A Deadly Cliche

“I imagine so.” Ms. Glenda reclaimed the yearbook and shelved it, clearly signaling that she didn’t want to discuss the matter any further.

“Can you provide us with a more concrete answer?” Olivia demanded, sensing the librarian knew more than she was willing to let on. “Or point us to a faculty member who might have a more complete recollection of the Donald siblings?”

Her pride stung, Ms. Glenda crossed her arms over her chest. “I do not like to gossip, especially when it comes to former students of mine.”

“Of course you don’t!” Laurel whispered passionately. “You must feel protective of them. I’d never quote you without your permission, but people have been hurt, Ms. Glenda. You could help bring an end to the robberies, to the violence, afflicting two counties.”

Listening to the plaintive tone of another former student, Ms. Glenda capitulated. Turning slightly, she spoke solely to Laurel. “The Donalds were a Jehovah’s Witness family. There were six children in all, Rutherford and Ellen being the youngest. Those two rarely spoke at school, and when they did, it was almost impossible to understand what they were saying. Their words were garbled. The guidance counselor and several teachers attempted to talk the parents into seeking medical treatment, but Mr. and Mrs. Donald refused to listen. It was their belief that their children were perfect in the eyes of God and that they had been born with twisted tongues for a reason.”

“Those poor children,” Laurel murmured sadly. “They faced ridicule their entire childhoods when it could have been avoided?”

“I’ve heard that the procedure is fairly straightforward. I don’t remember what it’s called, but apparently it’s performed on infants quite often. A surgeon cuts away the extra tissue the child was born with, allowing the tongue to move more freely. At their age, the Donald kids would have had to go into the hospital. A local doctor offered to do the surgery for free, but the parents wouldn’t even consider it.” Ms. Glenda pursed her lips in disapproval.

Olivia’s eyes had strayed to the row of yearbooks on the shelf. “The robbery victims were classmates of the Donalds. We can safely assume that at least one spouse of each couple contributed to the misery of the Donalds’ high school career.”

“Let’s test that theory before we leave.” Laurel pulled another yearbook from the shelf. “I’ll try to find Christina Quimby. I know her maiden name.”

Laurel found Christina’s photo quickly. After that, she looked up Felix Howard, followed by Sue Ridgemont’s husband. “Chief Rawlings was a step ahead of us. Unless the Donalds are using false identities, he’ll have them in custody today.” She glanced at her notebook. “I wonder if their parents are still local. I should try to find their house. It would make the perfect photographic accompaniment for my article on Rutherford and Ellen. Maybe I could even get an interview before they know what their kids have been up to. I could pretend to be doing a piece on Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

Olivia was more than a little astonished that her friend was able to remain so detached from the story. After all, the crimes had been inflicted on her schoolmates and she knew, if only by distant acquaintance, one of the perpetrators. “Come on, Diane Sawyer. I need to let Haviland out of the car. We can do a search for the parents using your home computer.”

Laurel thanked Ms. Glenda and followed Olivia out of the library. After passing through a pungent hallway smelling of sweat and disinfectant, they both exited the school and drew in grateful breaths of refreshing autumn air.

On the way back to Laurel’s house, the women exchanged title ideas for the next piece on the Cliché Killers. Olivia’s phone rang and her heart fluttered. Was it the lab? At the next stop sign, she looked at the screen. Her contractor had called to let her know the work on the lighthouse keeper’s cottage was done and she was free to move furniture back in.

“Our writer’s group can meet at its usual locale this weekend. That was my contractor calling with the good news.”

“I’ve heard about him from April Howard. She told me that you’d offered her a job,” Laurel said as Olivia parked the Range Rover. “When I’m done breaking this story, I’m going to do an article on you, Oyster Bay’s behind-the-scenes benefactor.”

“That’ll be the end of your career for certain,” Olivia growled. “I’ll buy the paper and fire you. And I’m not joking. In any case, everyone in town is fully aware of every move I make without any help from you or the Gazette.”

Ignoring her, Laurel told Haviland he was free to take care of business in the strip of woods separating her property from her neighbor’s. “Their dog does it on our front lawn all the time and they never pick up after her.” Laurel glared at the Georgian house next door. “Go wild, Haviland!”

Cocking his head at the sound of his name, Haviland trotted off to the specified area. The women waited until he’d complied with Laurel’s wishes and then Olivia called him back into the house, promising to take him to the park immediately after lunch.

Laurel asked Olivia to boot up her laptop while she placed a call to Chief Rawlings, hoping to prime him for information before he made what was sure to become a celebrated arrest.

“No luck,” she told Olivia. “He’s not answering his office or cell numbers and I can’t reach Officer Cook either. He’s kind of been my go-to guy. That man loves the idea of having his name in the paper.”

As Olivia began a search for the Donald family, the doorbell rang. Haviland, who had stretched out on the tiles under the kitchen table, raised his head and lifted his ears in curiosity. Then, seeing that his mistress hadn’t reacted to the sound, he flopped back onto the cool floor and closed his eyes.

Upon hearing more than one set of footsteps in Laurel’s hallway, Olivia stopped typing. It seemed odd to her that there were at least two people in the house, perhaps more, and yet no one spoke. The feeling intensified. Sensing something was wrong; she swiveled in her chair and gasped.

There was Laurel—trembling hands held above her head in surrender, face ashen with terror.

She stood shakily between the rigid bodies of a man and a woman. They both had tanned skin and brown hair streaked gold by the sun. They were both armed and their deep-set dark eyes were cold with rage.

The woman held a knife with a sinister black blade and the man held a length of steel wire. They wore identical work gloves with red rubber palms.

Olivia’s eyes moved from the bloodred hue to the clenched jaws and icy calm stares of the Cliché Killers. Rutherford and Ellen Donald had clearly not fled town.

The siblings had another agenda. They’d come to exact their revenge on one more Pampticoe High alumnus.

They’d come for Laurel.

Chapter 16

So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their ending.

—J. R. R. TOLKIEN

“I’m sorry, Ellen!” Laurel cried, turning to face the woman on her left. “I was an idiot to tease you like I did! I was more than an idiot! I was cruel but I am so, so sorry!”

Ellen shrugged, indicating that Laurel’s apology hadn’t moved her one bit. “You were a stupid sheep. You were all sheep, doing what the cool kids told you to.” Her words were flawlessly clear and laced with bitterness. The woman who had grown up with a major speech impediment now spoke with the elocution of a Juilliard actress. “Rutherford and me were little bugs for you to step on. You didn’t think about anything but your clothes and your boyfriends. Now you’re all grown up and you’re still the same.” She gestured in a wide circle with her knife. “Perfect house. Perfect little family. Sheep.”

“And a perfect job where you get to judge other people in print. Do you think you’ve earned the right to influence people?” Rutherford growled. “We’ve read what you’ve written about us, little lamb. Let me ask you, what do you really know about us?”

Laurel’s face crumpled. “I know you’re not wicked! People were mean to you and you both suffered. I played a part in that, but I have two precious boys—”

“Shut up!” Ellen shouted angrily, spittle flying from her mouth. “My brother and I never got a chance to have families of our own. Not only did our folks force us to live at home until we were nearly thirty, but people screwed with us for too many years before that for us to come out normal. We’ve waited a long time to punish everyone who hurt us. You need to understand”—she brought the tip of her black blade within centimeters of Laurel’s eye—“we have nothing to lose.”

“You were one of them, Laurel,” Rutherford hissed and then, in a frightening singsong, he whispered, “Cat got your tongue, cat got your tongue, cat go your tongue,” until Laurel put her hands over her ears, her fingers shaking like branches in a hurricane wind.

Olivia had sat through this charged scene as though made of stone. Her focus was divided by the appearance of the Donald siblings and the absurd thought that if she were a character in a movie or a book, she’d immediately come up with a plan to save her friend. There would have been some useful weapon at hand and the police would have been battering down the front door, moments away from rescuing the women in the midst of a desperate struggle against the villains.

When Ellen raised her knife to Laurel’s face, Olivia was able to break the spell of immobility and react. Slowly turning her head, she looked for a weapon that could stop both Ellen and Rutherford, but the only items nearby were Laurel’s laptop and two plastic sippy cups belonging to Dallas and Dermot.

Yet, Olivia had two advantages. The Donalds weren’t paying attention to her, giving her the element of surprise if only for the next few seconds. And she had Haviland, out of sight beneath the kitchen table. It would only take a single word to subtract from the intruders’ advantage and Olivia knew the moment had come to call it out.

“HAVILAND!” Her shout was infused with authority. “ATTACK!”

She jumped up and jerked her chair to the side, giving Haviland the space he needed to bolt out from under the table. In a flash of black fur and bared teeth, he was on Rutherford before the man could even think of slipping his length of sharp wire over the poodle’s head.

When Rutherford howled in pain, Olivia lunged forward, grabbing hold of Ellen’s wrist. The knife tilted away from Laurel’s face and Olivia yelled, “RUN! NOW! CALL RAWLINGS!”

Laurel complied. In a flash of blond hair, she raced through the kitchen to the garage.

Olivia had no time to feel relief that her friend had escaped. Ellen, who was younger and stronger, suddenly wrenched her forearm to the side and broke free of Olivia’s grasp. Her eyes were wild, glittering with madness and decades of unspent rage.

She slashed at Olivia’s chest with her knife and Olivia leapt backward, but not quickly enough. A searing pain screamed along the flesh of her upper arm and Ellen smiled, delighted to have drawn blood from this stranger who’d dared to interfere.

Haviland yelped, and even though hearing his cry was like receiving another wound, Olivia didn’t dare take her eyes from her opponent. She struck out with her right leg, her foot slamming powerfully into Ellen’s stomach. She heard a grunt and Ellen bent over, the air knocked from her lungs. Olivia used the reprieve to dash into the kitchen, her arm burning in agony.

At a safe distance for mere seconds, she tried to yank open a drawer in search of the biggest knife she could find, but child-protection locks had been affixed on every drawer.

“Damn it!” Olivia had never felt such intense helplessness.

But she did not have time to waste on self-pity. Ellen was coming for her again, knife held out in front of her, lips twisted in a predator’s smile. “You’re going to pay for hurting my brother!” she snarled. “When I’m done with you, I’m going to carve up your dog like a Thanksgiving turkey!”

“What is with you and all the clichés?” Olivia asked derisively, deliberately backing into a corner. Behind her was Laurel’s new coffee machine, complete with a twelve-cup, stainless steel thermal carafe. She’d brewed a full pot of coffee only an hour ago. There were at least eight cups of hot coffee left.

As Ellen advanced, Olivia unscrewed the pot’s lid. The motion hurt her arm terribly and she could feel the blood soaking into her shirt and streaming down her skin until it had covered her wrist and fingers, but she couldn’t give in to the pain. Across the room, Haviland was also fighting for his life. Rutherford’s body had been strengthened by years of physical labor and he could easily break the poodle’s bones or punch him hard enough to render Haviland unconscious.

Olivia knew she couldn’t waste another minute tangling with Ellen. She needed to end this now.

“So now you’re mocking us too?” Ellen hissed. “We didn’t get to go to college like some people. We taught ourselves what our folks wouldn’t and worked shit jobs until we had enough to pay for an apartment and bills and the operation our ignorant parents should have given us when we were kids! But we showed them.” She uttered a strangled chuckle.

As much as Olivia wanted to hear every nuance behind the siblings’ motives, it was more important to incapacitate Ellen Donald. She waited for the other woman to lunge with her knife hand. At that moment, Olivia jerked to the right and flung the contents of the coffeepot into Ellen’s face.

The knife clattered to the floor as Ellen raised both hands to her face, screaming. Mercilessly, Olivia swung the stainless steel vessel with all her strength, landing a debilitating blow to the side of Ellen’s head. The woman sank to the ground like a stone dropped into deep water.

Olivia stepped over her opponent’s sprawled legs.

A voice shouted, “FREEZE!”

It was Rawlings. He stood in Laurel’s foyer, his gun drawn and fixed on Rutherford. Two officers, both of whom had their weapons trained on Ellen’s brother, flanked the chief.

Olivia’s gaze turned to Rutherford. Her blood turned to ice.

Rutherford had a switchblade in his hand and was pointing it at Haviland’s throat. The poodle was growling a low, dangerous growl and was tensing to pounce. If he did, Rutherford’s blade would pass straight through his jugular.

“Haviland! Off!” Olivia commanded but terror made her words come out as a croak.

Rawlings stepped forward. “I will shoot you in the leg, Rutherford Donald. If you do not drop your weapon this instant so help me, I will shoot you!”

“Come, Haviland!” Olivia heard the desperation in her voice but didn’t care. “Come to me!”

The poodle obeyed. Skirting around Rutherford, he reached Olivia’s side and nudged her with his nose.

Olivia couldn’t stop the tears of relief that fell onto Haviland’s fur as she ran her panicked fingers over his body. There was no blood so he had not been cut and he didn’t flinch in pain as she examined him. His chest was slightly tender and Olivia suspected he’d taken one of Rutherford’s blows to that region, but all in all, he was well.

In turn, Haviland licked her, nuzzled her, and sniffed her wound, whining a little in concern. Olivia waited until Rutherford tossed his knife onto the rug and was promptly cuffed by one of the officers before she returned to the kitchen. She wound Laurel’s checkered dishcloth around her arm and winced as a fresh burst of pain shot up the damaged limb.

Rawlings was beside her in an instant.

He was angry. “You’re hurt.”

His eyes blazed with threads of green and gold and Olivia realized that they only had that appearance when the chief was struggling to keep his emotion in check. He found another dishcloth in a drawer and placed it over the first, applying pressure to Olivia’s wound. “We’ve got to stop the bleeding.”

Don’t look, Olivia told herself, but then she did. Blood seeped through both towels, spreading across the material in a wave of red. She felt a surge of nausea and then a rush of cloying heat. She reached out for the countertop to steady herself before she passed out altogether.

“Easy,” Rawlings whispered and put his arm around her waist. He eased her to one of the kitchen chairs. “Keep your head down. Breathe deeply.” She did as he directed but he wasn’t satisfied. “No, slow down. Innnnnnnnn. Now ouuuuuuuuuuut. Better.”

They remained like this for a full minute. Olivia had the absurd thought that they sounded like an expectant couple practicing Lamaze breathing techniques. She carefully straightened and looked at Rawlings. His face was inches from hers and his eyes had softened, returning to their muddy, pond green hue. “Thank you,” she murmured. “You came just in time.”

Rawlings glowered. “Yes, we did. That’s our job, remember? When you talked Laurel into investigating the Donald siblings, you put both of your lives in danger. All I asked you to do was to think about the meaning of the clichés! I didn’t ask you to lure the killers here!”

“They would have come for her anyway!” Olivia protested but silently felt the chief had spoken the truth. After all, the robbery victims were old enough to have attended Pampticoe High with both Ellen and Rutherford. Laurel was two years younger than the others and had only ridiculed Ellen. Her articles about the siblings may have drawn their attention to her. If she hadn’t started writing about them, it was likely they would never have remembered her at all. “Where is Laurel?” Olivia asked, needing to know that her friend was safe.

“Sitting in my car. She’s both shaken and plenty mad over having to stay behind while we charged in, but she’ll get over it.”

Olivia gave Rawlings a grateful smile. “I’m relieved she didn’t witness how this played out. By the time she comes back into the house, the Donalds will be gone and I’ll have this mess cleaned up.” She briefly gestured at the bloodsplattered floor and countertop.

She and Rawlings watched as one of Rawlings’ brawny officers fastened Ellen’s limp wrists together in front of her body using a plastic restraint and then the officer sat down beside her to wait for the paramedics to arrive.

“I like Ellen much better when she’s unconscious.” Olivia stood and wrestled with the child lock of the cabinet beneath the sink, searching for cleaning supplies.

“Get back in that chair. The only thing you’re doing is going to the hospital,” Rawlings commanded and waited until she was seated again. “This place is about to be invaded by EMTs and an army of cops. The scene must be thoroughly documented.”

“Then let Laurel take me to get stitched up,” Olivia said. “You know how slow emergency rooms are. By the time I’m finished, your team should be done here.”

Rawlings got down on his knees and put his hands on her shoulders. “Only if you promise to go straight there. No stopping to purchase a pound of raw liver for Haviland, though God knows the dog deserves it.” He glanced over at the poodle. “Well done, sir. You could show our K-9 unit a thing or two. Our department might need to look into those advanced canine training classes you took.”

Olivia was overwhelmed by the urge to kiss Sawyer Rawlings. She raised her good arm and put her palm flat against his rough cheek. “Haviland’s not my only hero,” she whispered and pulled his head toward hers. Closing her eyes, she pressed her lips against his lips and felt his hand slide up the skin of her neck. It came to rest at the nape but his fingertips stretched a bit higher, gently grabbing her hair and sending a ripple of heat through her body. She responded by opening her mouth more fully, inviting him to kiss her more deeply and with more urgency.

The tread of heavy footsteps reentering the house ruined the moment. They hastily broke apart, flushed and glassy-eyed with desire.

“Put your arm around my waist,” Rawlings directed huskily.

“I am perfectly capable of walking outside without assistance, thank you,” she answered stiffly, noting that the officers were watching their chief with interest.

Rawlings frowned. “Do as I say or I will carry you out.”

Feigning reluctance, Olivia allowed Rawlings to support her, but in truth she wanted to feel his touch, no matter what the circumstances were. She leaned into him, smelling coffee and soap and the sandalwood of his aftershave, and Haviland brought up the rear, looking as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Outside, Laurel was pacing back and forth on the lawn. The cruisers bearing the Donald siblings were already gone.

“Oh, Olivia! Thank God!” Laurel ran to them, her eyes puffy from crying. She stared at the bloody dishtowels Rawlings held against Olivia’s upper arm. “What happened?”

“She has a deep laceration and needs to be taken to the hospital,” Rawlings said with perfect calm. “Can you drive her? I need to stay on site until the other officers arrive.”

Laurel nodded vigorously. “Of course!” Taking Olivia’s purse from the chief, she sprinted to the Range Rover and hopped into the driver’s seat.

As Rawlings opened the passenger door, Olivia leaned toward him and whispered, “Please make sure everything looks normal before she comes home. I know that’s not exactly your job, but I’m asking as a favor to me.”

With Laurel busy digging through Olivia’s purse for her keys, Rawlings felt free to brush Olivia’s neck with his lips. “Since you asked so nicely . . .” He then eased her into the car and opened the back door for Haviland.

“No stopping,” he told Laurel firmly. “No matter what she says.”

Laurel squared her shoulders. “Yes, Chief. I promise.”

Olivia had no intention of avoiding the hospital, but she asked Laurel to drop her off at the emergency room and take Haviland to the park.

“He’s not allowed inside anyway,” she reminded Laurel when her friend began to argue. She insisted on waiting until Olivia had registered and moved back to the triage area before driving off with Haviland.

The entire ordeal took over two hours. Olivia’s cut was deep enough to merit a layer of dissolvable stitches to help the rent tissue mend, followed by fifty-some sutures to knit her layers of skin back together. She received a tetanus shot, instructions on how to clean her wound, and an appointment for suture removal in ten days’ time.

During the ride back to Laurel’s house, Olivia’s arm throbbed mercilessly. She’d been given plenty of shots to kill the pain while the doctor cleaned and repaired her wound, but now there was a steady ache and her entire arm felt heavy and swollen. The nurse had given Olivia a sling, and though she hated to wear it, she couldn’t imagine letting her limb hang on its own.

Not only had Laurel let Haviland dash after the park’s squirrels to his heart’s content, but per Olivia’s request she’d taken him to the vet to ensure he had no injuries. As soon as Diane declared the poodle healthy as usual, Laurel called The Boot Top and asked Michel to prepare something special for the canine champion.

“My mother-in-law is picking up the twins so we can go straight to the restaurant,” Laurel said. “I’m in no rush to go home.”

Olivia leaned back against the headrest. “Good. I could use a drink.”

Being that it was past lunchtime, The Boot Top’s bar was empty and the lights were set to their daytime setting. Olivia immediately adjusted the dimmer slide until the room was plunged into semidarkness.

Taking up Gabe’s position behind the bar, she checked the ice supply and reached for a tumbler. “What’s your pleasure?” she asked Laurel.

“Normally, I’d say it’s way too early to be drinking, but I could easily slurp down a sea breeze or two.”

“Purely medicinal,” Olivia said, beginning to mix Laurel’s cocktail. “You’ve had a rather extraordinary morning after all.” She glanced at her friend in concern. “What does Steve have to say about all this?”

Laurel shrugged. “He doesn’t know yet. His whole office takes a long lunch hour, and when I called his cell, he didn’t answer. I told his folks that I was taking you to the hospital, but that’s as much information as I wanted to arm them with. They’ll be chewing me out soon enough.” She took a grateful sip of the fruity cocktail Olivia set on the bar.

“I’ll have what she’s having!” Millay called out as she strolled into the bar, Harris close on her heels.

Olivia paused in the middle of pouring out a generous measure of Chivas Regal. “This is a pleasant surprise. Have you both called in sick?”

Millay glanced at her watch. “I’ve got two hours before my shift starts and Harris snuck out of a meeting. We had to show up after Laurel called and told us what went down today.”

“Besides, my meeting was crap anyway and they’ll never notice I’m gone,” Harris remarked idly. “The whole staff is there and everyone just sits around and plays games on their phones while the boss yaps about the bottom line. During our last warm and fuzzy get-together, I achieved a new high score on Cannon Challenge. It was awesome!” He examined the beer taps and pointed at the one bearing the logo of an area microbrewery. “Amber ale. Perfect. Good thing you can work the tap with one arm, eh?” His voice abruptly lost its levity. “Seriously, Olivia. Are you okay?”

Olivia distributed drinks before answering. “I’m fine, thank you. The Donalds are in police custody and I’m confident that Rawlings will get a confession from Ellen. She wants everyone to know exactly how she and Rutherford turned into monsters. Her anger hasn’t been assuaged and I believe she’ll enjoy having an audience.”

“I hope they both confess,” Laurel said with a shiver. “I’d rather not have any more knives pointed at my eye.”

Millay slapped Laurel on the back. “Just think of the article you can write now! A first-person account to totally wrap up all the groundwork you laid in your earlier pieces. This is Pulitzer material, girlfriend!”

For a moment, Laurel’s blue eyes shimmered at the thought, but the light quickly died. “Steve will never let me continue my work after what’s happened. He’ll tell me that my actions might have endangered the lives of our boys. If they’d been home, that would have been true.” She hung her head in shame. “My selfishness could have led to the end of my family. And they’re my whole world.”

Harris pushed his beer aside and jumped onto the barstool next to Laurel’s. He slung a lanky arm around her shoulders. “You’re a writer. It’s who you are. Whether you write for the paper or stay up all night working on a novel, you can’t just stop. It’s not selfishness, Laurel, it’s how you’re wired. You couldn’t turn that off even if you wanted to.”

Olivia gave Harris a nod of approval. The simple truth of his words alleviated some of the guilt she felt for pushing Laurel into a career in journalism. She took a deep swallow from her tumbler, knowing full well that it was unwise to mix whiskey and narcotics. It was her hope that the alcohol would help numb the pain in her arm enough for her to abstain from taking another dose of medicine before bed.

Laurel put a cocktail napkin to her face and cried silently. Her friends let her be, sensing that she needed the release. They drank and reflected on the Donald siblings, wondering whether the police had collected enough evidence to ensure that the twisted siblings would be in prison for a long time.

Eventually, Laurel’s tears ceased and she managed a wobbly smile. “I don’t know what I’d do without such amazing friends. Thanks, everybody.”

Millay rolled her eyes in disgust, but Olivia knew the gesture was all show. “I’m way bummed I missed the action. Here I am, my finely honed kung fu skills going to waste while Olivia’s getting sliced up by some crazy slasher bi—”

Harris cut her off. “Do you really know kung fu?”

“I promise to phone you before the next knife incident,” Olivia said and then shot Laurel a questioning look. “Ellen and Rutherford spoke quite clearly, didn’t they? They must have gotten the operation they’d always wanted as soon as they were out of the family home.”

Laurel twisted her napkin into a white, wrinkled snake. “I called the police station while I was at the park with Haviland and asked Officer Cook to check on Mr. and Mrs. Donald. He said they already had but he sounded funny and got off the phone in a flash. I really hope they’re unharmed!”

“They might be okay,” Harris tried to assure her. “Ellen and Rutherford’s first act of violence was killing that Alan guy and burying him in the sand.”

Millay looked doubtful. “As far as we know. There could be a trail of dead bodies from here to Arkansas. We don’t know that Felix’s death was an accident. The Donalds might have been aware that he was at home all along. They could have been gunning for him like they were gunning for Laurel, here.”

Fear flickered through Laurel’s eyes and Harris scowled at Millay. “How about showing a little sensitivity? The lady’s had a scary morning.”

Returning his frown, Millay mumbled an apology to Laurel and then focused her energy on consuming the rest of her drink.

Haviland appeared behind the bar, having been fed a selection of gourmet goodies by Michel. The chef fussed and cooed over the poodle even after Laurel explained how Olivia had ended up with her arm in a sling.

“I’d give you oodles of sympathy,” he told his employer briskly, “but I know how you’d react, so I’ll just skip it and say that I’m overwhelmingly relieved that the person who signs my paychecks isn’t left-handed.” Michel then tried to be extremely solicitous to Laurel, but she only smiled weakly and thanked him.

Soon, Gabe would arrive to put the bar in order and the kitchen would be filled with steam, noise, and delectable scents. Olivia was on the verge of breaking up their impromptu party when Rawlings stepped through the front door. He nodded at the ensemble and then crooked a finger at her.

“Could you step outside for a moment?” he asked and then turned, giving Olivia no choice but to comply.

Millay shook her head in sympathy and jumped down from her barstool. “Oh, man. You must be in major t-r-o-u-b-l-e. I’ll do the pouring until you come back.”

“That’s fine as long as you answer my cell phone if it rings. I’m waiting for an important call.”

“Secretarial services will cost you extra,” Millay replied with a saucy curtsy.

Outside, it took Olivia’s eyes several seconds to adjust to the afternoon light. Rawlings was waiting for her at the end of the path leading to the parking lot, his cell phone pressed to his ear. Upon seeing her, he quickly ended his conversation and watched her approach with close scrutiny.

Olivia’s heart beat faster beneath the intensity of his stare. “Why are you looking at me like that? Am I about to be frisked?”

The chief ignored her attempt at playfulness. “How’s your arm?”

“Stitched, sore, and ugly. I won’t be wearing sleeveless tops over the next few weeks,” she stated airily while her insides churned. Why did the very sight of this man leave her feeling so unsettled?

Rawlings drew so near that Olivia thought he’d kiss her. He didn’t. He reached an arm around her back and gently eased her forward so that her sling barely touched his chest. He put his cheek against hers and used his free hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingertips then moved under the lobe, tracing a slow line down the skin of her neck to her collarbone. He breathed into her ear. “We got them. Full confessions. It’s done.”

He pulled back so that he could look into her eyes, leaving Olivia instantly hungry for his touch. “The moment the Donald siblings were out from under their parents’ thumbs, they began to plan their revenge against their classmates. Anyone who repeatedly taunted them with the cliché ‘the cat got your tongue’ was to be punished. They had an entire list of enemies to terrorize and a dozen more cliché tableaus to create.”

“I’ll certainly think twice about using one in my writing,” Olivia joked softly.

Rawlings continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “And when the paperwork involving the Donald siblings has been filed and all the press interviews are done and Oyster Bay falls quiet again, I will want one thing and only one thing.” His gaze was electric. “I’m here to see whether you will grant me this one thing.”

Olivia took his wide, strong hand in her own. “What would that be?”

“An evening. A bottle of wine. Some time to see what this is. In short . . .” His eyes met hers, green and golden brown in the light. “You.”

Pushing aside thoughts of the dramatic morning, her blood test, and the fact that she needed to tell Rawlings that she was no longer involved with Flynn, Olivia smiled. “I think we can work something out.”

Behind Rawlings, a delivery truck pulled into the parking lot and Olivia dropped the chief’s hand. “Come inside. I believe there’s a chocolate milk with your name on it.”

Millay looked up when the pair reentered the bar. “Gabe’s got a nice setup back here. I could get used to not standing on beer-covered concrete all night long. Chief? What’ll it be?”

Rawlings placed his order and then informed the Bayside Book Writers that the case of the Cliché Killers was closed. “I’ll grant you the first interview if you’re interested,” he told Laurel.

“Of course she is!” Harris shouted. “Having one of us being published on a regular basis gives this group some weight. You’re our pathfinder, Laurel. You can’t stop now!”

Laurel laughed. “When you put it that way . . .”

Millay put both palms on the bar. “Olivia. I need some whole milk. Gabe only has half-and-half in this fridge, so unless the chief wants to clog an artery before he starts giving Laurel here a bunch of stellar quotes, you’d better grab some from the kitchen.”

Olivia was about to walk away when Millay called her name again. “And some lab called. I pretended I was you and they told me that your blood test was positive.” She grinned. “You’re a little old to be getting knocked up, aren’t you?” She paused, seeing the stricken look on Olivia’s face.” Hey, I’m just messing with you. You’d have the smartest, best-looking, richest kid in town. You’d be single mother of the year! Olivia?”

It was all Olivia could do to wave off Millay’s ridiculous assumption and continue on toward the kitchen. She could feel every eye upon her as she walked away, yet the simple act of putting one foot in front of another was remarkably difficult.

The entire kitchen staff had arrived and had begun preparations for a busy Friday night. Olivia moved through the activity and chatter like a zombie. The milk was forgotten. Rawlings was forgotten. The throbbing in her arm came at her from a great distance.

In her office, she sank into her chair and struggled to breathe normally.

“My father is alive,” she told the room. She looked from the desk to the telephone to the computer. “My father is alive.”

The objects remained blissfully mute. There was no living thing to bear witness to the mixture of hope and agony surging through Olivia’s heart. For that, she was grateful.

She didn’t know when Haviland trotted into the office, but his presence allowed Olivia to function again. She looked up the Okracoke Ferry schedule and calculated how much time it would take to reach the port of departure. The last ferry left from Cedar Island at five. It was already after three and the drive would take over two hours. She couldn’t make it.

Olivia signaled for Haviland to follow her. She would go home, pack a bag, and make a few calls. Okracoke was less than fifty miles from Oyster Bay by boat. Confident that she could hire a vessel if she offered its captain enough cash, Olivia planned to be on the island before nightfall.

Someone in the kitchen spoke to her as she pushed open the door leading outside, but the words never reached her.

“My father’s alive,” she told the September afternoon and wondered how she could possibly process this momentous truth.

As it hit her full force, she did the only thing that made sense. She got inside the Range Rover and sobbed.

Chapter 17

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

—THOMAS GRAY

Olivia sat in front of the instrument panel next to the owner of the JoFaye, a sleek, hardtop super-yacht that cut through the waters east of Oyster Bay at thirty-seven knots. The man at the helm was accustomed to taking inlanders out on pleasure cruises up and down the Carolina coast. He’d had a good season and had managed to put away enough money to see his family through the winter, but when Olivia Limoges called and offered him enough cash to cover his monthly mortgage payment, he couldn’t refuse. One of her stipulations was that he ask no questions and tell no one of her visit to Okracoke.

“I value my privacy,” she’d said firmly. “If you illustrate discretion tonight, I will do my best to send business your way when the tourists return in the spring.”

JoFaye’s owner knew of Olivia’s influence and had no doubt that pleasing her would result in increased bookings. The yacht’s captain attempted small talk at the beginning of the short trip, but he was astute enough to see that she wasn’t interested in conversation. With a grim face, she kept her eyes on the horizon, holding her injured arm so that it didn’t bounce around too much whenever the boat crossed another vessel’s wake. The poodle also struggled to maintain his balance as the JoFaye’s powerful dual engines ran full throttle.

Olivia was too busy focusing on the pain in her arm to speculate on her upcoming reunion, but as the island became visible to starboard, she began to feel an increased sense of panic. The urge to tell the captain to turn his boat around was strong. After all, Olivia’s father had abandoned her. It would serve him right if she did the same to him as he lay dying. Perhaps he wasn’t even aware that his caretakers had contacted her and would be upset to suddenly find the woman his little girl had become standing at his bedside.

Olivia had fled from hardship before, but she wouldn’t now. Instead, she swallowed her anxiety and stood tall in the prow of the boat as the shore grew closer and the shapes of houses and trees became visible.

The captain headed for Silver Lake, an inlet south of Mary Ann’s Pond. He eased back on the throttle, motoring slowly past the ferry dock.

The sun had moved lower in the sky and part of the island had been cast in shadow. Only the white walls of the lighthouse seemed undiminished by the encroachment of evening and Olivia drew comfort at the sight of the old structure.

Earlier, Olivia had told the yacht’s captain that she needed to be dropped off at the dock closest to Hudson’s Raw Bar, being that she’d made no arrangements for transportation once she reached the island.

“Hudson’s is right in the village,” he’d told her. “They’ve got their own dock. I’ll just let you hold the wheel steady while I throw a line over and get us secured. My wife has a rug on hold over at The Island Ragpicker and they’re staying open late so I can pick it up. Think you can man the helm with your arm in a sling?”

Olivia had nodded.

Now, as the yacht’s motor decelerated from a deafening roar to a steady drone, the captain deftly maneuvered the JoFaye into an open slip, gave Olivia a few instructions, and leapt from the boat to the dock with feline agility. Securing the bowline, he told her to cut the engines as he lassoed the stern line to the dock’s iron cleat. He then set out a pair of disembarkation steps and offered his hand to assist Olivia down. She accepted reluctantly, but Haviland disregarded the steps altogether and jumped onto the dock with an anticipatory bark.

“Yes, Captain,” Olivia whispered to him. “Another adventure awaits us.”

Shouldering her overnight bag, Olivia hastily thanked the yacht’s captain, eager to be alone for a moment to gather courage. He said good-bye and hurried off, eager to complete his wife’s errand.

From her vantage point on the dock, Olivia could see the brown clapboard walls of the eatery and the second-story windows of the house that the Salters had converted into guest rooms.

Olivia stared at the windows, watching the waning light dance upon the panes. On the other side of one of those sheets of glass, behind the glimmering farewell of daylight, was her father. Her throat tightened and she looked away, taking in the tranquility of the village and the sleepy inlet. She stood like this for several minutes, drawing courage from the clang of mooring lines and the gentle rocking of sailboats at anchor.

Finally, she walked forward, her eyes returning again and again to the lighthouse. It was incredibly strange that her father had taken up residence so close to another lighthouse. He had deserted his home, his daughter, and the memories of his wife. And yet here he was, still tied to the ocean, working in a town interdependent on the sea, living in the lee of another lighthouse.

“Did you really escape?” Olivia wondered aloud. “Or did our voices float to you across the water? Mother’s and mine. Did you see our faces in the tidal pools? In the glassy water before you pulled the shrimp nets in?”

Olivia fell silent, knowing that she was describing how she’d been haunted by the ghosts of her past.

She gave Haviland a brave smile and then stepped into the restaurant.

The décor was casual to the point of neglect. There were scarred wooden picnic tables and chairs, mismatched barstools, old fishing nets slung across the rafters. A few customers were at the bar, getting an early start on a long night of drinking. A television set was tuned to ESPN, and a woman stood at the end of the bar, refilling catsup bottles and saltshakers.

Upon seeing Olivia, she wiped her hands on her apron and murmured something to the old man sitting closest to her.

“Can I help you?” she asked with guarded friendliness.

Olivia examined the woman. She was barely thirty, but toil and worry made her appear older. Her brown hair hung limply down her back and her watery blue eyes were wary. Glancing at Haviland, she placed a protective hand on her swollen abdomen.

“Are you Kim Salter?”

The woman nodded. “You must be Olivia. My husband said you would probably come.” Her tone was apologetic. She pointed at Olivia’s sling. “What happened to you?”

“That’s not important.” Olivia clenched her jaw, her blue eyes darkening with intensity. She disliked being short with the woman, especially since she was both tired and pregnant, but it couldn’t be helped. “I came to see my father and I want to see him now.”

“I’ll get Hudson.” Kim turned and hurried through a swing door leading into the kitchen.

Olivia didn’t wait around for Hudson Salter to emerge from within. She didn’t trust the man and she didn’t want to give him the chance to manipulate her in any way.

Bursting into the kitchen, she found him boiling a pot of stone crab claws while a little girl carefully cut a lemon into tidy wedges. Hudson, whose back was to the door, had been speaking to his wife but immediately broke off and swung around to face Olivia. His cheeks were flushed from the steam billowing out of the stockpot and his eyes were hooded and unreadable. He glanced between Olivia and Haviland and then wiped his hands on his apron.

“Caitlyn,” he said in a deep, authoritative tone. “Take those lemons out to the bar. Kim, you go on too.”

Kim seemed about to protest, but a steely glare from her husband silenced her. Putting a gentle arm around Caitlyn’s bony shoulders, she led the girl out of the kitchen. They both gave Haviland a wide berth.

“I suppose we need to come to terms before you’ll let me see my father,” Olivia stated, dropping her purse on an unused cutting board. She pulled out her checkbook and wiggled it impatiently. “How much?”

Hudson was clearly taken aback. “This isn’t the time to talk about money. I’ve gotta fill this order and then I’ll bring you upstairs. And for the record, I don’t like animals in my kitchen. I take pride in my cooking.” He shot Haviland a distasteful look and then fixed his gaze on Olivia again. “Your daddy’s been sleeping most of the time. He’s pretty doped on morphine. Got a local lady to watch him while we work. He doesn’t have much life left in him now.” His voice had suddenly lost its edge. “You should expect the worst.”

Olivia put her checkbook away and watched Hudson finish with the crab claws. After draining them, he dumped them into a bowl and then untied his apron. “Follow me.”

“As you might imagine, I have many questions,” Olivia said, struggling to remain civil.

Hudson continued walking. “He started getting sick about three months back. It came on real quick. Got a bunch of scans on the mainland and found out about the cancer. Those tests ’bout bankrupted us. Kim asked him if there was anything he wanted, you know, before it was all over, and he wanted us to find this lady named Olivia Limoges. So we got on a computer and tracked you down.”

Following him through a hallway connecting the restaurant to the first floor of the house, Olivia tried to absorb what Hudson had said. “He asked about me?” She hated how much it mattered to her that her father had initiated the chain of events that had led her to Okracoke.

“Yeah. First we ever heard about you—that he had a daughter.”

“And how long have you known him?”

Hudson gave a wry chuckle. “My whole life, lady.”

Olivia didn’t answer. She was trying to rein in her anger, but failed. “So you found me and someone else decided to blackmail me into coming out here just in time for my father’s last days on earth?”

Hudson stopped and turned to face her. “I didn’t send you that letter. Kim and I were going back and forth over how to tell you about your daddy, but Betty did it for us, behind our backs.”

“Who the hell is Betty?” Olivia demanded.

“She’s his nurse. The woman we hired to take care of him when we’ve gotta work.” He frowned. “I don’t blame you for being mad, but she swears she did it because it’s his dying wish. She didn’t care how she had to make it happen, she just wanted you here.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Feed me another lie. She could have just called me. Why did she ask for cash?”

Hudson dropped his gaze to the ground. “For us. This whole place is going down like a ship with a cracked hull. Betty’s known Kim and me since we were in diapers. She delivered Caitlyn. She’s our closest family friend.” He reached out his hand to touch Olivia’s arm, but he let it hover in the air near her shoulder without making contact. “I’m sorry about how you ended up here, but you’re here, and that’s what matters now.”

Every muscle in Olivia’s body constricted when Hudson put his hand on the knob of the guest room at the very end of the hall. Olivia keenly wished there were no witnesses to this moment, but she knew she had no control over the situation. Pushing aside her dread and fear, she followed Hudson inside, unable to see around his broad back.

“How’s he doing?” Hudson asked an older woman seated in a chair against the left wall. She was crocheting a pastel blanket and watching a cooking program on television.

Olivia heard genuine concern behind Hudson’s question and she knew he had told her the truth. The woman in the chair was the blackmailer. Hudson was just a cook trying to keep his family afloat while an old man slowly died in one of his rooms.

“Same as this morning,” the woman answered. Putting her needles aside, she switched off the TV and scrutinized Olivia. “This his daughter?”

Hudson grunted in assent and stepped aside. “Olivia, this is Betty. She’s a nurse. She’s been helping out since he got real bad.”

“Who can’t spell apparently,” Olivia said and shot the woman a hostile glance.

That was all the attention she had to spare for the blackmailer at the moment for the figure in the bed became the center of Olivia’s universe. The very walls could have fallen away from the house and she wouldn’t have noticed. She hadn’t laid eyes on her father’s face in thirty years, but she knew that the gaunt and bearded visage on the pillow belonged to William Wade.

Her face was a blank mask but her heart silently cried, Daddy!

In a flash, Olivia Limoges was gone, replaced by skinny, tow-headed Livie Wade. She approached the bedside on the balls of her feet, as though the groan of a floorboard would break the spell and her father would disappear once and for all. But her adult eyes knew he was going nowhere. The painfully thin arms, the loose, jaundiced skin, and liquid, labored breaths made that clear. So did the IV bag dripping a steady supply of blissful morphine into his body.

Olivia knelt on the floor but did not touch her father. She cradled her hurt arm and stared at his hand. When she’d last seen it, it had been the hand of a man in his prime. Calloused and weathered, tough and powerful. This hand was all bones and swollen veins. The nails looked ragged and tissue-thin. It was easier to look at this than to gaze upon his sallow, wrinkled face.

Her father was an old man. Though Olivia knew his age and that he was very sick, she hadn’t been prepared to see him in such a reduced state. All the strength and forcefulness teeming beneath his skin was gone. He was a shell, a sinking ship, a pitiful thing.

“You can touch him, honey,” the nurse said gently. “That man had plenty of bite in him for most of his life, but he’s got none left now.”

Without glancing away from her father’s hand, Olivia said, “You knew him.”

“Shoot, I tended to him when he first came here. Half drowned, concussed, practically pissing whiskey.” Betty shook her head. “When he finally came ’round, he said he couldn’t remember what had happened and he was sure he didn’t want to remember. He sold his boat and started working as a shrimper and then ended up as the caretaker for this place. He met Meg not long after that, back when the grill was just a little hole-in-the-wall—a place to grab a cup of coffee and a sandwich.”

Now Olivia did look up. “Meg?”

“His late wife.”

Olivia turned to see if Hudson had anything to contribute to this string of revelations, but he was already gone. “A second wife,” she muttered.

Betty heard her and chuckled. “That was news to everybody. Meg had no idea. Nobody knew about your mama until a month or so ago. Didn’t know about you either. We thought the man was raving, but Willie wouldn’t let up and I took it upon myself to track you down. I figured you had enough money to share with the Salters, but I didn’t know if you’d part with it willingly. Those two have a precious child to raise and another one on the way and they’ve worked themselves to the bone trying to do right by the man you see lying in this bed.” She sent Olivia a defiant, sidelong glance. “I might have gone overboard with the block print and the weird grammar, but I just wanted to get your attention and I succeeded. I’d do it all over again too, because you’re here and that’s what Willie wanted.” She straightened a corner of bed sheet. “I only hope he wakes up one more time so he can see you in the flesh.”

Neither woman spoke for a moment. Olivia listened to the contradictory sounds of her father’s labored breath and the industrious, steady clicking of Betty’s needles.

“How long has it been since he was lucid?” she asked quietly, deciding that both Hudson and Betty were right. The letter and the doubt had put her through hell, but she was here. She hadn’t missed seeing her father, and if she was lucky, there’d still be time to find out the answers to the questions she’d waited her entire life to ask.

“Two days.” Betty sighed. “He had some broth this morning, but even then, with his eyes open, he wasn’t seeing anything. He’s drifting between worlds, confusing the past and the present, dreams and reality. Mumbles all sorts of fishing tales and whispers about some little dog and a storm.” Gathering up her crochet materials, she rose. “I’ll leave you alone. I’m sure you’ve got things to say and I truly think he’ll hear you. I’ve seen this kind of thing before.” She paused at the threshold. “I believe he’s been waiting for you so he can let go. Talk to him, honey. It’s not too late.”

Olivia accepted the counsel with a nod, but when the door shut behind Betty, she found she had nothing to say. She reached for Haviland, who had sniffed every nook and cranny of the room and was now sprawled at Olivia’s feet. He raised his head as she stroked the curly fur on his flank, a question in his ale brown eyes.

“No, Captain. It’s not time to go.”

She stared at her father for a long time, wondering in angry silence about his life on Okracoke. He’d landed on its flat shores, been received and cared for by the locals, and had come to marry one. Olivia felt freshly abandoned, but most of all she felt betrayed. She believed he might have lost his memory for a time, but eventually he had remembered that he had a daughter and that the woman he had loved was dead. He’d simply decided to do his best to forget them both.

Suddenly, Olivia wanted evidence of his other life. Assuming the room had been her father’s before his illness, she began to open drawers. It never occurred to her that it wasn’t right for her to rifle through his belongings. She’d had no chance to lay claim to this man for thirty years, but now that she was here, Olivia planned to exercise all the authority that a blood tie granted her.

If she’d expected to find a neat file of important documents, personal letters, or photographs, she was to be disappointed. Her father’s room was Spartan. The drawers and closet contained clothes. There were a few books and magazines, but Olivia’s father had never been much of a reader. She found a wooden toolbox filled with his whittling tools in the dresser and on top of a nightstand, a tin of tobacco, matches, and a pipe. The walls were decorated with vintage blueprints of famous sailing vessels.

Frustrated, Olivia paced around the room, stealing nervous glances at her father as though he might awaken to find her snooping through his things. She was certain he wouldn’t approve of that. Like her, he’d always been fiercely protective of his privacy.

“Didn’t anyone matter to you? Isn’t there a single piece of evidence that you shared your life with other human beings?” she addressed the motionless form in the bed. Strangely, it was all she could say to him. She no longer felt like ranting at him, accusing him, or trying to make him feel guilty for leaving her. She just wanted to know who he was, one adult to another, and it was far too late for that.

Olivia paused at the window, which faced west toward Oyster Bay. She wondered if Rawlings was back at the station tying up loose ends, how Laurel was handling Steve, whether Harris had been missed at his work meeting, and if Millay truly believed Olivia’s blood test meant that she was pregnant.

“I’m going to have to clarify that little detail as soon as I get back or Rawlings will think I’m carrying Flynn’s child,” Olivia remarked drily to Haviland.

Kneeling down to pet the poodle, Olivia furtively stuck her arm under her father’s bed. Her hand came in contact with something solid. It was a struggle to pull the object out with only one arm, but once her fingers closed around a handle she was able to drag it into the light.

It was an old suitcase. Olivia tried to pop open the central latch but it was locked.

Undeterred, she grabbed one of her father’s whittling knives and began working on the lock. It was difficult going with only one hand and she cursed aloud more than once, but eventually, the knife blade pried the lock loose and the latch snapped open.

She wasn’t prepared for what she found. Inside the suitcase, stacked in a tidy pile and tied with a piece of string, was a collection of letters written by Olivia’s grandmother. Olivia read the first one, which dated back to her first year in boarding school. Her grandmother had written to her son-in-law about Olivia’s recent activities. She’d even included a school photo of Olivia in her uniform, looking lovely and poised but far too serious for a girl her age. And so it went. Every six months there were updates, photographs, report cards, and occasionally, one of Olivia’s charcoal sketches or a copy of a poem she’d written for English class.

Olivia was floored by the realization that her grandmother had been communicating with her father throughout Olivia’s childhood. A fresh, hot wave of anger swept through her. Why hadn’t her grandmother told her that her father was alive? She’d let her grow up believing she was an orphan. It was so cruel, so heartless.

“I bet you didn’t want Daddy to get his hands on the Limoges trust fund,” she hissed at her grandmother’s perfect cursive. “You never liked him. You never wanted him to marry my mother. I bet you told him he could never raise me properly and he agreed. Maybe you were even right about that, but to let me believe, for all those years, that I had no family except for you . . .” Tears burned her eyes. “How could you do that to a little girl?”

Olivia sat very still for several minutes, trying to calm the cyclone of thoughts in her head. It was as if all she had known had been turned inside out, yet there was no going back. The past was over and done and the present was steadily slipping away.

She continued to look through the contents of the suitcase.

After her grandmother died, the letters ceased, but Olivia’s history lived on in yellowed newspaper clippings from the days in which the media followed her every move, hoping to catch the young and beautiful heiress doing something scandalous. Mostly, they detailed her presence at a museum gala or opening night at the Met, focusing on her escorts, who were usually handsome executives of the Fortune 500 variety.

There was even a clipping from the Oyster Bay Gazette announcing Olivia’s revitalization projects downtown. Lastly, there was an object wrapped in an old towel and secured by two rubber bands.

With care, Olivia removed the rubber bands and unrolled the towel on her thighs. A pair of metal objects fell to the floor. Olivia recognized them right away. They were her parents’ wedding bands. Forever tied together on a piece of frayed blue yarn, they’d been tucked in a fold inside the towel.

Olivia clutched the rings briefly to her chest, cherishing the relics of happier times and then set them on the ground in order to continue unwrapping the towel. Peeling back the final fold, one of her father’s carvings was revealed. Olivia inhaled sharply, her eyes darting over the lines and indentations, the contours that formed the shape of a young girl standing in the shadow of a lighthouse, her hand shielding her eyes as she stared outward, searching, searching.

It was her girl-self and the lighthouse was not Okracoke’s, but Oyster Bay’s. The beacon that had guided William Wade home time after time after time.

“I’ve been so close!” she yelled at her father. “Why?”

Olivia began to cry. “Why didn’t you come?”

Cradling the carving in her hand, she sat in Betty’s chair and, after calming down, began to read her grandmother’s letters out loud. She relived a dozen years, explaining her version of events to her father. She spoke for over two hours, until the sun dipped below the waves.

Turning on a single lamp, she eventually stopped talking. She pulled her chair closer to the window and then eased it open a few inches, inviting the ocean breeze into the room.

Her father seemed to breathe easier as soon the sound of the water became audible. The rhythmic chant of the waves was faint, but to a man who’d lived a lifetime in tune to their music, it was enough to coax him into a more restful sleep.

Olivia briefly left the room to let Haviland outside and see to his dinner, but afterward she waved off Betty’s offer to stay with the patient through the night.

“I’m not going to give up our last bit of time,” she told the nurse.

Returning to the soft chair by the window, Olivia sat as the sky morphed from steel gray to soot black, nodding off here and there but still alert enough to welcome the ochre dawn.

The entire time she sat, listening as her father’s exhalations mingled with the lapping of the waves, she never released her hold on his carving. Olivia knew it was the only gift her father would ever give her, and even then, she’d had to discover it for herself.

To Olivia, who’d watched her father whittle dolphins, sharks, and mermaids in front of the fire for countless winters and yet had never carved a token for his only child, it was enough that he’d finally done so.

And he’d put all he had into that last carving; she could feel it in the wood. In the dawn light, it glowed with life, even as her father’s began to fade.

Chapter 18

Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.

—MARK TWAIN

Olivia left her father’s side only when Betty insisted that she take a hot shower and eat some breakfast. Kim served her toast with cream cheese, bacon, and a bowl of fresh blueberries on the patio while Haviland explored the small garden behind the house.

“Caitlyn’s keeping an eye on your dog,” Kim said, pouring herself a cup of coffee and sitting down across the table from Olivia. “He won’t run off, will he?”

Olivia shook her head. “He’s obedient and very gentle. You don’t have to worry about Haviland becoming aggressive toward Caitlyn or your guests. He is energetic though. I’ll need to take him for a quick walk before . . .” She trailed off. She didn’t want to say that she planned to spend the rest of the day watching the rise and fall of her father’s chest.

“How old is your daughter?” she asked instead.

Kim brightened. “Six. I thought she’d been our only one, but as you can see, we’re having a second. Betty says I’m going to have a boy. She’s got a way of knowing these things.” Her cheeks flushed. “I’m so sorry about the letter, about her asking you for money.”

“It’s not your fault,” Olivia assured her. “And I don’t have the energy to be angry with her. There’s too much going on in here.” She tapped at her chest, just above her heart.

Glancing across the garden, Olivia watched as Caitlyn hesitantly reached a hand out to Haviland. The poodle sniffed her palm and gave her a friendly lick. The girl’s face, heart-shaped and covered with freckles, glowed with delight. With the sunlight streaming over her long hair and a secretive smile on her face, she looked like a fairy among the flowers.

Olivia ran her finger around the rim of her coffee cup. “What does Betty say about my father? Does she have a sense about how much time he’s got left?”

Kim uttered a sympathetic sigh. “She said it’s only a matter of hours now. I wish it wasn’t happening so fast.”

“I should have been here sooner,” Olivia stated mournfully. She thanked Kim for breakfast, carried her plate to the sink, and called Haviland.

He obeyed reluctantly, sulking over having been forced to dine on dog food instead of bacon and eggs, but Olivia didn’t feel comfortable asking Kim if she could cook the poodle a meal using supplies meant for the restaurant.

Hudson intercepted Olivia at the garden gate. “Your town’s on TV. You might want to see this.” He gestured for her to follow him to the bar.

A reporter was standing in front of Oyster Bay’s marina. In a carefully somber tone, he gave a brief overview of the robberies and murders committed by the Donald siblings. The image then switched to a taped segment showing Rawlings speaking at a press conference. Olivia’s shoulders dropped a fraction in relief as the chief told a throng of journalists that Rutherford and Ellen Donald had signed detailed confessions and were now in the capable hands of the North Carolina court system.

The camera view returned to the docks and the reporter promised an exclusive interview with one of the Donalds’ robbery victims at noon. “We’ll also be hearing a chilling account from Laurel Hobbs, a staff writer for the local paper, who survived what could have been a fatal visit from Rutherford and Ellen Donald.” A photograph of Laurel appeared on the screen. “If not for the heroism of Hobbs’ friend, local entrepreneur Olivia Limoges, and officers of the Oyster Bay Police Department, Hobbs might not have lived to share her story with us today. Ms. Limoges could not be reached for comment.”

The reporter swiveled slightly as he spoke and Olivia saw that the live shot included her Range Rover. Someone must have tipped off the press about her sudden departure by boat. The media would now haunt the docks until she returned to claim her car. Olivia could already visualize the tabloid headlines: “Heiress Wounded in Knife Fight.”

She groaned.

“We’ve been reading about those robberies,” Kim whispered in awe. “Look. There’s a big article about it in The News & Observer. This reporter must not have known that you were involved, ’cause we sure didn’t see your name mentioned until just now.” She handed Olivia the Raleighbased newspaper. “Is that why your arm’s in a sling? You were there when that crazy brother and sister went after your friend?”

Olivia tucked the paper under her good arm and picked up her coffee cup. “If you want to know what happened, you’ll have to listen to the story upstairs. I’ve been gone too long already.”

Hudson and Kim trailed behind Haviland as he followed his mistress back to the sick room.

Betty had her crocheting out again. The morning light winked off her needles and Olivia recognized that she was making a baby blanket. It seemed unreal that this woman and the couple behind her were preparing to welcome a new life while her own reason for being there was to bear witness to the end of another.

Settling herself in a ladder-back chair in front of the room’s other window, Olivia stared at her father. He looked the same as he had before she left to shower, but his breath sounded raspier. She listened to the harsh rattles emitting from between his lips for several minutes. Without taking her eyes off her father’s face, she began to talk.

Telling Kim, Betty, and Hudson about the Donalds gave Olivia a measure of closure. The narrative had a beginning and a middle and an ending in which justice prevailed.

When she was finished, her audience was kind enough not to pepper her with questions. The three of them sat quietly, absorbing the unbelievable tale, until Betty’s needles ceasing moving. “So what happened to their folks? What did their kids do as payback for making them go through childhood with twisted tongues?”

Abashed, Olivia realized she hadn’t given a second thought to Mr. and Mrs. Donald’s fate. She’d concentrated solely on reaching Okracoke and had left her friends, her business, and several unanswered questions behind.

“I don’t know, but this article is quite long. Perhaps it will tell us.” She unfolded the paper and found the story on the Cliché Killers quickly. When she was done reading it to herself, she returned her gaze to her father’s pallid face.

“The parents were injured, but are recovering in the hospital. The paper doesn’t give any more specifics other than to say that their injuries were inflicted by Ellen and Rutherford.” She handed the newspaper to Kim. “Are there any photographs of my father and his life in this room?”

Kim and Betty exchanged nervous glances.

“I’ve got a couple,” Hudson mumbled. “But he didn’t like for people to take pictures of him.”

That came as no surprise to Olivia. “What of Meg? What happened to her?”

Moving closer to her husband, Kim leaned against his thick arm. “She died of a brain aneurism,” she whispered. “It was very sudden.”

“What about children?” Olivia asked. “I’m assuming they had none.”

At that moment, Caitlyn entered the room. Her eyes fixed on the figure in the bed; she stepped across the floor on her tiptoes like a prima donna ballerina. Her movements were so quiet and unobtrusive that it was clear she was accustomed to avoiding attention, but it was impossible not to take note of her grace. Without looking at any of the adults, she knelt by the bed and took the sick man’s hand in her own.

Seeing the little girl’s tender affection ruptured something in Olivia’s heart. She could feel tears burning in her eyes and excused herself, murmuring something about having to take Haviland outside for a spell.

She headed for the water, but her customary source of solace failed to bring her peace. For the first time since she’d fled The Boot Top, she wondered how her friends were faring.

Brushing away her tears, she opened her purse and checked the messages on her cell phone. There were over a dozen. All of the Bayside Book Writers had called and she recognized both Flynn’s and Michel’s number as well. There were also several voice mails from local television and radio stations, but Olivia deleted these without bothering to listen to them.

Olivia was torn. She wanted to check on her friends but didn’t feel like talking about what she was going through in Okracoke. Paging through the names on her list of recent calls, she highlighted Millay’s number and dialed.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” she said when Millay answered.

There was a pause. “You’re worried about that? What the hell, Olivia? You bolted without saying a word to anyone!”

So much for avoiding explanations, Olivia thought. “I can’t go into that now, but I will tell you when I get back. I called to see if the case is really closed and when the media vultures might be moving on.”

“Tied up like a Christmas gift,” Millay assured her. “There’s an extra creep factor to the whole thing though. Did you hear about the parents?”

“Just that they were injured.”

Millay made a choking noise. “That’s PC code for ‘their tongues were cut out by their own children.’ Then they tied their parents to chairs and left them to bleed to death.”

Olivia drew in a sharp breath. “My God.”

“Exactly. A total horror show. If the chief hadn’t sent men over there when he did, those people would be dead. Laurel’s been to the hospital. She was the only member of the press the Donalds would see.” Millay spoke the latter phrase with pride. “A surgeon is going to try to reconstruct their tongues, but even if the surgery is a success, that couple is going to talk funny for the rest of their lives.” She hesitated. “We can mull over the irony of that little detail later. First, I want to e-mail you the photo Laurel took at the hospital. You will not believe what it shows.”

Olivia imagined Laurel using her new camera, fearful of being alone in the room with the wounded couple, yet determined to complete her assignment and pursue a career in journalism despite the many obstacles she faced.

“File’s been sent,” Millay said. After a hesitation, she asked, “Did you skip town because of that blood test?”

“Yes, but I did not test positive for a disease nor am I pregnant,” Olivia answered tersely. “I will tell you everything during our next meeting.”

Millay grunted in disbelief. “Just call Laurel. She was freaking out over having to see the Donalds without you.”

Smiling, Olivia promised to phone her friend. “Laurel needs to discover that she’s perfectly capable of doing this job without me or Steve or her in-laws giving her their blessing. Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah. Harris is dragging me to look at the house he wants to buy. He wants me there to see if my BS meter goes off while the Realtor gives him a tour. And before you lecture me on being careful with him, you don’t need to worry. He’s dating that bimbo we met at the Regatta.”

Olivia detected a note of jealously in Millay’s voice. “Let’s not forget that he built a giant gryphon boat in your honor. And he’s looking to you, not Estelle, to help him choose his first house. Just make sure to tell Harris not to sign any papers until I can have one of my contractors inspect every inch of that place.”

After giving her promise, Millay rang off.

It took a moment for Olivia to open the e-mail attachment on her phone, and when she saw Laurel’s photograph, her eyes widened. “I shouldn’t have jested about her winning the Pulitzer.”

Laurel had captured Mr. and Mrs. Donald lying in twin hospital beds. Their room held no flowers, no balloons, or any other tokens from well-wishers. The couple looked alike. Short, gray hair, lined faces, pale skin, and gauze bandages protruding from their mouths.

They stared at the camera with fierce conviction, their dark eyes daring the viewer to hold their gaze.

Olivia couldn’t look away.

Each of them held out a piece of white paper. On hers Mrs. Donald had written, LOVE IS FORGIVENESS in bold, block letters.

Mr. Donald’s was shorter. It simply read, Forgive.

The photograph was alive with the emotions of the injured parents. Despite their wounds, what radiated from the Donalds’ faces was not anger or regret, but a blend of sorrow and defiance. Despite everything that had happened, it was clear by their expressions that they would not be changed by what they’d gone through. No matter what their children had done, Mr. and Mrs. Donald would stand by their parenting decisions. In a sense, they were almost as creepy as Ellen and Rutherford.

It was a powerfully disconcerting image.

Olivia was grateful when Haviland brought her a tennis ball that he’d unearthed beneath a nearby bush. She put her phone in her pocket and tossed the ball away from the docks onto a stretch of grass.

Summer had bleached the color from most of the island’s vegetation, but the local shopkeepers had filled wooden boxes and ceramic planters with an abundance of fall annuals so that the subdued colors of the village were punctuated with bright gold and crimson hues.

Olivia had just thrown the ball for Haviland again when Caitlyn came running toward her. “He’s trying to talk!” she cried urgently.

The child didn’t need to say anything else. Olivia raced back into the house and up the stairs.

In the sick room, Hudson was leaning over the bed. Her father’s eyes were blinking rapidly and his mouth opened and closed like a fish on a boat deck. He twisted his head to the left and right, searching.

“Dad!” Olivia cried and grabbed his hand, heedless of the IV wires or the presence of the other people in the room.

Her voice seemed to puncture the film over his eyes and he found her face, seeing her clearly for the first time in thirty years.

“Livie.” It was a whisper, the faintest breath of air.

She’d never expected her name to pass over his lips again and to hear it spoken so softly, so unlike her memories of his constant angry shouting, that she smiled down on him.

His tongue poked from his mouth in an attempt to moisten his lips. Betty dribbled some water from a washcloth over the chapped skin. He shook his head, signaling for her to let him be. “Missed. You. Livie.” He swallowed, coughed weakly. Olivia wanted to send her breaths into his body, to give him this chance to say what needed to be said. He struggled, but managed to push out a few more words. “So many mistakes . . . I’m sorry, my girl.”

He sank deeper into the pillows. He’d given everything to tell her of his regret. There was nothing left.

Olivia wasn’t ready for him to go. There were things she wanted him to hear now. “You can’t leave yet!” she yelled, the sound reverberating too loudly in a room where death hovered, filling every space. “You can’t leave me alone again!”

There was a tremor from the hand she held. “Not. Alone.” He did not open his eyes. The words were barely audible. Olivia leaned in, smelling the rotten odor of his spent body. In one last whisper, an exhalation actually, Olivia’s father said the word, “Brother.”

And then he died.

Olivia thought something in the room would change, that she’d feel her father’s spirit as it left the confines of his body, but there wasn’t even a stirring of the air. All was silent except for a sniffle, which came from Kim.

The noise reminded Olivia of the presence of the other people in the room and she swiveled with agonizing slowness to look at Hudson.

How did I not see it before? she thought, taking in the dark, unreadable eyes, the square jaw line, the handsome, rugged features. Hudson was bulkier than Willie Wade had been, but he had the Wade family’s height and the scattering of freckles across the nose and cheeks. There was no doubt he was Willie’s son.

And Olivia’s half brother.

Releasing her father’s hand, Olivia stood up and crossed the room. She drew close to Hudson, waiting for some feeling of instant affection to sweep over her, but there was already too much churning inside for her to connect with him at this moment. Shock, grief, disbelief, and a thousand questions crowded her mind.

Hudson’s eyes were moist with tears. He glanced at the form in the bed and then at Olivia and bit the edge of his lip.

This small movement gave him the appearance of a little boy, unsure of himself and his future, and Olivia recognized in him the same fears and struggles she’d known as a child.

They were connected after all.

She reached out and brushed the back of his hand with her fingertips before leaving the room, her father’s words reverberating in her mind.

Not alone.

Olivia spent an hour sitting on the dock, stroking Haviland’s black curls and watching the harbor traffic. A flock of Canadian geese flew overhead and she tracked their flight until their V was just a dark smudge on the horizon.

Later, once her father’s body had been collected by the funeral home, Olivia, Kim, and Hudson sat in the garden together. They drank coffee laced with spiced rum and went over the burial details. After that, Kim left the siblings in order to prepare to open the restaurant. Olivia didn’t see anything strange in the Salters working that night. She hated the thought of spending her night in idleness. She didn’t want to lay herself open to the full force of her grief.

Hudson asked her to stay for supper, his pleading eyes belying his gruff manner. She agreed and was surprised by Hudson’s skill in the kitchen.

“It must have been a big shock to you, to learn that you had a half sister,” she said as he poured oil into a frying pan.

His mouth curved into the ghost of a grin. “I’d have thought it was a joke coming from another man, but Dad wasn’t much for telling jokes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when I first got here?”

He shrugged. “He wanted to be the one to do it. I almost told you when you first came in, but it seemed real important to him.”

Olivia nodded. She liked that Hudson could hold things close to his chest.

“Have you ever thought of living elsewhere?” she asked him after finishing a delicious dinner of grilled grouper and homemade hush puppies.

He nodded as he plated steamed muscles and handed them off to Kim. “All the time. I want my kids to have more than I had growing up here.”

Olivia watched Kim pass through the swing door, a heavy platter in each hand. “And your wife?”

“She doesn’t have it easy, but it’s all we’ve got.”

Olivia poured Hudson a shot of whiskey and handed him a glass. Raising her own she said, “Perhaps we can change that. Together. I’m turning an old warehouse into the Bayside Crab House. My problem is that I don’t have anyone to run the place. Do you think you’d be interested?”

Hudson stared at her and then he grinned. “Hell, yeah, I’d be interested.”

“Then let’s toast to our father with his favorite drink and after this shot, we don’t have to look back ever again. We can start over. All of us.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“To the future,” Olivia said.

The siblings clinked their glasses and drank.

With the whiskey still warming her belly, Olivia stood at the end of the Salter’s dock waiting to board the boat she’d hired to take her back to Oyster Bay.

She’d called Rawlings and asked him to meet her at the lighthouse keeper’s cottage.

“I really need to see you,” was all she’d given him by way of explanation. To her immense relief and gratitude, he’d asked no questions but promised to be there, waiting for her.

All traces of daylight were nearly gone when the small craft motored past Oyster Bay’s lighthouse. Olivia had removed her watch and shoes and had her pant legs rolled up, fully prepared to hoist her overnight bag onto her shoulder and disembark near the sandbar. Haviland was quivering with anticipation, eager to get wet and to return to the gourmet fare he knew was stocked inside his house on the bluff.

A figure appeared on the beach and Olivia waved as she recognized Rawlings. He shielded his eyes against the setting sun, mimicking the pose of the carving Olivia’s father had made for his little girl.

The man at the helm cut the motor. They drifted gently toward the sandbar.

In the twilight, the only sound was the lapping of the water against the hull. Olivia handed the captain some cash, put her purse in her overnight bag, and slung it over her good shoulder. Accepting the captain’s hand, she prepared to put one leg over the side, but Haviland sprang forward, splashing them both as he leapt into the water.

“It’s all right, boy, a little salt water never hurt nobody!” the man called out with a chuckle. For some reason, his words caused Olivia to recall the photograph Laurel had taken of Mr. and Mrs. Donald in their hospital beds. More specifically, her mind’s eye focused on the word written on their signs.

“Forgive,” Olivia whispered.

She fixed her eyes on the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, seeking out the window of her girlhood room. The restless spirits had been laid to rest. It was time to forgive and to move on.

Olivia glanced at Rawlings and then at the lighthouse towering above him.

The beacon flashed, forming a luminous path on the surface of the water, welcoming her to the shore.

Turn the page for a preview of Ellery Adams’s next Books by the Bay Mystery . . .

The Last Word

Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!

Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.

—CHARLES DICKENS

“All houses have secrets.”

Olivia Limoges was surprised to hear such an enigmatic statement from her contractor, but there wasn’t a hint of humor on Clyde Butler’s weathered face. Perhaps the seasoned builder was merely trying to make a point to the eager first-time home buyer who stood nearby, one arm wrapped possessively around the porch post.

Harris Williams gazed toward the front door of the aged bungalow with a look of pure devotion, and Olivia could tell he was already visualizing himself living there.

“Regardless of what you’ve discovered, Clyde, I don’t think you can talk Harris out of purchasing this place,” Olivia stated with amusement. “He’s clearly fallen in love.”

Captain Haviland, Olivia’s standard poodle, sniffed around the foundation of the 1930s home and then trotted around the corner, conducting a canine version of a house inspection.

Wearing a hopeful grin, Harris watched the poodle until Haviland disappeared from view, and then picked at a flake of peeling paint with his fingernail. “Everyone thinks I’m crazy, but I can feel that this place has history. That’s important to me. There’s more character in this rusty nail than in all the other places I’ve seen put together.”

Olivia surveyed the façade of the two-bedroom bungalow. It had whitewashed brick walls and rows of large windows with black shutters. Olivia’s favorite feature was the wide and welcoming front porch. Leaves had gathered in between the railings and there were rents and holes in the screen door, but the slate steps felt solid under her feet. She’d been inside with Harris a few days ago and had liked the house. Harris was right. The place had a warm personality. Its modest design spoke of simpler times, of family traditions, of hard work and perseverance. She believed Harris was making a good choice.

Harris continued to defend the bungalow even though no one had argued with him. “I’ve seen a dozen new houses in my price range and yeah, sure, they all had pristine white walls and stainless steel appliances and shiny light fixtures to go along with the flat lawns and four little bushes and a pair of ornamental trees, but they had zero personality.” He puffed up his cheeks. “They were all like the straw house from The Three Little Pigs, but the wolf doesn’t stand a chance against this place. It’s a rock.”

Clyde nodded. On this, he and Harris agreed. He gestured toward the front door. “If you want strong bones and a solid foundation, you’ll find them here. Houses are like women. The new ones might seem attractive because no one’s touched them and you feel like they’ll treat you well without giving you an ounce of trouble.” A snort. “But they’re built out of cheap materials and will start falling down the second you move in. This old girl is sagging in places and, yes, she’s a bit wrinkled, but she can be made over until she looks like a June bride. She’ll be faithful to the end, but it’ll take lots of labor and expense on your part, my boy.”

Harris’s grin expanded. “Did you know that all the houses on this street were moved during the late sixties to make way for the highway’s expansion? Twelve houses were trucked right down Main Street and brought back to this stretch of empty land like horses being set free on an open pasture.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “This is one of those times I’m thankful you write science fiction, Harris. If you had put a metaphor like that in your recent chapter, I would have sliced it out with a box cutter.”

Harris pushed a strand of unruly, ginger-colored hair away from his eyes. His looks were often compared to those of Peter Pan, and Harris was constantly striving to prove that he was a man, not a boy. Olivia knew her friend believed that being a homeowner would make him appear more of a bona fide adult, and he certainly behaved like he wanted to acquire this house without delay.

As though sensing her thoughts, Harris eased back the sleeves of his shirt and flexed his left bicep. “This property has half an acre bordering on three more acres of woodland. Think of all the manly man activities I can do here. I can chop wood, refinish furniture, spackle walls, grout tile!” He held out his arms, encompassing the house. “I’ll be like Ty Pennington. A bachelor handyman with mad computer skills to boot! Before you know it, I’ll have my own reality show.”

Clyde shook his head. “Before you start rewiring ceiling fans and installing AC units, we’d better go over my inspection list.”

The two men moved into the house, which Harris’s real estate agent had unlocked a few minutes earlier before retreating to the comfort of her Cadillac. Her daughter, who happened to be nine months pregnant, had phoned shortly after the Realtor had turned the key in the front door. Gesturing for the threesome to enter without her, she’d hurriedly rushed off to take the call in the privacy of her car.

Inside the bungalow, Harris listened carefully as Clyde pointed out flaw after flaw, from the presence of mold behind the wallpaper to wood rot on the stair treads. Pulling back a corner of the stained and faded blue carpet running down the stairs and into the living room, Clyde showed Harris a series of water stains and areas of damage permeating the subfloor. From there, the contractor reviewed every item in his report, explaining how to address each problem and offering an estimate as to what it would cost to fix.

When they were finished, Olivia joined them on the back patio. Haviland reappeared from a copse of trees and settled on his haunches, his warm, caramel-colored eyes darting from one face to another, his mouth hanging open in a toothy smile.

Harris rubbed the black curls on the poodle’s neck and then walked over to the brick retaining wall and sat down. He gazed first at the house and then toward the woods, which bordered the scraggly patch of lawn.

Winter’s chill had abated for good and the sun lit the pines, dappling the soft needles on the forest floor with a ruddy light. Squirrels raced up and down the rough bark and birds twittered from the branches.

Olivia sat beside Harris on the wall, relishing the peacefulness of the moment. Her life had had little quiet of late, and this patio of cracked flagstones surrounded by a garden of weeds was an oasis of blissful calm.

Clyde’s focus remained on the house. He glanced from his notes to the structure and back at Harris. “I know I took some of the wind out of your sails, boy, but I don’t want you to think this is going to easy. She’s going to make demands of you, but all houses do. In the end, she’ll be worth the work you’re going to have to put in.”

Harris smiled, his cheeks dimpling with pleasure. “And you’ll help me find the right guys to do the jobs I can’t figure out how to do?”

After a solemn nod, Clyde jerked his thumb at Olivia. “I’d get in here with my own toolbox if my taskmaster would let up on me for just a day or two, but she’s hellbent on opening her Bayside Crab House by Memorial Day weekend.”

“So that’s why you’ve been so interested in real estate lately,” Harris said. “You must be scoping out houses for your brother and his family.”

“Half brother,” Olivia corrected tersely. “And it’s not for me to decide where they’re going to live. I just thought I’d rule out the duds to save time. I need Hudson to review the final kitchen layout for the restaurant, and if he’s running all over Oyster Bay comparing three-bedroom properties we’re sure to fall behind deadline.”

Clyde gave Harris a meaningful look. “See what I mean? We should send her to Washington. She’d have the deficit licked and both our jobs and our soldiers back from overseas before the lawmakers knew what hit ’em.”

Olivia grimaced. “I could never subsist on such a paltry salary. Let’s go, gentlemen. I believe Harris has an offer to submit before this day is done.”

Millicent Banks, Harris’s real estate agent, was parked alongside the curb in front of the picturesque bungalow, still chatting on her cell phone as her prospective buyer walked through the house for the third time.

Olivia was pleased to have been left alone with Harris and Clyde. Millicent was a shrewd saleswoman, and Olivia didn’t want the Realtor to talk their ears off the whole time. One could only glean the true sense of a house in absolute silence. It was a feeling really. A hunch.

Having stood side by side with Harris inside the sturdy bungalow, Olivia saw no reason to dissuade her friend from submitting a bid, and as the amicable young software designer waved good-bye to Clyde and approached Millicent’s Caddy, the look on his face made it clear that his Realtor was about to make a sale.

Olivia smiled as Millicent hastily completed her phone call and sat back against the supple leather of her seat with an nearly inaudible sigh of satisfaction. Millicent was also the listing agent on this house and stood to make a tidy commission on the property, and while Olivia admired the older woman’s drive, she didn’t want her friend to pay a single cent over what she deemed to be a fair price for the house.

“Can we go back to your office and draw up the papers?” Harris asked as he jumped in the car.

Millicent was about to answer when Olivia leaned against the open passenger door. She gestured for Harris to come close and then whispered a figure into his ear.

“In this market, that’s a solid offer,” she said firmly and then acknowledged Millicent’s presence with a polite nod. “Fixing this place up will put a strain on his savings account as it is,” she fixed her sea-blue gaze on Millicent. “The Bayside Book Writers need him to have enough money left over to buy coffee and printer paper, so I’ve given him my recommendation on what I consider to be a fair price. I’m sure there’s wiggle room to be had, seeing as you represent the sellers as well. Am I right?”

“Of course!” Millicent readily agreed and plastered on her best saleswoman grin. “Any friend of yours is a friend of mine.”

“That’s good to know.” Olivia tapped on the Caddy’s hood as though giving Millicent permission to drive away. She then whistled for her poodle and strode to her Range Rover, casting one last glance at the house Harris longed to call his own.

Inside her SUV, she noted the time on the dashboard clock and cursed. She was supposed to meet April Howard for a business lunch at Grumpy’s Diner to go over paint and carpet colors for the Bayside Crab House, and was now sure to be late. Olivia hated tardiness. She preferred to arrive for any prearranged meeting at least ten minutes ahead of schedule. Now she’d have to rush downtown, search for a parking spot along Main Street, and hope that April had secured Olivia’s favorite window booth before anyone else could.

With the onset of spring, tourists had begun streaming back to Oyster Bay. The coastal North Carolina town was already thirty degrees warmer than many northern locales, and the pale-faced, sun-starved vacationers had been counting down the days until their children’s schools let out for spring break. Bypassing long flights to Cancun, Caribbean cruises, and the chaos of Disney World, the residents of a dozen snow-covered states opted for the quiet beauty of Oyster Bay instead.

Ditching heavy parkas in favor of T-shirts and sunglasses the moment they arrived, the vacationers hopped aboard rental bicycles and pedaled merrily through town, passing yards filled with blooming dogwood trees, pink and purple azalea bushes, and oceans of daffodils. The lawns were Ireland-green and the buzzing of industrious bees and hummingbirds blended with the tourists’ contented sighs.

The locals were equally relieved to see the last of what had been a particularly long and damp winter. Oyster Bay’s economy depended heavily on tourism, and a dry and sunny spring meant replenishment for the town’s depleted coffers.

Olivia Limoges was landlady to many downtown merchants, but she spent most of her time overseeing the management of her five-star restaurant, The Boot Top Bistro. Today, she drove right by the entrance, searching for a parking spot closer to Grumpy’s Diner, but decided on a space in a loading zone.

A middle-aged dwarf wearing roller skates and pigtail braids met her at the diner’s door. “As I live and breathe!” Dixie Weaver declared, waving at her flushed face with her order pad. “Miss Punctuality is late!”

Frowning at her child-sized friend, Olivia stepped aside as Haviland entered the diner. He placed his black nose under Dixie’s palm and gazed up at her in adoration.

“You sure know how to turn on the charm, Captain.” Dixie ruffled the poodle’s ears and then accepted one of his gentlemanly kisses on the back of her hand. “I know you’re just anglin’ for a juicy steak or some turkey bacon, but I’m the closest thing you’ve got to a godmother so I might as well spoil you silly!”

It was unlikely that Haviland had heard anything beyond the word ‘bacon’ as he’d turned tail and made for Olivia’s customary window booth before Dixie could finish speaking, but the diner proprietor gave him an indulgent smile nonetheless.

“You’re certainly in a good mood,” Olivia said, still holding the door. An elderly couple shuffled in and headed for the Evita booth.

Dixie had a strange fascination for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musicals. As a result she’d plastered Broadway paraphernalia on every inch of available wall space. Each booth had its own unique theme, and while most patrons found the décor charming, Olivia did not share in her friend’s Webber Worship.

Her eyes gleaming with excitement, Dixie looked over her shoulder and then whispered, “You’d be happy as a cat in tuna factory too, if you knew whose lovely, rich buns were planted on the leather in the Cats booth.”

Olivia stole a glance at the middle-aged man dining on a chicken salad sandwich and a mountain of fries. He looked vaguely familiar but she couldn’t place him. “He’s handsome in a bookish sort of way. An older version of Brad Pitt in spectacles. I suppose he’s a celebrity since you’re this flustered. Let me guess. He played the lead in Jesus Christ Superstar?”

Placing a hand over her heart, Dixie released a dramatic sigh. “You’ve got the wrong field, but he does work in the arts. Keep guessin’. He’s good-lookin’, smart, is in great shape for a man in his fifties, has got the Midas touch, and I just read in People that he sold the film rights to his famous book for a figure with lots and lots of zeros.”

Now Olivia knew the identity of the diner. “Ah, it’s Nick Plumley, Booker Prize-winning author of the international bestseller, The Barbed Wire Flower. I wonder if he’s here conducting research. The Internet’s been rife with rumors regarding a sequel, and his groundbreaking novel was set down the road in New Bern.”

“You’ll have plenty of chances to ask him,” Dixie replied enigmatically. When Olivia didn’t rise to the bait by asking her how, the diner proprietor gave an irritated tug to her sequin-covered lavender top. “You’re about as fun as a preacher at a strip joint, but I’ll tell you anyhow. Mr. Plumley’s rented a house down the beach from your place. You two can bump into each other on a lonely stretch of sand.” Her eyes were shining with mischief. “There’ll be an instant spark between you. Passion will ignite! You’ll tear off your clothes and have wild, steamy—”

“Dixie! You’d better go. The lady in the Evita booth is waving her menu at you. I promise to ogle Mr. Plumley during my meeting with April, but we both have far too much work to do for me to stand here staring at him any longer.” Olivia turned away.

“First you dump Oyster Bay’s most eligible bachelor, and now you don’t give a fig that a gorgeous, unattached, and gifted writer is sittin’ ten feet away, ripe and ready for the pluckin’.” Dixie muttered loudly enough for Olivia to hear. “Maybe what folks say is true: you do have ice runnin’ through your veins.”

“A large cup of your excellent coffee should clear that ailment right up. You can decide what I want for lunch too. You always seem to know what’s best,” Olivia said over her shoulder and then greeted April Howard, the woman in charge of interior design for the Bayside Crab House.

Olivia and April spread swatches of fabric, paint palettes, and carpet samples across the booth, barely leaving room for their lunch plates. April had chosen Grumpy’s famous country fried steak, and Olivia was envious of the lightly battered meat smothered in gravy until Dixie appeared with her lunch—a generous wedge of cheese, shrimp, and mushroom quiche, Olivia only had to taste one bite of the golden crust to know that she’d been given the superior dish.

After serving the two women, Dixie lingered at their booth. She gave Haviland a platter of ground sirloin mixed with rice and vegetables and then asked after April’s kids. She voiced her opinion on the array of fabric samples, picking the gaudiest one of the lot and chiding Olivia for being too conservative.

“This place should be lively! Red, white, and blue with a few disco balls here and there!” Dixie exclaimed. “Where’s your sense of adventure? Folks are gonna be crackin’ crab claws with little mallets and tearin’ at the meat with their front teeth. This isn’t fine dinin’, you know.”

“We’ll have checkered tablecloths,” April said with a conciliatory smile. “But we need to keep the wall color relatively neutral because we plan to hang dozens of nautical flags in place of framed photographs or posters. Trust me, it’ll be bright and busy.”

“Bright and busy, huh? Just how I like my men,” Dixie joked and skated away to clear dishes from the countertop.

Olivia concluded her business with April, insisted on paying for lunch, and then remained behind while her employee left to make phone calls to suppliers before meeting her kids’ school bus.

Watching April jog across the street, Olivia recalled how she’d first met the talented designer. Last September, April’s husband had been murdered and Olivia had been involved in the investigation. She’d appeared at the Howard’s home in search of a clue and had found one that helped break the case wide open.

Slowly, April was healing from the devastating loss. She often called in sick and on those days Olivia guessed the mother of three had been assaulted by a wave of grief too potent to overcome. Olivia knew plenty about the grieving process and was fully aware that time wasn’t the consummate healer people claimed it to be. There were stretches of time in which the pain surfaced with such a raw and unexpected power, that it crippled the grief-stricken until it required an immense feat of strength just to get out of bed.

“You did a good thing, takin’ her on.” Dixie had appeared bearing a fresh carafe of coffee.

Olivia waved off the suggestion. “I needed an interior designer and she needed a job. Nothing more to it than that.”

Dixie snorted. “You’re a transparent as a ghost, ’Livia. I know you’re payin’ for her kids to be on that special soccer team. Fixed it up to look like some kind of sports scholarship, but you can’t fool this dwarf.”

Olivia put her fingers to her lips. “Don’t tell anyone about that. April isn’t looking for handouts.”

The bells above the diner door tinkled and a man wearing a pale blue blazer strolled in. Both women recognized the logo on the name tag pinned to the man’s lapel. Engraved with a beach house, a lone wave, and the words Bayside Realty, the tag indicated that Randall McGraw had come to Grumpy’s to meet with a prospective client. He headed straight for Nick Plumley’s booth and, after shaking the author’s hand, pulled a sheet of paper from a yellow folder bearing the realty’s name and placed it reverently on the table.

Dixie and Olivia exchanged curious glances.

“What are you waiting for?” Olivia hissed. “Get those wheels spinning! I’m dying to know which property he’s looking at.”

With a toss of her bleach-blonde pigtail braids, Dixie zipped over to Nick’s table, held out the order pad she only pretended to use as she’d never forgotten an order in her life, and beamed at the real estate agent. She then took her time clearing Nick’s plate and finally skated into the kitchen.

Before Dixie had the chance to report back to Olivia, Nick was pulling bills from his wallet. He collected the sheaf of paper from the Realtor, folded it in half, and left the booth. Instead of exiting the diner, however, he walked right up to Haviland and stopped.

“Your companion is beautiful. Male or female?” he asked Olivia, his eyes on the poodle.

“His name is Captain Haviland,” Olivia answered. “No need to be shy. He’s extremely friendly.”

The author extended his hand, palm up, and Haviland immediately offered him his right paw in return.

“I miss having a dog,” Nick said wistfully. “But I travel so much and it wouldn’t be fair to leave a pet in someone else’s care all the time.”

Olivia grinned, for Nick had given her just the opening she needed to satisfy her curiosity. She gestured at the man in the blazer who was pouring sugar into a glass of iced tea. “It appears as though you might be thinking about staying in one place for a while.”

The writer adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. “I’m renting a place at the moment, but I’d like to put down roots here. I have ties to Oyster Bay and I feel like I can achieve a level of anonymity in this town that I’ve yet to find in other places.”

Playing dumb, Olivia cocked her head. “Should I recognize you?”

Nick laughed and attractive crinkles formed at the corners mouth and eyes. “That’ll bring me down a peg.” He extended his hand. “I’m Nick Plumley, author and dog lover at your service.”

Olivia was pleased that his handshake was firm and that his eyes held a smile as he asked for her name.

“I knew who you were,” Olivia confessed after introducing herself. “Still, I couldn’t resist giving you a hard time. Consider it one of our new resident initiation rites.”

“As long as you don’t shave my eyebrows while I sleep,” Nick replied smoothly and took a seat across from Olivia. “It’s taken me years to perfect this arch.”

The pair had begun exchanging ideas for other pranks when one of the local school librarians entered the diner. She stopped just inside the door and scanned the room. When she saw Nick, her eyes widened and she scurried over to the window booth, clutching a hardcover against her chest.

“I am so sorry to interrupt, Mr. Plumley.” Her voice was an animated whisper. “But when I heard you were here, in our little diner, I had to rush right over. I am such a big fan. This book—!” She gently eased the novel away from her body and touched the cover with reverence. “I thought of those German soldiers as my own brothers. Now that is skillful character development, to make me empathize with Nazis when I lost two uncles to that war.”

My, but Dixie got the word out fast. What’s she doing? Sending out tweets about the diner’s guest? Olivia wondered, watching the author’s reaction to failing to avoid his celebrity status.

Nick Plumley opened his mouth to thank the elderly librarian, but she didn’t give him the opportunity. “And the murder scene! Utterly chilling. I researched the actual events, of course. We even had the nephew of one of the Nazi prison camp guards speak at the school’s annual fundraiser.” She glanced behind her as though the rest of the diners were hanging on her every word. “If you’re working on the sequel, you should interview him. He says he remembers all kinds of stories from those days. I could introduce you.”

Something altered in Nick’s expression. The change was subtle. The laugh lines became shallower and a shadow darkened his eyes until he blinked it away. His smile, which had been sincere when the librarian first approached the booth, became stiff.

He recovered quickly, however, and offered to sign the woman’s book. She prattled on about area book clubs, wringing her hands in delight as she spelled her last name with deliberate slowness.

“I have quite a collection of signed books,” she informed Nick. “And this one will be given a place of pride among the John Updikes and the Dan Browns.”

Olivia was growing bored with the librarian’s fawning and wondered how the man seated opposite her had survived hundreds of events in which he was subjected to an endless horde of such sycophants.

Without regard for the librarian’s feelings, Olivia cleared her throat and made a show of examining her watch. Luckily, the older woman took the hint and scuttled off, the book once again pressed against her chest.

“Sorry about that,” Nick said, looking strangely weary from the encounter. He sat back, withdrawing into himself, and all traces of the amiable camaraderie that had begun to bloom between them evaporated.

Her curiosity aroused, Olivia tried to draw Nick into revealing more about his personal life, but he politely deflected all of her questions and began to shift in his seat. In a moment, she knew, he’d be gone.

“At least let me see the house listing you’ve got there. I know the best contractor in town should you need an inspection or repairs.” She gave Nick her warmest smile, opening her deep sea-blue eyes wide.

It worked. “Showing you where I hope to live doesn’t say much for my ability to guard my privacy, but for some reason I trust you.” He slid the paper across the table to her.

Olivia unfolded the sheet and drew in a sharp breath. Of all the houses in Oyster Bay, the wealthy writer wanted to purchase the one Harris was dead set on buying.

As Olivia stared at the familiar bungalow, Nick excused himself and headed toward the restroom. Within seconds, Dixie was leaning over Olivia’s shoulder, studying the black-and-white photo.

“I’d have thought he’d go for somethin’ fancier.” Dixie frowned. “What’s the point of bein’ loaded if you don’t toss your money around? It’s not like you can take it with you.”

Olivia jabbed at the paper with her index finger. “Never fear, Dixie. Nick Plumley won’t be living here. He’ll have to choose something more suitable.”

Dixie shook her head. “I don’t think so. I heard him tell the real estate broker that he had to have this house, so I reckon it’s as good as sold.”

Handing Dixie some cash, Olivia stood up and signaled to Haviland to follow suit. “You tell Nick Plumley that this house is unavailable. Tell him it has ghosts or asbestos or that it’s been condemned. Tell him it’s built on sacred Indian burial ground. I don’t care what you say, but tell him it’s off the market.”

Dixie put her hands on her hips. “What on earth has gotten into you, ’Livia? Whether you like it or not, Oyster Bay’s newest celebrity is gonna leave that gorgeous place he’s renting and set out a welcome mat at this little house by Memorial Day. You just mark my words.”

Olivia snatched the paper from the table and opened the front door. As soon as Haviland had trotted outside, Olivia turned to Dixie and calmly declared, “The only way he gets this house is over my dead body.”

Without waiting for a response, she left, shutting the door so firmly that the bells were still ringing when Nick Plumley returned from the restroom to find that the woman, the poodle, and his house listing were gone.