by Ellery Adams
Olivia glanced at the statue in puzzlement and then turned her attention to the young receptionist who was jotting a message onto a pink memo pad. She recognized the girl’s pretty face immediately.
“Hi, Estelle.”
Estelle beamed as though the very sight of Olivia had made her day. “How nice to see you here! And your cute doggie came too! Are you visiting Harris?” Her words tumbled forth rapid-fire, every syllable infused with a shrill energy. Before Olivia could answer, the phone sitting directly in front of Estelle began to ring and she answered it with a lengthy, well-rehearsed greeting. She filled out another sheet on the pink memo pad and then, as the caller continued talking, her hand drifted to a massive desk calendar, where she idly drew a series of small hearts around Harris’s name.
Finally, she said good-bye and replaced the receiver. She was about to speak to Olivia when the phone rang again. Estelle held out her index finger, signaling for Olivia to wait until she finished with her next caller.
“Could you just tell me where to find Harris? It’s important,” Olivia said, placing her hand on the edge of Estelle’s desk. The phone continued to ring.
Something ugly flickered in the young woman’s eyes, but she blinked it away and pasted on a bright smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll call him for you. But I’ve got to answer this first.”
Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she repeated the extensive greeting she’d used on the previous caller, her pen poised over the memo pad.
Annoyed, Olivia covertly examined Estelle’s calendar. To her surprise, she saw that Estelle had added Harris’s last name to her own and had practiced the signature over and over in the margin. Wedding bells and tiered cakes danced along any available white space, and plump hearts were scattered about.
This evidence of Estelle’s vision of her future with Harris didn’t please Olivia at all. Harris would make a wonderful husband someday, but Olivia didn’t think that Estelle was a suitable life partner for her friend. In her mind, Estelle was merely one of the girls Harris would date to discover exactly what he was looking for in a spouse. Estelle was pretty, sweet, and bubbly, but she was about as deep as a puddle.
She was practice for the real thing.
And then there was Millay. The tension had been escalating between Harris and Millay ever since Estelle had entered the picture, and Olivia knew that it stemmed from the fact that the two young writers were attracted to each other. Millay had dated dozens of men, from bikers to stockbrokers, but she’d never stayed with anyone long enough to form a genuine relationship. Though Millay had an undeniable connection with Harris, Olivia knew that Harris hadn’t ripened into the man he needed to be in order to capture the beautiful bartender’s heart. He was getting closer, but he wasn’t quite there. He needed another dose of confidence, a dash of bravado, and a bit more worldly experience before he had the necessary ingredients to woo his fellow writer.
Olivia was positive that Harris was precisely what the fearless bartender needed: someone to challenge her on a mental level, treat her tenderly, and win her respect not by possessing a muscular physique or fat bank account, but with a sharp wit and ready humor.
“I’ll ring Harris’s extension now, but I’m not sure what the company policy is about having dogs in the building,” Estelle said, a jester’s practiced smile stretched across her face. “And what can I tell him this is about?”
“It’s personal,” Olivia said flatly. “And you have my word that Haviland won’t soil the carpet.”
Again, that flicker of hostility appeared in the young woman’s eyes, but she looked down at the phone and pressed some keys with manicured nails. She baby-talked into the receiver until Olivia had to step back lest Estelle see the disgusted curl of her lip.
Harris jogged into the lobby less than a minute later. “This is so cool!” He exclaimed to Olivia. “I’ve never had a friend visit me at work before!” He scratched Haviland on the head and then noticed the canvas tote bag. “Whoa. Is that the painting?”
Olivia nodded. “Can we go sit somewhere? An empty conference room or staff lounge?”
“Sure.” Harris waved at Estelle. “Thanks for paging me.”
“Anytime, sweetie,” she cooed. “And I won’t tell anyone that you’ve got a dog back there with you.” She drew a finger across her lips to seal in the secret.
Flushing, Harris led Olivia through a warren of hallways. He poked his head in a small conference room and signaled for Olivia to enter. “This one has food left from the bigwig’s lunch meeting. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.” He gestured at a sandwich platter flanked by a bowl of red apples and a row of soda cans and snack-sized bags of potato chips. “It doesn’t look like much, but this is the best chicken salad you’ll ever eat.”
Olivia raised her brows. “You do recall that I own a five-star restaurant?”
“I know!” Harris enthused. “That’s how good it is.” He loaded two sandwiches, an apple, and a bag of Fritos onto his plate.
Olivia carefully laid the tote bag on the conference table and then idly chewed on an apple as Harris devoured his lunch. They small-talked about their writing and Harris’s current software project until he finally pushed his plate away.
“It was totally nice of you to bring this here,” he said. “But it wasn’t necessary.”
Exhaling, Olivia touched the canvas bag. “There’s a reason I came to your office. Harris, this painting may be more important than any of us can comprehend. In fact, it may figure into a murder investigation.”
Harris blanched. “What?”
Gently, for she knew that her young friend idolized Nick Plumley, Olivia told him that the writer had been killed that morning.
“How? Why?” Harris stammered, clearly shaken.
After admitting that she didn’t know the reason, Olivia hesitated and then softly explained that Plumley had been strangled.
“Harris, this is going to sound strange, but did Nick poke around your house the day you two were painting the living room?” Seeing the confused look on her friend’s face, she went on. “Was he especially interested in loose floorboards or in seeing the attic? Did he ask if you’d discovered any hidey-holes?”
Harris’s eyes widened. “Yeah, he did. He was telling me about this old house north of Beaufort he’d visited a bunch of times. It had a hidden space behind a wallboard in one of the closets and a niche carved from an exposed beam in the kitchen. Nick asked if I’d found any secret hiding places in my house, but I told him I doubted there were any.” He shook his head in befuddlement. “It’s not that old of a building. And except for being moved a few decades ago, it wasn’t important, historically speaking.”
“But what if it wasn’t the house that captured Nick’s interest?” Olivia wondered aloud. “What if he wanted to find this painting all along? Maybe the message on the back indicates that there’s more to Heinrich Kamler’s story. What if Nick believed he could track Kamler through this painting? Could you imagine the book he could write?”
Harris touched the canvas tote bag possessively. “Why didn’t Nick just ask me? I would have fessed up that I hadn’t found anything but would gladly show him if I did.” A hurt look crossed his features. “He never cared about my manuscript, did he? I bet he never read it.”
“That’s his loss, Harris.” Olivia gave her friend a fond smile. “If it’s any consolation, I believe he genuinely liked you and would have helped you with your writing, but for some reason, he wanted to keep the knowledge of this painting to himself.”
This notion seemed to trouble Harris. “What makes you say that?”
“When I called him this morning and told him about the painting’s existence, I could practically feel his desire to see it surge through the phone line. The emotion was so strong that I could picture a pair of hands reaching out to me.” She shook her head at the theatrical depiction. “Okay, that’s a bit much, but it meant a great deal to him.”
Crushing the remaining Frito on his
plate into corn-colored bits, Harris’s expression grew thoughtful. “If you hadn’t just told me that Nick was dead, I’d assume the watercolor was important to his research and that he wanted to use it as a plot device in his sequel. But now . . .”
“Now?” Olivia prodded.
Harris pushed the bag toward her. “You’d better keep this. It would be safer at your restaurant or in a bank vault or something. Give it to the cops. Don’t even tell me where you put it, just take it away.”
It was unlike Harris to be dramatic, and Olivia frowned, but she’d just told him that his potential mentor had been murdered and he had every right to be upset. “All right, I’ll see to it.”
“Listen, Olivia. The killer stuffed Nick’s own book pages into his mouth. That means not only is it likely that some homicidal maniac had cause to hate The Barbed Wire Flower, but also didn’t want Nick to write the sequel.” Harris’s face was pink with anxiety. “This painting might be a pivotal part of the book Nick planned, so it might be important to his murderer too.”
Nodding, Olivia fed Haviland a few hunks of chicken. “I’ve been concerned about the same thing, but we could be blowing this out of proportion. We have no facts as of this point, and we need to gather some quickly.”
Harris opened a can of Fanta and drank a swallow. “Yeah, because I don’t want any of us to end up with pages of manuscripts crammed down our throats.” He ran his hands through his ginger-colored hair. “We need to figure out why Nick’s research set the killer off. If we don’t, I could be the next victim. This lunatic might come to my place in search of the painting or whatever connection Nick thought my house had to his story.”
Olivia saw the fear in her friend’s face. “Chief Rawlings has asked me to investigate the history of the families who used to live in your house, and I intend to begin this afternoon. Harris, I will do everything in my power to figure out this riddle. Millay and Laurel can assist me. Laurel can dig through the newspaper archives, and Millay can help me sift through the records at town hall.”
“I can’t just send my female friends all over town to solve this mystery while I design a fairy forest for some stupid computer game.” Harris squared his shoulders and sat up a fraction straighter. “I need to get my hands on Nick’s computer. There’s got to be a clue in his files as to why someone wanted to silence him before he could publish that sequel.”
“Talk to the chief.” Olivia rose and carefully shouldered the tote bag. “And forget about critiquing my chapter on Saturday. We’ve got more important things to do.”
Harris absently put a hand to his throat. “Like staying alive.”
Chapter 8
One need not be a Chamber to be Haunted,
One need not be a House;
The Brain has Corridors—surpassing
Material Place
—EMILY DICKINSON
Olivia and Haviland trotted down the stairs leading to the windowless lower level of the town hall building. The woman in charge of the register of deeds was examining a stack of forms when Olivia appeared at her desk. Her eyes went wide when she noticed the poodle and then her face closed off and she smacked the piece of paper in front of her with a rubber stamp.
“You can’t have a dog down here, ma’am.” She slammed the stamp down on another piece of paper and continued her work without looking up.
Glancing around the empty room, Olivia was about to point out that there was no one around to be troubled by Haviland’s presence, but she sensed that the government employee, with her taut ponytail and humorless eyes, was a stickler for rules.
“He accompanies me for medical reasons,” Olivia whispered and then cleared her throat, as though it shamed her to admit to having such a serious health problem. “Hopefully, I won’t have an episode while I’m here, but I’d best not waste time. My dog is trained to seek help should I start convulsing.” She handed the skeptical clerk a slip of paper bearing Harris’s address. “I need the names of all of this home’s previous owners, please. And I’ll need to make copies of every deed pertaining to this address.”
The woman hesitated, clearly debating whether it would require more effort to toss Olivia out or simply fulfill her request. Sighing heavily, she turned to her computer and began to type in the address on Oleander Drive.
It wasn’t long before she presented Olivia with several pages, still warm from the printer. “Anything else, ma’am?” she asked, her mouth puckering as though she’d bitten into something sour.
Olivia read through the sheets, recognizing names from her conversation with librarian Leona Fairchild, including the Carters and the Robinsons, the couple that sold the house to Harris.
“There’s an owner missing from this pile,” she murmured and then retrieved a small notebook from her purse. “The White family lived there as well.”
The clerk crossed her arms over her chest. “Not according to my records.”
“Can you check again?”
At this request, the woman’s lips compressed into an angry, thin line. She jabbed a few buttons on her computer keyboard and gestured at the screen. “There were no owners by the name of White at the address. Perhaps you’re mistaken.”
Suppressing a surge of annoyance, Olivia stared at the street address and then shook the pages in her hands like they were pompoms. “You’re brilliant!” she told the startled clerk. “The house was moved during the highway expansion project. This address is only current for the past fifty years or so.”
“I’m not old enough to remember the date of that event,” the woman declared smugly. “You’ll have to come back when you have an accurate address.”
Olivia recalled Harris telling the Bayside Book Writers that Nick Plumley had found a copy of the newspaper article describing the move and, therefore, Laurel could easily get ahold of the same information. Thanking the clerk, Olivia jogged upstairs and called her friend.
“Olivia! I was hoping I’d have an excuse to take a break,” Laurel said. “I’m working on this yawn-inducing piece about average household incomes and—”
“I need you to find an old article for me,” Olivia cut in. “It’s urgent.” She explained what she needed. “Could you bring it by The Bayside Crab House as soon as you find it?”
There was a pause. “Is something going on with Harris? What’s wrong, Olivia?”
Silently berating herself for assuming that Laurel wouldn’t ask why the information was so crucial, Olivia promised that Harris was fine and that she’d fill Laurel in when she delivered the article. Olivia was quite surprised that Nick Plumley’s death hadn’t been leaked to the press yet and wondered if Rawlings had kept his team so busy that not a single officer had been able to contribute to the famous Oyster Bay gossip chain. It would certainly be a coup for Laurel to break the news first, especially since she’d established her reputation as a respected local journalist based on her articles on the Cliché Killers.
“Just do this for me,” Olivia coaxed. “And I’ll tip you off on what’s to become the biggest story of the summer.”
Laurel sucked in a quick breath. “I’ll take the tip. It’s been mighty sleepy in the news department.”
“That’s about to change,” Olivia stated solemnly and hung up.
An hour later, she was well into her speech on treating customers like royalty, the employees of The Bayside Crab House listening to her every word with a mixture of trepidation and awe, when Laurel arrived.
Olivia wished her staff good luck, cautioned them that the first guests would be arriving at five, and led Laurel into the manager’s office.
“Is this yours?” Laurel asked, taking a seat and glancing around the space with interest.
“It’s really Kim’s domain. She’s in charge of supplies and bookkeeping. Once we have an established routine, I’ll only come in to sign checks.”
Laurel frowned. “But what will Kim do with the baby? You’re their only family in Oyster Bay, right?”
Having no desire to introduce th
e emotionally charged subject of Anders, Olivia shrugged. “I suppose she’ll bring the baby with her. Caitlyn’s going to day camp this summer and Kim’s hours are fairly flexible. She’ll be home when the kids are home. I agreed to that arrangement from the start.”
“What a boss,” Laurel said with a wistful smile. “Wish you ran the Gazette. I have been allowed to work from the house more and more, but it’s so hard to get anything done. The twins have entered a seriously brutal rivalry phase. They’re like two Roman gladiators, destroying anything in their path.” She shook her head hopelessly. “Enough about my boys. Why did you need this?”
Olivia accepted two sheets of paper from Laurel and quickly scanned the article. Before the houses were moved and the two-lane road became a highway, it was called Stillwater Street. The article described the complexities of the expansion project and featured a photograph of a bungalow atop the flatbed of a tractor-trailer. Even from the grainy black-and-white image Olivia could tell that the house wasn’t Harris’s. It was smaller and had a slightly different roofline. A group of people clad in their Sunday finery was gathered around the truck. The women were impeccably turned out in tailored skirts, hats, and gloves; the men were in suits and felt fedoras; the little girls looked angelic with their curled hair and crinoline; and the boys wore high-waisted shorts with suspenders and argyle knee socks.
The caption listed the names of the four men grouped together near the left side of the trailer. “There! Frank White must have been the original owner of Harris’s house. Now I just need to search for the deed for Stillwater Street.”
Laurel drummed her fingers on the arms of her chair. “You’re killing me, Olivia! What is going on?”
Olivia dropped the paper onto the desk and sat down next to Laurel. “By now, Chief Rawlings will probably have a press release ready, but let me tell you what happened from my point of view and then you can zoom over to the station to get a quote. And, Laurel, we can forget about critiquing my book on Saturday.”