The Last Word (10 page)

Inside the car, Haviland shot Olivia a dirty look. “I won’t let you eat that chemical crap.
Your
treats are made from all-natural ingredients.” She cupped his snout in her palm. “Don’t worry, Captain. I have some lovely dried lamb for you to snack on while I’m meeting with the curator.”

Appeased, Haviland stuck his head out the open window and enjoyed the blast of warm air as Olivia headed toward Blue Ridge Road and the vast campus of the North Carolina Museum of Art.

The museum was relatively new. Its buildings and outdoor sculptures sparkled in the sunshine. Olivia had attended the opening gala and had also donated a generous sum of money when plans were first being laid to build the finest art museum in the state.

Right from the start, Olivia had admired the renderings of the aluminum structure that would house millions of dollars of paintings, sculptures, photography, prints, and textiles. With floor-to-ceiling windows and a roof punctuated by hundreds of skylights, the exhibit halls were roomy and had enough natural light to allow the true essence of each piece of art to show through.

Haviland was not permitted inside the museum, and though Olivia was reluctant to leave him in the car, she knew that a few minutes alone with a water bowl and a pile of lamb treats wouldn’t kill him. She parked in the shade, put the windows down halfway, told the poodle she wouldn’t be long, and collected Harris’s painting.

The moment she stepped into the cool building, she was immediately tempted by the posters announcing a pair of current special exhibits. One gallery boasted a collection of Audubon’s works while another featured a modern collection of video art. Silently vowing to return another time, Olivia informed a volunteer that she had an appointment with Shala Knowles. The volunteer made a quick call and then asked Olivia to follow her to the back of the museum where the offices were located.

Olivia had expected the curator’s space to be stuffed full of books and paintings, for the desk to be covered with artsy knickknacks and strewn with disheveled piles of paperwork. She’d pictured Shala Knowles as a female version of Professor Indiana Jones—bespectacled, disorganized, and surrounded by unusual objects. She couldn’t have been more mistaken.

The office was meticulously neat. There was a sleek chrome desk, a pair of black leather side chairs, and a drafting table. One wall was occupied by a bookcase containing art reference tomes of all shapes and sizes while the space above the drafting table displayed a series of black-and-white engravings of geisha girls.

Shala herself looked like she’d stepped from the pages of
Vogue
. Tall and voluptuous, she flaunted her curves in a belted shirtdress of off-white cotton. A leopard-print pashmina was draped across one shoulder and tucked beneath the belt. As she came forward to shake hands with Olivia, the light streaming through the office windows illuminated bright strands of copper in her layered hair.

As Olivia took Shala’s hand, she caught a delicate hint of camellia-scented perfume.

So much for my absentminded professor image,
Olivia thought with amusement.

“I’ve been looking forward to your arrival since I woke up this morning,” Shala told Olivia, her eyes glimmering with anticipation.

“I was surprised to have gotten an appointment so easily,” Olivia confessed and laid the painting, protected between parchment paper and two pieces of clean cardboard, on the drafting table. “What did I say on the phone to capture your interest?”

Shala slipped on a pair of glasses with chic red frames and reached for a journal on her bookshelf.

“It’s the signature mark you described.” She opened the journal and pointed to an enlarged image of the same symbol Olivia and Harris had seen on the bottom corner of the found watercolor.

“That’s what it looks like!” Olivia felt a growing excitement but didn’t want to hear anything else in case the painting turned out to be a fake. She gestured at the cardboard. “Please, feel free to examine it.”

The curator put on a pair of white gloves and then unwrapped the package with infinite care. She used felt-lined paperweights to anchor the watercolor’s four corners and then backed away, staring down on the scene. She stood like this for several minutes, and Olivia sensed that the rest of the world had ceased to exist for Shala Knowles. Olivia felt the same way when she was writing about Kamila.

Finally, the curator leaned in closer to the painting. Using a large magnifying sheet, she examined the work section by section, spending the longest amount of time on the signature symbol on the bottom right-hand corner.

When she straightened, she was smiling. “I am quite confident that this painting is the work of Heinrich Kamler. His subject matter, technique, and signature are unmistakable. If you look closely, you can see that the symbol is made of two intertwining letters, an
H
and a
K
. This is a
very
exciting discovery!” Her face was glowing. “And you say this was hidden in a thermos beneath a stair tread?”

Olivia nodded. “The house is a 1930s bungalow. When my friend moved in, he had the carpet over the stairs taken out. Quite a bit of the wood covered up by the carpet had rotted, and when one of those damaged treads was removed, the thermos was revealed.” She gestured at the journal. “Who is this Heinrich Kamler?”

Shala indicated Olivia should make herself comfortable in one of the black leather chairs. “Would you care for some coffee?”

“No, thank you. I’ve left my dog out in the car, so I can’t stay much longer.”

The curator seemed troubled by this fact. “Oh, dear. I was hoping to take measurements and photographs. I’d also like to get a second opinion from a colleague before you leave.” She grew thoughtful. “What if we had lunch outside? I could tell you all about Heinrich Kamler and your dog could stretch his legs. If you’re willing, my colleague could examine the painting while we eat.”

“That would be fine.”

Smiling, Shala presented Olivia with a menu from the museum’s eatery, Iris. She then phoned her fellow curator and made arrangements for him to view the watercolor. Olivia was impressed by the quality of food offered by the café and had a hard time choosing between two tempting dishes. In the end, she selected a sandwich made of balsamic roasted portabella, thyme, spring leeks, and Gruyère served on ciabatta flatbread.

Haviland, delighted to be sprung from the Range Rover so quickly, showed his gratitude by being especially obedient. Olivia knew the poodle longed to explore the museum’s extensive grounds, but he contented himself with the picnic area and was very careful to keep his distance from other museums visitors.

Once Shala had eaten a few bites of her artichoke and grilled shrimp salad, she laid down her fork and took a sip of iced tea. “Heinrich Kamler was a German prisoner of war. He was captured when his U-boat sank off the North Carolina coast in the early days of World War II.”

Olivia nearly choked on her sandwich. She took a large swallow of San Pellegrino and managed to say, “Was he interred at the New Bern Camp?”

It was Shala’s turn to be surprised. “Why, yes. As it sounds like you’re familiar with the camp, you may also know that both the guards and the local population treated the prisoners quite well. They were encouraged to learn Americanisms such as democracy and capitalism by creating goods and selling them. I’m not sure which products Heinrich and his friends first crafted, but he eventually earned enough to purchase painting supplies. His most famous works were of the camp itself, but he also created stunning landscapes of his home in Germany. His village bordered the Black Forest, and I believe that’s the scene your friend’s painting depicts.”

Olivia’s thoughts were racing. Had Nick Plumley known about the painting? Was it the reason he repeatedly sought access to Harris’s home? But how could he know of its existence when it had remained hidden for so many years?

“Are Kamler’s paintings valuable?” Olivia asked the curator.

“Indeed. Your friend’s is worth at least twenty thousand dollars. If placed in auction, it could bring double that amount. Maybe triple.” Shala speared a shrimp on her fork. “It will certainly generate a buzz. A fresh Kamler work after all this time? I’m certain our director will try to acquire the painting for the museum, and he won’t be alone. The wolves of the art world will gather the moment the news gets out.”

Olivia wondered how Harris would respond when she informed him that he had discovered a genuine treasure. “What happened to Kamler?”

Shala’s attractive face clouded. “For some reason, he and another prisoner decided to escape. He killed one of the guards—a knife with his initials carved into the handle was found protruding from the victim’s back. Kamler just disappeared afterward.” She pushed pieces of lettuce around in her bowl. “Who knows? He could still be alive today. A very old man, yes, but it’s possible. He was only twenty-one when he escaped. Seventeen in 1941. That’s when the U-boat sank.”

“Fascinating,” Olivia said and meant it. After all, Shala had just described the pivotal scene of Nick Plumley’s novel,
The Barbed Wire Flower
. “How many of his paintings exist?”

“Fifty-two.” Shala grinned. “Unless there are more in your friend’s staircase.”

Olivia returned the smile while simultaneously thinking,
Harris needs to comb every inch of that house
.

Their lunch finished, Olivia returned Haviland to the Range Rover and accompanied Shala inside to collect the painting. Several museum employees were gathered in the curator’s office when they returned. The air was electric.

“It’s genuine!” a man stated gleefully. “And I’m intrigued by the note on the back.” His eyes met Olivia’s. “Did Heinrich Kamler have a romantic attachment to someone who lived in the house where this was discovered?”

Shala edged forward to examine the script. “I was so caught up in examining the front that I never turned it over. Jeez, you’d think I was still in grad school.”

“I don’t know much about the people who lived there, but believe me, I plan to conduct some research as soon as possible,” Olivia answered the man’s question.

“Please keep us in the loop,” he pleaded and began to package the painting. After placing it between sheets of acid-free paper, he then secured it on both sides with white cardstock and slid the bundle into a zippered canvas bag. “Consider the bag a gift. Perhaps the owner would loan us this piece for our Arts of the Coast exhibit next winter in return.”

“I’ll pass on the request,” Olivia promised and took her leave. She was eager to return to the quiet of her car and to spend two hours ruminating over the connection between Nick Plumley and Heinrich Kamler.

As she roared west down I-40, she couldn’t stop thinking about the note on the back of the painting. It made sense that the syntax seemed a little off. After all, if the author of the brief lines was Kamler, then his primary language wasn’t English. It was German.

“A bestselling novelist paying house calls on a young and naive aspiring writer, a valuable painting hidden under a stair tread, and a mysterious romance. Perhaps even a forbidden one? Local girl falls for German prisoner?” Olivia glanced at Haviland, who was sniffing at the salt-tinged air with eagerness. They were almost home.

Olivia reached over and placed a hand on the back of the poodle’s neck. “Captain, why do the most interesting things happen just when I am about to open a new restaurant?”

She was in the middle of an internal debate over whether to start digging through town records when her phone rang. The dashboard display, which included GPS and a hands-free phone, flashed Hudson’s number in electric blue digits.

“Hello?” Olivia shouted over the rush of air streaming in through Haviland’s open window.

“It’s Hudson. Kim’s in labor.” Olivia heard fear in his rough voice, and it was not the kind experienced by all nervous fathers-to-be. It was far more acute. “She’s asking for you. There’s something wrong with the baby and she wants you here. Please, Olivia. Hurry.”

“I’m coming,” Olivia replied. “Hang in there, Hudson. I’m coming.”

—KAHLIL GIBRAN

 

 

 

 

 

F
or the first time in her life, Olivia didn’t know what to do with Haviland. She couldn’t bring him into the hospital and she couldn’t leave him sitting in the Range Rover for the second time in one day. Desperate, she pulled in front of The Canine Cottage and raced inside with the befuddled poodle.

One of the groomers smiled at her over the sudsy back of a Great Dane. “Hi, Ms. Limoges. We didn’t expect to see you today.”

Olivia hesitated. She hated begging for favors and it was plain to see that the groomers were very busy. “I’m in a tight spot. My sister-in-law is having a baby and I can’t waltz Haviland through the labor and delivery unit. He’s been in the car all day and he’s hot and tired.” She paused. “I never expected my sister-in-law to ask for me. I think something’s wrong . . .” She took a deep breath and finished the thought. “When my brother called, I could tell he was terrified. Can you help?”

The young woman touched the Dane on the flank and walked around the tub. “Don’t you worry about a thing. Haviland can stay here until we close. We’ll pamper him so much that he won’t even notice you’re gone.”

“Thank you
so
much. I won’t forget this.” Olivia kissed Haviland on the snout and rushed out to her car.

When she reached the hospital, she found Hudson prowling around the labor and delivery waiting room like a caged leopard. Caitlyn was there as well. Clutching a picture book in one hand and a ragged Barbie in the other, she seemed to be trying to shrink into her chair. Her knees were drawn up to her chest in a protective gesture, and she watched her father through dark, worried eyes.