The Last Word

Chapter 5

It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.

—OSCAR WILDE

By Tuesday, Olivia hadn’t even looked at the chapter she was supposed to e-mail to her critique group by Friday morning. The Bayside Crab House was set to have its grand opening on Friday night, and a million tiny details had to be seen to before the mayor cut the yellow ribbon and eager diners were treated to a half-price menu and a free pint of beer.

From the beginning, Olivia decided that the crab house would not accept reservations. The new hostess was trained to create a wait list and encourage hungry patrons to linger in the bar until their names were called. It was a time-honored trick in the restaurant business to funnel customers into the bar, as the sale of alcohol was more profitable than that of the food. Of course Olivia planned to sell a great deal of both and hoped to create a loyal customer base like The Boot Top Bistro enjoyed.

After a brisk walk on the beach, Olivia drove into town and headed to Grumpy’s for breakfast, which she planned to follow by a marathon writing session. She dined on a short stack of fluffy whole-wheat pancakes bursting with tart raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries. Haviland filled his belly with scrambled eggs and beef and then stretched out on the floor to take a nap. Olivia smiled indulgently as the poodle got comfortably settled, and then booted up her laptop. She read the last couple of paragraphs she’d written and the diner quickly faded away as the world of her Egyptian courtesan drew her in.

In Olivia’s previous chapter, the mighty and powerful pharaoh, Ramses the Great, had decided to include Kamila in the small entourage accompanying him on a trip to Thebes. The king planned to inspect the progress of his tomb and to make certain that the priests he’d hired to care for the tomb of his father, Seti I, were being diligent in their duties.

Kamila traveled with the other high-ranking servants and did not see the king. She wasn’t called to Pharaoh’s tent until the third night of their stay in Thebes, and only then was she washed, oiled, perfumed, and dressed in a nearly transparent white shift. A wig was placed on her shaved head, and her eyes were rimmed with kohl and painted with a powder of green malachite. Lastly, a ring of lotus blossoms encircled her neck. The king was particularly fond of the flower’s heady scent.

Olivia was so lost in the scene that the sounds of clinking silverware and conversation fell away. Raising her hands, she began to type.

The tent of Ramses II was richly decorated. Lush carpets covered the ground, and chairs, tables, and a bed made of ebony and gold stood against the rear wall. Servants had laid out bowls of honeyed dates and pitchers of water and wine. Incense burned in every corner, and Kamila felt a little dizzy as she fell to her knees and prostrated before the Living God.

“Come,” he told her in his rich voice. He gestured at a rug made of leopard pelts. “Sit.”

Kamila did as Pharaoh commanded, keeping her shift drawn demurely over her legs. She was a concubine and belonged to the king, but since he had never claimed his right, she felt like a shy child in his presence. It was true that Ramses called her to his bedchamber more than any of the other girls, but he never touched her. Instead, she sang to him, told him the palace gossip, or was defeated by him in games of senet.

The concubines knew the king was besotted with his beautiful wife, yet it was also his duty to sire as many heirs as possible to strengthen his legacy and the greatness of Egypt. Kamila had watched with ill-disguised envy while the bellies of other girls swelled with the king’s child and had tasted a bitterness she’d never known before when confronted with these fortunate concubines. They’d languish in the women’s quarters of the palace wearing smug, contented smiles, knowing their futures were secured.

“Your thoughts are as distant as Ra’s chariot,” the king said, drawing Kamila’s attention to his desert-tanned face, his dark eyes, and strong jaw. “Will you sing for me?”

Kamila nodded and did her best to conceal her disappointment, for the request meant that the king was ready to retire for the evening and that, once again, she’d return to her own sleeping pallet without having known his touch.

Deciding to take matters into her own hands, Kamila opened her mouth and began to sing a love song. As she sang, she swayed her body enticingly, her honey-colored eyes never leaving the king’s face. She loosened her shift, and by the end of the song, she was again kneeling before her king, only this time, her clothes were a pool of linen at her feet.

The king’s eyes revealed his desire as they traveled down the smooth skin of her elegant neck to her supple breasts, flat belly, and finally, to the soft curve of her hips. Then, at long last, he reached out and pulled her down onto the bed.

Olivia’s cell phone rang. Startled out of her narrative, she cursed. She’d been fully prepared to write a sex scene between Kamila and Ramses and had been thinking about how to proceed for days. In fact, ever since Rawlings had touched her at The Bayside Crab House, she’d been focused on little else.

As she frowned at the numbers identifying the caller, Dixie appeared to refresh her coffee. Instead of skating away when she was done, she set the coffeepot down and waited to see if Olivia would answer her phone.

“I’ll go outside,” Olivia said and stood up. “I don’t want to be rude.”

“Oh, sit on down, Emily Post,” Dixie commanded. “If that’s your brother I wanna know if their new baby’s made his way into the world.”

Olivia gently rolled her friend backward. “It’s Harris,” she said while simultaneously answering the phone and stepping out the front door into the May sunshine. “This had better be good,” she growled before Harris had the chance to speak. “I was working on my chapter and was completely in the groove.”

“Sorry, but I didn’t know who else to call.” Harris sounded excited, but not alarmed. “Remember I told you that Nick Plumley was coming over today and that the floor guys would be here, too?”

“Yes.”

“Well, right after Nick left—he stayed a long time and even helped me paint—the guys took out some of the rotten treads on the staircase. Apparently the wood was so deteriorated that it was only a matter of time before I put my whole foot through the steps.”

Shifting impatiently, Olivia frowned. “Can we skip the Bob Vila details, please?”

“I’m trying to give you a bit of backstory here, okay? Build up the dramatic tension,” Harris stated good-naturedly. “Anyway, about fifteen minutes ago, one of the workmen removed a tread near the landing and guess what?”

Olivia didn’t enjoy guessing games. “He got a splinter?”

“He found a secret compartment carved in the step. The preexisting hollow space had been enlarged, and inside, there was a metal thermos. An old one, from the forties or fifties. You could tell just by looking at it that it had some serious age to it.”

Harris had managed to capture Olivia’s attention. Kamila and Ramses were forgotten in the face of such interesting news. “Was there anything inside the thermos?”

“Yep. I unscrewed the top half thinking I’d discover some sixty-year-old petri dish of mold and gunk, but I found an unbelievably well-preserved painting instead! A beautiful landscape of a snowy forest was rolled up and tucked into that metal thermos. There are some words on the back too, but they’re pretty faint and I need to look at them more closely.” Harris’s words were tumbling out. “That’s why I called you. What should I do about the painting? What if it’s valuable?”

Glancing at her watch, Olivia decided she had plenty of time to write later that afternoon. “I’m coming over.”

The two workmen from Clyde’s crew were taking an early lunch break when Olivia pulled up in front of the bungalow. Recognizing Haviland, the men offered him a few slices of turkey and ham, which the poodle wolfed down as though he hadn’t already eaten a full breakfast at Grumpy’s.

“Don’t be a glutton,” Olivia scolded fondly and then told him he was free to explore the woods surrounding the bungalow. Despite her desire to rush inside the house, she paused to exchange small talk with the workmen. Acquaintances in Oyster Bay never passed one another by without demonstrating this courtesy. Often the cause of slow-moving shop lines, traffic jams, and other such delays, it was simply the way things were in the small southern town.

Finally, Olivia used the pretense that she was eager to check out their handiwork in Harris’s kitchen to get away.

“Your money’s been well spent, Ms. Olivia,” one of the men called after her. “Looks like a whole new room now.”

Olivia thanked him and hastened into the house, where she found Harris at his desk in the living room, the painting spread out on the clean wood surface. He’d used some heavy books as paperweights, but Olivia could still see the creases in the painting as a result of being rolled up for so many years.

Harris moved to the side to give Olivia room. Instead of bending over the painting, which reminded her of an ancient Japanese scroll in its dimensions—it was at least two feet long but no more than a foot wide—she sat down in the desk chair and slowly absorbed the scene.

At first, it didn’t seem very remarkable. Olivia wouldn’t normally find a snowy forest, a frozen stream, and a small cabin in the distance compelling, but the painting was multilayered.

The artist had made the left-hand side feel hostile and cold. Glacial blues blended into desolate gray, and the stark tree branches were sharp and brittle. Shards of ice poked at sinister angles from the rock-strewn stream, but as the viewer’s eye traveled to the right, the forest grew more inviting. The pine trees were enveloped in cloaks of feathery white snow, and the frozen water was glassy and calm. Then, on a slight rise toward the upper right, was the cabin itself. Smoke curled from the chimney and light poured from the single window. There was also a sliver of yellow beneath the door, casting a welcoming beam onto the packed snow.

Olivia could imagine a weary traveler raising his eyes to the sight of home. She could almost feel the heat of a wood-burning stove and the scents of bread baking or a stew bubbling over an open flame. A loved one waited within. Sanctuary could be had there, in the cabin on that gentle slope.

The painting could have been set anytime within the century, and though Olivia was no expert, even her untrained eye could see that it was clearly not the work of an amateur.

She noticed a symbol in the bottom right-hand corner but couldn’t make sense of it. “Did you try to look this up on the computer?”

Harris nodded. “Couldn’t find a thing, but I’ll try again later. Check out the back.”

Carefully removing the books from the painting’s corners, Olivia turned the paper over. She accepted a flashlight from Harris and swept the beam across its surface. Along the top, someone had lightly written a few words in pencil. The cursive looked masculine to Olivia, but the sentiment could have been expressed by either gender.

My darling, soon we will have togetherness. I will make us a life.

“Interesting syntax,” Olivia remarked. She gently turned the paper over again. “The painting is both captivating and well executed.” She turned to Harris. “Listen, I’m going to Raleigh in the morning to meet with the PR firm I hired to publicize The Bayside Crab House. If you’d like, I could make it a point to stop by the North Carolina Museum of Art. I’m certain someone on staff could tell us more about this painting. If it’s worthless, then you can hang it on your wall and enjoy your discovery. If it’s valuable, you need to know everything you can about its provenance before you decide what to do with it.”

Harris looked relieved. “I knew you’d have the answer. Do you want to see where it was hidden?”

Olivia grinned. “Of course.”

The two friends peered inside the empty space hollowed out in the step below the second-story landing. Whoever had created the extended niche had little skill with carpentry. The edges of the hole were uneven and the interior was covered by tool marks.

“Not very neat, were they?” Harris’s eyes gleamed. “I imagine this person sneaking out in the middle of the night or when the house was empty and chipping away at the space bit by bit.” He pointed at the landing. “The carpet has a seam here, so it would have been easy to peel back, do a little novice woodworking, and replace. This little fantasy only holds water if the stairs were carpeted back then.”

Olivia smiled at his vision. “I like the picture you’ve created. Perhaps the novice woodworker was a woman. I see her in a flannel nightgown, hiding a small hand saw in the fold of her robe.” She touched the scarred wood. “But why hide this painting? And whose handwriting is on the back?”

“I don’t know, but it sounds like a love story to me,” Harris murmured, his cheeks tinged with pink.

Observing her friend’s wistful expression, Olivia patted him on the shoulder. “With a little luck, we’ll discover what part this painting plays in your narrative.”

Olivia tarried a little while longer to view the handsome tile in the kitchen and to praise Harris on the paint color he’d chosen for the room. The calm tones of the heron blue walls combined with the white cabinets and slate floor looked clean and contemporary.

Whistling for Haviland, she was about to take leave of the proud homeowner when she was struck by a thought. “I forgot to ask. What did Nick Plumley say about your manuscript?”

“Oh, he took it with him. He read a page or two while he was here, but then he stopped and offered to help me paint. He said it would be good for him to do some physical labor and that I could use the time to question him about the publishing industry.”

Olivia hid her skepticism. “How generous. And he was gone before the thermos was found?”

“Yep. Poor guy missed all the excitement. He could probably have dreamed up a whole book about it too.” Harris brightened. “But he took my manuscript and said he’d have something for me when the Bayside Book Writers meet this weekend.”

“It certainly promises to be one of our most interesting sessions,” Olivia remarked with a wry grin. “And we’ve had our share of interesting, haven’t we?”

The next morning, Olivia and Haviland embarked on the two-and-a-half-hour trek to the capital city. Olivia disliked driving to the PR firm because the office was located off the inner beltway, requiring several complex maneuvers on more than one highway to reach.

Despite the inconvenience, Olivia was very satisfied with the firm’s work. They’d gotten the word out on The Boot Top Bistro, helping it become a required stop for those with a taste for haute cuisine traveling to the coast.

The firm had drawn up a plan to target a wider audience for The Bayside Crab House, and Olivia examined with approval the ads that would appear in national magazines and on billboards lining Interstate 95. The advertisements were vibrant and appealing and created the same effect as Kim’s menu design. They made the viewer feel like an amazing dining experience was waiting to be had at The Bayside Crab House restaurant and that to pass up a chance to visit would be to miss out not only on fabulous food, but also on an evening of unadulterated fun.

“These are good,” Olivia stated, studying the images once more. “You’ve captured the freshness of the seafood, the beauty of the waterfront view, and the lively ambience.” She set the folder containing the proposed magazine ads back on the conference table and rose. “Thank you. I’ll be in touch regarding the autumn campaign.”

One of the junior executives walked her to the Range Rover, keeping a safe distance from Haviland, because no matter how many times Olivia had made assurances that the poodle didn’t shed, the dapper young man was fearful of getting black fur on his tan business suit. He did open Haviland’s door, however, and handed Olivia a package of dog treats. As soon as he’d said good-bye and disappeared into the office building, she strolled a few feet up the sidewalk and dumped them into a trash can.

Inside the car, Haviland shot Olivia a dirty look. “I won’t let you eat that chemical crap. Your treats are made from all-natural ingredients.” She cupped his snout in her palm. “Don’t worry, Captain. I have some lovely dried lamb for you to snack on while I’m meeting with the curator.”

Appeased, Haviland stuck his head out the open window and enjoyed the blast of warm air as Olivia headed toward Blue Ridge Road and the vast campus of the North Carolina Museum of Art.

The museum was relatively new. Its buildings and outdoor sculptures sparkled in the sunshine. Olivia had attended the opening gala and had also donated a generous sum of money when plans were first being laid to build the finest art museum in the state.

Right from the start, Olivia had admired the renderings of the aluminum structure that would house millions of dollars of paintings, sculptures, photography, prints, and textiles. With floor-to-ceiling windows and a roof punctuated by hundreds of skylights, the exhibit halls were roomy and had enough natural light to allow the true essence of each piece of art to show through.

Haviland was not permitted inside the museum, and though Olivia was reluctant to leave him in the car, she knew that a few minutes alone with a water bowl and a pile of lamb treats wouldn’t kill him. She parked in the shade, put the windows down halfway, told the poodle she wouldn’t be long, and collected Harris’s painting.

The moment she stepped into the cool building, she was immediately tempted by the posters announcing a pair of current special exhibits. One gallery boasted a collection of Audubon’s works while another featured a modern collection of video art. Silently vowing to return another time, Olivia informed a volunteer that she had an appointment with Shala Knowles. The volunteer made a quick call and then asked Olivia to follow her to the back of the museum where the offices were located.

Olivia had expected the curator’s space to be stuffed full of books and paintings, for the desk to be covered with artsy knickknacks and strewn with disheveled piles of paperwork. She’d pictured Shala Knowles as a female version of Professor Indiana Jones—bespectacled, disorganized, and surrounded by unusual objects. She couldn’t have been more mistaken.

The office was meticulously neat. There was a sleek chrome desk, a pair of black leather side chairs, and a drafting table. One wall was occupied by a bookcase containing art reference tomes of all shapes and sizes while the space above the drafting table displayed a series of black-and-white engravings of geisha girls.

Shala herself looked like she’d stepped from the pages of Vogue. Tall and voluptuous, she flaunted her curves in a belted shirtdress of off-white cotton. A leopard-print pashmina was draped across one shoulder and tucked beneath the belt. As she came forward to shake hands with Olivia, the light streaming through the office windows illuminated bright strands of copper in her layered hair.

As Olivia took Shala’s hand, she caught a delicate hint of camellia-scented perfume.

So much for my absentminded professor image, Olivia thought with amusement.

“I’ve been looking forward to your arrival since I woke up this morning,” Shala told Olivia, her eyes glimmering with anticipation.

“I was surprised to have gotten an appointment so easily,” Olivia confessed and laid the painting, protected between parchment paper and two pieces of clean cardboard, on the drafting table. “What did I say on the phone to capture your interest?”

Shala slipped on a pair of glasses with chic red frames and reached for a journal on her bookshelf.

“It’s the signature mark you described.” She opened the journal and pointed to an enlarged image of the same symbol Olivia and Harris had seen on the bottom corner of the found watercolor.

“That’s what it looks like!” Olivia felt a growing excitement but didn’t want to hear anything else in case the painting turned out to be a fake. She gestured at the cardboard. “Please, feel free to examine it.”

The curator put on a pair of white gloves and then unwrapped the package with infinite care. She used felt-lined paperweights to anchor the watercolor’s four corners and then backed away, staring down on the scene. She stood like this for several minutes, and Olivia sensed that the rest of the world had ceased to exist for Shala Knowles. Olivia felt the same way when she was writing about Kamila.

Finally, the curator leaned in closer to the painting. Using a large magnifying sheet, she examined the work section by section, spending the longest amount of time on the signature symbol on the bottom right-hand corner.

When she straightened, she was smiling. “I am quite confident that this painting is the work of Heinrich Kamler. His subject matter, technique, and signature are unmistakable. If you look closely, you can see that the symbol is made of two intertwining letters, an H and a K. This is a very exciting discovery!” Her face was glowing. “And you say this was hidden in a thermos beneath a stair tread?”

Olivia nodded. “The house is a 1930s bungalow. When my friend moved in, he had the carpet over the stairs taken out. Quite a bit of the wood covered up by the carpet had rotted, and when one of those damaged treads was removed, the thermos was revealed.” She gestured at the journal. “Who is this Heinrich Kamler?”

Shala indicated Olivia should make herself comfortable in one of the black leather chairs. “Would you care for some coffee?”

“No, thank you. I’ve left my dog out in the car, so I can’t stay much longer.”

The curator seemed troubled by this fact. “Oh, dear. I was hoping to take measurements and photographs. I’d also like to get a second opinion from a colleague before you leave.” She grew thoughtful. “What if we had lunch outside? I could tell you all about Heinrich Kamler and your dog could stretch his legs. If you’re willing, my colleague could examine the painting while we eat.”

“That would be fine.”

Smiling, Shala presented Olivia with a menu from the museum’s eatery, Iris. She then phoned her fellow curator and made arrangements for him to view the watercolor. Olivia was impressed by the quality of food offered by the café and had a hard time choosing between two tempting dishes. In the end, she selected a sandwich made of balsamic roasted portabella, thyme, spring leeks, and Gruyère served on ciabatta flatbread.

Haviland, delighted to be sprung from the Range Rover so quickly, showed his gratitude by being especially obedient. Olivia knew the poodle longed to explore the museum’s extensive grounds, but he contented himself with the picnic area and was very careful to keep his distance from other museums visitors.

Once Shala had eaten a few bites of her artichoke and grilled shrimp salad, she laid down her fork and took a sip of iced tea. “Heinrich Kamler was a German prisoner of war. He was captured when his U-boat sank off the North Carolina coast in the early days of World War II.”

Olivia nearly choked on her sandwich. She took a large swallow of San Pellegrino and managed to say, “Was he interred at the New Bern Camp?”

It was Shala’s turn to be surprised. “Why, yes. As it sounds like you’re familiar with the camp, you may also know that both the guards and the local population treated the prisoners quite well. They were encouraged to learn Americanisms such as democracy and capitalism by creating goods and selling them. I’m not sure which products Heinrich and his friends first crafted, but he eventually earned enough to purchase painting supplies. His most famous works were of the camp itself, but he also created stunning landscapes of his home in Germany. His village bordered the Black Forest, and I believe that’s the scene your friend’s painting depicts.”

Olivia’s thoughts were racing. Had Nick Plumley known about the painting? Was it the reason he repeatedly sought access to Harris’s home? But how could he know of its existence when it had remained hidden for so many years?

“Are Kamler’s paintings valuable?” Olivia asked the curator.

“Indeed. Your friend’s is worth at least twenty thousand dollars. If placed in auction, it could bring double that amount. Maybe triple.” Shala speared a shrimp on her fork. “It will certainly generate a buzz. A fresh Kamler work after all this time? I’m certain our director will try to acquire the painting for the museum, and he won’t be alone. The wolves of the art world will gather the moment the news gets out.”

Olivia wondered how Harris would respond when she informed him that he had discovered a genuine treasure. “What happened to Kamler?”

Shala’s attractive face clouded. “For some reason, he and another prisoner decided to escape. He killed one of the guards—a knife with his initials carved into the handle was found protruding from the victim’s back. Kamler just disappeared afterward.” She pushed pieces of lettuce around in her bowl. “Who knows? He could still be alive today. A very old man, yes, but it’s possible. He was only twenty-one when he escaped. Seventeen in 1941. That’s when the U-boat sank.”

“Fascinating,” Olivia said and meant it. After all, Shala had just described the pivotal scene of Nick Plumley’s novel, The Barbed Wire Flower. “How many of his paintings exist?”

“Fifty-two.” Shala grinned. “Unless there are more in your friend’s staircase.”

Olivia returned the smile while simultaneously thinking, Harris needs to comb every inch of that house.

Their lunch finished, Olivia returned Haviland to the Range Rover and accompanied Shala inside to collect the painting. Several museum employees were gathered in the curator’s office when they returned. The air was electric.

“It’s genuine!” a man stated gleefully. “And I’m intrigued by the note on the back.” His eyes met Olivia’s. “Did Heinrich Kamler have a romantic attachment to someone who lived in the house where this was discovered?”

Shala edged forward to examine the script. “I was so caught up in examining the front that I never turned it over. Jeez, you’d think I was still in grad school.”

“I don’t know much about the people who lived there, but believe me, I plan to conduct some research as soon as possible,” Olivia answered the man’s question.

“Please keep us in the loop,” he pleaded and began to package the painting. After placing it between sheets of acid-free paper, he then secured it on both sides with white cardstock and slid the bundle into a zippered canvas bag. “Consider the bag a gift. Perhaps the owner would loan us this piece for our Arts of the Coast exhibit next winter in return.”

“I’ll pass on the request,” Olivia promised and took her leave. She was eager to return to the quiet of her car and to spend two hours ruminating over the connection between Nick Plumley and Heinrich Kamler.

As she roared west down I-40, she couldn’t stop thinking about the note on the back of the painting. It made sense that the syntax seemed a little off. After all, if the author of the brief lines was Kamler, then his primary language wasn’t English. It was German.

“A bestselling novelist paying house calls on a young and naive aspiring writer, a valuable painting hidden under a stair tread, and a mysterious romance. Perhaps even a forbidden one? Local girl falls for German prisoner?” Olivia glanced at Haviland, who was sniffing at the salt-tinged air with eagerness. They were almost home.

Olivia reached over and placed a hand on the back of the poodle’s neck. “Captain, why do the most interesting things happen just when I am about to open a new restaurant?”

She was in the middle of an internal debate over whether to start digging through town records when her phone rang. The dashboard display, which included GPS and a hands-free phone, flashed Hudson’s number in electric blue digits.

“Hello?” Olivia shouted over the rush of air streaming in through Haviland’s open window.

“It’s Hudson. Kim’s in labor.” Olivia heard fear in his rough voice, and it was not the kind experienced by all nervous fathers-to-be. It was far more acute. “She’s asking for you. There’s something wrong with the baby and she wants you here. Please, Olivia. Hurry.”

“I’m coming,” Olivia replied. “Hang in there, Hudson. I’m coming.”