Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

full attention. “My guy at the
Robesonian
heard rumors about Calvin. Said everyone was shocked when he bought the Dawson farm. Turns out he never got the chance to live there because he took off with another man’s wife. The farm was abandoned until Bo came of age and moved in.”
    Millay winced. “That had to piss the Dawsons off. They sold their place only to see it go to pot? Ouch.”
    Laurel nodded. “Now fast forward another fifteen years and you’ve got Bo carrying his new wife Natalie over the threshold. According to the Robeson County rumor mill, the marriage was doomed from the start. Bo was lazy and Natalie was a go-getter. And even though they had two kids together, they were always fighting over money and how badly Bo ran the farm. Natalie actually seemed happier after Bo’s death.”
    “Was anyone in that family normal?” Millay thumped the table in frustration. “We need to talk to Talley. If the lady chief and that smooth-talking lawyer have anything to hide, they won’t tell us a damn thing. Maybe they want the land to themselves—to make up for their families not getting it the first time. Who knows? Talley could be feeling scared and alone. I want to make sure she’s okay.”
    Olivia put a hand on Millay’s arm. She knew that her friend was having a strong reaction to the possibility that a young woman of color was being targeted and that this same young woman had no family to protect her. “I think we should talk to her too, but she’s probably still at the hotel. We’ll have to be patient.”
    Millay crossed her arms over her chest and sulked. For a moment, she looked like a vulnerable child.
    “Let’s find her booth and get to work. She’s bound to stop by eventually,” Harris suggested and then turned to Rawlings. “We volunteered to sell her baskets for a while.”
    “Good,” Rawlings said. “You can put the memory jug on display.”
    “Wouldn’t that be awesome?” Harris asked quietly, his hand resting on the bubble wrap enveloping the piece of pottery. “If someone just walked by and said, ‘Hey, this must be one of Munin Cooper’s pieces. Yeah, I know her. We go way back. Want me to tell you about all the objects on this jug?’”
    “Dream on,” Millay murmured and the group headed toward the main path.
    Once again, the smell of fried food wafted through the trees. Haviland raised his nose, his nostrils flaring in interest. Laurel consulted the vendor map and led the Bayside Book Writers past tables of dream catchers, wood carvings, leather bags, etched copper jewelry, dolls, yarn hair accessories, bead medallions, pottery, and paintings of Lumbee in ceremonial costume. Next to a tent filled with a rainbow of quilts was Talley’s stall.
    The first of Talley’s works to catch Olivia’s eye was a large hearth basket. It had been woven with reeds dyed a rich, forest green and was sturdy enough to hold several pounds of kindling. She picked it up and examined the tight weaving.
    “These are cool,” Millay said, pointing at a berry basket decorated with pink reed strawberries growing from a vine of pale green reed tendrils.
    “Thanks.” Both women turned to find Talley standing behind them. “That berry basket’s my bestseller. I don’t make enough profit to cover the hours of work these things take, but it’s what I do at night while I’m watching TV.” She looked down at Haviland. “Hey, sweetie.”
    Haviland moved forward, inviting her touch, and Talley seemed grateful to be able to run both hands through his fur.
    Olivia glanced over her shoulder, relieved to see that Harris, Rawlings, and Laurel had paused at a booth across the aisle. Rawlings was showing the jug to an old man whose mouth was filled with a plug of chewing tobacco.
    “Who taught you how to do this?” Millay asked Talley, pivoting the berry basket. She pointed at the taut underside. “If you told me it was watertight, I’d believe you.”
    Talley rewarded Millay with a small smile, but there was no trace of pleasure in her eyes. They were filled with shadows instead. Gone was the radiance that had animated her features during yesterday’s performance. Now her skin was dull and her face was puffy from sedative-induced sleep. Her hair fell down her back in tangled, unwashed strands and her nails had been chewed until they’d bled.
    “My mom had lots of talent,” Talley said in a low, fragile voice. “She had my brother and me doing all kinds of things by the time we were