Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

the Battle of Hayes Pond.”
    “Anything else?” she asked.
    The old man thought for a moment. “Nothin’ comes to mind, but when you get to be my age, it’s hard to pick apart the years. They lump together, kind of like that clay this jug was made from. You could talk to the chief. She put our whole history on the computer. Folks can look up all sorts of things. Pictures and stories and newspaper clippin’s from way back when.”
    “Your chief’s a woman?” Olivia was surprised.
    The men nodded proudly.
    “She’s a warrior, that one,” the old man next to Graham said and cackled. “We set her loose on those jokers up in Washington and she helped get the government to admit that we’re a real tribe. Took a hundred years for that to happen.”
    “That gal’s tough as nails,” another man agreed.
    Olivia was impressed. She sensed this group was sparse with their praise. “She sounds like a force to reckoned with. So what’s her name and where can I find her?”
    Graham checked his watch. “Her name’s Annette Stevens and she’ll be crownin’ the winner of the beauty pageant. The boys and I have a little wager on who’s gonna be Miss Lumbee, but I know who’s sure to win.”
    The man to his left spluttered. “Talley Locklear’s not the only pretty girl in the tribe. My granddaughter will give her a run for her money.”
    At the sound of Talley’s name, Olivia had a flash of the young woman’s anguished face as she climbed into ambulance.
    “I don’t think she’ll make it,” she said and hurriedly added, “To the pageant, I mean. Her brother’s sick.”
    Graham cocked his head. “Willis Locklear? I just saw the boy an hour ago. He couldn’t be too poorly.”
    Olivia hated to be the bearer of bad news. “I’m sorry, but he collapsed after Talley’s performance. An ambulance was called. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
    “Probably heatstroke,” said a man with a long, silver braid and a gold tooth. “These kids run all day without drinkin’ a drop of water. Then they pass out. We see it happen every year.” He waved a finger at Olivia. “You look a bit worse for the wear yourself, young lady.”
    Olivia hadn’t been called a young lady for decades, and she couldn’t help but smile at the man. His face was similar to those in Graham’s portraits, etched with deep lines and loose skin, but his eyes didn’t reflect the same mixture of sorrow and hope. They were bright and inquisitive and Olivia was certain very little escaped his keen gaze.
    As if to prove her point, he pointed at something over Olivia’s shoulder and said, “I think that fellow’s lookin’ for you.”
    She swung around. Rawlings was pocketing his cell phone and walking toward her. She didn’t like the set of his jaw. She didn’t like the sweat shining on his forehead or how he motioned for Laurel, Millay, and Harris to stay where they were. She didn’t like his resolute stride.
    “I . . .” Olivia began, rising slowly to her feet. “I need to go.”
    Graham glanced up at her. “Somethin’ wrong, hon? He botherin’ you?”
    But Olivia couldn’t answer. Part of her mind registered the concerned looks being exchanged among the old men. The other part plotted an escape route. There, to the right was a narrow gap between the trees. She and Haviland could vanish deep into the forest. They could run to the heart of the woods, to a spot where light barely penetrated the dense canopy overhead.
    “Olivia.” Rawlings took hold of her arm.
    She kept her gaze fixed on the narrow trail leading away from the campground.
    “Look at me,” Rawlings commanded gently.
    She knew what he needed to tell her. It was too late to flee from the knowledge. Slowly, she met his eyes. The splinters of gold she often saw in his muddy green irises weren’t there. They’d been replaced by shadows.
    “Willis is gone, Olivia.” He held tightly on to both of her arms and she dug her fingertips into his flesh. “He died on the way to the hospital.”
    The old men cried out. Rising to their feet, they hammered Rawlings with questions and shouted their disbelief, but when he told them who he was, their protests gave way to shock. In the dappled light, they reached out to each other with gnarled and trembling hands, trying to make sense of the senseless.
    Olivia drifted away, returning to the stall filled with Graham Wright’s portraits. She stood in front of a drawing of a majestic old man and allowed grief and