Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

killer had left the final four lines of a poem entitled “Inscription for Katrina’s Sun-Dial” by Henry Van Dyke. Like the other poems the killer favored, this one focused on things lost due to the passage of time. Olivia found it interesting that the poem actually ended with a positive message about the enduring power of love. She had no doubt that killer had omitted those lines because they didn’t mesh with his or her distorted view of justice.
    She was just about to search for a deeper analysis of the poem when Haviland issued a low growl.
    “What is it, Captain? Is someone here?”
    Haviland rose to his feet, his ears raised.
    “It’s me!” Millay called out and Haviland immediately stopped growling.
    Millay appeared in the doorway and stopped. “I was hoping to find you here,” she said, stuffing her hands in the pockets of a very short and very frayed jean skirt.
    “Oh?” Olivia asked, momentarily flustered by her friend’s unexpected visit. “Have you been to the hospital?”
    Millay tugged at one of strings hanging from her skirt. “Yeah. Talley’s awake and talking. Fletcher, Annette, and Judson are there, along with a few other people from her tribe. I didn’t feel like I really belonged.” She snapped the thread and began to wind it around her fingers. “I’m here because I have an idea.” Now she looked directly at Olivia. “But I need Haviland.”
    Involuntarily, Olivia put a hand on the poodle’s back. “What?”
    Millay opened the flap of her messenger bag and withdrew a pack of cigarettes from inside. “Clove.”
    Olivia merely raised her eyebrows, silently inviting her friend to explain.
    “I want to find the killer,” Millay said with forced nonchalance. “All three of our major suspects are with Talley. All three of them are staying at the same hotel. Haviland can track this scent. If it’s on their dirty clothes or sheets or whatever, he can find it, right?”
    “Yes, but . . .” Olivia trailed off. It was crazy to even entertain the idea of breaking into three hotel rooms. Rawlings would be livid if he found out. Yet she was tired of feeling useless, of believing that Willis’s murderer had rendered every member of the local law enforcement as well as the Bayside Book Writers utterly inept. “How do you plan on getting two women and a poodle into their rooms?”
    Millay’s smile was blinding. She had an accomplice. “The hotel uses magnetized key cards so I’ll either swipe a master key from housekeeping or go with Plan B.”
    “I’m afraid to ask.”
    “Last night, I talked to some of my Fish Nets buddies about lock picking and let’s just say one of them lent me a very handy tool. I’ve got it in a garment bag.” She gestured at Haviland. “The toughest part will be sneaking him in.”
    Olivia waved off the idea. “When I’m desperate, I tell people I have a medical condition that Haviland is trained to respond to it.” She smirked. “I’ve only resorted to the lie once or twice, but this is an emergency, isn’t it?”
    Millay backed out of the doorway to allow Olivia and Haviland to exit. She averted her eyes, overcome by a rare moment of shyness. “You know, I don’t admire many people, but you’re on my short list.” She held out the clove cigarettes.
    “Same goes for you,” Olivia said and put the pack to her nose. If she’d felt any hesitation over breaking and entering, it vanished the moment the powerful scent hit her nasal passages. She closed her eyes and could almost feel the sun on her shoulders and hear the din of the powwow crowd. Those last moments with Willis rushed through her mind. Not as he lay dying, but of the time beforehand, when he was talking and gesturing animatedly, his face aglow with vitality.
    Olivia gripped the cigarette pack hard and opened her eyes. She looked at Millay and found the same quiet rage reflected in her friend’s gaze.
    Nodding, the two women marched outside, determined to gain the upper hand at last, even if it meant committing a crime.
    * * *
    As Olivia entered the town of Havelock, the storm that had been moving in from the Atlantic made itself known. The sky rumbled with thunder and a hard, saturating rain fell from a wall of charcoal gray clouds. She parked the Range Rover and, eschewing an umbrella, she, Millay, and Haviland ran for cover.
    The hotel lobby was nearly deserted when they strode in through the sliding glass doors. A lone desk clerk was preoccupied showing an elderly couple