Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

excellent motto. After all, chocolate stimulates the mind’s opioid production, creating feelings of pleasure that will eventually wear off. But if you’d like to prolong the sensation of euphoria, I’d be glad to assist with that.” He stood and held out his hand to her. She took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. He studied her pale, silvery blond hair, which was swept off her brow in a modern wave, and then lowered his eyes to her necklace of moonstones and black pearls. His gaze drifted down the curves of her body, taking in the formfitting, vintage-style cocktail dress made of black lace with satin trim and Olivia’s long, tan legs.
    “I’d try to kiss you, but your police chief boyfriend would probably hit me with his baton.”
    Olivia pulled her hand away. “I don’t need him to defend my honor. I can clout you all by myself, thank you very much.” She smiled to take the sting from the words and wished Flynn a pleasant rest of the evening.
    Once Flynn had gone, she hesitated for a moment at the kitchen door and then decided not to return to the party. She walked down the alley and stepped onto the main sidewalk, heading for the public lot where her Range Rover was parked.
    In order to reach her car, she had to pass by Fish Nets, the bar where her writer friend, Millay, worked. It was not an establishment Olivia regularly frequented as it reeked of tobacco, body odor, and stale beer. The music was too loud, the entertainment was limited to a stained pool table and decrepit dartboard, and the floor was covered in spilled liquor, discarded chewing gum, and chewing tobacco spittle. And yet, Olivia had grown up among its clientele. Her father had been a fisherman and most of the old timers within had known her since she was a skinny, towheaded girl with the shy, sea blue eyes.
    Pausing at the door, she considered how ridiculous she’d look drinking whiskey with a group of work-worn men and women. She’d walk in wearing her cocktail dress and heels while Millay’s patrons would be dressed in soiled and tattered jeans, frayed denim shorts or skirts, and T-shirts that had been washed so often that their logos and designs were no longer decipherable. Their skin would be bronzed by the sun and weathered by wind and worry. Their hands were scarred and dirty and their language coarse, but they knew her. They knew her story. They knew her mother had died in a tragic accident, that her drunkard of a father had abandoned her when she was only ten, and that she’d come back to Oyster Bay after a long absence in order to reconnect with the past and strive for a new and better future.
    They’ve accepted me all along
, she thought with a rush of gratitude and entered the bar.
These are my people.
    For a moment, her appearance stunned the crowd into silence, but it only lasted a heartbeat. Men and women warmly greeted her with catcalls and raucous shouts. Millay waved her over to the bar and polished a tumbler with a dish towel.
    “Don’t give me the stink eye. This one’s clean,” Millay said before pouring a finger’s worth of her best whiskey into the glass. “It’s the only thing in here that is, besides you. Aren’t you supposed to be down the street with the rest of the snobs?”
    “Why would I want to sip champagne and devour plates of sumptuous desserts with Oyster Bay’s elite when I could be here, sitting on a wobbly stool and breathing in toxic air?” Olivia gestured at the taps. “Buy you a beer?”
    Millay grinned. “Absolutely. But I prefer the King of Beers.”
    She reached into the refrigerator behind her and pulled out a bottle of Budweiser. Popping the cap off with a neat flourish, she clinked the neck against Olivia’s tumbler. “In the immortal words of Minna Antrim, ‘To be loved is to be fortunate, but to be hated is to achieve distinction.’”
    Olivia laughed. “Despite your best efforts, I believe you are genuinely adored.”
    “In this place, yeah. Beyond these walls, I’m that girl the old biddies point and frown at in disapproval. I use too much makeup, my skirts are way too short, and I wear black boots all year long. I’m the scourge of the Junior Leaguers and I take pride in knowing they’re afraid to look me in the eye.” She pretended to claw at the air with her left hand, causing the feathers hanging from her black hair to swing back and forth. Millay’s blend of several races had lent her an exotic beauty, but she preferred to celebrate her artistic