by Ellery Adams
Haviland knew perfectly well that naughty meant unhealthy and offered a jubilant bark. Thirty minutes later, the pair was seated at a patio table, enjoying the shade of the umbrella as they dined on tender cheeseburgers and thin, crunchy curls of fried onions.
After lunch, the poodle insisted on a brief squirrel-chasing session through the park before being dragged off to the next errand. Olivia was more than happy to comply. Thus far, the day had progressed with great promise. The mystery of their beach find was solved and the lighthouse keeper’s cottage was almost renovated. All she needed now was some inspirational art, but the furniture store, with its Impressionist prints and unattractive modern art silk screens, had been a disappointment.
Oyster Bay wasn’t quite cosmopolitan enough to support an entire gallery, but several local artists sold their works by displaying them on the brick walls of the local coffee and pastry shop. Olivia opened the front door to Bagels ‘n’ Beans and waved hello to the octogenarian proprietor, who was also one of her tenants. Her favorite one, in fact.
“I’m here to check out your art, Wheeler.” Olivia and Haviland breezed past the “No Dogs” sign and began to scrutinize the grouping of paintings, sketches, and framed black-and-white paper-cut designs.
“I like the paper cuts of the herons, don’t you?” Olivia pointed at the framed art hanging above the eatery’s worn purple sofa. Haviland snorted in assent. “Let’s take the one of the three birds in the roost and the other showing them fishing in the cove. I particularly like how this artist made the tree branches. Spindly-shaped. They don’t seem sinister to you, do they?” she asked her dog.
“More angular than sinister, I’d say,” a man two tables down remarked.
Olivia turned to look at the speaker and recognized him right away. “Hello, Chief Rawlings.” She glanced back at the paper cuts. “I’ve never seen such delicate work.”
The chief of the Oyster Bay Police Department nodded. “My sister Jeannie will be mighty pleased to hear you say that. Nothing sinister about her, that’s for sure. I don’t think she’s had a negative thought since 1965.”
“What happened in 1965?” Olivia couldn’t help but ask.
“I was born.” The policeman laughed and took a sip of his coffee. “And spent the next sixteen years making her life a living hell. Who’d have thought we’d be the best of friends now.”
Olivia took a second look at the lawman. Stocky and wide-shouldered, with dark hair going gray above the ears, Rawlings didn’t come across as the type of man to have a female as his closest confidante. In fact, whenever Olivia saw him in public, he was always accompanied by at least one other equally bulky officer. Rawlings and his officers tended to swagger down the street as though the heavy Maglite banging against the right hip didn’t equally balance the weight of the gun resting just above the left hip. Today, he wasn’t in uniform but wore a loud Hawaiian shirt covered by yellow pineapples over a pair of wrinkled brown shorts.
Returning her attention to the art, Olivia only took a brief glimpse at the watercolor landscapes hung above a row of small cafe tables. With their soft illumination and pastel hues, the pictures of gardens, shorelines, and children playing on the beach were fine, but didn’t hold her interest. The next pair of paintings was very large and looked to be oils.
The first showed a row of boats tied to the dock. Their sails were unfurled and it appeared as though their bowlines were about to be set free from the cleats holding them in place. Rows of colorful flags streamed from the masts, reminding Olivia of medieval pennants. People moved about the boat decks and the surface of the dock with a tangible energy. The picture conveyed a feeling of happy anticipation as well as an invitation to freedom. It was as if the boats were only waiting for the viewer to board before being launched into the sun-drenched water. She found herself wishing to be among the sailors waiting to embark.
The second painting was a contrast in calm. An old-fashioned bicycle, the kind Olivia had once pedaled into town as a young girl, had been left on a solitary stretch of beach. The kickstand kept it propped upright and its front tire was pointed very subtly toward the surf. Again, the painting conveyed an invitation to the viewer, a promise of leisurely days and a release of responsibility. Olivia felt infused by serenity by simply gazing at the scene.
“We’ll take these too, Wheeler!” Olivia shouted over her shoulder to the hearing-impaired shop owner. “They’re just what I was looking for,” she murmured happily to herself.
Without having been asked, the chief plucked the canvas of sailboats from the wall. “I painted these, so the least I can do is take them to your car. After you, Ms. Limoges.”
“You’re the artist?” Olivia glanced at the initials in the lower right of the painting left on the wall in surprise. How can someone wearing such a horrid shirt create such appealing art? she thought, puzzled.
Rawlings slid the painting into the back of the Range Rover. “I’ve only been at it since my wife died. Jeannie thought it would do me good, but you’re only the second person to buy one. Maybe you’re just trying to get on the good side of the law.” He pretended to glower at her. “After all, I saw where you parked the other day. You’ll have to explain your handicap to me sometime.” He then gave her a friendly wink and ducked back inside the coffee shop to retrieve the rest of Olivia’s purchases.
“Oh Lord, is he flirting with me?” Olivia whispered to Haviland and the poodle cocked his head to the side. “I think he winked at me at the last Planning Board meeting too.”
Somewhat discomfited by the chief’s attentions, Olivia quickly told Rawlings that she needed to stop by the new bookstore before heading back home to meet the furniture truck. The lawman placed the rest of the paintings in the SUV and gently closed the hatchback.
“Through the Wardrobe,” Rawlings said as he leaned an elbow on Olivia’s side mirror. “Good name for a bookstore. I was there earlier,” he informed her. “You’re mighty busy these days, Ms. Olivia. Rumor has it you’re remodeling the lighthouse keeper’s cottage—even offering it to our local writer’s group to use. That’s quite generous of you.” He gazed at her through the open window, his brown eyes glimmering with humor. “Are you planning to join those folks? Pen the next bestseller?”
Now Olivia was certain the chief was being more friendly than necessary. “I’m mulling it over, Chief. But right now, I need to get these paintings home. Thank you for loading them, but if you’ll excuse me...”
“You need to go home after you visit Mr. McNulty, you mean,” Rawlings reminded her with a teasing smile. “He had some fine recommendations for me.”
“And what do you read? Police procedurals? Mafia thrillers?” Olivia lightly mocked the lawman as she turned on her engine.
Unperturbed, the chief pointed his finger at her. “I see you tend to pigeonhole, Ms. Limoges. I read everything, including the books you mentioned, but my latest Amazon box contained some classic literature, poetry, and cook-books. But it looks as though my online ordering is over now that Mr. McNulty’s here. Have a nice day, ma’am.” With a subtle bow, the chief walked away.
“Remarkable. Our chief is an interesting character,” Olivia announced and then drove to the western fringe of town where Flynn McNulty had converted the ground floor of a former commercial fishing supply warehouse into his new bookstore. Upon passing through the wooden doors, Olivia expected her olfactory senses to be assailed by the taint of old fish and saltwater, but she smelled Murphy Oil Soap instead. The inviting aroma was only the beginning of the pleasant surprises. Without doubt, she had stepped inside a reader’s paradise.
The front portion of the store contained oversized antique wardrobes. Standing shoulder to shoulder, these massive pieces of vintage furniture had their doors thrown open, inviting browsers to glance inside at the treasures held within. Rare books, coffee table books, art books brimming with color plates, and signed first editions took residence in the polished interiors made of walnut and southern yellow pine. Small frame
d signs describing the contents of each case had been tastefully mounted in the center of each wardrobe’s crown molding.
“I’m hoping to see your works in this armoire one day.” Flynn had appeared silently next to Olivia. He now gestured at a stunning English oak arts and crafts wardrobe that bore the sign: “Coastal North Carolina History / Local Authors.”
“Where did you find all of these incredible pieces?” Olivia asked in admiration.
Flynn gazed at his collection with pride. “Several belonged to my aunt. The rest I found in antique malls, thrift stores, or at auctions. It took me over a year to clean them all up, and if this place shows a profit, I plan to keep on buying. So far, only the front of the store has wardrobes, but one day, I’d like every book to be displayed like these sections.” He held his arm out in front of his body. “May I give you a tour?”
Olivia paused. “That depends on how you feel about dogs entering your shop.”
“Well-mannered canines are welcome.”
Pleased by his answer, she asked him to wait a moment while she retrieved Haviland from the Range Rover.
“Come in, Captain. We can add this to the list of places that recognizes the superiority of your breed.”
Barking with eagerness, Haviland bounded toward the door and then sat on his haunches, as if to show Olivia that he would be calm and dignified inside the place that smelled, to his finely tuned nose, faintly of fish.
Flynn knelt and held out his hand. “Flynn McNulty. And you are?”
Haviland offered Flynn his right paw.
“This is Captain Haviland,” Olivia made the introductions.
Flynn grinned. “Limoges and Haviland. A fine match. Do you collect porcelain by chance?”
“I have a few pieces,” Olivia replied enigmatically as they walked deeper into the store. Here, standard wooden bookshelves had been bolted into the wall around the perimeter. To the left, Flynn had arranged works of fiction and to the right, nonfiction. The center of the room contained a grouping of upholstered chairs, end tables, and an enormous coffee table. The table was built with a glass top. A drawer slid out from beneath the glass and Flynn had cleverly displayed magazines for sale within the drawer.
“All you need now is a cappuccino machine,” Olivia commented.
“You haven’t read the sign next to the register yet.” Flynn jerked his head toward the front room. “Free coffee with any purchase.” He placed a hand on Haviland’s head. “I can see I’m going to need to buy a jar of dog biscuits as well.”
Haviland licked Flynn’s hand and smiled at him. The trio continued into the back of the building, where a curtain of shimmering fabric made of floor-to-ceiling rainbow stripes created a distinct separation. To gain entry to this area, one had to pass through a particularly wide wardrobe whose feet had been cut down. The doors were propped open and held fast with rows of string tied with colorful bows.
“Those look like kite tails,” Olivia said, fingering a red and white gingham bow.
Flynn’s eyes twinkled, but he said nothing.
Together they walked through the wardrobe and stepped into a world of color. Above their heads, kites, model airplanes, papier-mâché balloons, and glittery stars hung from invisible threads. Beanbags in primary colors were dumped haphazardly on a rug designed to resemble a large box of crayons. Beneath a sign reading “Fantasy Land” was a wooden chest stuffed with pirate hats and eye patches, fairy wings, sparkling wands, and tiaras. Under a sign in gold script that said “Dr. Seuss Stage” was a wooden puppet theater complete with a box of Dr. Seuss character hand puppets. Another station, called “Wild Adventures,” featured a table shaped like a crocodile surrounded by four plush chairs in the form of a lion, a monkey, a zebra, and an elephant. Instrumental music featuring flutes and oboes filled the room with an aura of magical serenity.
Olivia was impressed. “Every mother in Oyster Bay is going to be here when word gets out about this room. And the free coffee.” She made a mental note to tell Laurel.
“I certainly hope so.” Flynn surveyed his handiwork and folded his arms in contentment. “Feel free to browse around and let me know if you need anything.”
Olivia walked around the entire adult section again. She didn’t have much time, but she wanted to buy something from Flynn to show her support. Suddenly, she spied a section of gift books and was attracted to a group of writing journals. The blank pages were lined and the top of every page featured an inspirational quotation on the art of writing. Olivia scooped up six journals and a coffee table book called Outer Banks Edge: A Photographic Portfolio and brought her purchases to the register.
With three customers ahead of her, Olivia had the chance to study Flynn further. He wore a navy polo shirt over khakis and a pair of leather sandals. His movements were relaxed and his smile seemed genuine as he thanked each patron and handed them a disposable coffee cup.
“Pour yourself some of the Wardrobe House Roast,” he ordered good-naturedly. “And next time, feel free to bring your own coffee cup.” He pointed at a rack holding a single coffee cup showing a cardinal sitting on a dogwood branch on a field of cobalt. “Just label it with permanent marker and I promise to take them all home to the dishwasher every night.” He winked at Olivia. “I hope you’ve got a not-so-fine porcelain mug to bring in here.”
“I’m sure I can dig up a suitable cup,” Olivia replied, stunned by the realization that two men had winked at her in the same afternoon. And while Flynn was both interesting and attractive, it wouldn’t do to express undue interest without getting to know him better. For all Olivia knew, the bookstore proprietor was happily married. His ring finger was bare, but she was aware that the lack of jewelry meant nothing. For all she knew, he had a life partner, eleven children, two hamsters, and a parakeet. Putting on her business face, Olivia smiled pleasantly. “Perhaps you can introduce me to some new historical fiction writers when I return.”
“I believe I’m up to that challenge,” Flynn remarked, handing her a receipt and a coffee cup. He then turned his attention to the next customer.
Olivia frowned as she eyed the large coffeemaker. She doubted that the bookstore brew would be to her liking. It certainly wouldn’t be made from Kona beans, but for some reason she didn’t want to offend the good-looking bookstore owner, so she poured herself half a cup. Adding a splash of cream, she took a sip and forced herself not to grimace. The flavor wasn’t unappealing, but it was far too weak for her tastes. Taking the unfinished cup outside, she furtively tossed the remnants into the flower bed.
Chapter 4
Everyone has talent. What is rare is the courage to follow the talent to the dark place where it leads.
—ERICA JONG
The furniture movers were standing, arms folded in irritation, in front of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage when Olivia pulled up behind them.
“Hello, gentlemen. I trust you haven’t been waiting long.” Without pausing for their reply, she unlocked the front doors and hurried inside, eager to inspect the transformed building for the first time. Taking a brief glance at the polished wood floor, she entered the old living room first.
Her decision to cover the dark walls with Benjamin Moore’s Wilmington Tan, with a bright white trim on the windows and wainscoting, had given the room an instant lift. The antique-style bronze sconces and ceiling fan, which spun in a lazy, almost hypnotizing circle of maple blades, added to the room’s new warmth. Olivia was pleased by the transformation.
Stepping back outside, she waved at the disgruntled deliverymen and then proceeded to boss them about until the rug was placed in the exact center of the room and her paintings were hung with mathematical precision. Just as both men were close to throwing their leather gloves on the ground and storming off, Olivia handed them each an envelope containing one hundred dollars in tip money and then inquired if they minded moving some potted ferns from the back porch of the main house.
“You’ll have to put them in the truck. They’re heavy as anchors.
”
The men fingered their five, crisp twenties and agreed to the one final task. Soon, they were gone completely and Olivia sat alone in the cottage, which seemed cleansed of poor choices and bad memories.
The past is buried, she thought, pulling Camden’s chapter onto her lap. She uncapped the green pen Harris had given her and continued where she had left off the night before.
Bradley Talcott put his feet up on the counter in front of an illuminated makeup mirror. His metal-studded boots knocked aside containers of face foundation, brown eye shadow, and black eyeliner as well as an empty bottle of Absolut and a vial of amphetamines.
“It’s time to rock, bro.” The spiked-haired drummer rattled his sticks against the doorjamb. “We got a hot crowd out there.”
Tossing a lit cigarette onto the counter, Bradley stood. “We could be bigger than this, damn it! I’m sick of playing these shitty clubs. It’s time for a tricked out tour bus and twenty-five, sold-out, big-city shows a year.”
“But your punk-ass old man didn’t give you the cash to back a tour, dude, so get on that stage and start singing.” Seeing the flash of anger in his bandmate’s eyes, the drummer retreated a step. “Come on, man. Just think about the fine booty we get to tap after the show.”
The drummer departed and Bradley languidly rose to his feet. He leaned into the mirror and snarled at his reflection. “I’m not going to live like this much longer. I’m no kid. I’m in control of my own future!”
With abrupt vehemence, he pushed the contents of the counter onto the floor. Vials of pills and makeup bounced off the floor, but the vodka bottle shattered in a loud crash. Bradley looked at the result of his rage with satisfaction. He bent over to retrieve one of the shards and, after examining his face in the fragment, muttered, “I am in control.”
Then he strode from the room, the triangle of broken glass still clutched in his hand.
Olivia tapped the end of her pen against her lip. She reviewed her notes on the earlier sections of the chapter in which she had complimented Camden on the strength of voice in the first six pages and how well he had conveyed the emotions of his characters. She also suggested that he might incorporate more setting details and questioned the choice of Bradley Talcott’s name.