by Ellery Adams
Olivia had tried to assure her flustered friend that there wasn’t a restaurant within two hundred miles that could top Grumpy’s “mile-high club sandwich,” but Dixie was not to be consoled.
Except for the fact that Flynn McNulty had created an entire window display at Through the Wardrobe featuring signed copies of Nick’s book, no one in Oyster Bay had called attention to the writer’s presence. This in itself was an oddity. Normally, a rich, handsome, and unattached celebrity would have had the gossip chain on red alert, but even though he’d been in town for several weeks already, Nick had kept such a low profile that Olivia had nearly forgotten about him.
After all, she was a busy woman. Between preparing for the grand opening of The Bayside Crab House, outlining the next chapter in her novel, and adjusting to the existence of her new family, Olivia hadn’t had time to dwell on Nick Plumley.
“Wait, there’s more to this story!” Harris declared exuberantly. “When Plumley heard I was an aspiring writer, he actually offered to read my work in progress. He said that he loves science fiction and has always admired authors of the genre. He’s going to swing by on Tuesday to pick up my manuscript.” Glancing around at the scores of unpacked boxes, Harris’s eyes took on a frantic look. “I totally have to get my computer and printer hooked up.”
Laurel’s mouth had formed a perfect O of surprise. “Harris, this is wonderful! I’d heard that Mr. Plumley was in town, but I still haven’t laid eyes on him. Do you think he’ll give you feedback?”
Harris tried to look modest. “Yeah, I do. In fact, he said he’d love to attend one of our meetings if we were willing to have him.”
“Seriously?” Millay asked. “Why would he want to do that? He’s already made it.”
“Maybe he wants to share his knowledge of the publishing process with us,” Laurel suggested. “Maybe he wants to pay it forward.”
Rawlings crossed his arms over his chest, as though pondering what it would be like to receive constructive criticism from the famous author. “I wouldn’t say no to an offer of assistance from Mr. Plumley. I truly admire his work and would enjoy hearing the story of his success.”
“That’s three votes for him,” Harris stated, raising the fingers of his right hand in front of Millay’s face. “Your book is closest to being ready for publication. I bet Plumley could tell you a thing or two about finding a literary agent.”
Millay gazed dreamily at her writing journal. “I do have a ton of questions about the querying process, so it’s fine with me if Oyster Bay’s own Dan Brown wants to hang out. Let’s see what he can do for us.” She turned to Olivia. “Does this mean you’ll be breaking out caviar and the top-shelf liquor?”
Olivia wasn’t pleased. “We’re not changing a thing for Nick Plumley’s visit. Personally, I don’t care for the idea of him being there for the critique of my chapter, but I guess I’ll deal with it, as everyone else wants to extend him an invitation.”
Having come to a decision, the group broke up. Millay left for her shift at Fish Nets, Rawlings needed to swing by the station to sign paperwork, and Laurel had to be home in time to bathe the twins and put them to bed.
Even after taking Haviland outside for a brisk walk down Oleander Drive, Olivia felt restless. She could go home, change clothes, and get to The Boot Top in time for the evening rush, but she was reluctant to leave Harris’s house. She wanted to know why Nick Plumley found the modest bungalow so intriguing.
“I need to do a little snooping,” she told Haviland. “You’ll have to wait another hour for dinner. I’m going to offer to help Harris unpack some boxes and see if the house wants to whisper a clue in my ear.”
Harris was delighted to accept her offer. “Could you set up the kitchen? Not to sound old-fashioned, but women have a better sense of where stuff should go in that room.”
“I doubt Michel would agree with that statement,” Olivia remarked with a laugh and got busy putting away dishes, pots, and pans, and Harris’s odd collection of flatware and cooking utensils.
The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was dated. It desperately needed new flooring and a fresh coat of paint, but the cabinets were solid, and Harris had done his best to clean them. The entire room was redolent with the smell of bleach.
When she was done setting up the room, she began to make a mental list of all the changes that would have to be made to freshen up the space. She hadn’t bought Harris a house-warming gift but decided on the spot to splurge and hire one of the men from Clyde’s team to rip up the worn and discolored linoleum and replace it with tile.
She wandered around the rest of the downstairs but found nothing unusual in the coat or broom closets and didn’t feel she had cause to be poking around upstairs. Harris, who was putting clothes in the chest of drawers in his bedroom, might find it odd to discover her jumping up and down on the floorboards in the attic. After scrutinizing the paneling in the living room for a final time, she gave up. Haviland hadn’t picked up any alarming scents either, and the house felt as it had each time she’d visited: solid and dependable.
Thoroughly tired now, Olivia wished Harris good night and stepped out into the warm evening. Casting a backward glance at the illuminated bungalow, Olivia decided she was going to have to investigate any and all public documents pertaining to its history. As Clyde had said, all houses had secrets.
“Yours might be well hidden,” Olivia addressed the timeworn facade. “But I will discover it.”
Chapter 4
At a dinner party one should eat wisely but not too well, and talk well but not too wisely.
—WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM
The following Monday Olivia began her search into the history of Harris’s house at the offices of the Oyster Bay Gazette. She could have just asked Laurel to look into the matter, as her friend wrote for the paper, but Laurel had enough to juggle as it was.
The receptionist at the Gazette listened politely to Olivia’s request to root through the paper’s archives but was quick to offer her an alternative to spending hours going through decades’ worth of dusty tomes. “You should just talk to Mrs. Fairchild over at the library. She’s lived here forever and has a larger memory capacity than my computer. If your research has anything to do with this town or its residents, she’s the person to see.” She shook her head. “Wow, I’m having a major case of déjà vu. I made the same suggestion to that good-looking author, Nick Plumley, last month.”
Olivia did her best to appear disinterested in this bit of gossip. Thanking the woman, she got back in the Range Rover and drove to the public library. She didn’t park in the lot, opting for a space in front of the historical society instead.
She opened Haviland’s door, and the pair strolled along the sidewalk. Olivia slowed to a halt as they arrived at the tree-lined parking lot.
“I haven’t been inside that building since I was six years old,” she told Haviland. “Nearly seven. I’d just finished reading Misty of Chincoteague, and the librarian, her name was Miss Leona, gave me a horse sticker as a prize.” Olivia smiled at the memory. “I didn’t need any incentive, of course. Even then, I knew the stories were their own reward, but Miss Leona used to put all my favorites on hold. She made me the prettiest bookmarks out of felt. I cherished every one.”
Haviland veered off to the left, his attention diverted by a squirrel chattering in one of the high branches of an oak tree. Olivia followed the poodle’s gaze, her eyes traveling over the sun-dappled foliage and the aged bark, and then she reached out and touched the trunk.
It was here, a few feet away, that Olivia’s mother had died. She’d worked as a librarian in the building at the end of the lot. There were three full-time librarians back then. Miss Leona, Mrs. Dubney, and Olivia’s mother. The women were a tight-knit group. Olivia knew this from the tenderness that would enter her mother’s voice whenever she spoke of her coworkers. At a time when most careers were dominated by males, this triumvirate of women ruled the Oyster Bay library with wisdom and kin
dness.
They also looked after one another outside of work. When Miss Leona was diagnosed with breast cancer, the other women covered her shifts and cooked her meals. When Mrs. Dubney’s husband died, they offered her food and company. Olivia remembered tagging along to the older woman’s house weekend after weekend.
She’d weed the vegetable garden or sweep the front path while her mother whispered words of comfort. Mrs. Dubney would take out photo albums or sit on the porch swing and tell rose-colored stories about her husband. Her entire body would shake with sobs, and the tears would stream down her cheeks until there were no more left. Olivia’s mother would hold her friend’s hand and listen, long after the stories began to repeat and the widow was able to smile during her reminiscences.
Eventually, the weekend visits to Mrs. Dubney became less frequent, yet there was always another townsperson who required compassion or cookies or a ride to work, and Olivia’s mother never failed a neighbor in need. Olivia did not resent the time or affection bestowed on these people because her mother always set out on each visit by saying, “They’re not lucky like I am, Livie. From the moment you were born and I held you in my arms, I knew I could never be unhappy again.”
Naturally, Olivia’s doting mother wanted her only child’s seventh birthday to be truly memorable and refused to allow the onset of a category two hurricane to stop her from picking up Olivia’s special gift. The big surprise, a Labrador puppy who’d been dropped off at the library by the breeder, was being cared for by Miss Leona until Olivia’s mother could collect the dog from the library staff room.
Because Olivia’s mother had been preoccupied decorating the house and baking her daughter a butterscotch cake, it was evening by the time she left the lighthouse keeper’s cottage and headed into town for the puppy. Wary of the storm, Miss Leona had closed the library early and had headed home, guiltily leaving the young dog in his crate in the staff room. The pup whined and yelped in fear as the rain smacked against the roof and the wind shook the trees around the building.
Hearing his cries, Olivia’s mother rushed into the library, leaving sodden boot prints on the carpet in her wake. She touched the puppy’s silken ears and stroked him tenderly. But he wouldn’t be consoled, so she grabbed the crate and tried to comfort the shivering pup after she’d settled him onto the passenger seat. Seconds later, a rotten telephone pole crashed through the windshield, killing the young wife and mother instantly.
The dog was unharmed.
Olivia never laid eyes on the puppy. And she planned to never go near the library again. Yet here she was.
“I guess we’ll find out if the current librarians like dogs,” she told Haviland and resolutely made her way toward the double doors.
The building had been given a facelift while Olivia was away at school. The facade was a mass of sparkling glass windows through which metal sculptures of flying gulls hung from vaulted ceilings. Their steel wings caught the light and threw reflections onto the lobby’s tiled floor.
“Lovely,” Olivia remarked as Haviland sniffed a rolling cart containing hardcovers for sale at a dollar apiece. “Anything good?” she asked him and then noticed a copy of The Barbed Wire Flower on the top shelf. Thinking the book might serve as a useful prop when she tried to glean information on Nick Plumley’s current research, Olivia took it from the cart along with a copy of Jodi Picoult’s latest release.
“I should shop here more often,” she murmured, recalling how awkward it had felt the last time she’d patronized her former lover’s bookstore.
She hesitated at the automatic door leading to a spacious carpeted area where the most popular fiction releases were displayed on shelves of blond wood. Olivia knew that while most local businesses welcomed Haviland and knew that he had impeccable manners, there were merchants who preferred him to remain in the Range Rover while Olivia did her shopping.
Olivia tended to judge people based on their reaction to her constant companion. As she approached the circulation desk, she steeled herself against possible disapproval and kept her gaze deliberately fixed upon the woman behind the counter. Olivia didn’t dare glance in the direction of the reference desk. That had been her mother’s desk, her mother’s blue swivel chair, her mother’s perfume clinging to the flyers and bookmarks and summer reading lists. If Olivia turned, she might be haunted by the sound of a tender whisper or a sweet smile.
“Livie?” A woman’s voice inquired softly. “My gracious, after all this time!”
Olivia knew her instantly. “Miss Leona. I can’t believe it’s you!”
The older woman chuckled, hiding her mirth behind her hand. “Well now, I haven’t been a ‘miss’ for decades, dear. I’m Mrs. Fairchild, but since I’ve known you since you were in diapers, you can just call me Leona.”
Olivia was amazed that Leona was still working at the same library after all these years. She’d been younger than Olivia’s mother and had aged gracefully. Now in her midfifties, Leona’s bright blond hair had become a darker, more muted shade, like the beach at twilight. She had laugh lines radiating from the corners of her gull gray eyes, and her figure was fuller, but she carried her extra weight well on her tall frame. Unruffled by Olivia’s scrutiny, she gazed at the daughter of her old friend with a frank gentleness unchanged by the passage of time.
To Olivia’s extreme annoyance, she suddenly felt shy and uncertain in the librarian’s presence. Not only was Leona one of the few townsfolk who’d known her as a child, but she’d also been privy to the intimate thoughts and secret longings of Olivia’s mother.
“Is it okay for Haviland to be here?” Olivia whispered.
Grinning, Leona reached out and stroked the poodle. “As long as he doesn’t lift his leg on the periodicals, it’s fine by me.” Her smile disappeared. “I know it wasn’t easy for you to come in, but I believe your sweet mama would have expected you to be a regular patron. There wasn’t a day that went by when she didn’t try to find you a special book or ask the other librarians for advice on how to instill in you a lifelong love of reading.”
“She succeeded in that goal,” Olivia said and noticed a look of satisfaction settle on the librarian’s face. “I’d like to sign up for a library card, but I’m also here on a research mission. Do you have a few minutes to spare?”
Leona took Olivia’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “For you? I have nothing but time.”
After listening to a single sentence, the librarian cut Olivia’s request short. “How strange! Mr. Plumley wanted information on the same house.” She lowered her voice until it was barely audible. “Tell me. Is it haunted? I don’t recall a single episode of violence occurring in that house, and there are no records documenting anything unusual about the people who lived there, but something must set that house apart. Within one month, a bestselling author and the long-absent daughter of my dear friend and colleague are seeking information on the same property.” She put her hands on her hips. “I suggest we trade information. You show me your cards and I’ll show you mine.”
Olivia hadn’t expected the librarian to be so plucky, but she liked her all the more for it. She raised her hands in surrender. “I’ll come clean, but what I’m about to say is for your ears alone.”
Leona led Olivia and Haviland into the staff room. She poured two cups of coffee, set them on the table, and offered the poodle a bowl of cool water. “Nick Plumley said he was conducting research for his sequel to The Barbed Wire Flower. You’re read it, haven’t you?”
Brandishing the hardcovers she had tucked under her arm, Olivia said, “Yes. I thought it was a compelling story.”
“Me too.” The librarian poured a generous splash of milk into her coffee and, seeing no spoon handy, stirred it with a plastic straw. “As you know, the novel is based on a prison camp set up in New Bern. It was a large camp and employed many families from the surrounding counties. Men who were too old or had a physical disability that prevented them from enlisting became the prison’s guards. Some of the German
POWs spent four years in that camp. Plumley’s descriptions of the guards educating their captives about democracy and capitalism are accurate. He was also correct in his depiction of how well the prisoners were treated. It was, for most of the war, a community of men exhibiting mutual respect and even friendship.”
Though this recap was interesting, Olivia didn’t see that it had much to do with Harris’s house. “Yes, I remember that. The Germans were also encouraged to make items out of scrap materials for their own use or to sell. They were allowed to keep every cent of the profits they earned. The prisoners were so content that they never tried to escape—at least not until the pivotal scene in which a disgruntled Nazi captured and transported here toward the end of the war plans a rebellion. One of his confederates kills a guard, and together the escapees hop a freight train for the Midwest and are never seen again.”
“What many people don’t know is that the event Plumley depicts so graphically actually happened,” the librarian stated solemnly. “The murdered guard was from Oyster Bay. His name was James Hatcher. Plumley gave both him and the Germans fictional names, of course, but I’ve met Hatcher’s son, and he believes Plumley described that night in perfect detail.”
Olivia tried to rein in her impatience. “Did James Hatcher live in the house Plumley’s researching?”
“No. I thought one of his descendants might have and that’s why Mr. Plumley was fixated on it, but that turned out to be a dead end.” Leona took a sip of coffee and stared at Haviland, her eyes glazing as she traveled into the past. Olivia began to shake her foot under the table. She was not accustomed to sitting still.
Finally, the librarian blinked twice and, surfacing from the past, returned her attention to Olivia. “I wrote down the names of three families who’ve lived in the house. During the war, it was the Whites, but they moved out of town before the armistice. The next family, the Carters, were there the longest. They raised two boys in that house before moving to Florida in the early nineties. After that, it belonged to the Robinsons, the couple that sold it to your friend last month. They’re childless, and if the gossip chain is accurate, the wife is an agoraphobic.”
