by Ellery Adams
“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.
Her Bounty Hunter gave a high-pitched signal, indicating the likely presence of an object made of silver. Tired of carrying the ungainly device, Olivia decided this was as good a place as any to dig and pulled her trench shovel from her backpack.
“Come help, Captain!”
Haviland was pleased to oblige,
and together, they dug until they reached moist sand.
“Hold on a sec,” Olivia said, wondering whether they’d gone too far. She directed the metal detector at the pile of the discarded sand, but it stayed quiet. Placing it over the hole resulted in a bold chirp.
Discarding the shovel, Olivia used her fingers to comb through the damp sand. Eventually, she felt a tiny object beneath the nail of her index finger and pulled a coin from its cool, dark bed. Sitting back on her haunches, she brushed off granules of sand and held out the find to the sun.
“A dime,” she murmured. “But an unusual one.”
The coin needed cleaning. Olivia couldn’t make out the date, but despite the coating of dirt and grit on its face, she recognized that the profile did not belong to Franklin D. Roosevelt. Plus, it was heavier than a modern dime and felt solid in the middle of her palm.
Olivia slipped the coin into the pocket of her shorts and packed up her shovel.
“I prefer this sort of mystery, Captain,” she told her panting poodle. “Let’s go home, get you some water, and wash our find. Perhaps the ocean has something to tell me today.” She cast a covert glance at the sparkling waves. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a message.”
Untying her shoes, she added them to the backpack and waded past the gurgling sea foam, letting the waves lap at her ankles. Olivia walked back to her house this way, reconnecting with the sea like a mermaid who spent far too long on dry land.
Later that afternoon, before she headed downtown to check in at both of her restaurants, Olivia removed the dime from its vinegar bath. When she’d first found the coin, it had the dark gray hue of sharkskin, but now it had reclaimed much of its original silver shade along with a sheen of oil slick blue and green when held directly under the light. A true coin collector wouldn’t have cleaned the dime in this manner if they’d cleaned it at all, but Olivia didn’t sell her beach finds. They were placed in jumbo pickle jars labeled by the year. In the depths of winter, when it was hard to believe summer would ever return, she’d dump out the contents of a jar onto her living room rug and comb through the relics, rediscovering her simple treasures and reliving the hours having her shoulders doused with sunshine and her lungs infused with sea air.
Olivia carried the dime to her computer and pulled up a bookmarked site on coin identification. She scrolled to the section on U.S. dimes and spotted hers immediately. The female profile on her find was an exact match of the Winged Liberty Head wearing a Phrygian cap pictured on the website.
Haviland sat beside her and gazed at the screen with interest.
“That silly-looking hat is supposed to represent liberty and freedom,” she told the poodle. “And that bundle of branches tied together with an ax on the reverse is called a fasces. A Roman symbol indicating power. According to this article, however, it was supposed to indicate America’s readiness for war. Combined with the traditional olive branches shown on every dime, it was also supposed to portray our country’s desire to acquire peace.” She shook her head. “We always did take the other Roosevelt’s declaration to ‘speak softly and carry a big stick’ too much to heart.”
She put the Mercury dime beneath the lens of her magnifying glass and searched for the date.
“1941,” she read and then tilted the coin so that light from her desk lamp made it appear as though the goddess of Liberty was winking at her with her single eye. “So you were minted during the war. Whose pockets did you travel in? Did some poor fool about to be shipped to the front lose you when he stripped down to take one last swim in his home waters? Did you bear witness to the sinking of the German U-boat and the roundup of the first wave of prisoners? Or were you a little kid’s birthday money?”
Olivia glanced out the window, where the hazy, pink sky reminded her that she needed to get going. She turned off the lamp and looked down at the coin before dropping it into this year’s pickle jar. Liberty’s face was painted in shadow, smudges of dark gray that the vinegar bath had been unable to erase. The goddess looked solemn. Her gaze was firm and unwavering, but her mouth turned down at the corner into what looked like disapproval or even doubt.
“There must be a clue hidden in the past,” Olivia murmured and gave the jar a little shake, forcing the coin to rattle against the other metal trinkets inside. She screwed the lid on and quickly checked her e-mail. Harris had come through. He’d discovered the name of the New Bern prisoner guard’s son.
“Raymond Hatcher.” Olivia smiled in satisfaction. “I look forward to meeting you.”
She sent Harris a short note of thanks, shut down her computer, and loaded Haviland into the Range Rover. It was time to review menus, see to paperwork, and have a cocktail. And not necessarily in that order.
Harris had also found out that Raymond Hatcher worked for a freight company in an industrial park outside of Grantsboro. Olivia waited until eleven thirty Monday morning before setting out for Hatcher’s place of employment. She hoped to intercept him en route to his lunch break.
She hadn’t called first. It was her experience that a few white lies, combined with an envelope of twenty-dollar bills, made even the most tight-lipped people transform into effusive chatterboxes. If Raymond wouldn’t meet with her today, she’d find a time and place more conducive to a lengthy chat.
Assuming that loading docks were not unlike fishing docks, Olivia bypassed the front entrance and drove around to the back of the mammoth steel structure. Dozens of tractor-trailers were backed up to deep bays, and the industrious whir and bleeps of forklifts maneuvering around the loading areas reverberated against the metal walls.
Olivia decided to leave Haviland in the car, so she parked the Range Rover on the shady side of the building, opened the windows, and handed him one of his favorite treats: dried tendons from grass-fed South African beef. His eyes glimmered as she placed three more snacks on the console. “I know they’re high in protein, but take your time. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
Ignoring her, Haviland took his prize to the back, sank onto his belly, set the tendon between his front paws, and got to work. His white teeth flashed, and the gleam in his eyes was that of a satisfied predator.
Shouldering her purse, Olivia walked into the nearest bay as though she frequented the business on a regular basis. She saw a middle-aged man with a kind face scrutinizing a sheet of paper on a clipboard and headed straight for him.
“Excuse me,” she said, giving him her most dazzling smile. “Could you tell me where to find Raymond Hatcher?”
“Sure thang, sweetheart.” The man ogled her appreciatively and then immediately caught himself. “Sorry. We don’t get fine-lookin’ women such as yourself in here every day.” He gestured at a pair of vending machines positioned near the back wall. “Ray’s gettin’ himself his tenth Mountain Dew of the mornin’. See him? He’s the big guy in the John Deere cap.”
Olivia thanked him and, skirting around idling forklifts and veritable mountains of boxes, she came to stand behind Raymond Hatcher. Her first impression was of his height. She was nearly six feet, but he probably had another five or six inches on her. He wasn’t lanky like many very tall people, but was as solid and heavily muscled as an NBA center. When he turned, she met his electric blue stare and momentarily felt at a loss for words. There was something familiar about his face, but she knew she’d never seen him before. His eyes alone were unforgettable, and one didn’t pass by a man in his midsixties of Raymond’s size without taking note.
“Hello,” she finally managed to say. “Are you Raymond Hatcher?”
He nodded, his gaze intense but not unfriendly. He said nothing.
“Do you have a moment? I’d like to talk to you about Nick Plumley.” She waited for the giant to react to the writer’s name, but he only cocked his head to one side like a curious bird. “I’m here because I’ll be ghostwriting the rest of the sequel to The Barbed Wire Flower,” she lied.
Instead of answering, he popped the tab of his soda, raised it to his lips, and too
k several long swallows. “I can’t talk now,” he said after lowering the can to his side. He gave it a little shake and then absently squeezed the metal with his fingertips. “I don’t have a break for another two hours. You’ll have to wait until my shift’s over.”
“When would that be?” Olivia asked, trying not to let her focus waver; the subtle cracks of the deflating soda can filled the air.
Raymond glanced at his watch. “I came on at eleven, so I’ll be here ’til eight.”
“Okay, then why don’t I buy you a beer? Are you familiar with a place called Fish Nets in Oyster Bay?”
He nodded. “I’ve been there a time or two.”
“How’s nine o’clock?”
One of the nearby forklift engines roared into life, startling Olivia. Raymond watched her jump to the side, and the shadow of a grin curved his mouth upward. “All right, but it’s not the kind of place I expect you visit much. Are you sure you wanna go there?”
“Trust me, I’ve been to Fish Nets more times than I care to remember, but I happen to know the bartender. She’ll take good care of us.”
Raymond slipped a finger beneath the brim of his baseball cap and scratched his temple, his grin widening a fraction. “You can call me Ray.”
“I’m Olivia,” she said and held out her hand. He shook it carefully, nodded at her, and then walked away. Several men observed his progress and then turned their attention toward her, clearly interested in why this beautiful, sophisticated woman had paid their coworker a visit.
Olivia was accustomed to being the object of people’s stares. They did not trouble her. What did trouble her was that she considered herself an astute judge of character. She believed she had a gift for reading people and that everyone had a tell. Raymond Hatcher was an exception, however. Olivia couldn’t glean the slightest sense of his personality. She didn’t like that. In fact, it made her nervous.
Inside the Range Rover, Haviland was obediently pacing himself and still had a full beef tendon left to eat. Olivia let him be. Turning on the car, she commanded her dashboard phone to dial Millay’s number.
