The Last Word (29 page)

Seeing the glimmer of expectation in her eyes, Olivia gave her reflection a self-conscious grin and then headed to the bar.

Gabe began making her drink immediately. When Rawlings walked in, the barkeep welcomed the chief and gestured at the rows of shining bottles lined up behind the bar. “What’s your pleasure, Chief?”

“Same as the lady, please.” Rawlings ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair and sighed. “You’d better give me three fingers instead of two, Gabe. It’s been that kind of day.”

Olivia and Rawlings took their drinks and withdrew to one of the bar’s intimate tables and clinked glasses.

“I feel better already,” Rawlings said before taking a sip. “Just seeing you.”

“That shows just how tired you are,” she teased. “Harris is doing well, by the way. Millay’s been texting me with regular reports, and I talked to him about an hour ago. He sounds almost happy to have been shot.”

With a wry grin, Rawlings said, “Hey, if it gets you the girl . . .”

Their eyes met and they both smiled over the rims of their glasses. A waitress materialized and put down a plate of bruschetta with fresh basil and diced tomatoes as well as a small platter containing a round of baked Brie encircled by olives. Rawlings stared at the food but didn’t reach for any of it.

“The Vickers did not kill Nick Plumley,” he said solemnly. “The woman who owns their rental cottage inadvertently provided them with an alibi for the morning in question. Their credit card was declined the day before and she’d spoken to them about an alternate means of payment. They promised to have cash for her by the end of their wedding day on Wednesday but failed to give her any. By Thursday, she was concerned that the couple would try to skip out without taking care of their bill.” He sliced through the soft Brie with a cheese knife. “We’re not talking about small change here either. The landlady had taken care of all the arrangements for their marriage ceremony. Between the food, the photographer, and the rental house, they owe her a few thousand.”

Olivia whistled. “So she went knocking on the door of their honeymoon suite the morning after they got married. Whoa.”

Rawlings colored. “She stopped by several times but no one ever answered. Finally, she just let herself in and found Mr. and Mrs. Vickers in a rather, ah, compromising position. Mr. Vickers yelled at her to get lost and she was flustered enough to do just that.” He took a bite of bruschetta and rolled his eyes in delight. “Delicious.”

“The poor woman,” Olivia said with a laugh. “Not only is she out a few grand but she got an eyeful too.”

Nodding, the chief’s good humor quickly evaporated. “She was hoping that by telling me about the incident I could help recover her losses, but she ended up aiding the Vickers. They now have a solid alibi for the morning of Mr. Plumley’s murder.”

“But they
are
guilty of shooting Harris and of breaking and entering into more than one home. They stole the painting from my kitchen, right?”

“The Vickers have confessed to those crimes, yes. Thankfully, the painting was unharmed. I’ve got it in my office.”

Olivia hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until she let it go. “I was so worried about Harris that I forgot all about the watercolor.”

“As you should, considering all that’s happened.” Rawlings fell silent for a moment. He placed food on a small plate and handed it to Olivia and then fixed one for himself. They ate quietly for a little while, enjoying the creamy cheese, the crisp bread seasoned with garlic and olive oil, and each other’s company. “Mrs. Vickers told me something else,” the chief said sotto voce. “Something I’m only going to share with you because I trust you.”

Olivia could hear the unspoken directive. Rawlings was ordering her not to tell anyone else. She nodded in understanding.

“Mrs. Vickers confessed to having blackmailed her ex-husband for years. According to her, Mr. Plumley once told her that he was responsible for the death of an old woman. Other than his father, this woman was his primary source for
The Barbed Wire Flower
.”

Leaning forward in her chair, Olivia opened her mouth to ask a question but Rawlings held up a finger. “I know what you want to ask, but listen to the whole story first. Mrs. Vickers alleges that Mr. Plumley made this confession after drinking a great deal of vodka. It was the same night they conceived their son, in fact. The two parted ways and then Mrs. Vickers had her own secret to carry.”

He paused and Olivia wondered if he too was picturing Cora touching her swollen belly, her face slack with shock as her obstetrician gave her the hard news that her son had Down’s syndrome.

“So they lived separate lives until Mr. Plumley’s novel was released and immediately hit the bestseller list,” Rawlings continued. “At that point, his ex-wife paid him a visit and demanded money. They struck a deal. She would remain silent about what happened to his source in return for quarterly payments in cash.”

Olivia couldn’t contain herself. “Was the woman Evelyn White? Did Plumley
kill
her?”

“Mrs. Vickers claims that Mr. Plumley let Ms. White read an early draft of
A Barbed Wire Flower
. This was years before the book was actually published. Ms. White never knew that Plumley’s real name was Ziegler, and she told him over and over that it was Nicklaus Ziegler who murdered James Hatcher, the Camp New Bern guard, not Heinrich Kamler.”

Groaning, Olivia picked up her glass. “But Plumley ignored her and portrayed Kamler as the killer, just like the papers did in 1945.”

“Yes, and Ms. White became very upset. She’d only agreed to tell him her story on the condition that he’d rewrite that event the way
she
believed it to have happened.” Rawlings noted Olivia’s empty tumbler and gently took it from her hand. “Even though Mr. Plumley’s book was a work of fiction, Ms. White had hoped that it would help right the wrong done to Kamler’s reputation.” He sighed. “I’d better get you a refill before I continue. Be right back.”

Rawlings headed for the bar, but Olivia sat frozen in her chair. Once again, she was overwhelmed by the losses Evelyn and Heinrich had experienced. Plumley had had the chance to assuage a small bit of Evelyn’s pain, but he couldn’t do it.

After listening to Evelyn White’s stories, Plumley must have suspected that he was the son of the real murderer. Evelyn didn’t know this, of course, because he wasn’t going by the name of Ziegler. This left Nick the freedom to continue burying the truth, filling his novel with the same lie the newspapers had printed, and profiting from the deceit.

Worst of all, the bastard had betrayed Evelyn. She’d given up her child, lived a lifetime apart from the man she loved, and then, in what was probably her last chance to seek a measure of redemption for her Henry, had been denied that small opportunity.

“So were both the Zieglers murderers? Father and son?” Olivia demanded angrily when Rawlings returned with their drinks. “And cowards? Stabbing a man in the back and killing an old lady!”

Rawlings squatted at her side, his eyes softening. “I knew this would upset you. You felt a connection to Ms. White.”

It wasn’t a question. Olivia said, “Tell me how she died.”

“I will, but remember that this is all hearsay,” the chief reminded her gently.

“Tell me,” she insisted.

He took a swallow of Chivas Regal. “When Ms. White read the escape scene in the draft of
The Barbed Wire Flower
, she grew hysterical. Mr. Plumley panicked, fearing that Ms. White’s nurse would come running and would find out that he’d broken his promise. He was afraid that Evelyn would tell her story to others, to the nurse perhaps. According to his ex-wife, Mr. Plumley silenced Evelyn White by smothering her with a pillow.”

Olivia closed her eyes, trying to keep her features under control. It was too easy for her to visualize Nick Plumley grabbing the pillow from under Evelyn’s head and pressing it against the old woman’s face. She could see Evelyn’s limbs jerking below the bedsheets, her thin nails clasping at the arms that were robbing her of breath, of life.

“Why would he give her a copy?” Olivia managed to ask after several long moments of silence.

Rawlings threw out his arms in a helpless gesture. “Mrs. Vickers claims that Nick had come to view Ms. White as a sort of mother figure. He desperately wanted her approval and had convinced himself that she’d be so dazzled by his skill as a writer that she’d overlook the details of the escape scene. Perhaps he was convinced by his own fiction.”

Disgusted, Olivia pushed the ice around in her glass with the tip of her finger. Suddenly, she was struck by a thought. “Did Cora talk about this to anyone else?”

“She said that only her new husband knew what Mr. Plumley had done. She promised Boyd that he’d be able to open his own gym one day with the payments they received from Mr. Plumley. When they stole the painting from your house, they planned to sell it and use the funds to pay off their credit cards and secure a loan. Between the painting and the life insurance payout, they could finally climb out of debt.” Getting up slowly, Rawlings went back to his seat.

“Cora knew that Nick had come to Oyster Bay in search of that painting. Evelyn must have told him about it, but why did he want it so desperately? Was he afraid that Kamler had written something about his father on the back instead of a love letter to Evelyn?”

Rawlings rubbed his chin. “Perhaps he simply wanted to possess one of her treasures. They must have spent a great deal of time together and she obviously told him things she’d never told anyone else.”

“That’s it!” Olivia’s eyes flashed. “Evelyn told him that her greatest
treasures
were in Oyster Bay. Treasure
s
. Plural. The painting was one of them, but the second was not made of canvas and paint, but of flesh and blood. I think Evelyn knew exactly who adopted the child fathered by Heinrich Kamler. That child’s been right here the whole time.”

“Her son. The living reminder of the man she loved.” The glimmer in Olivia’s deep-sea eyes was reflected in the chief’s excited hazel gaze. “He’d be in his midsixties, just like our suspect, Mr. Hatcher.”

“Exactly,” Olivia said, barely above a whisper. “Raymond Hatcher was
raised
by Agnes Hatcher. Dave was his
adopted
brother. Ray was brought into the Hatcher home from an orphanage months after James Hatcher was killed. Ray claimed to have never known the identity of his biological parents. So if Raymond Hatcher is Evelyn’s son, then he has two motives: money and revenge. Nick Plumley tarnished his father’s name and benefited financially from his mother’s story. Hatcher is big and strong. He could have easily strangled Plumley.”

The chief’s face grew stony. “Could have, Olivia. Don’t form a lynch mob just yet.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and made a call. “This long day is about to become a long night. I’ve got to order some coffee.”

Olivia waved for him to stay put. “You have some time before your men bring him in. Please, let me order you something for dinner. If you’re going to be up for hours, you’ll need food.”

Rawlings smiled at her, and she felt the warmth of it spread through her body. “Actually, if you could make me two dinners to-go, I’ll share a meal with Mr. Hatcher. It’s amazing what folks will say over a piece of steak and a bottle of beer.”

“That’s quite an unusual interview technique,” Olivia quipped with a raised brow. “But then again, you never fail to surprise me.”

The smile grew wider and warmer still. “Is that why you find me so irresistible?”

Olivia was fully aware that the chief was teasing her, but she walked to his side and looked at him, hoping the intensity of her desire would leap from her eyes into his like a jumping spark.

“That’s one of the reasons.” Her voice was deep and low, filled with the caress she longed to bestow upon him here, in front of everyone, if only she had the courage. “When this is all over, I’d like to discover more.”

—RALPH WALDO EMERSON

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

T
hursday passed with Olivia attending to a vast array of tasks at both restaurants. She and Laurel also went on a whirlwind shopping excursion to prepare for the homecoming of her young nephew.

To keep her mind off the fact that she hadn’t heard a word from Rawlings since he’d left The Boot Top to interview Raymond Hatcher, Olivia threw herself into work, scouring the docks for the freshest seafood, tweaking menus with Hudson and Michel, and answering hundreds of e-mails from customers, suppliers, and food critics.

When the inbox on her desk was barren, she and Laurel drove to the closest megamall, talking about everything under the sun other than Laurel’s marital problems. Her articles on Cora and Boyd Vickers and the love story between Evelyn White and Heinrich Kamler had been picked up by several of the big-name papers. As a result, she’d had job offers from across the country, which she’d used as leverage to gain more flexible work hours and a higher salary.

“I’ll be able to bring the boys to their preschool and pick them up again. And when I can’t be there, I can afford to hire this wonderful retired schoolteacher who lives in our neighborhood,” Laurel told Olivia with a smile. “I’m getting the best of both worlds. I get to be around for my kids and have the job of my dreams.”

“I don’t know how you do it all,” Olivia told her friend. “You’re so busy. How will you find the time to work on your book?”

Laurel shrugged. “I write after I put the boys to bed. I’m tired, but I pour myself some wine and sit down at the computer with Michael Bublé or Harry Connick and type away for an hour or two every night.” She twisted a strand of wheat blond hair around her forefinger. “It’s not like Steve and I are sharing a bottle of merlot in the kitchen and swapping stories about our day. We’re not even watching TV together. For the past few months, I’ve barely seen him. He comes home after I’m already in bed, smelling like beer and cigarettes.”