by Ellery Adams
This was frustrating because she’d been hoping to have a tangible lead to share with her fellow writers. Now, she not only had nothing of interest to impart, but she’d found herself absorbed in another and even more obscure mystery than Nick Plumley’s murder: the story behind the beautiful and troubled Miss White.
Laurel and Millay hadn’t come across any useful data either. Facing a deadline and a visit from her in-laws, Laurel had turned the assignment over to Millay. She’d spent hours searching through book after book of bound newspapers, but the Gazette archives revealed no other photographs of the house or its occupants other than the images from the relocation and the impromptu church service held when the tractor-trailer broke down on Main Street.
As Millay adeptly decanted the bottle of wine on the cottage’s countertop, she declared that someone owed her a hot stone massage. She then poured a glass for Laurel, knowing that Olivia would see to her own cocktail.
“I hope Harris has had more luck,” Laurel said with a weary sigh.
Millay handed her the glass of wine. “Take a slug of this and relax. You look wrecked.”
“I am,” Laurel confessed. “I thought the energy I’d need to be a mom and a career woman would be my biggest challenge, but it turns out that I can handle that just fine. What I can’t handle is that Steve and his parents make me feel like a stranger in my own house.”
Olivia fixed herself a drink and then took a seat across from Laurel. “Steve still doesn’t support your decision to be a journalist?”
Laurel shrugged. “In front of company he does, but if it’s just us, and he finds so much as a dirty dish in the sink, he points out that our family was in better shape before I decided to go all ‘Clark Kent.’ ” She drank half of the fruity zinfandel blend in one gulp.
Millay frowned in disapproval. “I know his hands are delicate instruments and all, but come on. Make him do the dishes.”
“I doubt that would solve the problem,” Olivia remarked as Millay pulled a bottle of beer from the fridge. “Is it possible he’s jealous of you, Laurel?”
“That would be a first,” Laurel replied wryly.
Using the shark-shaped opener that hung from her keychain, Millay popped the cap off the Heineken bottle and tossed it in the trash can in one fluid motion. “Olivia might be onto something. Your man has always been the Big Cheese at home. Mr. Breadwinner. Mr. Head of the Family. Then you go and land your dream job, instantly becoming a local celeb. Stevie Boy probably doesn’t feel as macho as he did before.” She sank gratefully onto the sofa and pointed at Laurel with her beer. “He needs a testosterone jumpstart.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Laurel sipped at her wine, her gaze fixed on the glasslike ocean beyond the windows of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage. “He’s been keeping really long hours at the office. He probably feels like we’re in some kind of competition.” She blinked and her face seemed to regain a fraction of its customary brightness. “At least having a double income means that our piggy bank is getting nice and fat.”
“Those are two words I’ve never heard a woman use together before,” Harris stated as he entered the room. He headed straight for the refrigerator and helped himself to a beer. Flopping onto the sofa next to Millay, he spread out his long arms and let his head sink into the cushions. “What . . . a . . . week.”
Millay prodded him with the toe of her black boot. “Don’t play coy. Did you dig up anything important on Plumley or what?”
He pointed at her footwear. “Do you sleep in those things?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She gave her bootlace a saucy twirl.
It took Harris a moment to break eye contact and turn his attention to his laptop case. He placed his iBook on the coffee table and pointed at the document on the screen. “I learned quite a few interesting things about Plumley, but most of the data I came across in my cyber search focused on his post-publication years. Biographically speaking, it’s like he didn’t exist before The Barbed Wire Flower.”
“Is Nick Plumley a nom de plume?” Olivia asked.
Harris shrugged. “It must be, but if that’s the case, I can’t find his real name anywhere. However, I discovered that he lives, ah, lived, in Beaufort.”
Laurel looked confused. “But that’s so close. Why would he want to move here when he already had a home in a quaint seaside town?”
Recalling Plumley’s declaration that he’d come to Oyster Bay in search of anonymity, Olivia repeated the conversation she’d had with the author in Grumpy’s. “At the time I believed him.”
“I don’t buy that explanation for a second,” Harris said. “I had to jump through a dozen cyber hoops locating the guy’s permanent residence, and I know how to find people on the Internet. Nick spent so many days of the year on tour, both here and in Europe, that he was rarely in Beaufort. In fact, more than one state claims him as one of their resident authors. Trust me, he was not getting hounded by the paparazzi in Beaufort, North Carolina.”
Examining the diminished ice cubes at the bottom of her glass, Olivia walked into the kitchen to fix herself a second drink. “In my opinion, this strengthens the theory that he came to town in search of your painting, Harris.”
“I still haven’t seen this masterpiece,” Laurel said with a pretty sulk. “And I don’t get why he wanted it so badly.”
Harris shook his head. “I’m stumped on that question too. Obviously, Nick was interested in the connection between the artist, Heinrich Kamler, and the New Bern prison camp. Oyster Bay’s at least twenty miles away from New Bern, so he didn’t pick our town because of its proximity to the POW camp. There’s got to be something we’re not seeing clearly. If only I had his laptop. There must be a clue embedded in his manuscript.”
“I’d let you see every file on Mr. Plumley’s computer,” a deep voice stated from the doorway. “If only we’d found one.”
Chief Rawlings smiled at the writers. “It’s my dinner break. I decided that discussing certain elements of the case with you four would be more productive than staring at the ME’s report for the hundredth time while choking down a burger.”
“Nick’s laptop was stolen?” Harris looked stricken. He, Millay, and Laurel began to exchange thoughts as to where else Plumley might have backed up his work while Olivia watched Rawlings assemble a sandwich from the platter of sliced rolls, meats, and cheeses she’d picked up from The Boot Top’s walk-in fridge earlier that afternoon.
He carried a thick sandwich made of prosciutto, smoked Gouda, red onions, and mustard on a crusty roll to one of the wing chairs. The writer friends waited with barely concealed impatience as he took a large bite. Influenced by the sight of Rawlings’ supper, Millay began to assemble a sandwich of buffalo mozzarella, sliced tomatoes, and pesto spread. No one else seemed eager to eat.
“There were no computers in Mr. Plumley’s house or car,” Rawlings stated. “There were also no printouts, no file folders containing outlines or notes, not even a journal. Nothing. I expected to at least discover correspondence with his agent or publisher, but even his phone records are sparse. Too sparse.”
Laurel cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
“Mr. Plumley and I both live alone, but I probably made four times the phone calls he made last month. Think about your average day. You speak with friends and family members. You contact businesses.” He put down his sandwich, too engrossed in the topic to continue eating. “There were many days when Mr. Plumley neither made nor received a single call. Even for a writer in search of privacy, that strikes me as unusual.”
Harris slowly made his way into the kitchen, his expression pensive. “He might have done most of his communication via e-mail. If so, it’d be another reason for the killer to steal Nick’s laptop.” He began to build a tower of Genoa salami, pepperoni, Soppressata, and provolone. “What about his place in Beaufort? Any computers there?”
Rawlings, who was about to take a sip of light beer, froze, and then lowered the bottle like an autom
aton, his eyes never leaving Harris’s face. “How did you know about Mr. Plumley’s permanent residence?”
Instead of answering, Harris pivoted his laptop screen so the chief could read the results of his research. “As you can see, I hit a wall. Prepublication, the man’s a ghost. I figured Plumley was a pen name, but couldn’t find his real one no matter where I looked.”
“It’s Ziegler. Nick Ziegler.”
With a grin, Harris saluted Rawlings with his massive sandwich. “Point scored by the blue team.”
Millay leaned forward eagerly. “So what’s shady in Ziegler’s past? Drug deals? Child porn? A penchant for farm animals?”
Rawlings raised a brow at the last phrase. “The fact of greatest interest was that he was married. His ex-wife, Cora, is sitting in our interview room as we speak.”
“Is she a suspect?” Olivia asked.
“Mrs. Ziegler, excuse me, she’s Mrs. Vickers now, is the sole beneficiary of Mr. Plumley’s life insurance policy. We don’t have a full picture of the victim’s finan-cials, but there was an insurance card in his wallet. We spoke to his agent, who put us onto the ex-wife.” Finished with his sandwich, Rawlings wiped his hands on a paper napkin and then began to steadily wind it around the first two fingers of his left hand. “If she hadn’t been vacationing at Emerald Isle with her new husband at the time of the murder, she wouldn’t have raised my suspicions.”
Laurel motioned for Millay to pass her the wine. Olivia observed her friend pour herself another generous glass. It was unlike Laurel to consume more than one serving per evening, but tonight, she was drinking zinfandel like a marathon runner chugging water at the end of a race. Millay shot Olivia a concerned glance and, in an exchange of unspoken agreement, Olivia began to fix Laurel a plate of food.
“Two husbands, huh?” Laurel snorted ruefully. “When did she and Plumley or Ziegfried or whoever he was break up? And did she wait until he was rich and famous to dump him so she could live happily ever after with another man?”
Rawlings stared at her in bewilderment for a moment before answering. “According to Mrs. Vickers, she and her former husband had an amicable parting years before his novel was published. During most of their three-year marriage, Mr. Plumley had worked as a freelance journalist and photographer. He traveled often, leaving Cora alone and unhappy. One day, he returned from an assignment and she told him that their marriage was over. He took the news well, they divided their things, and Cora moved to the western part of the state. She’s been living there ever since.”
“Yet she brought her new husband to Emerald Isle? That’s right near Beaufort. Why would she vacation so close to where she and her ex lived?” Harris inquired before attacking his sandwich again.
“Cora and Boyd were married the day before Mr. Plumley was murdered. We’ve confirmed the details with both the officiant and their sole witness. The Vickers claim to have come to the coast because they wanted a beach wedding and both swore in separate interviews that they spent most of the hours following their nuptials inside a rental cottage. Celebrating.” Rawlings sighed and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “The reason Mr. and Mrs. Vickers have been questioned for the past four hours is that Emerald Isle is an easy drive from here and the Vickers are broke. And in my experience, very few divorces are truly amicable.”
Millay held up an index finger. “Motive.” She then raised her thumb. “Opportunity.” She fired her air gun while whistling the first three notes of Beethoven’s Fifth.
“It’s not that simple, I’m afraid.” Rawlings glanced at his watch. “Without any tangible evidence, we’re going to have to let the couple go.” He stood up and carried his plate to the sink. “This is where I could use some unofficial help.”
Olivia grinned. “We thought you’d never ask.”
“The two of them are hiding something. I don’t know what it is, and my hands are tied. I’ve questioned them, they’ve been relatively cooperative, and their statements match. Their alibi is weak, so I’ve sent officers to Emerald Isle to confirm the few facts that can be confirmed. That’s all I can do for now.” He looked at Olivia. “They plan to have a meal at The Bayside Crab House before driving back. It was my hope that you could see to it that their drinks were poured with a very liberal hand and that someone”—he cast a meaningful glance at Laurel, Millay, and Harris—“could strike up a casual conversation with them.”
Harris rubbed his hands together. “Recon! Sweet.”
“If possible, find out why they don’t have any money. Boyd’s a personal trainer and Cora’s an interior decorator. I don’t expect them to be rich, but it looks like Boyd’s maxed out his Visa card with this vacation and Cora’s credit has been shot for years. They’ll certainly benefit from the insurance payout.” He paused. “Just try to get a sense of what makes them tick. Are they greedy? Compulsive? Jealous? There was more than a trace of ire on Mrs. Vickers’ part when I questioned her about her ex-husband’s literary success. I got the sense that she feels she was owed a piece of Plumley’s earnings even though the book was published long after their divorce was final.”
Laurel drained her glass and set it so roughly on the coffee table that it tipped over and rolled onto the floor. Rawlings scooped it up in his large hand and quickly dabbed at the splatters on the rug with a napkin. “I’d better drop you off on my way back to the station,” he told her gently.
“I’m fine,” Laurel argued with a noticeable slur.
Olivia touched Rawlings on the arm. “I’ll take her home. I need to get going anyway if I’m going to talk to my staff about treating the Vickers like royalty tonight.”
Rawlings took a step closer, as though trying to transmit his reluctance to move away from her touch. “Thanks. Let’s meet for coffee at Bagels ’n’ Beans tomorrow morning. I know you’ll have something to tell me.”
“I’ll be there at nine.” Olivia dropped her hand. “What angle will you be running down in the meantime?”
The chief shifted his gaze toward the placid ocean. “I’ll be spending the rest of the evening reviewing Mr. Plumley’s financial records. Murder is usually about money, and I need to see what he was doing with his.”
“Well, if I don’t show up for my shift, I won’t be making any,” Millay said with an unhappy frown. “But I can’t leave this to you and Harris. You need me behind the bar.”
Olivia considered the dilemma as Rawlings walked out of the cottage. “Call in sick to Fish Nets. I’ll need your special talents tonight and will double your regular Saturday-night salary. And don’t worry, I’ll make certain Cora and Boyd end up seated in front of you.” She turned to Harris. “Carry a copy of The Barbed Wire Flower with you. Don’t talk to the newlyweds until Millay gives you the signal. I’m willing to gamble that once she works her magic, they’ll be falling all over themselves to talk about Nick Plumley and a whole host of other intimate topics.”
“I just hope you don’t have some dorky dress code,” Millay mumbled. “I am not wearing a white shirt and bowtie or anything made from a polyester blend.”
Olivia grimaced. “It’s not a T.G.I. Friday’s. You have to wear a Bayside Crab House T-shirt, but you can stay in your boots and skirt. Just don’t give away liquor and food to anyone but the Vickers.” She smiled indulgently at Harris. “Notwithstanding a beer or two for this one.”
“What about me?” Laurel whined.
Millay slung a shoulder around her friend and helped her to stand. “You’re cut off, lady. You and Bacchus got a bit too hot and heavy tonight.”
Harris took Laurel’s other arm, and together, he and Millay escorted her to Olivia’s Range Rover. Haviland jumped to his feet and gave Olivia an inquisitive look. She told him that they were going to work and he was out the door in a blur of black fur, undoubtedly envisioning bowls of butter-drenched seafood or cubes of choice beef steeped au jus.
After promising to meet Millay and Harris downtown, Olivia drove Laurel home in silence. When she and Haviland were alone, Ol
ivia preferred to listen to an audiobook or to put all the windows down, inviting the whirl of the wind to fill the void within the Range Rover’s cabin. Now, the humming of the road moving beneath the tires seemed poignantly loud.
“Do you want to talk?” Olivia asked, desperately hoping Laurel wouldn’t take her up on the offer. She had enough on her mind without having to listen to her friend’s marital woes.
Laurel was quiet for so long that Olivia began to believe she’d be spared, but finally, her friend released a mournful sigh and pressed her cheek against the window glass, as though welcoming the coolness against her skin. “You can’t have it all, you know. The media makes it look like any woman can have well-adjusted kids and a happy marriage and a successful career, but that’s total crap. The most we can hope for is kids who won’t grow up to be serial killers, a marriage that exists out of habit, and a career where you take on more than you can handle because if you don’t, you look weak.”
“So which part of living an imperfect life bothers you the most?” Olivia glanced at her friend in the rear-view mirror.
Laurel’s voice quavered. “Not being a good mother. Nothing matters more to me than those boys.”
“And quitting your job? Will that make you a better mother?”
“I don’t know,” Laurel whispered after a lengthy pause.
Olivia could hear the pain in her friend’s voice but was unsure how to console her. After all, she had no experience juggling a family and a career. She’d never had to worry about her checkbook balance or raise children or hold the interest of any man for more than a few months. Yet she firmly believed that everyone deserved their share of happiness as long as they were working at fulfilling their dreams. Laurel was a fighter at heart, and Olivia disliked seeing the younger woman so deflated.
“As you may know, my mother worked at the local library,” she spoke softly and put one hand on Haviland’s neck, her eyes locked on the road. “Some of my fondest memories were of her packing our lunches each morning—hers for work and mine for school. I’d sit in the kitchen and watch her get ready for the day while I ate breakfast. I remember how carefully she’d iron her blouse and that her hair looked so professional pinned up away from her face. She’d hum as she got ready for work, and I knew she looked forward to it every day.” Olivia paused, reveling in the memory.
