by Ellery Adams
“I’d heard that your pooch accompanies you everywhere, but I put that down as rumor,” Millicent said as she plastered on her professional smile.
“He goes where I go. Think of him as my benevolent shadow. At least no one will try to steal your purse while he’s around.” The Realtor unconsciously held on to her Chanel clutch a little tighter as Olivia turned away to tell the café’s hostess they’d like a patio table.
Millicent blanched. “Are you sure? It’s still rather hot, even though that nice wind from the incoming storm has chased away the humidity.”
“Trust me, it’s much hotter inside. The kitchen’s open and the heat from the fryers has no place else to go but into the dining room,” Olivia assured her. “In any case, I try to dine al fresco whenever Haviland is with me. People find it less offensive to eat near an animal when he’s outside,” she explained. “Haviland probably has better table manners than most of their children, but I try to be discreet about serving him his meal around two-legged patrons.”
Millicent curled her lip in distaste but quickly tried to hide her face with her menu before her client noticed. Olivia knew the Realtor tried to please all prospective clients. Millicent’s motto wasn’t “You can bank on Millicent!” for nothing. Olivia could only assume Millicent had heard of Olivia’s fondness for historic properties and planned to milk that angle for all it was worth. If Olivia wanted to buy a dilapidated warehouse so be it. “I brought all the documents you requested,” Millicent said after they’d ordered. She then casually passed Olivia a legal-sized manila folder. “This building has quite a colorful past.”
“As do all interesting ladies,” Olivia said with a wry grin.
Millicent squeezed lemon into her iced tea. “During the late eighteen hundreds, it was a turpentine warehouse. Things were chugging merrily along until a careless foreman started a fire that destroyed half the place and both of the neighboring structures. I read an old newspaper clipping stating that five men died in the blaze.”
“Must have been a difficult conflagration to handle with a bucket brigade,” Olivia commented while accepting her pepper jack and barbeque bacon burger from the waitress.
Millicent wasn’t going to be sidetracked by Victorian methods of fire fighting. She continued with her history lesson. “The building was repaired and became a cotton mill. It was well maintained right into the next century.” She consulted her notes. “In the mid-1950s it housed a plumbing supply business and in the seventies, was sold and divided into various retail spaces. One business bought out most of the leases and didn’t close its doors until the year two thousand.”
Olivia was hooked. Setting aside her food, she flipped through pages in the folder and felt the excitement of a new project beginning to rise. “I wasn’t living in Oyster Bay at that time. What did the most recent retailer sell?”
Blushing, Millicent fiddled with her iced tea spoon. “The products? Well, they were, ah, goodness!” She clasped her hands primly on the table. “I believe they sold lingerie and, ah, adult toys and things of that nature.”
“My, my.” Olivia was amused. She held up a photograph of the building. “This old lady does have a colorful past.”
Ignoring the remark, Millicent pushed her fork around her Cobb salad. “The town wanted to convert the structure into a small performing arts center, but in the end, it proved to be less expensive to build something from the ground up.” She frowned. “It’s a shame the Historic Society couldn’t act, but they just don’t have much of a budget and there are so many buildings in need of preservation.”
Olivia’s gaze returned to the photograph of the wood and brick building. The basic shape was perfect—a long rectangle with a giant bank of windows facing the water. She could easily envision an expansive second-story deck filled with wrought-iron tables, potted plants, and fairy lights. A live band could play inside on weekends with acoustic ensembles entertaining patrons during lunch and weekday meals. Before she got too occupied by images of checkered tablecloths and disposable lobster bibs, however, she needed to know whether the building was truly salvageable.
“What happened to the last deal?” she asked Millicent. “When I first examined the building, there was a ‘Sold’ sign out front. And please be straightforward. The absolute truth is important to me.”
Millicent looked affronted. “I wouldn’t dream of sugarcoating my reply, Ms. Limoges.” She immediately softened her tone. “The warehouse was to be turned into luxury loft apartments, but when the investors saw what it would cost to make the transformation, they backed out. No one felt the permanent residents of Oyster Bay would be willing to spend that kind of money on a monthly lease. They also agreed that the average tourist preferred to rent a vacation home or condo within walking distance to the beach.”
The explanation sounded plausible. “So it had nothing to do with the integrity of the building? Did they plan to renovate the original structure or tear it down and start from scratch?”
“As far as I know, they were going to work with what they had.” Millicent dabbed her lips with her napkin and pushed her nearly untouched salad bowl away. “But the total estimate was no small sum. Revitalizing this building is not a project for the faint of heart,” she said, showing Olivia that she was on her side. “Of course, this isn’t your first time handling a major project such as this. Look at how you transformed so many of our empty storefronts. Thanks to you, I now have a new favorite dress shop.”
Though the Realtor was laying it on a bit thick, Olivia didn’t mind feeling a little pleased when it came to the part she played in reshaping the town. “We’ve got to collect every hard-earned tourist dollar we can. Something’s got to tide us over during the winter months.” She removed the bun from a plain hamburger, cut the meat into bite-sized pieces, and set the plate on the ground near her left foot. Haviland, who had been pretending to doze in the shade of Olivia’s chair, crept up to the dish and daintily wolfed down his lunch.
“Yes, indeed,” Millicent agreed. “At least we have the Cardboard Regatta coming up. Used to be the town was empty from Labor Day to May Day, but I cannot believe how many people will fill up the hotels again just for the chance to race their little handmade boats. I do hope Ophelia has come and gone in time.”
Olivia closed the folder and stuffed it in her purse. She took out her wallet and signaled for the waitress. “I’m going to have my contractor go over every inch of this property as soon as the storm passes. Assuming he gives me a good report and the warehouse manages to survive Ophelia, I’ll stop by your office and we can draw up an offer.” Olivia reached across the table and shook Millicent’s hand. “Thank you for joining me for lunch. If I’d known you weren’t fond of burgers I would have chosen another venue. This place isn’t exactly known for their salads.”
“Oh, my salad was perfectly fine. I’m just trying to watch my figure,” Millicent lied grandly. “I look forward to hearing from you when we’re done being battered about by Ophelia.”
The Realtor walked away and Olivia imagined the older woman was already dreaming of how she’d spend the sizable commission she’d make off the deal. Olivia didn’t mind. In fact, she admired Millicent’s ambition and hoped to have the same amount of pluck in thirty years’ time.
Olivia decided to let Haviland chase pigeons in the park before hitting the grocery store followed by a latte at Bagels ’n’ Beans. She settled on a bench in the shelter of a mammoth magnolia tree and took out her latest purchase from Flynn’s bookstore, Sharon Kay Penman’s The Reckoning. As Haviland explored the fascinating scents at the base of every shrub, tree, and light post, Olivia quickly lost herself in the story of Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, the thirteenth-century Welsh prince.
She was so immersed in the novel that the ringing of her cell phone seemed incongruent with Penman’s descriptions of stone castle walls and heavy bed hangings.
“I could chose to ignore you,” she warned the phone before checking the caller ID, but seeing that the number belonge
d to Laurel, Olivia answered. “Do you have news?” she asked her friend.
“Yes!” Laurel managed to encapsulate fear, joy, and exhilaration into a single word. “It’s wonderful! And it’s horrible! I’m a mess!”
Olivia grinned. “You got the job.”
“I got the job,” Laurel squeaked in excitement. “They just told me. But it’s only on a provisional basis. I need to prove myself over the next few weeks. How am I going to do that? My silly articles on how to get stains out of your clothes or the best play areas for toddlers will hardly dazzle the editor and they’ve already got three reporters covering the storm!”
“Why don’t you interview your neighbor?” Olivia suggested. “The one who was robbed? Everyone likes to read about local crimes. But you should do it soon. Everyone will be busy preparing for the storm before long.”
Laurel gasped. “You’re so brilliant! They say that crime pays. Let’s see if it can get me paid too!” She hesitated. “Listen, Olivia, I know it’s a lot to ask, but I haven’t interviewed anyone since high school and the articles I wrote back then focused on the captains of the sports teams and the homecoming queens. This is so much more serious. Will you come with me?”
Normally, Olivia would have turned Laurel down flat without the slightest tinge of regret, but she was curious about the burglary and wanted to hear the victim’s account firsthand. “I’ll pretend to be your cameraman. Just this once. And, Laurel, we’d better go tomorrow before the rain moves in.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Laurel squealed. “I’ll call my friend and set it up.” Another pause. “Um, do you have a decent digital camera?”
Olivia let loose a wry chuckle before agreeing to bring a camera with her as well. Laurel obviously recognized she’d pushed her friend far enough and quickly hung up.
Whistling for Haviland, Olivia led him back to the car. “Change of plan, Captain. We’re driving to New Bern to buy a congratulations-on-maybe-getting-a-job gift for Laurel, that sweet nitwit.”
Haviland panted and rolled his eyes.
Olivia removed a water jug from the back of the Range Rover and filled the poodle’s travel dish while Haviland cast a longing glance in the direction of the park. “The squirrels will still be there when we return, Captain. They have an uncanny ability to make it through the worst weather conditions.” She gazed at the mothers pushing strollers, the elderly couples reading newspapers on the wooden benches, and the occasional jogger sailing beneath the green canopy of the park’s mature trees, and frowned in concern. “I can only hope the people of Oyster Bay are as fortunate.”
Chapter 6
But what is the difference between literature and journalism? Journalism is unreadable and literature is not read.
—OSCAR WILDE
No one heard back from Rawlings that Friday, but Olivia and the Bayside Book Writers nearly forgot about their next meeting in light of new concerns regarding the impending storm. Over the course of the night, Ophelia shrugged off her title of tropical storm. Now a category two hurricane, she gained the undivided attention of the residents living on the coasts of North Carolina and Virginia.
Upon waking Saturday morning, Olivia switched on the television and listened to three different updates on Ophelia. She ate breakfast during the hurricane expert’s report, fed Haviland while glancing at the amateur footage taken by a resident of the Bahamas, and sank back down in the chair to listen to the Air Force Reserve pilot’s exciting narrative as he steered a Lockheed Martin WC-130J into the hurricane’s eye.
By nine, Olivia was still unable to tear her gaze away from the slow, spinning wheel of green on the television screen. She sipped her coffee and watched the meteorologist point to the projected path, which was highlighted in red. The crimson hue reminded Olivia of a biblical plague. It seemed that every inch of the state’s coastline had been marked by the ominous dye.
The local meteorologists predicted landfall would occur in Oyster Bay late Monday night, depending on whether the hurricane maintained its current velocity. With wind gusts already measuring close to one hundred miles per hour, any nonresidents would soon evacuate and many of the locals would flee too, relocating to the homes of family and friends farther inland.
“We’re staying right here,” Olivia told Haviland. After all, her girlhood had been punctuated by season after season of tropical storms, hurricanes, and nor’easters. She’d clear out if the hurricane increased to a category four or five, but she wouldn’t budge for anything less. Her decision would come across as strange or downright foolish to some, seeing as her own mother was killed in the midst of a hurricane, but Olivia believed hers was a tragedy resulting from a lack of judgment. Her mother had taken an unnecessary risk by driving into town to fetch the puppy she’d gotten her daughter for her birthday and had paid the ultimate price. Olivia would never disrespect the destructive power of a storm by leaving the shelter of her home. Then again, Olivia had no one for whom she would demonstrate such an enormous act of devotion, except perhaps Haviland.
As though summoned by her thoughts, the poodle came to Olivia’s side and nudged her leg. He was ready for their morning walk.
She leaned over to kiss him on the bridge of his nose. “Have you forgotten what we found last Saturday?”
Clearly unconcerned by recollections of the fetid odor, Haviland rushed to the sliding glass door leading to the back deck and to the path through the dunes. Olivia let him out and then collected her Bounty Hunter and knapsack from an unlocked outdoor storage closet. She examined her metal detector absently for a moment, recalling how relieved she was when one of Rawlings’ officers returned it to her. The tool provided her with a mindless hobby, allowing her to collect many years’ worth of interesting trinkets. Very few were valuable, but every one was precious to Olivia.
“I wonder what new treasures the storm will unearth?” she asked the poodle.
Olivia’s home was built on a bluff and had been designed to withstand the variety of tempests pushed onshore by the Atlantic Ocean. The raised deck jutted out over a lawn of sharp grass and sand and was supported by reinforced wooden pylons. From roof to floor, the entire structure was anchored into the foundation and the mammoth windows were made of impact glass. The best builders in the region had fitted it with hurricane shutters, exterior doors that opened outward, and a detached garage.
“The only thing that’s going to bother us will be cabin fever,” Olivia predicted as she and Haviland set out on their stroll.
The morning air felt oddly still. There were no gulls or sandpipers haunting the shore, and the crabs had scuttled back to their burrows hours ago. By this time on a September morning, Olivia was usually in town or working on her novel, but on this Saturday, she meandered up the beach, barely paying attention to the metal detector’s chirps and bleeps. Eventually, she discarded the machine altogether, leaving it and her backpack in the lee of a dune.
Haviland spent a great deal of time sniffing the air and Olivia knew he sensed a shift in the weather. Even the waves were strangely subdued, curling gently onto the shore, as though to apologize for the relentless aggressors they were soon to become.
Olivia’s cell phone rang from the pocket of her sweatpants. It wasn’t her habit to bring it along on walks, but after the discovery of the buried corpse last week, she decided to keep it close.
“Ms. Limoges? Will Hamilton here. I’ve got some preliminary information for you.”
Olivia was impressed. The private investigator worked fast. “My reception isn’t great, but please go on.”
“The mailbox in question belongs to a Mr. Rodney Burkhart. He has a home T-shirt printing business called Big Rod’s Tees and uses The UPS Store mailbox as his company address. I’ve seen his shirts around town. They all feature fishermen surrounded by busty girls and make a play on the phrase ‘big rod.’ Word is they’re selling like hot cakes all over the country. Burkhart’s had to hire a pair of students from UNC Wilmington just to keep up with the orders.”<
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“So it would appear that he’s financially secure?” Olivia asked, befuddled. Rodney Burkhart didn’t seem like a man in desperate need of cash.
Hamilton said, “I need to do some more digging, ma’am. I haven’t gotten a look at our guy’s personal life yet, but I’m heading over to his place now. I should have more for you by Monday. I’ll do as much recon as I can before Ophelia shuts us down. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you.” Olivia put the phone back into her pocket and continued to amble, her mind churning. What connection could a T-shirt printer have to her father? Perhaps Rodney’s wife worked in a nursing home or hospital. Maybe she was the mastermind behind the blackmail and her husband was merely the messenger.
Her languid mood spoiled by unanswered questions, Olivia abruptly stopped, turned around, and whistled for Haviland to follow her back to where she’d left the Bounty Hunter.
By the time she reached the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, she was ready for a midmorning snack but decided to delay satisfying her hunger in order to assess what kind of storm damage the older building might incur when Ophelia got closer.
Unlike Olivia’s house, the cottage was built on a rise much closer to the ocean and faced potential flooding if the wind pushed the waves far enough up the beach. Olivia’s girlhood home had been completely overhauled last summer and the four-room, shotgun-style structure was now a community meeting place. From Alcoholics Anonymous to the Girl Scouts, all sorts of groups made use of the comfortable living room, kitchen, and conference room. Once a member signed up for a time slot on the town’s website, they were told that the key to the front door was kept in the mouth of a ceramic frog near the welcome mat. Truthfully, the place could have remained unlocked. There was nothing to steal except for some kitchenware and a few small appliances, but Olivia didn’t want to run the risk of having it vandalized by inebriated teenagers.
Still, she was surprised to find the front door wide open. Someone had raised the living room windows and the sound of muffled music drifted through the holes in the screens. Olivia assumed a member of the Bayside Book Writers was in the cottage, for Saturdays were reserved exclusively for their use. Though their group didn’t meet until late afternoon or evening, Olivia found that the cottage provided the perfect blend of industry and tranquility and had therefore opened the space for her writer friends’ use.
