by Ellery Adams
—JOSEPH CAMPBELL
Rawlings showed up out of uniform, wearing a Hawaiian shirt upon which cobalt sharks swam across a field of pale blue. His khaki shorts were covered with paint splatters, but his eyes were all business. While Officer Cook dusted for prints, Rawlings sat at Olivia’s kitchen table with an untouched cup of coffee, his fingers smoothing the pine surface as he took her statement.
“What am I going to tell Harris?” Olivia whispered miserably when they were done.
The chief covered the back of her hand with his warm palm. “We’ll get it back. The fact that it was stolen reinforces my belief that Mr. Plumley’s death was more about money and less about his profession.”
“I don’t know,” Olivia said doubtfully. “The past is a part of these crimes. It’s possible that Heinrich Kamler has come back to the area to seek his revenge against Plumley for casting him as a murderer in The Barbed Wire Flower.” She told him of her visit to Chapel Hill.
When she was done, Rawlings grew thoughtful. He asked for a broom and a dustpan and then squatted down and began to slowly sweep every shard of glass onto the pan. After dumping the entire contents into an evidence bag, the chief pivoted the bag under the overhead light, creating glints of light like sunshine on a level sea.
Meanwhile, Officer Cook had finished dusting the doorknob for prints and had bagged the rock. “Good thing we’ve got you on file already, Ms. Limoges,” he said with a wry grin.
Olivia nodded absently. She and Cook had come to an uneasy truce last year, but she still found the young man’s often condescending and close-minded attitude grating. “I’m sure the thief used gloves.” She looked at Rawlings. “If he’s after money, then he’ll try to sell this painting immediately. Where does one unload stolen artwork? This is a notch above the average pawn shop merchandise.”
“He could approach a private collector.” Rawlings passed Cook the bag of glass and opened the door for him. “See you back at the station in a few hours.”
Once the junior officer had departed, leaving the chief without a means of transportation, Rawlings glanced at his watch and then gestured toward the flat ocean visible through the bank of windows in Olivia’s living room. “Let’s take a walk before the others get here.”
Olivia hesitated. “I need to pick up our dinner from The Boot Top. I figured our meeting might run later than usual, so Michel is making something for us.”
“Can Laurel stop for it?”
“Absolutely not!” Olivia declared hotly and then turned away from the chief’s quizzical stare. “I’ll send Millay a text message. I need the practice anyway.”
Rawlings didn’t answer. His gaze slid away from her face, and he moved toward the door leading to the raised deck. Haviland followed on the chief’s heels, his black tail wagging in expectation.
Olivia labored over the message, her fingers slow to find the letters and punctuation, pocketed her phone, and eased open the sliding door. Haviland raced ahead, careening down the stairs and over the dunes toward the water.
“I envy him,” Rawlings said with a slight smile. “Why do humans lose that joy as we age? If we were younger, we’d have been right behind him, tearing down that path, howling in anticipation. We wouldn’t care if the sand was hot or the water too cold. We wouldn’t have considered how we looked in our swimsuits or whether we had enough sunscreen on. We would’ve just charged right in like little gladiators.”
He was right. Olivia had spent most of her childhood by the ocean’s edge, and every morning she’d rushed breathlessly outside to greet it, to see what treasures awaited her in the sand, to rescue beached horseshoe crabs and share the remnants of her breakfast with the gulls. It had always been there, a loyal friend. Even when it churned angrily during a storm or carried a plague of jellyfish to the shore, it was beautiful. Enchanted.
“Caution comes with age,” Olivia said. She had a strong urge to take his hand and race after Haviland, but she sensed the chief’s thoughts had already turned back to the investigation.
However, he surprised her by coming to an abrupt stop, and then he kicked off his boat shoes and walked into the surf. She watched as he dug his toes into the wet sand and then tossed a stick for Haviland into the deeper water. He stood like this for a long time, his eyes locked on the silver blur of the horizon. Olivia sat on the warm sand and watched him while Haviland investigated an interesting scent near a crab hole.
Olivia thought of Heinrich’s cabin and of a young girl giving birth to a child she probably wouldn’t see again afterward. She thought of Anders and his homecoming, of telling Harris that his painting was gone, and of Jeannie’s advice on how to win back Rawlings’ trust.
The urge to walk into the water and wash all these images away was powerful, but the sound of car tires crunching gravel on the road leading to the lighthouse keeper’s cabin pulled her to her feet. Rawlings turned as well, gathering his shoes and meeting Olivia’s gaze.
“The time for caution is over,” he told her firmly. For a moment, she thought he was referring to their relationship. Her heartbeat doubled its pace, and she tried to express her readiness to put any and all reservations aside by nodding enthusiastically. Satisfied by her response, the chief began to walk toward the dunes. “We’re going to set out bait for this killer, and when he leaves the safety of the shadows, we’re going to catch him.”
Around the front of the cottage, Laurel was helping to unload covered trays from Millay’s car. Together, the four of them entered the cottage and set the food on the countertop. Millay grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and handed it to Rawlings.
He shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m on the clock.”
“Nice uniform,” she said with a smile and then offered the beer to Olivia. “You want this or should I fix you a real drink?”
Olivia accepted the beer. “This’ll do, thanks.”
Millay’s brows shot up, her silver piercings glinting. “Whoa. What’s going on?”
Laurel grabbed Millay’s beer from her hand and retreated to the sofa. “Before you answer that, Olivia, I have something to tell all of you . . .” She paused to drink and then rested the bottle on the top of her knee. “Never mind, I’ll wait until Harris is here.”
“The chief has a plan to net Plumley’s killer,” Olivia replied to Millay as though Laurel hadn’t spoken.
Rawlings nodded. “First, I need to get you up to speed on alibis. Raymond Hatcher was at work the morning Mr. Plumley was killed, but he took a break for an hour. He claims to have driven off-site to get a McMuffin, but the McDonald’s employee who worked the drive-through doesn’t remember him and the security video is taped over every twenty-four hours. So he’s still on our suspect list.”
“Along with Cora and Boyd?” Millay asked.
“Yes.” Something flickered in the chief’s eyes, and Olivia knew he had solved one of the many riddles of the investigation. “Three months after Cora and Nick Plumley divorced, Cora discovered that she was pregnant with Nick’s child.” A mild flush appeared on Rawlings’ cheeks. “Apparently, they had good-bye sex after the papers were signed. She learned late in the pregnancy that her child would most likely be born with Down’s syndrome.”
Laurel sucked in her breath but didn’t speak.
“Cora never told Nick about their son. He didn’t know she was pregnant or that she gave the baby up for adoption. She was living in Asheville when the child was born.”
“What happened to the baby?” Laurel wanted to know.
Rawlings gave her a reassuring smile. “He was adopted by a loving family and is still with them today.”
Millay’s face clouded with anger. “Then Nick’s insurance money should go to those people and to his son! What kind of person doesn’t even tell a man that he’s a father? She totally robbed him of any say in that kid’s future!”
The chief nodded in agreement. “That’s true, but the boy, Colby, is not legally tied to Nick, so he stands no chance of receiving any benefits from Mr
. Plumley’s life insurance.”
Olivia shot Rawlings a quick glance. “So the Vickers may still get their hands on Nick’s money?”
“I believe they’re desperately counting on a payout,” he said.
“Add to that the fact that their alibi was as weak as watered-down whiskey,” Millay remarked. “But they’re not sitting in a cozy, post-nuptial jail cell, are they?”
“We’re not on TV,” Rawlings replied curtly. “The police can’t hold people without evidence. We have theories, but for now, that’s all they are. That’s why I need to push things along. I’ve spent the last few nights creating a Heinrich Kamler reproduction. Watercolor isn’t my medium, but it’s good enough to fool a novice. However, to make the bait irresistible, I’ll need your help, Laurel.”
She shrank back into the sofa, instantly on guard. “What can I do?”
“Get an article on the front page of the paper announcing that two paintings by a famous German POW have been discovered in the home of Harris Williams. Exaggerate the value of the second painting and don’t mention that the first one’s gone missing.”
Millay jerked upright. “Missing? What happened?” She shot looks of accusation back and forth between Olivia and Rawlings.
“It’s my fault,” Olivia quickly admitted. “Harris entrusted me with the painting and I was careless.”
Setting aside her beer, she told the other women about her day. As she spoke of the unrequited love between Henry and Evie, Laurel began to weep. Millay shot her friend and fellow writer a perplexed glance, and Olivia felt a surge of sympathy for Laurel. The story had struck a nerve in her too, and she knew that Laurel was in pain. The hurt united all of them—a German boy, a haunted young woman from a newspaper photograph, Olivia, and Laurel.
When Olivia finished by describing how the painting had been stolen, Millay jumped to her feet, her body coiled like a spring. “We’ve got to do something!” She looked around wildly, her hands curled into white-knuckled fists. “Where is Harris anyway? It’s his painting, his house!” She pointed at Rawlings. “Do you plan to use him as bait without even discussing it with him? Why are we wasting our time talking about all this World War Two bullshit when Harris isn’t even here?”
The level of Millay’s ire stunned Olivia, but Rawlings saw it for what it was. Fear. “I’m worried about him too,” he told her quietly. “I’m going to put a call in to the unit watching his place.”
The three women watched Rawlings, exchanging nervous glances. The chief’s voice took on an edge of sharpness.
“You saw Mr. Williams drive by in his car? You’re certain? Did you see his face?”
A pause. A tightening of Rawlings’ jaw. “What time was this?”
Three pairs of eyes fastened on the chief as he checked his watch. “Get back to Oleander Drive right now. Don’t go inside until I get there.”
The women’s anxiety transformed into something more powerful, spreading tentacles of dread around the cottage. Olivia slapped her thigh and Haviland sprang to his feet. He raised his black nose, sensing that something had alarmed his mistress. Turning his head in search of a threat, he found nothing. He cocked his head inquisitively and waited for her command.
“Did they see Harris leave?” Olivia asked Rawlings.
“They saw someone in a baseball hat driving Harris’s car. He waved to them as he drove by, and the movement obscured his face. Believing that he was safely on his way to meet me, the officers decided to take a dinner break. They’re sitting in front of Pizza Bay waiting on a pair of meatball subs.” The chief pointed at Millay. “Would you lend me your car?”
Millay had her phone to her ear. She shook her head. “Voice mail. Both numbers.” She pulled her keys from the front pocket of her denim miniskirt. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”
“I’ll drive,” Rawlings ordered and opened the cottage’s front door. He then blocked the exit and faced the women. “I’d tell you to stay here, but I know you’ll just follow in another car and I’d rather have you with me. When we get to the house, you will all do exactly as I say. Is that understood?” He included Olivia in his authoritative stare.
“Should I bring my gun?” she asked in all seriousness.
Rawlings scowled. “Just get in the car.”
Olivia sat in the back. Haviland was squeezed beside her, his eyes aglow with curiosity, his body tensed for action. Millay was on the other side, her fingers flying over the tiny letter keys on her phone’s touch screen. When she received no response, she called 411 and asked for a listing for Estelle’s number.
“Estelle? This is Millay. Is Harris with you?”
Pushing Haviland to a seated position so she could watch her friend, Olivia watched Millay’s shoulder tighten as her fingers gripped her phone like a hawk’s talon closing over the torso of a mouse. “Actually, it is my business. He’s supposed to be at our writers’ meeting but he hasn’t shown. Is he with you or not?”
Olivia could see that Millay was trying to hold her temper in check as Estelle dished out some coy response. “Could you please tell me when you last spoke with him?”
Millay had carefully masked her dislike and infused her voice with a calculated blend of courtesy, deference, and concern. Then she frowned. “I thought you volunteered at the senior center on Tuesday and Saturday afternoons. Or was that just a story to impress Harris?” She didn’t bother concealing her disgust. “He’s too good a guy to see the real you, girlfriend, but eventually, your mask will slip and he’ll get a glimpse of your true self and run. Don’t be buying Brides magazine just yet, princess.” Millay snapped the phone shut and shoved it back into her skirt pocket.
“She hasn’t seen him?” Olivia asked.
Millay twisted a lock of hair around her index finger. “Not since this morning. I think they’ve had a little spat. Little Miss Sunshine didn’t sound very chipper.”
Laurel pivoted in the front seat. “Why do you dislike her so much?”
“Estelle knows nothing about Harris. All she cares about is his nice job and his nice house and that they’d have cute babies together,” Millay said. “She has no idea that his favorite author is Frank Herbert or that he makes the world’s most awesome potato skins or that he’s seen every episode of the original Star Trek shows at least five times. She doesn’t know him.” Millay took a shallow breath. “Can’t you drive a little faster, Chief?”
Haviland put his forepaws and head on Millay’s lap, and she sank both hands into his fur. Olivia could see that her fingers were trembling.
Lights were on in the living room of Harris’s bungalow. Yellow stripes escaped through the spaces in the closed blinds and fell onto the front porch. There were no cars in the driveway and the chief’s men had not yet returned, but the house did not feel empty. Hushed, but not empty.
Rawlings threw the car into park, turned off the engine, and sprang out of the driver’s seat. He moved soundlessly up the front steps, crouching low, every cell in his body on alert.
The women watched breathlessly. None of them had seen the chief in this state of sharp readiness, prowling on the balls of his feet like a big cat, one hand curled over his holster.
Olivia inched forward in her seat as the chief knelt down to peer through a crack in the blinds. She could tell by the way his hand tightened over his holster that he was alarmed by what he saw.
As though he felt her eyes on him, Rawlings pivoted and signaled for them to stay put. He then disappeared around the corner of the house.
“I don’t like this,” Laurel said in a small voice.
Millay looked at Olivia. “Someone’s in there. If it had just been Harris, the chief would have gone inside.”
“I think you’re right.” She had seen the tension flood into Rawlings’ shoulders. There was danger within the bungalow and she needed to know what it was. She needed to be certain that Rawlings would not face it alone. By the time his backup arrived, it could be too late.
“I’m going to look in the
window.” Touching Haviland briefly on the neck to assure him that she’d only be a minute, Olivia slid from the car and closed the door with a gentle click. The air was filled with the sawing of cicadas, the hungry buzz of mosquitoes, and the scent of rain. A breeze tickled the back of Olivia’s neck, carrying a taste of the coolness of the thunderstorm, and the sensation helped sharpen her mind. She felt the blood rushing through her body, her heartbeat drumming with such force that surely the bats flitting about the treetops could hear her approach.
Following the chief’s lead, Olivia sank low and put her face close to the glass. She tucked her chin and looked into Harris’s living room.
There was Harris, tied to one of his kitchen chairs. His upper body had been secured with rope, and his wrists and ankles were fastened with duct tape. Face flushing a bright red, he was speaking to someone, his mouth moving rapidly. Olivia could see the sweat staining his shirt and could almost smell his fear. She moved carefully, hoping to catch a view of his assailants, but they were out of range.
Someone began to shout. It was a woman’s voice, demanding, crackling with anger and desperation. Then, the lower timbre of a man’s voice. Olivia couldn’t hear the words distinctly. The man seemed to have more control over himself than the woman, but there was an edge to his speech, as though he was fully aware that their time was growing short.
Olivia saw Harris’s eyes widen. He shook his head fiercely, and she didn’t need to be inside the room to know that he was trying to convince the man and woman of something—that his life could depend on his ability to do so.
These observations took place in a matter of seconds, but to Olivia they stretched out, like a strip of sand curving far into the distance. Everything seemed to slow. The air was charged, filled with the dense electricity and breathlessness of the moment preceding a lightning strike.
Instinct told Olivia that Harris was out of time. The woman was yelling again, and then she suddenly came into view, charging into the living room with an enraged howl.