The Last Word

Turn the page for a preview of Ellery Adams’s next Books by the Bay Mystery . . .

Written in Stone

Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!

He 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.

—WASHINGTON IRVING

“There’s a witch in Oyster Bay,” Dixie, the rollerskating 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 look 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 aristrocrat.

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 after the events of the past few months, I feel like my tether is frayed . . .”

Dixie heard the pain in her friend’s voice. “None of that was your fault, ’Livia. You’re givin’ yourself a bit too much credit, don’t you think?” Dixie turned, slapped the coffee carafe on the counter, and faced Olivia again. “Chief Rawlings arrived at the same conclusion before you did.”

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 Webber 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 in dismissive little flicks of the wrist. His breakfast partner, a skeletally thin 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 takeout 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 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 did 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 takeout cup into a trash can on the sidewalk. At the same moment she launched the cup, the doc flicked his used toothpick into the street, 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 a creek borderin’ the Croatan National Forest ’til it ends, and hike a trail for a few miles.”

“She’s hardly Oyster Bay’s witch then,” Olivia noted.

“Born and bred,” 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 peeked 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’d rather have my teeth pulled than visit her remote hideaway, let alone spread word about the woman. 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 napkins 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 him. “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 over 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 gentle and beautiful mother, the quiet and kind librarian, traipsing through a barely discernible track in the swamp in search of answers.

“I am not going to respond to this woman’s summons,” Olivia announced. “It’s probably a scam, though more creative than most, I admit.”

The family of four ambled out the door, waving at Dixie before leaving. Her mouth formed a smile, but her ale-brown eyes were troubled. “Munin said you wouldn’t agree at first. That was part of the message. I was supposed to wait for you to refuse and then tell you the rest. I wonder how she knew . . .”

Her impatience morphing into full-blown annoyance, Olivia growled, “Oh, please! What’s the magic word then? What’s going to convince me to hire a boat and douse myself in mosquito repellant so I can waste an entire day finding some crazy hag?”

Dixie gestured at the hollow in Olivia’s throat. Resting there was a golden starfish pendant attached to a delicate gold chain. Olivia’s mother had given it to her only child shortly before her tragic death. Since reclaiming the necklace from the dollhouse in her childhood room, Olivia wore it every day. She touched it during rare moments of uncertainty or distress. It was her talisman.

Knowing that she was pointing at a sacred object, Dixie swallowed hard and then continued. “Munin said she has your mama’s starfish, and if you want to know why, you’ll have to come. And soon.”

Olivia reached her hand out for Haviland, and he obediently moved closer. Her fingers sank into his soft curls, and her tilting world steadied itself. “This is a hell of a way to start my day,” she grumbled, overpaid Dixie for breakfast, and strode out into the sunshine, one hand gripping her laptop case, the other curled protectively around the gold starfish on her neck.