Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

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    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