Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

over, but it’s not.’”
    Rawlings shot her a worried glance. “And because you caught a glimpse of a man who resembles Willie Wade, you think Munin is right?”
    “I had more than a glimpse at the powwow. He was only a few feet away. Hudson’s seen him too. And it’s not just a close resemblance. That man from the bridge is my father’s identical twin.” Olivia shrugged. “Judging from his clothes and the extra fifteen pounds, life was kinder to him. But the way he said my mother’s name . . .”
    “I heard,” Rawlings said softly. “The longing. And the pain.”
    Olivia clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking. “Munin said that the man who should have raised me couldn’t claim me. Or my mother for that matter. She asked me to consider why a woman like Camille Limoges would marry an unrefined, whiskey-loving fisherman. Now I know what she was trying to tell me.”
    Rawlings slowed. “And what’s that?”
    “The mirror in the jug was meant for me. I was supposed to look at myself, to see my mother’s starfish necklace, and to question my origins.” Olivia swallowed hard. “That man cried out my mother’s name like a lover would. If that’s so, whose daughter am I? Willie Wade’s? Or his brother’s?”
    They rounded a bend and Munin’s shack came into view. The forest already seemed to have closed in around it, shielding the crude structures and beginning to reclaim the clearing where she’d worked on her pottery.
    Rawlings was clearly torn between rushing off to investigate Munin’s possessions and grappling with Olivia’s theory. “We’ll find the guy when we get back,” he assured her. “I promise. Until then, you’re taking Munin’s word as gospel just because you ran into your father’s lookalike.” He took her by the hand. “Please, Olivia. I need you with me right here, right now. I need you to be sharp. So does Talley.”
    “I’m on it.” Olivia reached down with her free hand, searching for Haviland, and he quickly moved to her side so that her fingers could connect with his fur. “Trust me, Sawyer. My stuff doesn’t matter now. I want justice for Munin, no matter how much she’s still screwing with my head. Let’s go.”
    Harlan needed to disable Munin’s traps before joining them in the search, so only Rawlings, Olivia, and Haviland stepped down into the shack’s dark, musty interior. Harlan had provided them with a pair of battery-powered lanterns and Rawlings positioned his near the shelf filled with glass jars. Olivia was about to place hers near Munin’s stack of newspapers when she realized that they were gone.
    Lowering her lantern to the ground, she noticed a trail of ashes leading to the hearth. “The killer came back,” she whispered to Rawlings, feeling a chill race up her spine. “The killer returned to burn of all Munin’s papers.”
    Rawlings followed the scorch marks to the hearth. He bent down and poked at the mountain of ash using Munin’s walking stick. “Damn! There’s nothing left.”
    “Her memories have been destroyed,” Olivia murmured, sinking into the chair Munin had occupied during their visit. Her chipped pottery mug was still on the mantel and Olivia recalled the strange, pleasant taste of the old woman’s tea. She had a sudden yearning to smell the leaves, to let Munin spring to life again through the aromas of strong black tea, sharp mint, and sweet honey.
    While Rawlings pried the lids from glass jars filled with shells, pennies, buttons, bottle caps, smooth pebbles, pull tabs, marbles, and nails, Olivia opened Munin’s tea tin and imagined cradling a warm mug in her hands. Acting on impulse, she took Munin’s chipped mug from the mantel and returned to the chair. She stared into the gloom and held the mug as if were made of the finest porcelain.
    “What’s that?” Rawlings asked.
    Only when Olivia glanced down at the mug did she notice a slip of paper nestled inside. “I don’t know. Should I take it out?”
    “No.” Rawlings removed a pair of tweezers and an evidence bag from his kit. He pulled the paper from the mug and placed it on top of the evidence bag, holding the edges down with gloved fingers. “Another time metaphor.”
    Olivia closed her eyes, trying to force down the rage that seemed to be clawing its way up her throat. It was as if the killer was mocking them. She hated feeling so helpless. She hated the thought of the murderer being in complete control while everyone else fumbled in