Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

knew my dad’s folks. And both he and my mom were only children, so I have no aunts or uncles. No cousins.” Her eyes filled with tears and her fingers shook. She curled them around the jug, hugging the clay with her hands. “And no brother. I have no one.
Willis!
” she cried. “How could you have left me alone?”
    Millay was at Talley’s side in seconds. She put an arm around the distraught young woman and led her out of the booth and away from the crowd.
    As Olivia watched them disappear into the trees, she noticed a pack of children racing down the path directly toward Haviland. The poodle clearly didn’t like the speed with which he was being approached and began to retreat for the safety of the booth.
    Dropping the basket at Olivia’s feet, he stood behind her, anxiously shifting his weight from one leg to another.
    The children didn’t slow their pace, but turned the corner into the booth screaming, “Here, doggie!” and, “I saw him first!”
    Before Olivia could react, one of the bigger boys gave his brother a powerful shove, careening the smaller boy backward into the table’s edge. The memory jug wobbled and then disappeared from view, falling to the ground on the far side of the table.
    Olivia heard a muted crack and felt a surge of sadness course through her. The children backpedaled slowly, clearly wary of Olivia’s reaction. Spying something else of interest farther down the row of booths, they turned and rushed off, calling out apologies.
    Slowly, Olivia walked around the table and stared down at the broken jug. She sank to her knees, feeling that something inside her had broken as well, and reached for one of the larger shards.
    Its flat, undecorated shape indicated that it had once been the jug’s bottom. Turning it over in her hands, she drew in a sharp breath. There was a key embedded in the ruddy clay.
    Glancing around in hopes that Rawlings and the others had returned, Olivia’s heart skipped a beat. And then another. She forgot to breathe.
    For there, gazing at an oil painting of a Lumbee warrior, was her father.
    Her father
.
    A man who’d died right in front of her. Months ago.

Chapter 14
    For many men that stumble at the threshold are well foretold that danger lurks within.
    —W ILLIAM S HAKESPEARE
    O livia stood on rubbery legs, the piece of broken pottery clutched in her hand. She wanted to run after the aberration but couldn’t move. As she watched her father melt into the crowd, a small cry escaped from between her clenched lips. Haviland nudged her with his nose, whining in concern.
    “I’m okay, Captain.”
    Glancing around the empty booth, Olivia knew she couldn’t just leave. She’d have to take the cash box with her and gather up the clay shards before chasing after the hallucination.
    Her gaze swept the crowd, but the ghost of her dead father had vanished. None of the Bayside Book Writers were within sight either.
    Grabbing a plastic bag from Talley’s supplies, Olivia squatted near the broken jug and collected the pieces. She then dropped into a folding chair at the back of the booth and dialed Hudson’s cell phone number.
    “I saw him,” she croaked when her brother answered.
    “Hold on, I can’t hear a thing!” Hudson yelled over shouts, clanking utensils, hissing steam, and laughter. “Okay, start again,” he said a minute later, the background noise somewhat faded.
    Olivia looked across the aisle, staring at the exact place where her father had been standing. Except that it couldn’t have been her father. “I saw what you saw,” she blurted, before she lost her nerve. “He was here.”
    Hudson sighed, and Olivia couldn’t tell whether the sound reflected relief or resignation. “I knew I wasn’t crazy,” he said. “Or maybe we both are. What the hell is going on, Sis?”
    She gripped the phone so hard that its edges dug into her palm, but the discomfort allowed her to think, to process the impossible. “No, no, no. It can’t be. This guy walked like a man with no troubles. Our father was as tense as a spring. He moved like a wounded animal, always ready to lash out at a potential threat, always looking for a fight.”
    “How many troubles can you have if you’re dead?” Hudson asked, a lame attempt at wry humor.
    Ignoring him, Olivia went on. “And his clothes were all wrong. Willie Wade in Italian loafers? An ironed dress shirt? No way.” Her voice became steadier. “This guy was squeaky clean. No filthy jeans, no chin