Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

Willis’s shoulders and Olivia took hold of his feet. Together, they managed to shuffle across the brittle grass and crisp pine needles toward the tent Talley had used as a dressing room. They’d almost made it inside when Olivia’s foot caught on a tree root and she stumbled.
    Thrown off balance, Rawlings fought to hold on and Talley thrust her hands under her brother’s waist, dislodging his sash and the buckskin pouch attached to it. She kicked the bag aside and the three of them entered the cool tent, laying Willis on Talley’s yellow dress. They’d barely eased him down when the sound of an approaching siren filled the air. Haviland began to howl and turn in nervous half circles.
    “Finally!” Talley sobbed.
    “I’ll wave them over.” Rawlings darted out of the tent.
    Olivia picked up Willis’s hand. His breath was coming faster now and his skin had turned a frightening shade of dull gray. The tent was close with the scent of cloves and dread.
    She scuttled out of the way when a pair of paramedics entered, watching in silence as they placed an oxygen mask over Willis’s mouth and nose, fit a blood pressure cuff over his arm, and spoke to one another in hushed, rapid speech.
    Amid a flurry of medical talk and deft movements, Willis was placed on a gurney and loaded into the ambulance. A ring of spectators surrounded the vehicle and Olivia was glad to see a few familiar faces among the crowd.
    “Olivia?” Laurel called out, hugging a notebook to her chest. “Are you okay?”
    Gesturing for Laurel, Millay, and Harris to come closer, Olivia drank in the sight of Harris’s ginger-colored hair, Laurel’s wide, blue eyes, and Millay’s trademark frown. Along with Rawlings, these were the people who kept her anchored to Oyster Bay. The pull of childhood memories, which had called her back to the area several years ago, were not as powerful as these bonds of friendship. The Bayside Book Writers were always there when she needed them. They were here now. And she needed them.
    “How do you know him?” Harris asked.
    Olivia struggled to find her voice. “He’s a sous-chef at The Boot Top.”
    Millay glanced at the ambulance in time to see the paramedics slam the rear doors shut. “What happened to him?”
    “I have no idea,” Olivia said. “One minute I was talking to him and he seemed perfectly normal. And then, he couldn’t speak or breathe freely and he keeled over.”
    “He looks so young!” Laurel exclaimed, her gaze following the emergency vehicle as it eased forward.
    “Only twenty-one,” Olivia said. “The girl who went with him is his sister. Rawlings and I had just finished listening to her recite a Lumbee folktale when Willis collapsed.” She ran a hand through her hair. Damp strands clung to her neck and forehead and her throat was dry. “Do any of you have water?”
    Laurel immediately produced a plastic bottle. “Take this. Drink it all. You look . . .”
    “Like you’re in shock,” Millay finished and then jerked her thumb in the direction the ambulance had gone. “Is it serious? Will he be all right?”
    Olivia paused. Judging from the weakness of Willis’s breathing, his muscle rigidity, and the color of his skin, he was gravely ill. She had no medical training, but Willis seemed to have slipped away right before her eyes. And from beneath her hands. It was as if she could feel parts of his body shutting down. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t even unconscious. But the Willis she recognized was gone and she didn’t think he was coming back.
    She hated to voice this thought.
    “Olivia?” Laurel prompted.
    Bending over to retrieve Willis’s leather pouch, Olivia rubbed her fingers over the smooth buckskin. “It doesn’t look good.”
    Silence descended on the group. They watched Rawlings as he spoke to a fresh-faced park ranger and a bearded sheriff’s deputy.
    “I think something fell out of that bag,” Harris said, reaching for a scrap of paper near Haviland’s front paw. He examined the paper, his brows knitting together, and then handed it to Olivia.
    Four lines had been typed on a field of plain white:
    The voice of that fitful song
    Sings on, and is never still
    A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
    And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.
    “What is it?” Millay stood on her tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of the note’s contents.
    “A metaphor.” Olivia passed it on to Millay.
    Laurel frowned. “Is your sous-chef a writer?”
    “I