A Killer Plot (2010)

Chapter 3

The fog comes on little cat feet.

—CARL SANDBURG

The fog had always brought gifts to Olivia Limoges.

They were infrequent. And odd. Yet she knew they were meant for her. An aloof child, ever drifting along the shoreline near the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, Olivia had spent endless hours turning over the slick husks of horseshoe crabs or collapsing holes dug by industrious coquinas. She poked at sand crabs with sticks and taunted seagulls with crusts from pimiento cheese sandwiches.

Olivia kept her gifts in pickle jars. She labeled each jar with the year on a piece of masking tape. Even now, at forty, she loved to twist the lid from one of the glass jars and pour the contents out onto the saffron and cobalt scrolls of her largest Iranian rug, releasing the scents of seaweed and ocean dampened sand. She’d lean over, her shock of white blond hair aglow in the lamplight, and finger a marble, a wheat penny, a star-shaped earring with missing rhinestones, a rusty skeleton key. Then, another year: a yellow hair barrette in the shape of a dragonfly, a fishhook, a one-shot liquor bottle with no label, a tennis ball, a steel watchband, a shotgun shell.

Today she took the metal detector along on her morning walk. She went out early, as soon as the fog rolled back, dressed in cotton sweats and Wellingtons. Haviland danced through the surf beside her as they marched north by northeast, Olivia swinging the detector back and forth like a horizontal pendulum as she inhaled the salt-laden breeze. Her Bounty Hunter Discovery 3300 issued a cacophony of vibrating clicks and murmurs that sounded more like the language of dolphins than something constructed of metal and electrical wire.

Haviland barked at a low-flying gull as the digital target identification on the Bounty Hunter’s LCD display screen leapt toward the right, showing a full arc of black triangles. Olivia paused, removed her trench shovel from her backpack, and began to dig. She could have ordered a top-of-the-line detector—one with an attached digger, incredible depth perception, and the ability to function underwater, but she preferred the challenge offered by the simpler model.

“Help dig, Haviland,” Olivia commanded her dog in much the same tone she used on the employees of her restaurant or the tenants of the buildings she owned downtown.

Haviland responded immediately, his front paws burrowing into the soft, damp sand. Olivia waited until the poodle had created a pile behind his hindquarters the height of a termite mound and then she began to shift through the sand too.

“Nothing. Let’s see if we need to look deeper.” Olivia leveled the detector over the hole and it chirped excitedly. She turned the volume down and nodded at her canine assistant. He resumed his work.

Then, Olivia saw a flash of metal beneath Haviland’s right paw. “Whoa, Captain.”

Haviland’s liquid brown eyes were sparkling in the morning sun. Olivia grinned at the poodle, her blood quickening in anticipation of their find.

Rubbing clots of sand from the rectangular metal object, which was slightly larger than a matchbook, Olivia held her new treasure flat on her palm so that it might be bathed in the newborn light.

“It’s some sort of box.” She eased open the case and upturned it, shaking loose a sprinkle of sand. The interior was empty. Olivia closed her eyes and lifted the box to her nose. There were no lingering scents, no telltale remnants of a heady perfume or an exotic spice. “There are letters here, Haviland.” She peered at the lid. “Something illegible and then the letters E period M period. Doesn’t sound familiar. Ah! There may be some writing on the front too, but it’s covered by splotches of rust. We’ll have to soak this for a spell.”

Stroking the soft curls between the poodle’s ears, Olivia stood and slipped the small box into her pocket. “Breakfast time, Captain.”

Haviland barked and the pair retraced their steps. The Bounty Hunter, now rendered mute as its owner was always satisfied with a single discovery, was slung over Olivia’s shoulder like a rifle. The pair walked for a mile, Haviland trotting faster as soon as he caught the sight of the orange “No Trespassing” signs flanking the path that wound through the dunes toward Olivia’s low country-style home. She paused to appreciate the sunlight dazzling against the bank of windows facing the Atlantic. The gray stonework seemed to absorb the hesitant warmth, and Olivia never failed to gaze upon her custom home without a feeling of deep contentment.

Haviland raced ahead of her toward the Range Rover, but Olivia pointed at the house. “It’s not a Grumpy’s day. We’ve got quite a list of errands to do.”

Although she had a state-of-the-art kitchen with cherry cabinets, soapstone countertops, and a bevy of quiet and efficient appliances, Olivia wasn’t much of a cook. Most mornings, she microwaved a bowl of instant oatmeal or grits, mixed the cereal with a thick pat of butter, and then rounded out her meal by eating a banana or a handful of pitted prunes. If she didn’t feel like dirtying a bowl, she went to Grumpy’s.

As Haviland pressed his wet nose against her leg, indicating an eagerness for his meal, Olivia rummaged around in her deepest cabinet. “I’ll have you know that I only bought this double boiler for you, Captain. Your polenta will be ready in no time. What would Michel or I have done if I hadn’t discovered such a glorious list of healthy recipes on that fantastic Coddled Canine website? Why right now, you might be eating canned dog food!” Haviland flattened his ears as Olivia crashed pot and pans. “We’re lucky Michel doesn’t mind cooking for you. He’s told me you’re to expect chicken liver dumplings for dinner. Ah, here’s that double boiler.”

After stirring together the mixture of cornmeal, milk, and Parmesan cheese and leaving it to simmer, Olivia sat down in front of her MacBook. She pushed her partially completed critique of Camden’s chapter to the far side of the desk and directed her mouse to Google’s home page. The rectangular container she and Haviland had unearthed on their walk was now soaking in vinegar, but she had brushed off enough of the heavy clots of rust using baking soda and a toothbrush to reveal an acronym reading, “G.E.M.” Olivia took a bite of a soft, overly ripe banana and typed the letters into Google’s search box.

“Global Electric Motors. That’s a bit too modern for this object, I’d say. Graphical Environment Manager. A relatively new term. So is this reference to documentation for PCs.” She continued to scroll down the list of results, bypassing references to gem mining, gem shows, and the county of Gem, Idaho. “None of these fit.”

Haviland put his paws up on the counter closest to the cooktop and sniffed.

“Your polenta! Forgive me, my dearest.” Olivia removed the top saucepan and scooped the contents into a ceramic bowl on his elevated feeder. “It’s still too hot. Let’s rinse off our mystery box and see if the rust is gone while your breakfast cools.”

The poodle watched eagerly as Olivia dumped the vinegar into the sink, rinsed the silver box, and gingerly dried it with a paper towel. Squinting, she eased back the lid and smiled. “Here’s something! It says ‘G.E.M. Brooklyn, New York. Made in U.S.A.’” She shut the lid and turned the case over in her hand. “Looks like a patent number here.”

Olivia returned to her computer and refined her search. “Gem pawnbrokers in Brooklyn, Acme Smoked Fish on Gem Street in Brooklyn, Gem Auction Company. Brooklyn. No, no, no!”

After pouring herself a second cup of coffee and serving Haviland his polenta, she decided to switch tactics. Logging on to eBay, she typed in the exact words found inside the silver lid.

“Eureka!” she yelled and Haviland barked in excitement. “G.E.M. safety razor. Produced between 1912 through 1979 in Brooklyn. Formerly known as G.E.M. Cutlery Company of New York.” Olivia showed her poodle their metal container. “This piece of steel is a shaver head, Captain. It’s missing its blade and the handle too. According to this auction, it’s worth a whopping twelve dollars.”

Haviland lowered his head and closed his eyes, clearly ready for a post-meal nap. Olivia stroked the smooth metal of the shaver head. “Now, now. We don’t do this for profit, Captain. You don’t have to act so disinterested. It’s the adventure we’re after.” She shut the lid of her laptop. “You lick your bowl clean, I’ll get dressed, we’ll put this little gem in ajar, and then we’re off to the furniture store.”

The sun had seared away all traces of the fog by the time Olivia turned from her gravel drive and climbed onto an empty stretch of gray blue asphalt the color of a heron’s plumage. On the narrow street marking the northernmost end of the compact town of Oyster Bay, there was once a plethora of vacant stores and available parking spaces, but ever since Time magazine had hailed Oyster Bay as one of the nations “Top Ten Best-kept Vacation Secrets,” their half-deserted berg had been overrun with tourists.

Pale-legged vacationers descended like a locust swarm to trample the natural beauty of the shoreline, watch birds through thousand-dollar binoculars, sample Southern country cooking until their buttons burst, and host drunken deep-sea fishing trips for their rich friends. In their wake, they left behind mounds of garbage, soiled linens, crisp, inconvenient hundred-dollar bills, and a sour taste in the mouths of the yearlong residents.

Despite this influx of new faces and businesses, Olivia had to drive for more than an hour to reach a decent furniture store. She quickly selected two sofas and a pair of oversized club chairs in warm fabrics, a room-sized sea grass rug, and breezy curtains in a shimmering ecru.

Trouble arose, as Olivia expected it to, when the designer informed her that the furniture would take eight to ten weeks to be delivered and that the items on the floor were absolutely not for sale.

“How would we be able to show how wonderful this sage and almond checkered fabric looks on our club chairs if it wasn’t in the store?” the woman questioned rhetorically.

“Perhaps there is another equally attractive chair in your warehouse?” Olivia suggested, placing a fat roll of twenty-dollar bills into the woman’s hands. “And I would certainly make it well worth the while of the gentlemen delivering my new furnishings if they could arrive at my cottage, say, by five this afternoon?” Placing her credit card and a calling card bearing her name, address, and phone number on the designer’s desk, Olivia met the other woman’s eye.

“I’m going to check on my dog,” she announced. “I’ll be back in to sign my receipt in a moment.”

She had been right in assuming that the decorator wanted to examine the wad of twenties more closely before agreeing to the deal. Olivia was also confident that four hundred dollars in cash would sway most people into figuring out a way to break the rules, especially since no one would be the worse for the transgression.

After promising Haviland that her errand was almost complete, Olivia walked briskly back into the store, scribbled signatures on several pieces of paper, and then drove off in search of some colorful art.

“Don’t worry. We’re going to eat first, Captain. Should we be naughty today?”

Haviland knew perfectly well that naughty meant unhealthy and offered a jubilant bark. Thirty minutes later, the pair was seated at a patio table, enjoying the shade of the umbrella as they dined on tender cheeseburgers and thin, crunchy curls of fried onions.

After lunch, the poodle insisted on a brief squirrel-chasing session through the park before being dragged off to the next errand. Olivia was more than happy to comply. Thus far, the day had progressed with great promise. The mystery of their beach find was solved and the lighthouse keeper’s cottage was almost renovated. All she needed now was some inspirational art, but the furniture store, with its Impressionist prints and unattractive modern art silk screens, had been a disappointment.

Oyster Bay wasn’t quite cosmopolitan enough to support an entire gallery, but several local artists sold their works by displaying them on the brick walls of the local coffee and pastry shop. Olivia opened the front door to Bagels ‘n’ Beans and waved hello to the octogenarian proprietor, who was also one of her tenants. Her favorite one, in fact.

“I’m here to check out your art, Wheeler.” Olivia and Haviland breezed past the “No Dogs” sign and began to scrutinize the grouping of paintings, sketches, and framed black-and-white paper-cut designs.

“I like the paper cuts of the herons, don’t you?” Olivia pointed at the framed art hanging above the eatery’s worn purple sofa. Haviland snorted in assent. “Let’s take the one of the three birds in the roost and the other showing them fishing in the cove. I particularly like how this artist made the tree branches. Spindly-shaped. They don’t seem sinister to you, do they?” she asked her dog.

“More angular than sinister, I’d say,” a man two tables down remarked.

Olivia turned to look at the speaker and recognized him right away. “Hello, Chief Rawlings.” She glanced back at the paper cuts. “I’ve never seen such delicate work.”

The chief of the Oyster Bay Police Department nodded. “My sister Jeannie will be mighty pleased to hear you say that. Nothing sinister about her, that’s for sure. I don’t think she’s had a negative thought since 1965.”

“What happened in 1965?” Olivia couldn’t help but ask.

“I was born.” The policeman laughed and took a sip of his coffee. “And spent the next sixteen years making her life a living hell. Who’d have thought we’d be the best of friends now.”

Olivia took a second look at the lawman. Stocky and wide-shouldered, with dark hair going gray above the ears, Rawlings didn’t come across as the type of man to have a female as his closest confidante. In fact, whenever Olivia saw him in public, he was always accompanied by at least one other equally bulky officer. Rawlings and his officers tended to swagger down the street as though the heavy Maglite banging against the right hip didn’t equally balance the weight of the gun resting just above the left hip. Today, he wasn’t in uniform but wore a loud Hawaiian shirt covered by yellow pineapples over a pair of wrinkled brown shorts.

Returning her attention to the art, Olivia only took a brief glimpse at the watercolor landscapes hung above a row of small cafe tables. With their soft illumination and pastel hues, the pictures of gardens, shorelines, and children playing on the beach were fine, but didn’t hold her interest. The next pair of paintings was very large and looked to be oils.

The first showed a row of boats tied to the dock. Their sails were unfurled and it appeared as though their bowlines were about to be set free from the cleats holding them in place. Rows of colorful flags streamed from the masts, reminding Olivia of medieval pennants. People moved about the boat decks and the surface of the dock with a tangible energy. The picture conveyed a feeling of happy anticipation as well as an invitation to freedom. It was as if the boats were only waiting for the viewer to board before being launched into the sun-drenched water. She found herself wishing to be among the sailors waiting to embark.

The second painting was a contrast in calm. An old-fashioned bicycle, the kind Olivia had once pedaled into town as a young girl, had been left on a solitary stretch of beach. The kickstand kept it propped upright and its front tire was pointed very subtly toward the surf. Again, the painting conveyed an invitation to the viewer, a promise of leisurely days and a release of responsibility. Olivia felt infused by serenity by simply gazing at the scene.

“We’ll take these too, Wheeler!” Olivia shouted over her shoulder to the hearing-impaired shop owner. “They’re just what I was looking for,” she murmured happily to herself.

Without having been asked, the chief plucked the canvas of sailboats from the wall. “I painted these, so the least I can do is take them to your car. After you, Ms. Limoges.”

“You’re the artist?” Olivia glanced at the initials in the lower right of the painting left on the wall in surprise. How can someone wearing such a horrid shirt create such appealing art? she thought, puzzled.

Rawlings slid the painting into the back of the Range Rover. “I’ve only been at it since my wife died. Jeannie thought it would do me good, but you’re only the second person to buy one. Maybe you’re just trying to get on the good side of the law.” He pretended to glower at her. “After all, I saw where you parked the other day. You’ll have to explain your handicap to me sometime.” He then gave her a friendly wink and ducked back inside the coffee shop to retrieve the rest of Olivia’s purchases.

“Oh Lord, is he flirting with me?” Olivia whispered to Haviland and the poodle cocked his head to the side. “I think he winked at me at the last Planning Board meeting too.”

Somewhat discomfited by the chief’s attentions, Olivia quickly told Rawlings that she needed to stop by the new bookstore before heading back home to meet the furniture truck. The lawman placed the rest of the paintings in the SUV and gently closed the hatchback.

“Through the Wardrobe,” Rawlings said as he leaned an elbow on Olivia’s side mirror. “Good name for a bookstore. I was there earlier,” he informed her. “You’re mighty busy these days, Ms. Olivia. Rumor has it you’re remodeling the lighthouse keeper’s cottage—even offering it to our local writer’s group to use. That’s quite generous of you.” He gazed at her through the open window, his brown eyes glimmering with humor. “Are you planning to join those folks? Pen the next bestseller?”

Now Olivia was certain the chief was being more friendly than necessary. “I’m mulling it over, Chief. But right now, I need to get these paintings home. Thank you for loading them, but if you’ll excuse me...”

“You need to go home after you visit Mr. McNulty, you mean,” Rawlings reminded her with a teasing smile. “He had some fine recommendations for me.”

“And what do you read? Police procedurals? Mafia thrillers?” Olivia lightly mocked the lawman as she turned on her engine.

Unperturbed, the chief pointed his finger at her. “I see you tend to pigeonhole, Ms. Limoges. I read everything, including the books you mentioned, but my latest Amazon box contained some classic literature, poetry, and cook-books. But it looks as though my online ordering is over now that Mr. McNulty’s here. Have a nice day, ma’am.” With a subtle bow, the chief walked away.

“Remarkable. Our chief is an interesting character,” Olivia announced and then drove to the western fringe of town where Flynn McNulty had converted the ground floor of a former commercial fishing supply warehouse into his new bookstore. Upon passing through the wooden doors, Olivia expected her olfactory senses to be assailed by the taint of old fish and saltwater, but she smelled Murphy Oil Soap instead. The inviting aroma was only the beginning of the pleasant surprises. Without doubt, she had stepped inside a reader’s paradise.

The front portion of the store contained oversized antique wardrobes. Standing shoulder to shoulder, these massive pieces of vintage furniture had their doors thrown open, inviting browsers to glance inside at the treasures held within. Rare books, coffee table books, art books brimming with color plates, and signed first editions took residence in the polished interiors made of walnut and southern yellow pine. Small framed signs describing the contents of each case had been tastefully mounted in the center of each wardrobe’s crown molding.

“I’m hoping to see your works in this armoire one day.” Flynn had appeared silently next to Olivia. He now gestured at a stunning English oak arts and crafts wardrobe that bore the sign: “Coastal North Carolina History / Local Authors.”

“Where did you find all of these incredible pieces?” Olivia asked in admiration.

Flynn gazed at his collection with pride. “Several belonged to my aunt. The rest I found in antique malls, thrift stores, or at auctions. It took me over a year to clean them all up, and if this place shows a profit, I plan to keep on buying. So far, only the front of the store has wardrobes, but one day, I’d like every book to be displayed like these sections.” He held his arm out in front of his body. “May I give you a tour?”

Olivia paused. “That depends on how you feel about dogs entering your shop.”

“Well-mannered canines are welcome.”

Pleased by his answer, she asked him to wait a moment while she retrieved Haviland from the Range Rover.

“Come in, Captain. We can add this to the list of places that recognizes the superiority of your breed.”

Barking with eagerness, Haviland bounded toward the door and then sat on his haunches, as if to show Olivia that he would be calm and dignified inside the place that smelled, to his finely tuned nose, faintly of fish.

Flynn knelt and held out his hand. “Flynn McNulty. And you are?”

Haviland offered Flynn his right paw.

“This is Captain Haviland,” Olivia made the introductions.

Flynn grinned. “Limoges and Haviland. A fine match. Do you collect porcelain by chance?”

“I have a few pieces,” Olivia replied enigmatically as they walked deeper into the store. Here, standard wooden bookshelves had been bolted into the wall around the perimeter. To the left, Flynn had arranged works of fiction and to the right, nonfiction. The center of the room contained a grouping of upholstered chairs, end tables, and an enormous coffee table. The table was built with a glass top. A drawer slid out from beneath the glass and Flynn had cleverly displayed magazines for sale within the drawer.

“All you need now is a cappuccino machine,” Olivia commented.

“You haven’t read the sign next to the register yet.” Flynn jerked his head toward the front room. “Free coffee with any purchase.” He placed a hand on Haviland’s head. “I can see I’m going to need to buy a jar of dog biscuits as well.”

Haviland licked Flynn’s hand and smiled at him. The trio continued into the back of the building, where a curtain of shimmering fabric made of floor-to-ceiling rainbow stripes created a distinct separation. To gain entry to this area, one had to pass through a particularly wide wardrobe whose feet had been cut down. The doors were propped open and held fast with rows of string tied with colorful bows.

“Those look like kite tails,” Olivia said, fingering a red and white gingham bow.

Flynn’s eyes twinkled, but he said nothing.

Together they walked through the wardrobe and stepped into a world of color. Above their heads, kites, model airplanes, papier-mâché balloons, and glittery stars hung from invisible threads. Beanbags in primary colors were dumped haphazardly on a rug designed to resemble a large box of crayons. Beneath a sign reading “Fantasy Land” was a wooden chest stuffed with pirate hats and eye patches, fairy wings, sparkling wands, and tiaras. Under a sign in gold script that said “Dr. Seuss Stage” was a wooden puppet theater complete with a box of Dr. Seuss character hand puppets. Another station, called “Wild Adventures,” featured a table shaped like a crocodile surrounded by four plush chairs in the form of a lion, a monkey, a zebra, and an elephant. Instrumental music featuring flutes and oboes filled the room with an aura of magical serenity.

Olivia was impressed. “Every mother in Oyster Bay is going to be here when word gets out about this room. And the free coffee.” She made a mental note to tell Laurel.

“I certainly hope so.” Flynn surveyed his handiwork and folded his arms in contentment. “Feel free to browse around and let me know if you need anything.”

Olivia walked around the entire adult section again. She didn’t have much time, but she wanted to buy something from Flynn to show her support. Suddenly, she spied a section of gift books and was attracted to a group of writing journals. The blank pages were lined and the top of every page featured an inspirational quotation on the art of writing. Olivia scooped up six journals and a coffee table book called Outer Banks Edge: A Photographic Portfolio and brought her purchases to the register.

With three customers ahead of her, Olivia had the chance to study Flynn further. He wore a navy polo shirt over khakis and a pair of leather sandals. His movements were relaxed and his smile seemed genuine as he thanked each patron and handed them a disposable coffee cup.

“Pour yourself some of the Wardrobe House Roast,” he ordered good-naturedly. “And next time, feel free to bring your own coffee cup.” He pointed at a rack holding a single coffee cup showing a cardinal sitting on a dogwood branch on a field of cobalt. “Just label it with permanent marker and I promise to take them all home to the dishwasher every night.” He winked at Olivia. “I hope you’ve got a not-so-fine porcelain mug to bring in here.”

“I’m sure I can dig up a suitable cup,” Olivia replied, stunned by the realization that two men had winked at her in the same afternoon. And while Flynn was both interesting and attractive, it wouldn’t do to express undue interest without getting to know him better. For all Olivia knew, the bookstore proprietor was happily married. His ring finger was bare, but she was aware that the lack of jewelry meant nothing. For all she knew, he had a life partner, eleven children, two hamsters, and a parakeet. Putting on her business face, Olivia smiled pleasantly. “Perhaps you can introduce me to some new historical fiction writers when I return.”

“I believe I’m up to that challenge,” Flynn remarked, handing her a receipt and a coffee cup. He then turned his attention to the next customer.

Olivia frowned as she eyed the large coffeemaker. She doubted that the bookstore brew would be to her liking. It certainly wouldn’t be made from Kona beans, but for some reason she didn’t want to offend the good-looking bookstore owner, so she poured herself half a cup. Adding a splash of cream, she took a sip and forced herself not to grimace. The flavor wasn’t unappealing, but it was far too weak for her tastes. Taking the unfinished cup outside, she furtively tossed the remnants into the flower bed.