Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

man’s voice called with the barest hint of a reprimand, but the blur of white fur racing to the front door did not reduce speed.
    Olivia smiled and knelt down to say hello to an adorable terrier. “A Westie,” she said and held out her hand, palm up, for Duncan to sniff. He accepted the invitation, gave her a lick, and then moved in closer to get a good whiff of her shoes.
    “Duncan!” A man in his mid-sixties with glasses and pink-tinged cheeks rushed forward. “Give the lady some space!”
    Laughing, Olivia ran her hand through the Westie’s fur, pressing her fingertips through the wiry topcoat until she reached the soft undercoat. She gave Duncan a gentle scratch and he gazed up at her with adoration. When she stood upright, he tried to follow. He raised himself on his haunches and grinned, giving her a full view of his bubble gum pink tongue.
    “Sorry about that.” The man Olivia took to be Fred Yoder pulled Duncan away. “He’s a big dog in a little dog’s body.”
    “No apology necessary. I’m a dog lover too. In fact, Captain Haviland, my poodle, is right outside in the car.”
    Fred didn’t hesitate a moment. “Feel free to bring him in.”
    Olivia glanced around at the display shelves stuffed with porcelain plates and figurines, cut glass, and delicate sterling bud vases.
    The spacious interior had been divided into several themes. To the left was a masculine office complete with campaign desk, bookshelves, hunting prints, and antique weapons. To the right was a woman’s parlor whose showpiece was a fainting couch. Hundreds of Victorian knickknacks and a collection of ivory-handled fans and perfume bottles had been arranged on side tables and stands. Straight ahead was an English dining room with a heavy Empire sideboard covered by crystal decanters and a sterling silver punch bowl. A dazzling chandelier hung above the Chippendale table and an Oriental runner led the way across the hall to an early American bedroom.
    “This is wonderful.” Olivia was impressed. “I’m already writing a big check in my head.”
    Fred laughed. “My favorite kind of customer.” He held out his hand and introduced himself first to Olivia first and then to Rawlings. “I see you’ve brought me something.”
    “It’s a memory jug,” Rawlings said. “Know anything about them?”
    Opening his hands, Fred smiled. “I know a little bit about everything. Usually just enough to confuse folks.” His eyes twinkled with a boyish mirth and he waved at the front door. “Before we unveil your piece, invite your fellow inside. He and Duncan can hang out in the back room while we talk. I’m about ready for a coffee break.”
    Duncan seemed to like the suggestion. He wagged his tail and shot quick, hopeful glances between Fred and Olivia.
    A few minutes later, Fred, Rawlings, and Olivia were seated at a game table exchanging pleasantries, sipping Fred’s excellent coffee, and watching the two dogs get to know each other.
    During a lull in the conversation, Rawlings placed the jug on the table and removed it from the bubble wrap. Fred immediately focused on the piece. He began his inspection by looking at all of the objects, his powder blue eyes taking in every detail. Next, he touched several of the items embedded in the clay, smelled the jug’s surface, and then turned it upside down in search of a maker’s mark. There wasn’t one.
    “Judging by the clay and the shells, I’d say this was a local piece,” he said, raising his brows in search of confirmation.
    “It is,” Rawlings agreed. “But we can’t seem to find a connection between the objects.”
    Fred seemed surprised by this. “Is there supposed to be one?”
    “The potter, a woman, told me there was,” Olivia said. “The problem is that we don’t have any background details on her and have no idea what story this jug is trying to tell us.”
    Clearly intrigued, Fred returned his attention to the jug. “That’s the function of most memory pieces. They’re like a scrapbook made with found objects. And if this jug was meant to serve as a record of a person’s life, then it’s not being obvious about that life. This key could open any old door, the pennies aren’t rare, and the mirror’s contemporary. I can’t tell where the ring’s from either. But this . . .” He pivoted the jug, his index finger probing the surface of the circular medal. “This gold medal—it’s got lines on it. They’ve been filed or melted down, but . . .”