The Last Word

Chapter 8

One need not be a Chamber to be Haunted,

One need not be a House;

The Brain has Corridors—surpassing

Material Place

—EMILY DICKINSON

Olivia and Haviland trotted down the stairs leading to the windowless lower level of the town hall building. The woman in charge of the register of deeds was examining a stack of forms when Olivia appeared at her desk. Her eyes went wide when she noticed the poodle and then her face closed off and she smacked the piece of paper in front of her with a rubber stamp.

“You can’t have a dog down here, ma’am.” She slammed the stamp down on another piece of paper and continued her work without looking up.

Glancing around the empty room, Olivia was about to point out that there was no one around to be troubled by Haviland’s presence, but she sensed that the government employee, with her taut ponytail and humorless eyes, was a stickler for rules.

“He accompanies me for medical reasons,” Olivia whispered and then cleared her throat, as though it shamed her to admit to having such a serious health problem. “Hopefully, I won’t have an episode while I’m here, but I’d best not waste time. My dog is trained to seek help should I start convulsing.” She handed the skeptical clerk a slip of paper bearing Harris’s address. “I need the names of all of this home’s previous owners, please. And I’ll need to make copies of every deed pertaining to this address.”

The woman hesitated, clearly debating whether it would require more effort to toss Olivia out or simply fulfill her request. Sighing heavily, she turned to her computer and began to type in the address on Oleander Drive.

It wasn’t long before she presented Olivia with several pages, still warm from the printer. “Anything else, ma’am?” she asked, her mouth puckering as though she’d bitten into something sour.

Olivia read through the sheets, recognizing names from her conversation with librarian Leona Fairchild, including the Carters and the Robinsons, the couple that sold the house to Harris.

“There’s an owner missing from this pile,” she murmured and then retrieved a small notebook from her purse. “The White family lived there as well.”

The clerk crossed her arms over her chest. “Not according to my records.”

“Can you check again?”

At this request, the woman’s lips compressed into an angry, thin line. She jabbed a few buttons on her computer keyboard and gestured at the screen. “There were no owners by the name of White at the address. Perhaps you’re mistaken.”

Suppressing a surge of annoyance, Olivia stared at the street address and then shook the pages in her hands like they were pompoms. “You’re brilliant!” she told the startled clerk. “The house was moved during the highway expansion project. This address is only current for the past fifty years or so.”

“I’m not old enough to remember the date of that event,” the woman declared smugly. “You’ll have to come back when you have an accurate address.”

Olivia recalled Harris telling the Bayside Book Writers that Nick Plumley had found a copy of the newspaper article describing the move and, therefore, Laurel could easily get ahold of the same information. Thanking the clerk, Olivia jogged upstairs and called her friend.

“Olivia! I was hoping I’d have an excuse to take a break,” Laurel said. “I’m working on this yawn-inducing piece about average household incomes and—”

“I need you to find an old article for me,” Olivia cut in. “It’s urgent.” She explained what she needed. “Could you bring it by The Bayside Crab House as soon as you find it?”

There was a pause. “Is something going on with Harris? What’s wrong, Olivia?”

Silently berating herself for assuming that Laurel wouldn’t ask why the information was so crucial, Olivia promised that Harris was fine and that she’d fill Laurel in when she delivered the article. Olivia was quite surprised that Nick Plumley’s death hadn’t been leaked to the press yet and wondered if Rawlings had kept his team so busy that not a single officer had been able to contribute to the famous Oyster Bay gossip chain. It would certainly be a coup for Laurel to break the news first, especially since she’d established her reputation as a respected local journalist based on her articles on the Cliché Killers.

“Just do this for me,” Olivia coaxed. “And I’ll tip you off on what’s to become the biggest story of the summer.”

Laurel sucked in a quick breath. “I’ll take the tip. It’s been mighty sleepy in the news department.”

“That’s about to change,” Olivia stated solemnly and hung up.

An hour later, she was well into her speech on treating customers like royalty, the employees of The Bayside Crab House listening to her every word with a mixture of trepidation and awe, when Laurel arrived.

Olivia wished her staff good luck, cautioned them that the first guests would be arriving at five, and led Laurel into the manager’s office.

“Is this yours?” Laurel asked, taking a seat and glancing around the space with interest.

“It’s really Kim’s domain. She’s in charge of supplies and bookkeeping. Once we have an established routine, I’ll only come in to sign checks.”

Laurel frowned. “But what will Kim do with the baby? You’re their only family in Oyster Bay, right?”

Having no desire to introduce the emotionally charged subject of Anders, Olivia shrugged. “I suppose she’ll bring the baby with her. Caitlyn’s going to day camp this summer and Kim’s hours are fairly flexible. She’ll be home when the kids are home. I agreed to that arrangement from the start.”

“What a boss,” Laurel said with a wistful smile. “Wish you ran the Gazette. I have been allowed to work from the house more and more, but it’s so hard to get anything done. The twins have entered a seriously brutal rivalry phase. They’re like two Roman gladiators, destroying anything in their path.” She shook her head hopelessly. “Enough about my boys. Why did you need this?”

Olivia accepted two sheets of paper from Laurel and quickly scanned the article. Before the houses were moved and the two-lane road became a highway, it was called Stillwater Street. The article described the complexities of the expansion project and featured a photograph of a bungalow atop the flatbed of a tractor-trailer. Even from the grainy black-and-white image Olivia could tell that the house wasn’t Harris’s. It was smaller and had a slightly different roofline. A group of people clad in their Sunday finery was gathered around the truck. The women were impeccably turned out in tailored skirts, hats, and gloves; the men were in suits and felt fedoras; the little girls looked angelic with their curled hair and crinoline; and the boys wore high-waisted shorts with suspenders and argyle knee socks.

The caption listed the names of the four men grouped together near the left side of the trailer. “There! Frank White must have been the original owner of Harris’s house. Now I just need to search for the deed for Stillwater Street.”

Laurel drummed her fingers on the arms of her chair. “You’re killing me, Olivia! What is going on?”

Olivia dropped the paper onto the desk and sat down next to Laurel. “By now, Chief Rawlings will probably have a press release ready, but let me tell you what happened from my point of view and then you can zoom over to the station to get a quote. And, Laurel, we can forget about critiquing my book on Saturday.”

“Why?”

Gesturing at the newspaper article, Olivia said, “Because we need to help the police track down a murderer instead.”

While the employees of The Bayside Crab House began their trial run, Olivia made phone calls to Harris and Leona Fairchild. Without telling the librarian why she wanted to dig deeper into the background of the former inhabitants of Harris’s house, Olivia asked her how to find out more about the families. The computer-savvy librarian provided her with a simple solution.

“These days, most public records are available online. You can look up birth, marriage, and death certificates, criminal records, background checks, property values, and even the names and ages of other residents in the household. The further back you go, the fewer the details, but it’s a start.” She gave Olivia the URL. “You can often pay to get more information, especially from some of the genealogical sites. I’ll give you the one I prefer.”

Armed with this information, Olivia began to delegate tasks. She asked Millay to research the White, Carter, and Robinson families during her shift break at Fish Nets, and if she couldn’t complete the task that night, to return to it the next day. Millay had heard of Nick Plumley’s death only moments before Olivia’s call, but she had no idea that foul play had been involved.

“How is Harris taking it?” Millay inquired with marked indifference, but Olivia wasn’t fooled. She knew her friend was genuinely concerned.

“He’s understandably disturbed. After all, the painting came from his house, and Plumley had clearly been searching for it there. Harris is worried that the killer might come looking for it too.”

Millay was silent for several moments. “Someone needs to find out more about Plumley. So he wanted this painting. Whatever. He didn’t even have it in his possession when he was killed. There’s more to this murder than some old piece of art. It’s got to be about Heinrich Kamler or Plumley. And I mean the man, not the writer. We need to know his background as well as getting the four-one-one on the people who used to live in Harris’s house.”

“Agreed,” Olivia answered readily. “I’m putting Harris in charge of that. He has the necessary computer skills to hunt for the sort of biographical tidbits not included in the inside flap of The Barbed Wire Flower’s book jacket.”

By the time the grand opening celebration of The Bayside Crab House got under way Friday night, Olivia was already exhausted. During yesterday’s trial run, both the wait and kitchen staff had made inexcusable blunders, and Olivia could only pray that having Hudson back in the kitchen, working his magic amid the cacophony of shouting, chopping, and sizzling, would eradicate some of her stress. In fact, when she saw him that afternoon, his face flushed by a geyser of steam billowing from a lobster pot, he was the picture of contentment.

“How’s Anders?” she asked.

He gave her a small smile as he dumped a load of crabs into a steamer basket. “He’s doing fine. Thanks . . . for being with him. I’m . . . You’re a good sister.”

Olivia was spared from having to respond because, at that moment, a flustered waitress burst through the kitchen’s double swing doors, leaving them to flap in her wake like untethered sails in a squall. “Ms. Limoges! The bar’s totally full and it’s only five thirty! We’ve got a huge line of customers waiting outside. What should we do?”

Hudson and Olivia exchanged satisfied looks. “Pace yourself, Angie,” Olivia told the girl. “It’s going to be a long and profitable night.”

Her prediction was correct. The restaurant was packed from the moment it opened until well after midnight. Olivia helped out wherever she could; refilling empty glasses, clearing tables, and making small talk with customers. Despite the crowd, the kitchen stayed on top of all the orders, and every dish was presented before the expectant diners warm and fragrant with freshness.

Olivia’s feet were throbbing by the time the last patron left. While the weary waitstaff began their closing duties, she took a seat at the bar and sent one of the waiters to ask Hudson to join her.

“Chivas Regal over ice.” Julesy, the bartender, put Olivia’s drink on a white paper napkin featuring The Bayside Crab House logo and then started to clean off the bar with quick, efficient strokes.

“Another for the chef, if you would,” Olivia said, envying the girl’s energy. She didn’t seem tired at all, even though she’d been racing from one end of the bar to the other all night, serving glasses of frothy microbrews and an array of colorful frozen cocktails. Julesy was Gabe’s cousin and had the same all-American good looks as The Boot Top’s barkeep. With her sun-streaked hair, tanned skin, athletic figure, and sincere smile, she’d been an immediate hit with the crab house clientele.

“Let’s pour a round for the staff,” Olivia suggested to Julesy’s barback, a reserved Hispanic man in his early twenties. “I’d like to raise a toast to an amazing night.”

Julesy nodded in approval. She and Raulo began to line up pint glasses and fill them with a light summer wheat beer. The color was beautiful, reminiscent of sunrise at the beach or the vibrant gold of crisp corn.

Olivia kicked off her pumps and curled her toes over the rung of the barstool. The live band, which had played Jimmy Buffett and Bob Marley songs for the past three hours, had mercifully turned off their amps and mics. They’d have to return tomorrow night and perform the entire set again, yet they seemed in no hurry to leave. In fact, the atmosphere in the restaurant was downright festive. Even as the bone-tired waitstaff wiped tables and swept the floor, they laughed and chatted animatedly as though they hadn’t just pushed their bodies to the limit over the past eight hours.

When Hudson entered the bar area, he was met with a round of applause and shrill whistles. He waved off this show of praise, his dark eyes glimmering with pleasure. He clinked glasses with Olivia and took a generous swallow of Chivas Regal.

“Best tips I’ve ever made,” the waitress named Angie told one of her coworkers. “If every weekend’s like this, I’ll be able to pay for graduate school.”

“And I can quit the gym,” the waiter replied, and the pair raised their pint glasses in Olivia’s direction. She gave them a regal nod over the rim of her tumbler.

Confident that her employees could finish closing the restaurant without her watchful eye, Olivia picked up her shoes, said good night to Hudson, and collected a groggy Haviland from the office. At home, she managed to brush her teeth and wash her face before falling into bed. She slept, but her dreams were filled with images of lobster claws and paintings of a forest in winter.

The next morning, Olivia woke late, filled a thermos with coffee, and took Haviland down to the beach for a walk. Saturdays were traditionally treasure hunt days, but her muscles still ached from last night’s exertions and she didn’t feel like toting the metal detector or trench shovel.

After the leisurely stroll, she showered and dressed in a gauzy cotton sundress in an indigo hue and a pair of silver sandals and headed into town for brunch at Grumpy’s. She brought her laptop along out of habit but never actually removed it from the case. Her meal of eggs Benedict with a side of sliced strawberries was constantly interrupted. By this time, word of Nick Plumley’s death was all over town, and Dixie wanted to hear every detail. The Oyster Bay gossip chain had somehow gotten hold of the fact that Olivia had discovered the body.

Cautioning her friend that the writer’s demise was still under investigation, therefore preventing her from sharing certain aspects of the case, Olivia managed to satisfy Dixie’s curiosity by describing how she’d smashed the window with Plumley’s patio chair. “But there was nothing I could do to revive him.”

At that point, Olivia abruptly stopped speaking. There was no way she was going to mention the book pages stuffed into the writer’s mouth.

Dixie, who was clad in a frayed denim skirt, rainbow tube socks, and a T-shirt reading, “Ms. Pac-Man for President,” dropped into the seat opposite Olivia. Using a spoon, she examined her feathered hair in the reflection and flattened a stiff, heavily gelled lock back into submission. She then studied Olivia with a solemn expression. “You’re just one of those people, ’Livia.”

“What does that mean?” Olivia growled.

Dixie shrugged, never the slightest bit flustered by Olivia’s gruffness. “Things happen to you. Things that make most folks crumble into tiny pieces. Maybe that’s why death hangs ’round you. He knows you’re a match for any man, even one with a scythe.”

Olivia pressed her palms against her coffee cup, intent on the warmth seeping into her skin. “That shadow has been hanging over my shoulder for a long time. If my mother hadn’t died the way she did—trying to make me happy—my life would have been different.” She took a sip of her coffee and glanced out the window. The sidewalks were bathed in strong light, and the streets were crowded with sunburned tourists and merry locals. “It was like the storm that ended her life left a mark on me, like a tattoo that no one can see.”

Dixie was silent for a moment. A customer in the Phantom of the Opera booth signaled for his check, but the diner proprietor made no move to serve him. “Girlfriend, you’ve just dug on down to the heart of your own biggest problem.”

Olivia cocked her head quizzically. “How so?”

“You find a man that really sees you, shadows and all, and you’ll have the power to burn away the past. Take a match to it, light it up like a forest fire in July, and blow away the ashes.” Dixie scooted out of the booth, bent over, and retied the sparkling lace of her left roller skate. “You let that man in, and he’ll beat the past away with his bare hands. That’s what Grumpy did for me. It’s why I know our lives were meant to intertwine—we’re like a kudzu vine and a big ol’ pine tree.”

“That’s a very romantic image, Dixie,” Olivia quipped in an effort to erase her momentary display of vulnerability. “So your advice is that I should go out in search of a tree? Unbending to the wind, unburned by the sun, dependable, and strong. Sounds like a rare find.”

“Oh,” Dixie said as she began to skate backward toward her waiting customer. “I reckon you’ve already found him. You’re just too scared to invite him in. Get over yourself, ’Livia. It’s about damn time you did.”

Olivia didn’t have the chance to be amazed by her friend’s perceptiveness, for while she was still digesting Dixie’s words, Millay entered the diner. She spotted Haviland snoozing on the floor of the window booth and took the seat Dixie had vacated seconds earlier.

Millay’s short, black hair was relatively monochromatic this morning. There were three parrot green streaks in her bangs, but she wore less makeup than usual and had clearly not bothered to put on her rows of hoop earrings or cover both wrists with dozens of rubber bracelets. “Get this,” she began without preamble. “I was just at Bed, Bath and Beyond buying some storage containers and who should I see there but Miss Bubble Head.”

Recalling that Miss Bubble Head was the moniker Millay had assigned to Estelle, Olivia grinned. “And?”

“She was buying a set of bathroom towels with lace trim and embroidered seashells. Total Southern-princess-type crap.” Millay helped herself to Olivia’s water glass. “One of those furry toilet seat covers too. I thought only old people used those things.”

Olivia pivoted in order to catch Dixie’s eye and then faced Millay again. “Admittedly, that style doesn’t appeal to my taste, but it’s Estelle we’re talking about. What do you expect? Her cell phone is covered in pink and purple rhinestones.”

“That’s the thing!” Millay’s dark eyes narrowed dangerously. “She was buying that stuff for Harris’s house. I heard her talking to someone on her blinged-out Lady Gaga phone, and she said, and I quote, ‘I might as well buy what I like because it’ll be my house soon enough.’ ”

Olivia’s expression of condemnation was interrupted by Dixie’s arrival with a pot of coffee for Millay. As she filled Millay’s mug, the diner proprietor gave her an indulgent smile. “What are you doin’ awake this side of noon, girl?”

Millay took a grateful sip of black coffee and then pointed at the stainless steel carafe. “I don’t know what illegal drugs you put in your joe, Dixie, but you brew the best fuel in town. Bagels ’n’ Beans is good too, but you actually make it worth my while to be outside when the tourists are prowling the streets.”

Dixie laughed, pleased by the compliment. “You make them sound like zombies comin’ to overtake Oyster Bay.”

“Hey, as long as they stuff my tip jar, they’re free to feed on some of my least favorite townspeople. I have a nice, ripe bimbo I’d be glad to toss their way,” Millay murmured and then ordered a bacon cheeseburger with onion straws and slaw.

Once Dixie had zipped off to place Millay’s order, but not before slipping Haviland a sausage link hidden in her apron pocket, Olivia waved aside the subject of Estelle. “She’s only temporary. He’ll tire of her soon enough. In any case, Harris has more significant problems at the moment. How did your research go?”

“Laurel had some luck with the newspaper’s archives,” Millay answered, rummaging around in a black messenger bag covered with Japanime characters. “She didn’t have a ton of time because she had to finish an article, pick up groceries, and be home in time to clean the whole house. Man, how I’d like to shove her husband’s dental drill up his chauvinistic—”

“Not very hygienic, I’m afraid,” Olivia interrupted and gestured at Millay’s bag. “Show me the goods.”

Millay withdrew a notebook covered with pirate skulls and flipped open to a page covered with her angular scrawl. “We can forget about the families who lived there after the house was moved. They’re squeaky-clean, law-abiding, church-going drones. No criminal records, no tax evasion, no outstanding debts, nothing. Trust me, they’re a dead end.”

“Interesting word choice,” Olivia said with a sigh. “And the White family?”

Millay unfolded a sheet of paper showing a black-and-white photograph of a teenage girl standing on the porch of Harris’s house. In the background, the heavy machinery required to lift the home onto a trailer hovered over the roof, throwing shadows across the ruined lawn and crushed flowerbeds no doubt once lovingly maintained by the girl’s mother.

Olivia removed the magnifying glass she kept in her purse and placed the circle over the girl’s face.

“Forget that. I enlarged this copy on Laurel’s Xerox machine. It’s a little blurry, but I want to see if you’d react the way I did when I really looked at her.” Millay’s expression was unreadable, so Olivia merely accepted the paper she offered.

Immediately, Olivia was struck by the girl’s eyes. They were the eyes of an old woman, filled with resignation and sorrow, yet still clinging to a delicate thread of hope. The knowledge emanating from those depths was a contradiction to her plain dress, ankle socks, and the corkscrew curls pulled off her forehead and secured with a large silk bow. She looked as though she should be clutching a lollipop or a bouquet of wildflowers with both hands. Instead, she had her arms wrapped around the porch post, as though the moving of the house was something she greatly dreaded.

“It’s like this is too big a change for her,” Olivia whispered, noticing the girl’s name in the caption. “Evelyn White, age sixteen. What else happened to you? Why are you so filled with fear?”

Millay put a finger on the photograph. “The country was at war, but I think kids her age are pretty adaptable. Her father didn’t enlist and she was an only child, so no brothers were sent off to fight. Friends, maybe. Or possibly a boyfriend. She was pretty.”

“If she had a boyfriend, then something must have happened to him,” Olivia remarked softly. “I know that look. That’s grief. She’s lost something precious to her and now her house is being torn from the ground right in front of her. Nothing is stable. She feels totally lost.”

The two women stared at the young girl, this beautiful, fresh-faced stranger in a checkered dress, and found they no longer felt like talking. Millay drank her coffee as she watched strangers parade past the diner window, but Olivia couldn’t take her eyes from Evelyn’s face.

She didn’t even hear Dixie skate over with Millay’s cheeseburger.

“Could I get that in a takeout box?” Millay asked sheepishly. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

Dixie gave her a maternal pat on the cheek. “’Course you can, sugar. Your schedule’s not the same as most folks, now is it?” She handed Olivia the check and then caught sight of the photograph. “Good Lord, who is that child?”

“A girl who used to live in Harris’s house,” Olivia replied.

With a sympathetic shake of her head, Dixie whispered, “She’d make a helluva ghost. There she is, a livin’ and breathin’ young girl, but she already looks like she’s got a foot in the next world. She’s grabbin’ on to that porch post like her life depends on it. Her face is pinched like she hasn’t eaten for days, and her eyes, they’re so . . .” She trailed off, searching for the perfect adjective.

“Haunted,” Olivia completed the thought.

Dixie swallowed hard. “That’s it. That poor girl is haunted.”