and looked over Olivia’s shoulder at the jug. “I’ll ask around about 1958 at the bar tonight. Nothing came up on Google, but if anything juicy happened in these parts during that year, my guys will remember. They may not be valedictorians, but I’ve never known people with better memories.”
    Olivia had always admired the respect Millay paid to the fishermen and laborers who gathered at Fish Nets every weekend to drink, smoke, and play a game of billiards or darts. These grizzled, sun-and-salt-weathered men and women had welcomed Millay into their fold. They grudgingly accepted her rule when she refused to pour them another drink, opened the back door for her whenever she struggled to carry out an empty keg or heavy trash bag, and confided in her.
    “Good idea.” Rawlings gave her shoulder a paternal pat.
    “What should I tell them about Munin?” Millay asked the chief.
    “Just that she’s passed away. Don’t tell them how. Pay attention to the gossip that flies after you deliver the news,” Rawlings replied. “Like you said, those folks have long memories. Who knows what kind of dirt will be shaken loose?”
    Nodding, Millay stepped out from under his hand and disappeared down the slope of the driveway.
    Olivia lingered by the closed door, watching a trio of moths flutter wildly against the panes. They were desperate to get inside, to reach the light that was so tantalizingly near. The dust from their wings left faint marks on the glass, and even though Rawlings was standing by the sink, Olivia flicked the switch, plunging the kitchen into darkness.
    “Why’d you do that?” he asked quietly.
    Tapping her fingertips against the pane, Olivia said, “I didn’t want them to die of exhaustion.”
    Rawlings moved closer to her, his breath warm on her neck, his hands on her waist. “They don’t realize that they’re better off outside. If they reached the light,