The Last Word

Chapter 9

A divorce is like an amputation: you survive it, but there’s less of you.

—MARGARET ATWOOD

Olivia stopped by both of her eateries before going home to prepare for the meeting of the Bayside Book Writers. She collected the printouts of the deeds for Harris’s house and pages of background check documents on the residents. Like Millay, she’d found nothing unusual about them, but her picture of the White family was incomplete. One of the genealogy sites she’d used to search for more information on Evelyn White and her parents indicated that the forms she’d requested would be e-mailed to her as a PDF file by the end of the day on Monday at the earliest. Until then, she’d have to wait.

This was frustrating because she’d been hoping to have a tangible lead to share with her fellow writers. Now, she not only had nothing of interest to impart, but she’d found herself absorbed in another and even more obscure mystery than Nick Plumley’s murder: the story behind the beautiful and troubled Miss White.

Laurel and Millay hadn’t come across any useful data either. Facing a deadline and a visit from her in-laws, Laurel had turned the assignment over to Millay. She’d spent hours searching through book after book of bound newspapers, but the Gazette archives revealed no other photographs of the house or its occupants other than the images from the relocation and the impromptu church service held when the tractor-trailer broke down on Main Street.

As Millay adeptly decanted the bottle of wine on the cottage’s countertop, she declared that someone owed her a hot stone massage. She then poured a glass for Laurel, knowing that Olivia would see to her own cocktail.

“I hope Harris has had more luck,” Laurel said with a weary sigh.

Millay handed her the glass of wine. “Take a slug of this and relax. You look wrecked.”

“I am,” Laurel confessed. “I thought the energy I’d need to be a mom and a career woman would be my biggest challenge, but it turns out that I can handle that just fine. What I can’t handle is that Steve and his parents make me feel like a stranger in my own house.”

Olivia fixed herself a drink and then took a seat across from Laurel. “Steve still doesn’t support your decision to be a journalist?”

Laurel shrugged. “In front of company he does, but if it’s just us, and he finds so much as a dirty dish in the sink, he points out that our family was in better shape before I decided to go all ‘Clark Kent.’ ” She drank half of the fruity zinfandel blend in one gulp.

Millay frowned in disapproval. “I know his hands are delicate instruments and all, but come on. Make him do the dishes.”

“I doubt that would solve the problem,” Olivia remarked as Millay pulled a bottle of beer from the fridge. “Is it possible he’s jealous of you, Laurel?”

“That would be a first,” Laurel replied wryly.

Using the shark-shaped opener that hung from her keychain, Millay popped the cap off the Heineken bottle and tossed it in the trash can in one fluid motion. “Olivia might be onto something. Your man has always been the Big Cheese at home. Mr. Breadwinner. Mr. Head of the Family. Then you go and land your dream job, instantly becoming a local celeb. Stevie Boy probably doesn’t feel as macho as he did before.” She sank gratefully onto the sofa and pointed at Laurel with her beer. “He needs a testosterone jumpstart.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Laurel sipped at her wine, her gaze fixed on the glasslike ocean beyond the windows of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage. “He’s been keeping really long hours at the office. He probably feels like we’re in some kind of competition.” She blinked and her face seemed to regain a fraction of its customary brightness. “At least having a double income means that our piggy bank is getting nice and fat.”

“Those are two words I’ve never heard a woman use together before,” Harris stated as he entered the room. He headed straight for the refrigerator and helped himself to a beer. Flopping onto the sofa next to Millay, he spread out his long arms and let his head sink into the cushions. “What . . . a . . . week.”

Millay prodded him with the toe of her black boot. “Don’t play coy. Did you dig up anything important on Plumley or what?”

He pointed at her footwear. “Do you sleep in those things?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She gave her bootlace a saucy twirl.

It took Harris a moment to break eye contact and turn his attention to his laptop case. He placed his iBook on the coffee table and pointed at the document on the screen. “I learned quite a few interesting things about Plumley, but most of the data I came across in my cyber search focused on his post-publication years. Biographically speaking, it’s like he didn’t exist before The Barbed Wire Flower.”

“Is Nick Plumley a nom de plume?” Olivia asked.

Harris shrugged. “It must be, but if that’s the case, I can’t find his real name anywhere. However, I discovered that he lives, ah, lived, in Beaufort.”

Laurel looked confused. “But that’s so close. Why would he want to move here when he already had a home in a quaint seaside town?”

Recalling Plumley’s declaration that he’d come to Oyster Bay in search of anonymity, Olivia repeated the conversation she’d had with the author in Grumpy’s. “At the time I believed him.”

“I don’t buy that explanation for a second,” Harris said. “I had to jump through a dozen cyber hoops locating the guy’s permanent residence, and I know how to find people on the Internet. Nick spent so many days of the year on tour, both here and in Europe, that he was rarely in Beaufort. In fact, more than one state claims him as one of their resident authors. Trust me, he was not getting hounded by the paparazzi in Beaufort, North Carolina.”

Examining the diminished ice cubes at the bottom of her glass, Olivia walked into the kitchen to fix herself a second drink. “In my opinion, this strengthens the theory that he came to town in search of your painting, Harris.”

“I still haven’t seen this masterpiece,” Laurel said with a pretty sulk. “And I don’t get why he wanted it so badly.”

Harris shook his head. “I’m stumped on that question too. Obviously, Nick was interested in the connection between the artist, Heinrich Kamler, and the New Bern prison camp. Oyster Bay’s at least twenty miles away from New Bern, so he didn’t pick our town because of its proximity to the POW camp. There’s got to be something we’re not seeing clearly. If only I had his laptop. There must be a clue embedded in his manuscript.”

“I’d let you see every file on Mr. Plumley’s computer,” a deep voice stated from the doorway. “If only we’d found one.”

Chief Rawlings smiled at the writers. “It’s my dinner break. I decided that discussing certain elements of the case with you four would be more productive than staring at the ME’s report for the hundredth time while choking down a burger.”

“Nick’s laptop was stolen?” Harris looked stricken. He, Millay, and Laurel began to exchange thoughts as to where else Plumley might have backed up his work while Olivia watched Rawlings assemble a sandwich from the platter of sliced rolls, meats, and cheeses she’d picked up from The Boot Top’s walk-in fridge earlier that afternoon.

He carried a thick sandwich made of prosciutto, smoked Gouda, red onions, and mustard on a crusty roll to one of the wing chairs. The writer friends waited with barely concealed impatience as he took a large bite. Influenced by the sight of Rawlings’ supper, Millay began to assemble a sandwich of buffalo mozzarella, sliced tomatoes, and pesto spread. No one else seemed eager to eat.

“There were no computers in Mr. Plumley’s house or car,” Rawlings stated. “There were also no printouts, no file folders containing outlines or notes, not even a journal. Nothing. I expected to at least discover correspondence with his agent or publisher, but even his phone records are sparse. Too sparse.”

Laurel cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

“Mr. Plumley and I both live alone, but I probably made four times the phone calls he made last month. Think about your average day. You speak with friends and family members. You contact businesses.” He put down his sandwich, too engrossed in the topic to continue eating. “There were many days when Mr. Plumley neither made nor received a single call. Even for a writer in search of privacy, that strikes me as unusual.”

Harris slowly made his way into the kitchen, his expression pensive. “He might have done most of his communication via e-mail. If so, it’d be another reason for the killer to steal Nick’s laptop.” He began to build a tower of Genoa salami, pepperoni, Soppressata, and provolone. “What about his place in Beaufort? Any computers there?”

Rawlings, who was about to take a sip of light beer, froze, and then lowered the bottle like an automaton, his eyes never leaving Harris’s face. “How did you know about Mr. Plumley’s permanent residence?”

Instead of answering, Harris pivoted his laptop screen so the chief could read the results of his research. “As you can see, I hit a wall. Prepublication, the man’s a ghost. I figured Plumley was a pen name, but couldn’t find his real one no matter where I looked.”

“It’s Ziegler. Nick Ziegler.”

With a grin, Harris saluted Rawlings with his massive sandwich. “Point scored by the blue team.”

Millay leaned forward eagerly. “So what’s shady in Ziegler’s past? Drug deals? Child porn? A penchant for farm animals?”

Rawlings raised a brow at the last phrase. “The fact of greatest interest was that he was married. His ex-wife, Cora, is sitting in our interview room as we speak.”

“Is she a suspect?” Olivia asked.

“Mrs. Ziegler, excuse me, she’s Mrs. Vickers now, is the sole beneficiary of Mr. Plumley’s life insurance policy. We don’t have a full picture of the victim’s finan-cials, but there was an insurance card in his wallet. We spoke to his agent, who put us onto the ex-wife.” Finished with his sandwich, Rawlings wiped his hands on a paper napkin and then began to steadily wind it around the first two fingers of his left hand. “If she hadn’t been vacationing at Emerald Isle with her new husband at the time of the murder, she wouldn’t have raised my suspicions.”

Laurel motioned for Millay to pass her the wine. Olivia observed her friend pour herself another generous glass. It was unlike Laurel to consume more than one serving per evening, but tonight, she was drinking zinfandel like a marathon runner chugging water at the end of a race. Millay shot Olivia a concerned glance and, in an exchange of unspoken agreement, Olivia began to fix Laurel a plate of food.

“Two husbands, huh?” Laurel snorted ruefully. “When did she and Plumley or Ziegfried or whoever he was break up? And did she wait until he was rich and famous to dump him so she could live happily ever after with another man?”

Rawlings stared at her in bewilderment for a moment before answering. “According to Mrs. Vickers, she and her former husband had an amicable parting years before his novel was published. During most of their three-year marriage, Mr. Plumley had worked as a freelance journalist and photographer. He traveled often, leaving Cora alone and unhappy. One day, he returned from an assignment and she told him that their marriage was over. He took the news well, they divided their things, and Cora moved to the western part of the state. She’s been living there ever since.”

“Yet she brought her new husband to Emerald Isle? That’s right near Beaufort. Why would she vacation so close to where she and her ex lived?” Harris inquired before attacking his sandwich again.

“Cora and Boyd were married the day before Mr. Plumley was murdered. We’ve confirmed the details with both the officiant and their sole witness. The Vickers claim to have come to the coast because they wanted a beach wedding and both swore in separate interviews that they spent most of the hours following their nuptials inside a rental cottage. Celebrating.” Rawlings sighed and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “The reason Mr. and Mrs. Vickers have been questioned for the past four hours is that Emerald Isle is an easy drive from here and the Vickers are broke. And in my experience, very few divorces are truly amicable.”

Millay held up an index finger. “Motive.” She then raised her thumb. “Opportunity.” She fired her air gun while whistling the first three notes of Beethoven’s Fifth.

“It’s not that simple, I’m afraid.” Rawlings glanced at his watch. “Without any tangible evidence, we’re going to have to let the couple go.” He stood up and carried his plate to the sink. “This is where I could use some unofficial help.”

Olivia grinned. “We thought you’d never ask.”

“The two of them are hiding something. I don’t know what it is, and my hands are tied. I’ve questioned them, they’ve been relatively cooperative, and their statements match. Their alibi is weak, so I’ve sent officers to Emerald Isle to confirm the few facts that can be confirmed. That’s all I can do for now.” He looked at Olivia. “They plan to have a meal at The Bayside Crab House before driving back. It was my hope that you could see to it that their drinks were poured with a very liberal hand and that someone”—he cast a meaningful glance at Laurel, Millay, and Harris—“could strike up a casual conversation with them.”

Harris rubbed his hands together. “Recon! Sweet.”

“If possible, find out why they don’t have any money. Boyd’s a personal trainer and Cora’s an interior decorator. I don’t expect them to be rich, but it looks like Boyd’s maxed out his Visa card with this vacation and Cora’s credit has been shot for years. They’ll certainly benefit from the insurance payout.” He paused. “Just try to get a sense of what makes them tick. Are they greedy? Compulsive? Jealous? There was more than a trace of ire on Mrs. Vickers’ part when I questioned her about her ex-husband’s literary success. I got the sense that she feels she was owed a piece of Plumley’s earnings even though the book was published long after their divorce was final.”

Laurel drained her glass and set it so roughly on the coffee table that it tipped over and rolled onto the floor. Rawlings scooped it up in his large hand and quickly dabbed at the splatters on the rug with a napkin. “I’d better drop you off on my way back to the station,” he told her gently.

“I’m fine,” Laurel argued with a noticeable slur.

Olivia touched Rawlings on the arm. “I’ll take her home. I need to get going anyway if I’m going to talk to my staff about treating the Vickers like royalty tonight.”

Rawlings took a step closer, as though trying to transmit his reluctance to move away from her touch. “Thanks. Let’s meet for coffee at Bagels ’n’ Beans tomorrow morning. I know you’ll have something to tell me.”

“I’ll be there at nine.” Olivia dropped her hand. “What angle will you be running down in the meantime?”

The chief shifted his gaze toward the placid ocean. “I’ll be spending the rest of the evening reviewing Mr. Plumley’s financial records. Murder is usually about money, and I need to see what he was doing with his.”

“Well, if I don’t show up for my shift, I won’t be making any,” Millay said with an unhappy frown. “But I can’t leave this to you and Harris. You need me behind the bar.”

Olivia considered the dilemma as Rawlings walked out of the cottage. “Call in sick to Fish Nets. I’ll need your special talents tonight and will double your regular Saturday-night salary. And don’t worry, I’ll make certain Cora and Boyd end up seated in front of you.” She turned to Harris. “Carry a copy of The Barbed Wire Flower with you. Don’t talk to the newlyweds until Millay gives you the signal. I’m willing to gamble that once she works her magic, they’ll be falling all over themselves to talk about Nick Plumley and a whole host of other intimate topics.”

“I just hope you don’t have some dorky dress code,” Millay mumbled. “I am not wearing a white shirt and bowtie or anything made from a polyester blend.”

Olivia grimaced. “It’s not a T.G.I. Friday’s. You have to wear a Bayside Crab House T-shirt, but you can stay in your boots and skirt. Just don’t give away liquor and food to anyone but the Vickers.” She smiled indulgently at Harris. “Notwithstanding a beer or two for this one.”

“What about me?” Laurel whined.

Millay slung a shoulder around her friend and helped her to stand. “You’re cut off, lady. You and Bacchus got a bit too hot and heavy tonight.”

Harris took Laurel’s other arm, and together, he and Millay escorted her to Olivia’s Range Rover. Haviland jumped to his feet and gave Olivia an inquisitive look. She told him that they were going to work and he was out the door in a blur of black fur, undoubtedly envisioning bowls of butter-drenched seafood or cubes of choice beef steeped au jus.

After promising to meet Millay and Harris downtown, Olivia drove Laurel home in silence. When she and Haviland were alone, Olivia preferred to listen to an audiobook or to put all the windows down, inviting the whirl of the wind to fill the void within the Range Rover’s cabin. Now, the humming of the road moving beneath the tires seemed poignantly loud.

“Do you want to talk?” Olivia asked, desperately hoping Laurel wouldn’t take her up on the offer. She had enough on her mind without having to listen to her friend’s marital woes.

Laurel was quiet for so long that Olivia began to believe she’d be spared, but finally, her friend released a mournful sigh and pressed her cheek against the window glass, as though welcoming the coolness against her skin. “You can’t have it all, you know. The media makes it look like any woman can have well-adjusted kids and a happy marriage and a successful career, but that’s total crap. The most we can hope for is kids who won’t grow up to be serial killers, a marriage that exists out of habit, and a career where you take on more than you can handle because if you don’t, you look weak.”

“So which part of living an imperfect life bothers you the most?” Olivia glanced at her friend in the rear-view mirror.

Laurel’s voice quavered. “Not being a good mother. Nothing matters more to me than those boys.”

“And quitting your job? Will that make you a better mother?”

“I don’t know,” Laurel whispered after a lengthy pause.

Olivia could hear the pain in her friend’s voice but was unsure how to console her. After all, she had no experience juggling a family and a career. She’d never had to worry about her checkbook balance or raise children or hold the interest of any man for more than a few months. Yet she firmly believed that everyone deserved their share of happiness as long as they were working at fulfilling their dreams. Laurel was a fighter at heart, and Olivia disliked seeing the younger woman so deflated.

“As you may know, my mother worked at the local library,” she spoke softly and put one hand on Haviland’s neck, her eyes locked on the road. “Some of my fondest memories were of her packing our lunches each morning—hers for work and mine for school. I’d sit in the kitchen and watch her get ready for the day while I ate breakfast. I remember how carefully she’d iron her blouse and that her hair looked so professional pinned up away from her face. She’d hum as she got ready for work, and I knew she looked forward to it every day.” Olivia paused, reveling in the memory.

With the smoke gray road in front and a washed-out sky overhead, it was easy to become lost in the cozy scene. Olivia could almost smell the oatmeal cooking on the stovetop, hear the bustle of her mother’s skirt as she moved about the room, and feel the sunbeams coming in through the window over the sink, marbling the table with warmth. With her father at sea, these mornings with her mother were filled with a simple kind of peace, and Olivia held on tightly to the vision until the lights of town seemed to burn it away.

“The point I’m trying to make is that I noticed the pride my mother took in her work. She loved her job. It was important to her. It helped to define her. As her daughter, I took note of how she felt, and I wanted to grow up to be just like her—a working woman.” Olivia glanced back at Laurel. “I was proud of my mother, and your boys will be proud of you. If you slink off to the paper with the weight of the world on your shoulders, you’re teaching them that work is misery. Yet I’ve seen the glimmer in your eyes when you’re running down an exciting story, and the twins will see it too, if you’d only show it to them.” She turned down Laurel’s street. “You can be an inspiration to your children, Laurel. Frankly, I can’t imagine a better gift.”

Olivia pulled in front of Laurel’s charming Cape Cod–style home and put the Range Rover in park. She kept the engine running.

Laurel looked at the illuminated windows, which bathed the lawn and flagstone path with a soft white light, and put her hand on the door handle. She did not get out of the car. “Everything I love is in that house, so why don’t I want to go in?”

Pivoting in her seat, Olivia asked, “Because you feel that your love is not equally returned?”

Swallowing hard, Laurel nodded.

“Then tell that to the person who needs to hear it,” Olivia ordered. “No fairy godmother is going to swoop down and make your problems disappear. Get in there and go to work. You love your job? Fight for it. You love your husband? Fight for him. You want your family to be united? Unite it!”

Laurel opened the door. “Okay, okay, I will. But first, I’m going to have another glass of wine.”

And with that, she tripped up the walk and disappeared inside.

At The Bayside Crab House, it was clear that Millay and Julesy were hitting it off, despite their markedly different appearances. Julesy was tall and tan and towered above the petite Millay. Millay’s black hair was streaked with scarlet and her dark eyes were accentuated with a plum-colored shadow. Julesy was pretty and outgoing, like a daisy growing in a sun garden, while Millay was more of a rare orchid, blooming only at night beneath a swath of pallid moonlight.

The hostess had been instructed to obstruct the two stools at the end of the bar using stacks of plastic booster seats. When Cora and Boyd arrived, the items would be whisked away and the couple would be led straight to the bar, where Millay would immediately serve them a round of drinks. Harris would already be established on a stool to the right, reading away while nursing a beer and picking at a basket of fried calamari. Olivia had staked out a small table behind the newlywed’s assigned seats. She’d spread out a fan of paperwork and opened her laptop, but instead of focusing on the screen, she’d be watching the Vickers’ facial expressions and body language in the bar’s horizontal mirror.

Fortunately, the restaurant was packed by the time the couple arrived, looking haggard and cross from an afternoon spent in separate interviews with various members of the Oyster Bay Police Department.

Carrying out Olivia’s instructions flawlessly, the hostess added the newlyweds to the wait list and then made a big show of clearing off the pair of unoccupied barstools and introducing them to Millay.

“If your name isn’t called in the next thirty minutes, we’d be delighted to offer you a free appetizer platter. Many of our customers just end up eating dinner at the bar. If you choose to stay, Millay will provide you with place settings and excellent service.” The young woman issued her broadest smile, her face dimpling prettily. “Enjoy our selection of microbrews on tap, our signature cocktails, or pick from our extensive wine list.”

As soon as they sat down, Cora and Boyd showed subtle signs of relaxation. Millay set coasters in front of them and pointed out various drinks on the menu, and Olivia could see Boyd’s tense shoulders loosen a bit. Cora asked Millay if she’d recommend the Lemon Drop Martini and was given an answer that obviously pleased her.

“The Lemon Drop is totally delicious,” Millay said. “But my favorite is the Melontini because it’s so incredibly refreshing. If you’re on vacation, you should have both. And if you’re not, then you deserve both even more. And we’ve got a two-for-one bar special going on.”

This earned Millay a small smile from Cora, who ordered a pair of cocktails and then looked at Boyd expectantly.

“I don’t suppose a boilermaker would be included in the special,” he grumbled.

Millay shrugged. “I don’t see why not. We’re a new business, so it’s our job to impress first-time customers.” She winked at Boyd. “Which beer would you prefer?”

Boyd made his choice and Millay poured the golden liquid from the tap into a pub glass, allowing a perfect crown of foam to form on the top. She set the glass in front of Boyd and then, instead of serving him a shot glass filled with whiskey, poured two fingers’ worth of Johnnie Walker into a tumbler. Her generosity clearly impressed the couple, and they exchanged looks of pleasant surprise while Millay’s back was turned. Within the next minute, she presented Cora with two martinis. The first glowed like liquid sunshine and was garnished with a sugar rim and a curl of lemon peel. The second, and the one Cora instantly reached for, was the soft pink of a watermelon. A pair of translucent kiwi slices balanced on the rim.

Cora popped a kiwi into her mouth and then took a dainty sip of the Melontini. She took a longer, greedier sip and then sighed. Olivia couldn’t hear the sigh, but she saw Cora’s body deflate as the air was pushed from the woman’s lungs.

The couple, having angled their bodies in order to face each other, was unlikely to notice Harris or the book he’d laid on the bar by his right elbow. Olivia wasn’t worried. If the Vickers stayed at the bar for the length of their meal, they’d eventually shift positions and hopefully fall into conversation with their neighbor. For his part, Harris was wisely drawing no attention to himself. He’d let Millay exert her charms and get enough alcohol into the couple’s systems before she eventually included him in the conversation.

The newlyweds, now significantly more relaxed than they’d been upon their arrival, smiled at each other, chatted with Millay, and worked on their drinks. The moment Boyd’s whiskey glass was empty, their attentive bartender appeared like a bottle-welding jinn to refill it.

“This is your free one,” Millay announced with a friendly dip of her chin and poured two more shot glasses worth of whiskey into Boyd’s tumbler. She then placed a brand-new beer alongside his pub glass, correctly assuming that the presence of the fresh pour would encourage him to drink down the rest of the first beer in a few gulps.

By this time, Cora had finished her first martini and was studying the menu. When her second martini was half done, Millay told the Vickers that the wait list was moving along at a snail’s pace and that she’d be bringing them a complimentary appetizer platter within a few minutes.

“Do you want to dine here or would you prefer to continue waiting for a table? I’d like you to stay, of course. I prefer a polite couple like you two to a bunch of horny golfers on a weekend trip away from their wives. I had to deal with enough of that sort last night.” She smiled, her beautiful face captivating the tipsy couple.

Cora laughed. “Don’t worry, we’ll eat here. It looks like the band is back from their break. We’ve got great seats for listening to the music and won’t have to wait around for a waitress to bring us drinks.”

“That is a plus,” Millay agreed and disappeared into the kitchen to fetch their appetizer.

Olivia started in her seat when the band, a group of good-looking high school boys led by front man Cody Rigod, Chief Rawlings’ nephew, began the second half of their set with a rowdy rendition of “Get Off of My Cloud” by The Rolling Stones.

It was now impossible to hear what anyone in the bar area was saying, and Olivia was reduced to casting covert glances at the Vickers as they devoured their appetizer and started in on their third round of drinks. However, it was plain to see that Millay was winning their trust. Judging by the way she leaned over to listen to what they were saying, Olivia assumed they were complaining about their afternoon.

Then Millay’s eyes opened wide in shock and she pointed at Harris. He blinked in confusion and stared stupidly from his copy of The Barbed Wire Flower to the Vickers and back to the book again. Soon, all four of them were huddled together, trying to converse over the din.

On the sly, Millay poured the newlyweds another round. Olivia noticed that Boyd was given another boilermaker, but Cora had been served a Blue Orange Martini.

“Vodka, blue Curacao, and Cointreau. Nicely done, Millay,” Olivia mused aloud. “You must have had that ready to go in an extra shaker.” Signaling for a waitress, she placed an order for scallops with mushrooms in a white wine sauce and asked for a glass of Dr. Loosen Riesling.

Ten minutes later, with the quartet at the bar still oblivious to the rest of the world, Olivia took her wine and went into the office to check on Haviland. He’d been fed a meal by one of the sous-chefs and was now taking an after-dinner nap on the carpet. A note on the desk read:

Ms. Limoges, Michel gave me a few recipes for your dog and told me to take good care of him. Tonight Haviland had prime beef mixed with peas, carrots, and rice. He seemed to like it. Thanks, Danny.

Olivia smiled. “Ah, Michel. I miss you. As soon as Kim can take over here, I’ll be back in my little office at The Boot Top where I belong.”

Haviland had been dreaming, his paws flexing and shivering in his sleep, but at the sound of Olivia’s voice, he opened his eyes and raised his head an inch off the floor. She bent down and kissed his black nose. “Go back to sleep, Captain,” she whispered and returned to her table.

The waitress arrived with her meal and fresh glass of Riesling. While Olivia savored the flavorful entrée, Cora and Boyd pushed their empty dinner plates aside and began to indulge in yet another round of drinks.

“I’m going to have to put them up at a hotel,” Olivia murmured to herself. “They can’t drive back to Emerald Isle. They’ll be wrapped around a telephone pole trying to get out of the parking lot.”

Suddenly, Millay made a comment and then gave a flippant shrug of her shoulders. Whatever she said had no effect on Boyd or Harris, but Cora’s reaction was dramatic. Olivia saw the new bride’s stricken face in the mirror and watched as she jumped down from the barstool and lurched through the doors leading outside, Boyd staring after her, his mouth ajar in astonishment. After a pause, he took off in pursuit of his wife.

Olivia waved Harris over. “What happened?”

“Millay made some glib remark about them not having a kid at home to worry about, what with the day they’ve had. Cora’s eyes filled with tears and she tore out of here.”

Perplexed, Olivia pressed a wad of bills in Harris’s hand. “Drive them to a hotel, would you? They’re both blind drunk and I’m responsible for their state of inebriation. Tell them you picked up their dinner tab too. Let them think you’re some rich dot-com guy.”

With a nod to Olivia and a salute for Millay, Harris dashed outside.

Millay cleared the Vickers’ plates and glasses and then sank down in the chair opposite Olivia. “I didn’t touch a nerve until I mentioned kids. We talked about the cops, Nick, money, divorce, sex, and God knows what else and didn’t get so much as a facial tic. Drop the word ‘kid’ and Cora looks like she’s been kicked in the gut.”

“Well played,” Olivia told the bartender. “So Cora has something to hide and it has to do with a child.” She took a final sip of her wine and stood up, lost in thought. “The question is, what about a child? Did she want a baby? Did she lose a baby? Or did something tragic happen to her child? And if she had one, who’s the father?”

Millay fell into step with her as Olivia walked to the office to wake Haviland. “Not Boyd. He doesn’t know a damn thing about it.”

Olivia paused, an image of Laurel hesitating before entering her own house appearing in her mind’s eye. “Married people have secrets too. If Boyd wasn’t aware of that before, he is now. Poor fool.”