Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

a stone. Death by irregular heartbeat.”
    Michel cast his eyes down. “I know. And maybe it’s wrong for me to be happy, to be hopeful after what happened to him, but I can’t help it. Whenever I’m around Shelley, I feel like anything’s possible. I feel at ease in my own skin. Do you know what a relief that is?”
    Olivia did. It was how she felt whenever Rawlings was around, but she wasn’t in the mood to congratulate Michel on finding a woman who could truly make him whole. “And it doesn’t bother you that he and Willis died from the same accidental death?”
    “Why should it?” He frowned in confusion. “It’s not like Shelley murdered them both.” Suddenly, his face flushed with indignation. “What’s wrong with you, Olivia? Not everyone is a psychopath. Not everyone has closets stuffed with deep, dark secrets. Are you seriously implying that Shelley Giusti had something to do with Willis’s passing?”
    Shame washed over Olivia and she shook her head. “You’re right, it’s an absurd notion. Forgive me.” She rubbed her temples. “I’m coming unraveled, Michel.”
    He took her hand. “Tell me everything.”
    When she was done and her coffee cup was empty, Michel disappeared into the walk-in and came back out a few minutes later with his arms loaded. He placed tomatoes, heavy cream, an assortment of cheeses, and a mound of fresh basil leaves on the cutting board. “Go home,” he told her. “Take a walk. Have a hot bath. Put on a pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt. A waiter will show up at the cottage at half past five with food for all the Bayside Book Writers.”
    “But—”
    Michel began to sharpen a paring knife. “Go! That’s an order. You need some time to let everything sink in. Kick off your shoes, go down to the beach, and get your feet wet. The ocean always helps when you’re off kilter.”
    He was right about that. She could almost feel the water’s pull, a silent call that could be heard only by the heart. Longing to gaze upon its blue expanse and to make contact with the cool waves, Olivia rounded up Haviland and drove home.
    Taking Michel’s advice, she walked slowly over the soft sand, her hair still damp from the shower. Haviland sprinted ahead of her until he was only a black blur against the horizon. With every step, the riot of thoughts in Olivia’s mind became less frenzied. On the isolated stretch of beach, she listened to the murmur of the waves until their steady rhythm calmed her to the core.
    By the time Harris, Millay, and Laurel showed up at the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, Olivia was relaxing in a wing chair, a tumbler of Chivas Regal in her hand.
    “What smells so good?” Laurel exclaimed when she entered the tiny kitchen.
    Olivia gestured at the pot simmering on the stove. “Michel made us creamy tomato soup and there are grilled cheddar and asiago cheese sandwiches on herb focaccia bread warming in the oven. He thought we could use some comfort food.”
    Harris opened the oven door and inhaled. “He nailed it. This is exactly what I need.”
    The friends ladled soup into bowls and carried plates of grilled cheese sandwiches into the living room. Harris popped the caps off four bottles of beer while Laurel passed out napkins and Olivia spread out the shards from the memory jug across the coffee table.
    “So the only thing we haven’t seen before is this little key,” Laurel said after she’d swallowed a spoonful of soup.
    “I think it’ll open a safety deposit box at the Oyster Bay Federal. I have an account there and my key looks just like it,” Olivia said and then took a long pull of beer, surprised to find it the perfect complement to their meal. She wasn’t very fond of beer, but tonight, the bready heartiness of the local microbrew was soothing.
    Millay frowned. “Then you’ll have to wait until Monday to see what’s in the box. Unless you have some kind of ‘in’ with the bank manager.”
    “Forget it,” Laurel interjected. “He’s a deacon at my church and would never bend the rules. You’re not getting in on a Sunday.”
    “God-fearin’ folk are no fun,” Millay grumbled and Olivia was pleased to see that the humorous glint had returned to her friend’s eyes.
    “Come on, I thought you lived for hellfire and damnation,” Harris teased Millay.
    She raised her bottle and clinked it against his. “Damn straight.”
    The friends discussed the memory jug as they ate, but no one came up with a useful conclusion.