The Last Word bbtbm-3

by Ellery Adams

  “See? You’d scratch and claw at my arm, desperate to breathe, doing anything in your power to break free.” Rawlings resumed his seat across from Olivia. He averted his gaze, and she knew he’d felt her hunger for him, that it had shocked him with electricity, like water dripping onto a live wire.

  Reaching for her glass, Olivia nodded. “You expected to find the killer’s skin under Nick’s nails.”

  “Yes. The nails obviously weren’t cleaned, so I’ve begun to believe that Mr. Plumley also wore gloves.”

  Several thoughts vied for attention once the chief voiced this theory. Olivia remembered Shala Knowles and her fellow curators donning their white gloves to examine Harris’s painting. She also envisioned Ray Hatcher showing up at Nick’s house with the photographs the author was so desperate to examine. Plumley would have gladly put on a pair of latex gloves in exchange for the right to view images of Camp New Bern.

  Rawlings had come to the same conclusion. “I need to pay a visit to Mr. Hatcher tonight. There are far too many suspects in this case, too many people who’d take a risk in the hope of walking away with a pile of money.”

  “Or for the chance at possessing an original work by Heimlich Kamler,” Olivia pointed out. “There must have been half a dozen art aficionados in the curator’s office. Who knows how many people they told about the painting? They knew my name and that I’d come to Raleigh from Oyster Bay. I would have been easy to find . . .” She trailed off, feeling foolish.

  The chief dismissed the notion. “The murderer wanted Nick dead, not you. I don’t know how the painting fits into the case or if it has any connection at all, but I need to find Hatcher before it gets any later.”

  He put his hand on her shoulder in passing. “Nice work, Olivia.”

  Without turning, she felt him leave. It was as if the room grew suddenly duller, the warmth on her skin where his breath and fingers had touched her was replaced by the cool exhalation of air-conditioning. Even the candle sputtered, sending fractured shadows onto the table where Rawlings’ empty coffee cup sat.

  At that moment his sister entered the bar, her cheeks flushed from an evening of celebration. “There you are!” she exclaimed merrily. “You shouldn’t have paid for my birthday supper! We barely know each other.”

  Olivia smiled. “Fifty is a milestone. I couldn’t resist the chance to do something to contribute to your party.”

  “And maybe impress my brother at the same time?” Jeannie winked impishly.

  Holding her hands out in surrender, Olivia had to laugh. “You got me. I did have an ulterior motive.”

  Jeannie squeezed her on the arm. “Thank you all the same. We’d better be going so you all can close. I’ve never been the last person in a restaurant before, but it sure makes me feel young and adventurous. Good night!”

  “Wait! Please.” Olivia put out her right hand, hoping to impede the woman’s departure.

  The chief’s sister drew close again. “Go on, I can see that you want to ask me something about Sawyer.”

  Olivia cast her gaze down. “I screwed up with him. He was willing to be with me, but . . . well . . . I pushed him away,” she confessed miserably. “How can I prove that I’m ready now, that I know I made a mistake the morning I let him go?”

  Jeannie took a long time answering. She seemed to be deciding whether Olivia Limoges was worthy of her brother. Finally, her eyes softened. “He was torn in two when Helen died, so he’s not going to come knockin’ on your door if you’ve already shut it in his face once. He’s going to protect his heart now. You want to claim him?”

  Uncomfortable in the face of such a direct question, Olivia clenched her jaw to hold in the uprising of feeling and nodded, her sea blue eyes glittering with intensity.

  “Well, then. You’re going to have to do something big. And I don’t mean buy him a yacht or write his name across the sky. Something big is something that scares the life out of you, that makes you tremble in your shoes because it’s chock-full of risk. You show Sawyer what you’re letting me see and he’ll never let you go again.” She raised a finger in warning. “But don’t you mess around with his heart, Olivia. I might be a plump, God-fearing wife and mother, but I’ll tear you to pieces with my bare hands if you hurt him.”

  Olivia believed her. “I read you loud and clear. He’s lucky to have such a devoted sister.”

  Jeannie shrugged, merriment instantly returning to her round cheeks. “Trust me, I wasn’t always nice to him. He did some terrible things to my doll collection, and I held that against him for years.” She smiled. “Word has it that you have a brother too.”

  “Hudson. He and his wife, Kim, and their daughter, Caitlyn, all live here now. And they just had a baby. A boy named Anders.” Olivia felt a pang when she spoke his name. She had an inexplicable urge to get in the car and drive to Greenville, to see the infant’s little face and to watch the steady rise and fall of his small chest. Instead, she silently vowed to call Kim first thing in the morning.

  “Whatever it is, the child’ll be just fine,” Jeannie said, correctly sensing Olivia’s anxiety. “Babies are tougher than they look.” A movement near the hostess podium caught her attention. “There’s my gang, waiting on me as usual.” She patted Olivia’s hand. “You take care.”

  Olivia watched as Jeannie’s husband slid an arm around her waist and kissed her several times on the brow and then once on the lips. Their teenage children followed behind, looking both embarrassed and protected by their father’s open display of affection.

  When they’d gone, the emptiness of the restaurant resonated around Olivia. It was only when the waitstaff turned up the lights in the dining room and set about their closing tasks that Olivia was able to shake off her stupor and head through the swinging doors to greet Haviland.

  In the kitchen, the sous-chefs weren’t exchanging their usual insults and lighthearted banter. Instead, they were strangely silent. The dishwasher’s banging and splashing reverberated against metal pans and mixing bowls, and no one looked up when she approached.

  Olivia paused, glancing from her office door, which was closed, to the sous-chefs. They wouldn’t meet her inquisitive gaze, but their hands betrayed their feelings, straying to twist water from a dishrag or to diligently polish an already gleaming knife blade.

  Without bothering to knock, Olivia threw open the door to her office and let out an involuntary gasp.

  There was Michel, one arm wrapped around a woman’s back, his free hand stroking her wheat blond hair. Her face was buried in the chef’s neck, and though Olivia couldn’t quite hear the words she whispered, the raw desire behind them was clear enough, tainting the air with a heady, cloying perfume like that of a million jasmine blossoms opening at once.

  Haviland bounded up from his position on the floor and gave Olivia a toothy smile. She reached for him and, at the same time, found her voice.

  “Laurel Hobbs! What the hell is going on here?”

  Chapter 12

  Life is not significant details, illuminated by a flash, fixed forever. Photographs are.

  —SUSAN SONTAG

  Olivia twirled the Mercury dime on the tabletop, watching it reflect splinters of morning light onto the Formica. It winked like a buoy on the water until bumping into the edge of her coffee cup and then clattering to a stop. She picked up the dime and sent it spinning once again.

  “Are we borin’ you?” Dixie asked, indicating the half-empty diner with her hand. “See Mr. Jeffries? The cute little man at the Evita booth? He’s been lookin’ for an excuse to sing ‘Mr. Mistoffelees’ ever since I can remember. Should I tell him you’d like nothin’ better than to hear your favorite song from Cats?”

  “Not if you value your life,” Olivia threatened and then sighed. “And I’m not bored, just impatient.” She tapped on her cell phone, which sat on the center of the table alongside her coffee cup. “I’m waiting for two calls. One from Greenville and the other from Chapel Hill. I was hoping to have been on the road by now,
but my damned phone refuses to ring.”

  Dixie climbed into the booth opposite Olivia and stretched out her short legs on the surface of the red vinyl cushion. “Oh, that feels good. I’ve been skatin’ my ass off since five thirty.” She glanced at her purple Swatch. “This is late for you to be eatin’ breakfast. And no laptop? What’s goin’ on with my favorite Egyptian strumpet?”

  “Not a thing since she managed to seduce Ramses. I can’t concentrate on Kamila. Nick Plumley’s murder has taken over my thoughts. That and an incident that occurred at The Boot Top last night, but I absolutely cannot tell you about that, so don’t even ask.”

  Dixie opened her mouth to speak when Olivia’s phone vibrated, causing it to skid sideways. Olivia swept it up and examined the screen. “It’s a text message with an attachment. I have no idea how to open this. I’m not thirteen, for crying out loud.”

  “Don’t be such an old fart,” Dixie chided and reached for the phone. “Come on, you know my arms are too stubby to grab that far, so give it here.”

  Olivia obeyed, and Dixie punched a few buttons and then read the message aloud. “ ‘Anders is doin’ fine. Caitlyn and I spend most of the day at the hospital and I’ve been able to hold my boy and even give him his first bath. Nurse Love is visitin’ us today. She is an angel! Here’s a pic of another angel. This is Anders sendin’ love to his Aunt Olivia. oxox Kim.’ ” Dixie fluttered her fingertips over the phone and then her face broke into a bright smile. “Lord have mercy! If this isn’t the most precious child I have ever seen!”

  She placed the phone flat on the table and pushed it toward Olivia. A cherubic face rested in the middle of the screen, and Olivia pulled the Anders image closer. “He’s filled out,” she remarked proudly. “Look at those dimples. And his eyes . . . they’re not dark like Hudson’s. They’re gray. Almost pewter. Beautiful.” She felt a warmth spread through her chest, rushing up her neck to her cheeks. It was an odd feeling, this delight over receiving a photo of her half brother’s child, but delight is what it was, pure and simple. In a small way, this child belonged to her. They were tied to each other by the bonds of blood and the finer, less tangible thread of experience. Olivia had been on the other side of the wall while the doctors had repaired Anders’ heart, she had stood over his incubator when the surgery was over, and she had touched his tiny hand. With that touch, she had instantly committed herself to him.

  “Look at you, ’Livia!” Dixie teased. “That boy’s got you wrapped around his itty-bitty finger. I’m surprised you haven’t hired a helicopter to fly him home to Oyster Bay.”

  Olivia pretended to mull over the idea. “Too noisy,” she replied. “But there is the nursery to consider. I don’t know if Hudson got the crib ready or has a supply of diapers and all the millions of gadgets one seems to need to raise a child these days. I should stop by the house and find out.”

  “Bring Laurel along,” Dixie suggested. “She’ll point out what’s missin’, and you two can do some damage with your Visa card. Shoot, I might move into Anders’ room, especially if Grumpy won’t stop wakin’ me up at two in the morning . . .” She trailed off. “Hey, why’d a black cloud form over your head when I mentioned Laurel? Does she have somethin’ to do with what happened last night at The Boot Top?”

  Haviland got up from his seat on the floor, stretched, and stuck his nose between Dixie’s skates. He sniffed the wheels with great interest and then sat on his haunches, looking expectantly from one woman to the other.

  “See? Even Captain wants you to spill.” Dixie lowered her voice. “Fifty bucks says she’s got the hots for Michel.”

  Olivia, who had just poured a small whirlpool of cream into her coffee, held her teaspoon in the air. “How did you know that?”

  Dixie lifted her chin and looked smug. “Honey, I’ve got two good eyes in my head. Every time I run into that man at the docks or the grocery store or even at the farm stand south of town, he acts like he’s lost in a dream. A man doesn’t walk around wearin’ a secret little smile on his face unless there’s a woman involved.” She shook her head. “I just never thought it would be Laurel. I know your French-fried chef has a thing for married women, but Laurel? She’s a girl scout!”

  “I don’t think they’re having an affair, so don’t go spreading this around like a cold. Last night, I walked in on Michel comforting Laurel, and they looked, well . . .”

  Dixie studied her friend. “Like they fit in each other’s arms?”

  Olivia nodded.

  “And what about Mr. Pearly Whites? Do you think he knows his wife has her eye on another man?”

  Even though the cream had already dissipated into the coffee, Olivia stirred the spoon around and around, staring into the light brown brew as though it held an answer. She raised the spoon, cutting through a swath of steam, and then placed it absently on a napkin. “Laurel believes that Steve has been cheating on her for months, maybe longer. The whole thing’s a mess.”

  “What are you going to do?” Dixie asked with concern.

  “Not a damn thing,” Olivia answered in surprise. “I make it a point not to get involved in domestic squabbles.”

  Dixie undoubtedly had much to say on the subject but was forced to call an end to her impromptu break when Grumpy stuck his head out of the kitchen and bellowed, “Order up!”

  Haviland took this as a sign that he should accompany the dwarf as she zipped off to the pickup window. Seeing as he was encouraged by Dixie’s whispered promises of a plate of crunchy turkey bacon, Olivia let the poodle wander away.

  Thankfully, her phone vibrated again, and this time, Olivia recognized the name and greeted the caller with uncharacteristic affability.

  Professor Emmett Billinger was exuberant. “I phoned the second I finished listening to your voice mail this morning. I’d be glad to exchange information and to show you these extraordinary photographs. And you’re willing to drive here? And to bring the painting?”

  Olivia assured him that she was more than happy to spend a few hours in the car if it meant discovering a clue to Nick Plumley’s murder. Harris’s Heinrich Kamler watercolor had been safely stored in the vault of the Coastal Carolina Bank, and Olivia told the professor that she’d pick up the painting and be at his office by lunchtime.

  “Splendid! I’ll have sandwiches ready so we don’t have to interrupt our time together searching for food.”

  Sensing that she was going to get along with this efficient academic, Olivia asked whether he had any objection to Haviland’s presence.

  “Not at all. I’m owned by a pair of rescued greyhounds,” he replied cheerfully. “They go to daycare when I’m at work, but I’ll have a suitable meal on hand for your companion.”

  Olivia left money on the table and peered into the kitchen while Dixie was busy delivering platters of Belgian waffles. On the other side of the swinging door, Olivia caught Grumpy tossing a piece of meat into the air directly above Haviland’s quivering snout. With a flash of teeth and a lightning-quick snap of the jaw, the meat disappeared into the poodle’s mouth.

  “You’re not going to make much of a profit giving away food like that,” Olivia remarked with a grin.

  Grumpy was a man of few facial expressions. He glanced at her and then cracked a pair of eggs onto the sizzling grill. “With the tips you give Dixie, I don’t need to worry about it.”

  Casting her eyes around the orderly kitchen, Olivia paused for a moment to consider what it would be like to spend eight hours in the same space, day in and day out, with only an aged radio for company. “What’s it like? The life of a master fry cook.”

  Many people would have taken offense at such a question, but Grumpy knew she meant no harm. “It’s quiet,” he answered stoically. “Before this, I didn’t have much quiet. I’m no chef, but I make decent food, and folks can afford to eat here regular. I’m proud of that.”

  Grumpy slid the eggs on a plate, dumped two cups of crisp hash browns beside them, and piled four strips of bacon on top of the po
tatoes.

  Olivia snapped her fingers at Haviland, and then, before turning to leave, she touched Grumpy briefly on the shoulder. “This diner is the heart of our town. And your food is far better than decent. Don’t tell your wife, but I don’t come here because of the décor.”

  A rare rumble of laughter followed her through the swinging kitchen door.

  Olivia’s drive to Chapel Hill was uneventful. On the way, she listened to an audiobook dramatizing the life of one of her favorite women, Eleanor of Aquitaine. It was easy to become lost in Eleanor’s world of drafty castles, thwarted romance, and endless wars while traveling west on I-40, but when she neared Chapel Hill, she was too distracted by the traffic and a landscape populated predominantly by chain stores that she had to turn off the CD.

  “Talk about suburban sprawl,” she said to Haviland. “Last time I was here, none of these strip malls existed.” She sighed. “Small-town America is disappearing before our eyes. I hope the area around the university is better preserved. I remember it as being so charming.”

  To her relief, Franklin Street was relatively unchanged. The college town was not as bustling as it would be when the students returned in August, but it was far from sleepy. Olivia knew that downtown Chapel Hill was a hotspot for both foodies and music lovers and felt a pang of remorse that she’d have to make do with sandwiches for lunch when she could be trying out one of the many unique cafes. Instead of enjoying summer rolls at Lime & Basil or vegetable fritters from Mama Dip’s, she’d probably end up with cold turkey, processed cheese, and a leaf of limp lettuce squashed between two store-brought slices of bread.

  Her anticipatory mood could not be deflated by thoughts of lunch, however. The university at Chapel Hill’s tree-lined campus was simply too lovely, too replete with tasteful architecture and an aura of history to inspire any feelings other than optimism and a sense of purpose.