Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

don’t think so.” Olivia opened the bag and, pulling out the items one by one, dropped them into Harris’s cupped hands. There was a cheap lighter, a cell phone, keys on a dream catcher key chain, and twenty-six dollars in cash.
    The friends stared at the contents for a long moment and Olivia sensed they were all thinking the same thing. Could the objects people carried in a bag or a pocket define a life? Family photos, keys to a car or a house, a good-luck charm, credit cards and cash—could each of them be reduced to a handful of similar articles?
    Rawlings finished talking, shook hands with the two men in uniform, and walked over to join the Bayside Book Writers.
    “Willis’s effects?” he asked Harris.
    Olivia didn’t care for the sound of the word “effects.” It was too clinical. Too removed from the vibrant young man she was just beginning to know. “They came from his pouch,” she answered before Harris could. “As well as that slip of paper.” She passed it to him.
    The four friends watched as Rawlings’ eyes darted over the lines several times. “Sounds like poetry,” he said. “But I don’t recognize it. Does anyone know the author?”
    A collective shake of heads.
    “I’ll google it.” Harris brandished his smartphone and began to type while Millay held out the paper for him.
    Rawlings touched Olivia on the arm. “I told the uniforms what happened. There’s a deputy at the hospital already—some kid set off fireworks inside a convenience store and ended up with mild burns—and he’s going to radio an update on Willis’s condition. Do you want to talk to someone about the memory jug while we wait?”
    “I guess we have time to kill,” Olivia muttered darkly. Her fingers curled around the dolly’s handle and she nodded. “Sorry. We did come here with a purpose. Maybe one of the craft vendors can help.”
    Harris put Willis’s things back in the pouch and Laurel stored the whole bundle in her cavernous shoulder bag. She pointed at a booth up ahead. “I’m going to photograph those adorable Lumbee dolls. You should get one for your niece, Olivia. They make me wish that I had a sweet little girl at home instead of my hang-from-the-chandelier boys.”
    “I’ll be there in a minute,” Olivia said, drawn to a booth across the path. While the rest of the Bayside Book Writers paused to examine a vendor’s exquisite needlework, Olivia admired a collection of oil paintings. Most of the subjects were Lumbee women in ceremonial dress, but there were also black-and-white portraits of elderly Lumbee men.
    These were close-ups of weathered faces, showing every furrow and wrinkle. The subjects gazed at some point in the distance, their proud, dignified features tinged by a hint of sorrow. Or perhaps regret. Olivia wasn’t sure which emotion the artist was aiming for, but she found his work stirringly beautiful.
    “Can I help you?” a plump woman wearing a tight T-shirt and cutoffs inquired. She smiled at Haviland and then, after asking Olivia’s permission, reached out to stroke his curly fur.
    “Are you the artist?” Olivia asked.
    The woman laughed at the idea. “Heavens, no! I can barely draw a circle. My grandfather made these. He’s sitting in the shade over there.” She pointed to a copse of trees where a group of men sitting in folding chairs were chatting and sipping from beer cans tucked inside paper bags.
    Taking note of the signature in the corner of the closest portrait, Olivia eased the memory jug from the crate and approached the men. “Graham Wright?”
    She was surprised when a man with fair skin and gray eyes raised his hand. “That’s me. You interested in my art?”
    “I am, yes. I particularly like the black-and-white portraits, but I also need your help. May I join you?”
    At this, all of the men gave her their full attention.
    “You’d best sit down.” Graham gestured at the large cooler to his left and Olivia perched on its plastic seat. Haviland trotted a few feet away and settled down on a carpet of pine needles.
    Olivia held out the jug. “I was wondering if anything on this piece was familiar to you?”
    The old man grasped the jug tightly, almost reverently around its base. “Well, now, I haven’t laid eyes on one of these for years.” He began to rotate the jug, his eyes glimmering with delight.
    “The pennies are from 1958,” Olivia said. “Does that year have special meaning to the Lumbee?”
    Graham nodded. “Only because of