Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

of their hands and the sweat of their brow, we become bound to the maker. I’ve seen how the stories told in a needlepoint sampler, or oil paintings, or piece of pottery can change a person. Usually, it’s a wonderful thing to witness, but there are times when the story a piece carries does more harm than good.”
    Olivia didn’t want him to go on, but despite her misgivings, she had to ask, “Such as?”
    “I used to have a shop in Greensboro. One of my regular customers was a wealthy woman who collected Victorian mourning jewelry. She only wanted pieces showing a child’s portrait or silhouette or containing a kid’s lock of hair. After being in business for fifteen years, I eventually learned that this lady had lost both of her children in a house fire. She never learned to live with her grief. Instead, she became obsessed with collecting jewelry that belonged to the grieving mothers of another century.”
    “How sad,” Rawlings said.
    Nodding, Fred gazed intently at Olivia. “Your potter, Munin, obviously felt connected to you. She gave you clues to her story. Go on and run the clues down, but keep your distance. You don’t know what kind of insects are hiding under the rocks you’re going to turn over.”
    He pointed at the image on the computer screen, at the hundreds of figures in white robes and pointed hoods marching through the nation’s capital. To Olivia, the dark eye slits transformed the hoods into sinister masks. She felt like she was staring at a parade of soulless wraiths. And that they were staring right back at her.

Chapter 8
    Murder is commoner among cooks than among members of any other profession.
    —W. H. A UDEN
    T he Coastal Carolina Food Festival was being held in an area of the Croatan Forest called Flanners Beach. Olivia, Rawlings, and Haviland joined a large crowd of attendees heading toward the campground by the Neuse River. They walked up a wide path cut through the trees where hundreds of vendors were hawking culinary-themed merchandise. From chef’s knives to homemade jams to personalized lobster bibs, festivalgoers were lured into stall after stall by the promise of free samples.
    “Kudzu jelly?” Rawlings said after waving away a platter of jam-covered crackers being offered by a pretty girl in a floral skirt. “Doesn’t sound very tempting.”
    “At least someone’s found a use for that awful vine.” Olivia elbowed him. “There won’t be any chocolate milk here, Chief. You’re going to encounter more exotic foods today.”
    He shrugged. “As long as no one offers me a grilled, candied, or chocolate-covered bug, then I’m willing to try anything. It’s all I see on TV. People eating bugs.”
    Olivia laughed. “Don’t forget the shows about women giving birth or following the antics of a gang of cretins from the Jersey Shore. After being exposed to that crew, I’d rather watch a good-looking man eat a centipede.”
    Rawlings shook his head. “Not this man. I’ll have to find other ways to entertain you.”
    “You know how to do that already. You proved that this morning.” Olivia grinned.
    The couple strolled deeper into the forest. The soft ground was sun-dappled and the August morning air was deliciously cool. A breeze drifted in from the Neuse River, carrying scents of burning wood chips and charcoal as well as more enticing aromas like sizzling butter, grilling meat, and the saltiness of fried fish.
    “There’s the Foodie Network tent,” Olivia said. She examined the map she’d been given at the park’s entrance. “Looks like they’ve set up a stage and a cooking platform closer to the beach. That’s where my judging job will take place. I bet Michel is beside himself. He lives for this show.”
    “
Chefs Gone Wild
?” Rawlings read the banner above the seating area. “Never heard of it.”
    “Four chefs have to create a gourmet meal using local ingredients and relatively primitive cooking methods. In this case, they’re obviously going to be given a grill and a camping stove. But I have no idea what the food items are.” She craned her neck, searching for Michel’s white chef’s coat amid the audience members and the dozens of crewmembers in Foodie Network T-shirts conducting last-minute sound and lighting checks.
    As the scent of cooking food intensified, Haviland’s nose quivered and his eyes darted about the campground-turned-television-studio. He then gave Olivia his most expectant stare.
    “You’ve just had a bag of