The Last Word (19 page)

With a nod to Olivia and a salute for Millay, Harris dashed outside.

Millay cleared the Vickers’ plates and glasses and then sank down in the chair opposite Olivia. “I didn’t touch a nerve until I mentioned kids. We talked about the cops, Nick, money, divorce, sex, and God knows what else and didn’t get so much as a facial tic. Drop the word ‘kid’ and Cora looks like she’s been kicked in the gut.”

“Well played,” Olivia told the bartender. “So Cora has something to hide and it has to do with a child.” She took a final sip of her wine and stood up, lost in thought. “The question is, what about a child? Did she want a baby? Did she lose a baby? Or did something tragic happen to her child? And if she had one, who’s the father?”

Millay fell into step with her as Olivia walked to the office to wake Haviland. “Not Boyd. He doesn’t know a damn thing about it.”

Olivia paused, an image of Laurel hesitating before entering her own house appearing in her mind’s eye. “Married people have secrets too. If Boyd wasn’t aware of that before, he is now. Poor fool.”

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

 

 

 

 

 

C
hief Rawlings showed up at Bagels ’n’ Beans wearing a particularly unattractive Hawaiian shirt. Olivia took one look at the yellow and green pineapple print and grimaced. “I take it you’re off duty?”

He placed a basket containing a toasted asiago bagel smeared with a generous layer of cream cheese on the table and sank into his chair with a sigh. “For the moment. I’m never really off the clock during an investigation as serious as this. I expect the media to descend on Oyster Bay today.” He glanced around the café, quickly assessing whether potential gossipmon-gers were close enough to overhear their conversation, but most of the eatery’s patrons were tourists. His hazel eyes softening, he focused his gaze on Olivia’s face. “How’d it go last night?”

Olivia proudly recapped Millay’s brilliant performance. “The lovebirds are going to have a hell of a hangover this morning,” she declared at the end of her narrative.

Rawlings rubbed his chin, lost in thought. “Cora only cracked when Millay brought up the subject of children. I wonder why.”

“I have a theory,” Olivia said. “If Cora and Nick had a child, then that kid would surely be entitled to a share in his estate.”

The chief took a bite of his bagel and chewed heartily. Then he shrugged. “In that case, why didn’t Mr. Plumley name his dependent as a beneficiary on his life insurance policy?” He scribbled a notation in his pocket notepad. “This will have to wait until tomorrow. I’ll need to get ahold of Cora’s medical records, and without her being an official suspect, that won’t be easy.”

Taking a sip of coffee, Rawlings pointed at the framed photographs hanging from the brick wall above their table. “What do you think of these?”

Olivia had kept her eyes averted from the images since she’d sat down. The smiling infant faces served as a pointed reminder that she hadn’t called Kim to see how Anders was doing. “Wheeler usually displays such tasteful art,” she said. “Yours, for example.”

“These are more certainly commercial than Wheeler’s usual selections, but the photographer isn’t without skill.” Rawlings grinned. “Still, I’d never have pegged Wheeler as a fan of kittens, puppies, or babies.”

Olivia glanced at the photograph hanging above her right shoulder. It showed a toddler with gossamer blond hair being used as a climbing post by a pair of kittens. “All this picture needs is a balloon and a rainbow.”

Rawlings laughed. “I bet Laurel would think it’s cute.”

Briefly, Olivia wondered whether her friend had had any success communicating her feelings to Steve last night. Certain phrases surfaced in her mind, and Olivia realized that the time Laurel’s husband spent at the office coupled with his hypercriticism of his wife might have an obvious and unpleasant explanation. “Speaking of Laurel,” she paused, wondering how to broach the delicate subject to Rawlings. “Do you remember when you had to question Steve when you were working on the Cliché Killers case?”

The chief nodded and his eyes lost their bemused glimmer and became instantly veiled.

“You checked his alibi without Laurel’s knowledge, which was very thoughtful and sensitive, but you also never told me what that alibi was.” Olivia left the unspoken question dangling in the air between them.

The chief scraped his chair away from the table and held out his hand for Olivia’s empty coffee cup. “I didn’t tell then and I’m not going to now. Would you care for a refill?”

Olivia pushed her mug into his palm, her fingertips brushing against his. They smiled at each other for what seemed like a long moment before Wheeler called Rawlings over to the counter to pick up the snack he’d prepared for Haviland.

“That dog gets better service than I do,” a sunburned vacationer whined.

Wheeler mumbled, “Reckon it’s ’cause he’s got better manners,” and poured two fresh cups of his Coastal Coffee blend for Rawlings and Olivia. He then pasted on a congenial grin and handed the petulant tourist her order. “Soy latte no foam and an ever-so-gently toasted multigrain bagel with fat-free cream cheese on the side. May I get you anythin’ else, ma’am?”

The woman scrutinized her bagel but seemed pleased with its even golden hue. She then took the lid off her to-go cup to make sure that Wheeler hadn’t included the offensive froth. Satisfied, she dropped a dollar in his tip jar and walked out the door.

When she was safely away, Rawlings let out a laugh—a deep and hearty rumble that shook his whole entire torso.

Wheeler scowled. “Don’t you have criminals to catch, Chief? Go on, now. Drink your coffee while it’s hot.”

With that reprimand, Rawlings returned to the table and handed Olivia her replenished cup, but he did not sit down. Though his face still held traces of humor, it was evaporating quickly. “He’s right. I have a pile of reading to do on the New Bern prison camp and a phone interview with Nick Plumley’s agent at eleven.”

“Do you have another task to assign me?” Olivia asked coyly.

Rawlings put a finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his stern gaze. “Yes. Don’t find any more bodies.”

The chief held the door for a family of five and then disappeared into the sunshine. Olivia watched Wheeler and one of the teenagers he’d hired for the summer attend to the hungry family. They ordered breakfast sandwiches, complicated espresso drinks, fresh-squeezed orange juice, pastries, and fruit cups. After collecting their food, the father handed Wheeler a wad of bills and, signaling for him to keep the change, he joined his brood at one of the window tables. Olivia finished her own buttered sesame bagel and observed several more families enter, order, and leave, hands filled with carryout bags.

Eventually, the morning rush eased and Wheeler came out from behind the counter to wipe off the unoccupied tables.

“You’re amazing,” Olivia told him and studied the old-timer with genuine warmth.

He smiled wanly. “This place keeps me tickin’.”

Struck by a thought, Olivia touched his arm as he passed her table. “How long have you lived in Oyster Bay?”

“Seems like my whole life,” he replied in a tired voice and then saw that Olivia wasn’t satisfied by his answer. “I left a job at a paper mill and settled here in the fifties, a young man with his whole life ahead of him. Worked the docks for a decade, had a warehouse job for a decade, and then got hired here when this place was still a bakery.” He gestured at the room. “This was what I always wanted though. A little coffee shop by the sea. Sometimes life deals you a decent hand. Other times not.”

Unsure what to make of the cryptic phrase, Olivia put a hand on the rough brick of the interior wall. “And have you always loved art? Not this stuff”—she jerked a thumb at the photographs—“but the things you typically display. You have an eye for talent.”

Wheeler’s gaze grew distant. “Art’s in my blood. It’s a way of travelin’ to other places, to other times. It lets you forget or remember and it doesn’t have to say a word. It’s my favorite kind of company to keep.”

“Did you know that several of the German prisoners held in the New Bern camp during World War Two were gifted artists? Have you heard anything about the camps or those artists?”

Twisting the damp rag in his age-spotted hands, Wheeler shrugged. “I didn’t live here then, girlie, but I heard tell that there were men who could paint, men who could throw a pot, and men who could carve wood with such skill that they got a share of local folks’ precious rations in return for a piece of their work.”

“It’s a wonder there hasn’t been a significant exhibit featuring these wartime masterpieces,” Olivia mused softly. “What a story it would make.” She met Wheeler’s pale blue eyes. “I’ve seen one of the paintings. A snow scene by a man named Heinrich Kamler. Simply executed, yet utterly captivating. I’d never heard of him until Harris found the painting hidden under one of the stair treads of his new house, but I wish I could talk to someone who worked at the camp.”

The bell over the front door tinkled and a host of bronze and bare-chested teenage boys in board shorts entered the café, hair slick with water, faces flushed from an early morning spent riding the waves. They spoke in rich baritones and flashed white smiles, enveloped in an air of robust assurance.

Wheeler’s gaze fell upon the young men, and Olivia saw a flicker of sorrow or regret cross his wrinkled features. It happened so quickly she wasn’t sure what she’d seen, but she looked upon the boys with a brief stab of envy. She’d never known a carefree summer, had never been invited to be a part of a circle of friends such as this group of shining, beautiful boys. Their ability to live wholly in the present was alluring, and Olivia continued to stare at them as they jostled one another amicably to be first in line.

“Not too many old-timers left, my girl,” Wheeler said and slowly got to his feet. It was as if the presence of the young Adonises made him feel every minute of his age with painful acuity. “I can recollect what it was to be like one of them boys. Back then we thought nothin’ could touch us either. We’d win the war and get the girl, spend the next fifty years drinkin’ beer and goin’ to ballgames with our best pals, have piles of money in the bank and a real nice car. Maybe a house and a kid or two. But that ain’t the way of things. Pennies lose their shine after they’ve been passed ’round long enough.”

Olivia wasn’t giving Wheeler her full attention. She was suddenly transported to the moment in Grumpy’s Diner in which the school librarian had asked Nick Plumley to sign her copy of
The Barbed Wire Flower
. She’d mentioned that the son of one of the New Bern prison guards had spoken at their annual fund-raiser. Perhaps Nick had tracked this man down. Perhaps the prison guard’s relative had become a useful source for the writer. He might unwittingly be in possession of a clue regarding Plumley’s murder.

After clearing off her table, Olivia patted her thigh, and Haviland lumbered to his feet, blinking sleep from his eyes. Wheeler was busy filling orders, so she didn’t bother to wave to him.

Edging past the chiseled bodies of the young men, she breathed in the coconut scent of their sun lotion and the salt water clinging to their shorts. Pausing, she allowed the pure smell of summertime to wash over her, bestowing upon her tiny particles of youth and promise.

Olivia spent over an hour looking for the name of the prison guard’s son on her computer. The school website had no evidence of the event, and she couldn’t find a record that anyone had spoken about the prison. The only hits she had involved a history professor at the University of North Carolina who’d posted his research on Camp New Bern on the university’s intranet. Olivia didn’t have access to his files and would have to get in touch with the professor during his office hours.

Resigned, she called the public library and asked for Leona Fairchild but was informed that the senior librarian never worked on Sundays. That left Harris. Olivia had a feeling that her friend might be spending time with Estelle, and though she didn’t mind interrupting the couple’s leisurely Sunday, she decided that sending an e-mail would be just as effective as calling. Harris was never far from his computer, and she knew from experience that he kept the volume turned up high enough to be able to hear the ping of an incoming message from any room in his house.

Made restless by her lack of progress, Olivia decided to take a walk on the beach. Donning a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of sunglasses, she gathered her metal detector, backpack, and trench shovel and set out with her grinning poodle. There was nothing Haviland enjoyed more than being given the freedom to rush over the dunes into the shallows, the water parting beneath his paws and splattering his black curls with cool moisture.

He pranced at the ocean’s edge, barking happily, until Olivia caught up. She tossed a stick toward the sandbar and watched as he leapt into the waves, his mouth hanging open in anticipation, pink tongue lolling to one side. Smiling, she turned on her Bounty Hunter and began to sweep the head of the detector over the damp sand along the waterline.

She absently listened to the blips and bleeps, her thoughts wandering. Aimless theories concerning Nick Plumley’s death darted about like a school of startled minnows until she finally focused on the metal detector’s display.

Ignoring the readouts occurring near the lighthouse, Olivia walked farther east where she’d be less likely to encounter bottle caps or soda can tabs. The stretch of beach between the lighthouse and her nearest neighbor had yielded interesting finds in the past, but today her device remained stubbornly mute. After pausing to throw Haviland’s stick a few more times, she rounded the jetty and strolled on the sand leading toward Plumley’s rental house.