Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

the first place.
    The noise from the Corvette prevented her from concentrating and she glared at the back of the tourists’ heads, wishing she could bore holes into their skulls with a single, venomous look.
    This fantasy turned to very real outrage when the doctor blatantly tossed his extra-large plastic take-out cup onto the road. It bounced against the asphalt, and the lid became dislodged. Ice cubes ricocheted in all directions and the bright red straw rolled to a stop in the middle of the double yellow line.
    “Bastard!” Olivia repeated, her lips tightening. No one littered like that in her town. Fuming, she considered her options. She could report the infraction to the police, but doubted they’d respond. Because the revenue generated from tourism kept many Oyster Bay families afloat during the off-season, the authorities were reluctant to inconvenience visitors over minor infractions.
    Haviland, who also had his gaze fixed on the orange car, bared his teeth.
    “You’re right, Captain. It’s up to us. At the next light, I will calmly get out and tell that jerkoff to pick up his trash. If he argues, you can flash him your most fearsome snarl.”
    Olivia’s plans for a peaceful resolution were quickly ditched, however, the moment Blondie finished her cigarette.
    The next few seconds moved in slow motion. Blondie pushed a final plume of smoke into the air and then pulled back her arm. Olivia saw the movement and was reminded of a television close-up of a quarterback preparing to throw a winning pass. Unlike a highly focused athlete, Blondie hadn’t aimed for a spot in the distance where she wanted her missile to fall. In fact, as she released the cigarette butt, still glowing orange at one end, she turned to speak to the doctor.
    Olivia watched in horror as the lit stub careened toward the sidewalk. The object in its path was a stroller whose occupant was a chubby-cheeked toddler dressed in a pink sundress. Her fist was closed around a mermaid doll and her bare legs swung out before her as though she were running in place.
    Before Olivia could call out a warning, the cigarette struck the child’s right arm, just above the wrist, before dropping to the sidewalk. The child opened her eyes wide in shock and then her face crumpled, her mouth forming a huge O as she howled in pain.
    All Olivia could see was Anders as a newborn, fighting for survival in a hospital NICU. The sight of her tiny nephew hooked to tubes and wires as if he were a human marionette replaced the little girl’s round, healthy body. Over the music, Olivia heard only a child’s cries and was transported back to that time of fear and dread, to those long hours when she didn’t know whether her brother’s son would survive.
    Reliving those moments of helplessness, Olivia’s grip on the steering wheel turned white-knuckled. While the little girl’s parents knelt by her side to examine the angry red mark on her arm, Olivia pushed her foot against her accelerator petal until it hit the floor.
    The Range Rover leapt forward. Three thousand pounds of metal plowed into the fiberglass body of the orange Corvette and a sickening
crack
resounded above the hip-hop music.
    Olivia applied the brakes and cast a quick glance at Haviland. His custom-made canine seat belt had done its job, and though he was unsettled, he was also unhurt.
    Putting the Range Rover into park, Olivia leaned forward to gain a clear view of the damage. The back of the Corvette looked like a crumpled soda can. The taillights were splintered and a large chunk of fiberglass had been violently detached from the frame. It sat like an amputated limb behind the left rear tire.
    The plastic surgeon’s license plate was mangled beyond recognition and the car’s speakers abruptly stopped broadcasting any sound.
    Olivia examined the wreckage and smiled. “Thanks for visiting Oyster Bay. We hope you enjoyed your stay.”

Chapter 2
    The smaller the mind the greater the conceit.
    —A ESOP
    O livia maneuvered the Range Rover to the side, put on her hazard lights, and phoned the police. She reported the location of the accident and assured the operator that no one had been injured.
    “You may have to treat a bruised ego,” she added too quietly for the dispatcher to hear.
    Her declaration that no one was hurt was factual, for Dr. NipTuck immediately hopped out of his wrecked car, bellowing in rage as he examined the damage to his Corvette. He gesticulated and cursed with such vigor