Authors: Ellery Adams
Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Fiction
Written in Stone
Praise for the Books by the Bay Mysteries
The Last Word
“As in the two previous novels in the series, set in Oyster Bay on North Carolina’s
southeastern coast, Adams concocts a fine plot; this one finds its roots in World
War II. But the real appeal is her sundry and congenial characters, beginning with
Olivia herself. Adams’s heroine has erected a steel curtain around her emotions, but
The Last Word
finds her emerging from her shell with confidence, a confidence matched by Adams
in this unusual and appealing series.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“I could actually feel the wind on my face, taste the salt of the ocean on my lips,
and hear the waves crash upon the beach.
The Last Word
made me laugh, made me think, made me smile, and made me cry.
The Last Word
—in one word—AMAZING!”
—The Best Reviews
“The plot is complex, the narrative drive is strong, and the book is populated with
interesting and intelligent people . . . Oyster Bay is the kind of place I’d love
to get lost for an afternoon or two.”
—The Season for Romance
A Deadly Cliché
“A very well-written mystery with interesting and surprising characters and a great
setting. Readers will feel as if they are in Oyster Bay.”
—The Mystery Reader
“Adams spins a good yarn, but the main attraction of the series is Olivia and her
pals, each a person the reader wants to meet again and again.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“[A] terrific mystery that is multi-layered, well-thought-out, and well presented.”
—Fresh Fiction
“This series is one I hope to follow for a long time, full of fast-paced mysteries,
budding romances, and good friends. An excellent combination!”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“[Ellery Adams] has already proven she has a gift for charm. Her characters are charismatic
and alluring, and downright funny. Not to mention, the plot is an absolute masterpiece
as far as offering the reader a true puzzle that they are thrilled to solve! . . .
A Deadly Cliché
is a solidly great, fun read!”
—Once Upon A Romance
A Killer Plot
“Ellery Adams’s debut novel,
A Killer Plot
, is not only a great read, but a visceral experience. Olivia Limoges’s investigation
into a friend’s murder will have you hearing the waves crash on the North Carolina
shore. You might even feel the ocean winds stinging your cheeks. Visit Oyster Bay
and you’ll long to return again and again.”
—Lorna Barrett,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Booktown Mysteries
“Adams’s plot is indeed killer, her writing would make her the star of any support
group, and her characters—especially Olivia and her standard poodle, Captain Haviland—are
a diverse, intelligent bunch.
A Killer Plot
is a perfect excuse to go coastal.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“A fantastic start to a new series . . . With new friendships, possible romance(s),
and promises of great things to come,
A Killer Plot
is one book you don’t want to be caught dead missing.”
—The Best Reviews
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Ellery Adams
Charmed Pie Shoppe Mysteries
PIES AND PREJUDICE
Books by the Bay Mysteries
A KILLER PLOT
A DEADLY CLICHÉ
THE LAST WORD
WRITTEN IN STONE
Written in Stone
E
LLERY
A
DAMS
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume
any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
WRITTEN IN STONE
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / November 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Ellery Adams.
Excerpt from
Poisoned Prose
by Ellery Adams copyright © 2012 by Ellery Adams.
Cover illustration by Kimberly Schamber.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or
electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy
of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized
editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-61205-7
BERKLEY
®
PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY
®
PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
To these Mavens of Mystery:
Kaye Wilkinson Barley
Lesa Holstine
Doris Ann Norris
Molly Weston
Chapter 1
[H]e would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his
works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to
mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that
was—a woman.
—W
ASHINGTON
I
RVING
“T
here’s a witch in Oyster Bay,” Dixie, the roller-skating dwarf and diner proprietor,
announced. She set a breakfast strata made of eggs, tomato, basil, and mozzarella
on the table and slid a plate of bacon onto the floor.
Immediately, the black nose belonging to the standard poodle sleeping on the booth’s
vinyl cushion began to quiver. Flashing Dixie a brief smile of gratitude, Captain
Haviland lowered his paws to the checkered tiles and began to eat his breakfast with
the delicacy and restraint of an English aristocrat.
Olivia Limoges, oak-barrel heiress, restaurateur, and aspiring author, reached for
the pepper shaker and gave her eggs a quick dusting. “A witch? Does she lure small
children into her house with candy bars and then lock them inside cages until they’re
plump enough to eat?”
Dixie put a hand on her hip and scowled, her false eyelashes leaving thin stripes
of electric blue mascara on the skin above her lids. “I’m not pullin’ your leg. Folks
have talked about her for years. The stories have gotten wilder and wilder because
only a handful of people have actually been brave or stupid enough to pay her a visit.”
Watching as Dixie topped off her coffee, Olivia cocked her head to the side and asked,
“Where does this supposed witch live?”
“In the swamp,” Dixie said distastefully. “Word is you can only reach her house by
boat and she’s not shy about greetin’ unwelcome visitors with a few shotgun blasts.”
Olivia, who owned a rifle and was an excellent shot thanks to regular visits to the
shooting range, approved. “Perhaps she values her privacy. People always talk about
those who don’t abide by societal norms. I know plenty of locals who believe there’s
something wrong with me because Haviland is my constant companion. They disapprove
of my refusal to attend every street fair, regatta, shop opening, and ribbon-cutting
ceremony. When I don’t buy a dozen boxes of stale Girl Scout cookies or chemically
laced Boy Scout popcorn every time I leave the Stop ’n’ Shop, the troop parents fold
their arms and shake their heads at me.” She paused to glance out the large picture
window at the end of her booth. “Things were getting better, Dixie. I felt anchored
here again, like a boat fastened to its moorings. For so long I was drifting and that
finally stopped. But then Harris found that painting under his stairs and everything
shifted again. I feel like my tether is frayed . . .”
Dixie heard the pain in her friend’s voice. “None of that was your fault, ’Livia.”
Olivia’s dark blue eyes glinted. “Wasn’t it? I’m not so sure about that.” She gestured
around the packed diner. “And people are right to doubt me again. How could they see
me as anything but an outsider after I led the police to the door of a person they
all loved? I was Gretel, leaving them a trail of bread crumbs.”
“You’re givin’ yourself a bit too much credit, don’t you think?” Dixie turned, placed
the coffee carafe on the counter, and faced Olivia again. “Chief Rawlings arrived
at the same conclusion before you did. You told me yourself he gave you a head start
so you could warn Wheeler that all hell was about to break loose. For a cop, the chief
sure is kindhearted. Don’t you go messin’ with his feelin’s.”
A flush of pink spread across Olivia’s cheeks. She hurriedly cut into her strata with
the edge of her fork and filled her mouth with a bite of warm eggs, fresh tomatoes,
and melted cheese.
“I see what you’re doin’,” Dixie said, shaking her pointer finger. “Stuffin’ your
face so you don’t have to tell me what’s goin’ on between you and Sawyer Rawlings.
The whole town knows you’re an item so don’t bother denyin’ it. One of the chief’s
neighbors saw you doin’ the walk of shame.
She
said Haviland spent the night too. Must be serious.”
Olivia bristled. “There wasn’t the slightest trace of shame on my part but I’m not
foolish enough to discuss intimate details with the biggest gossip in all of Oyster
Bay. Meaning you.” The barb was softened by a smile, which was quickly hidden behind
the rim of Olivia’s coffee cup. “Get back to the witch. That’s a far more interesting
topic.”
“No, it is not, but I’ll play along. Hold on.” Dixie skated over to the
Cats
booth and slapped a check on the table. She spent a moment chitchatting with an elderly
couple clad in matching lighthouse T-shirts and was undoubtedly explaining for the
millionth time why she’d decorated the diner using Andrew Lloyd Weber paraphernalia.
Next, she pivoted and moved on to the
Phantom of the Opera
table. A jowly man in his late fifties dug around in the pocket of his madras shorts
in search of his wallet. Ignoring Dixie’s question as to whether he enjoyed his food,
he tossed bills on top of the check with dismissive little flicks of his wrist. His
breakfast partner, a skeletal blonde in her early thirties clad in a miniskirt and
a white tank top stretched taut over a pair of cartoonishly large implants, jabbed
at the porcelain phantom mask with a long, curving fingernail.
From where she sat enjoying her meal, Olivia watched Dixie straighten to her full
height. After donning her skates and teasing her hair a vertical inch into the air,
she was barely five feet tall, but what Dixie lacked in stature she made up for in
fearlessness.
“Y’all have a nice day,” she said tightly, her farewell clearly meant as a command.
The top-heavy blonde grabbed her take-out coffee cup and shimmied across the vinyl
seat, granting the diners in the opposite booths a clear view of her leopard-print
panties.
“Hurry up, babe.” The man in madras shorts began to walk away without waiting for
his companion. He popped a toothpick in his mouth with one hand and jiggled a set
of keys with the other. Using his elbow to push open the door, he let it go without
bothering to see if his lady friend was directly behind him. She wasn’t. The door
slammed in her face and she jumped back with a little shriek. Jutting her lower lip
into a collagen-enhanced pout, she followed her man out of the diner.
“High-caliber clientele,” Olivia teased Dixie after she’d cleared the couple’s table.
Dixie wasn’t happy. “Cheap bastard. Doctors are the worst tippers.”
“How do you know he’s a physician?”
“The caduceus on his key ring.” Dixie pointed out the window. “And the vanity plate
on his I-am-not-well-hung-mobile.”
Olivia had been too absorbed rereading the latest chapter of her novel to notice the
atomic orange Corvette parked outside Grumpy’s Diner. She peered at the showy convertible
as the man settled into his seat and revved the engine. The vanity plate read, “NIPTUCK.”
“Having seen the missus, perhaps the plate should say, ‘I Inflate You,’” Olivia said.
“You could use the number eight and the letter
u
to save space.”
“Lady Watermelons is
not
the missus,” Dixie corrected. “I saw a picture of the missus and the doc’s three kids
when he opened his wallet. Such a cliché. Why do they come here anyway? Why not go
to Vegas or Cancun?”
Olivia shrugged. “He wants to show off his car. See?”
The object of their derision was donning sunglasses as the Corvette’s soft top folded
back. The doctor glanced around, making sure he’d captured the interest of a few passersby
before turning on the radio. The plate glass window above Olivia’s booth began to
vibrate as the Corvette’s speakers pounded out a thundering bass.
Dixie shook her head in disgust. “Pathetic.” And then her eyes narrowed angrily. “She’d
better not do what I think she’s going to do.”
Olivia looked at the blonde, who’d pulled back her arm and was preparing to throw
her take-out cup into a trashcan on the sidewalk. At the same moment she hurled the
cup, the doc put the sports car in drive and launched out of the parking spot. The
cup missed the rim of the receptacle by several feet and bounced off a lamppost, splashing
coffee onto a parked car, the newspaper box, and the bare legs of a teenage girl.
The girl shouted, her face registering pain and surprise.
Dixie swore through gritted teeth as the orange Corvette raced out of view.
“Maybe the witch can put a curse on those two cretins,” Olivia suggested, sharing
Dixie’s indignation over the couple’s behavior. It was bad enough that they’d both
blatantly littered, but to drive on after splattering a young woman’s legs with hot
coffee bordered on criminal conduct.
Collecting Haviland’s empty plate, Dixie put a hand on the black curls of his head
and sighed. “I wish all humans had your manners, Captain. But the spell thing isn’t
a bad idea either. We just need to hop a boat, cross the harbor, head up the creek
borderin’ the Croatan National Forest, and hike a trail for a mile or so.”
“She’s hardly Oyster Bay’s witch, then,” Olivia said.
“Closest thing we’ve got,” Dixie retorted. “Anyway, what kind of mystique would she
have if she lived in a beachfront condo? A shack in the swamp is way better for business.”
This statement piqued Olivia’s interest. “What kind of business?”
Delighted to have her friend on the hook, Dixie was just about to answer when Grumpy
rang the order bell in the kitchen. The breakfast rush was nearly over, but the family
of four in the
Evita
booth was casting expectant glances at Dixie. When she skated over with a tray laden
with stacks of buttermilk pancakes, sizzling sausage patties, cinnamon-laced French
toast, and an omelet the size of a beret, their eyes grew round with appreciation.
“That should hold ’em for five minutes,” she said, coming to an abrupt stop at Olivia’s
booth, her silver tutu billowing as she applied the brakes. “Back to the witch. Her
name is Munin and one of my cousins went to see her over the weekend.” Dixie pulled
a stray thread from her left tube sock and lowered her voice. “He and his woman want
a baby real bad but it’s just not happenin’. They’ve both been checked out and there’s
nothin’ wrong, medically speakin’. Been goin’ on five years since they started tryin’.
Munin is kind of their last hope.”
Olivia dabbed her lips with a paper napkin. “And can they expect a healthy set of
triplets nine months from now?”
“I reckon not,” Dixie replied. “See, Munin doesn’t take cash or checks. You have to
bring her somethin’ that’s real precious to you to get her help. If the witch doesn’t
think what you brought is special enough, she won’t lift a finger for you.”
“What does she do with the objects?”
Dixie shrugged. “Who knows?”
Impatient to return to her manuscript, Olivia offered to tell Laurel about Munin.
“The big shot of the
Oyster Bay Gazette
staff might not cover the story herself, but maybe one of the Features writers would
be interested.”
With a scowl, Dixie picked up Olivia’s empty plate. “I’m not tellin’ you about the
witch so that you can turn her into a Disneyland attraction. I’m only tellin’ you
about her because she sent a message back with my cousin.”
“For you?”
“No.” Dixie piled Olivia’s silverware and crumpled napkin on top of the dirty plate.
“For you.”
Bomb dropped, Dixie skated off to the kitchen with her tray. She then tarried at the
two remaining tables, filling water cups, delivering a fresh syrup jug, fetching extra
napkins, and exchanging small talk.
Haviland stood up, yawned, and stretched, indicating he’d had enough of the diner
for one day.
“Just a few more minutes, Captain,” Olivia promised her dog. “Let me strangle the
resident dwarf and then we’ll be on our way.”
As though sensing her friend’s ire, Dixie lazily coasted back to the window booth.
“Ah, so now you’re chompin’ at the bit to hear about our witch. Well, I won’t keep
you in suspense another second.” She grinned wryly. “Munin asked my cousin if he knew
you. He said everybody knows who you are, but only a couple of folks know you well.
The jackass mentioned my name and told Munin that you and I were friends. So the message
came to me.”
Olivia felt a constriction in her gut. She sensed that once Dixie relayed the message,
her life would be altered yet again. Perhaps not greatly, but she didn’t welcome any
more change.
In the last year alone, she’d opened a second restaurant, reunited with a father she’d
believed dead only to watch him die, discovered the existence of a half brother, and
fallen for Oyster Bay’s chief of police. Olivia Limoges was a woman who liked to be
in control of her own future, and as of late, she’d been unable to exert much influence
over her fate.
She turned toward the window, observing locals and tourists going about their business,
unburdened by the press of circumstance. “What does the witch want from me?”
Dixie’s grin faded, replaced by a look of solemn concern. Because she was adept at
concealing her feelings, it was easy to forget that Olivia had been put through the
wringer over the past few months. Dixie spoke to her friend very gently. “Munin wants
you to come to her. Says she’s got somethin’ of your mama’s to show you. Apparently,
she’s been waitin’ for the right time to send for you and now the time’s come.”
Olivia was unprepared for this. “That’s ridiculous. Why would my mother, a librarian
and do-gooder, have given something to a woman known as the local witch? And I use
that term loosely.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Dixie warned. “If your mama handed over somethin’ she treasured,
then she was lookin’ for help outside the normal realm. She obviously had a problem
that couldn’t be fixed by the folks she knew. The question is, did she get what she
needed from Munin?”
The tightening sensation in Olivia’s chest increased. It was difficult for her to
picture her beautiful mother, the kind and gentle librarian, traipsing through a barely
discernible track in the swamp in search of answers.