The Last Word

Chapter 12

Life is not significant details, illuminated by a flash, fixed forever. Photographs are.

—SUSAN SONTAG

Olivia twirled the Mercury dime on the tabletop, watching it reflect splinters of morning light onto the Formica. It winked like a buoy on the water until bumping into the edge of her coffee cup and then clattering to a stop. She picked up the dime and sent it spinning once again.

“Are we borin’ you?” Dixie asked, indicating the half-empty diner with her hand. “See Mr. Jeffries? The cute little man at the Evita booth? He’s been lookin’ for an excuse to sing ‘Mr. Mistoffelees’ ever since I can remember. Should I tell him you’d like nothin’ better than to hear your favorite song from Cats?”

“Not if you value your life,” Olivia threatened and then sighed. “And I’m not bored, just impatient.” She tapped on her cell phone, which sat on the center of the table alongside her coffee cup. “I’m waiting for two calls. One from Greenville and the other from Chapel Hill. I was hoping to have been on the road by now, but my damned phone refuses to ring.”

Dixie climbed into the booth opposite Olivia and stretched out her short legs on the surface of the red vinyl cushion. “Oh, that feels good. I’ve been skatin’ my ass off since five thirty.” She glanced at her purple Swatch. “This is late for you to be eatin’ breakfast. And no laptop? What’s goin’ on with my favorite Egyptian strumpet?”

“Not a thing since she managed to seduce Ramses. I can’t concentrate on Kamila. Nick Plumley’s murder has taken over my thoughts. That and an incident that occurred at The Boot Top last night, but I absolutely cannot tell you about that, so don’t even ask.”

Dixie opened her mouth to speak when Olivia’s phone vibrated, causing it to skid sideways. Olivia swept it up and examined the screen. “It’s a text message with an attachment. I have no idea how to open this. I’m not thirteen, for crying out loud.”

“Don’t be such an old fart,” Dixie chided and reached for the phone. “Come on, you know my arms are too stubby to grab that far, so give it here.”

Olivia obeyed, and Dixie punched a few buttons and then read the message aloud. “ ‘Anders is doin’ fine. Caitlyn and I spend most of the day at the hospital and I’ve been able to hold my boy and even give him his first bath. Nurse Love is visitin’ us today. She is an angel! Here’s a pic of another angel. This is Anders sendin’ love to his Aunt Olivia. oxox Kim.’ ” Dixie fluttered her fingertips over the phone and then her face broke into a bright smile. “Lord have mercy! If this isn’t the most precious child I have ever seen!”

She placed the phone flat on the table and pushed it toward Olivia. A cherubic face rested in the middle of the screen, and Olivia pulled the Anders image closer. “He’s filled out,” she remarked proudly. “Look at those dimples. And his eyes . . . they’re not dark like Hudson’s. They’re gray. Almost pewter. Beautiful.” She felt a warmth spread through her chest, rushing up her neck to her cheeks. It was an odd feeling, this delight over receiving a photo of her half brother’s child, but delight is what it was, pure and simple. In a small way, this child belonged to her. They were tied to each other by the bonds of blood and the finer, less tangible thread of experience. Olivia had been on the other side of the wall while the doctors had repaired Anders’ heart, she had stood over his incubator when the surgery was over, and she had touched his tiny hand. With that touch, she had instantly committed herself to him.

“Look at you, ’Livia!” Dixie teased. “That boy’s got you wrapped around his itty-bitty finger. I’m surprised you haven’t hired a helicopter to fly him home to Oyster Bay.”

Olivia pretended to mull over the idea. “Too noisy,” she replied. “But there is the nursery to consider. I don’t know if Hudson got the crib ready or has a supply of diapers and all the millions of gadgets one seems to need to raise a child these days. I should stop by the house and find out.”

“Bring Laurel along,” Dixie suggested. “She’ll point out what’s missin’, and you two can do some damage with your Visa card. Shoot, I might move into Anders’ room, especially if Grumpy won’t stop wakin’ me up at two in the morning . . .” She trailed off. “Hey, why’d a black cloud form over your head when I mentioned Laurel? Does she have somethin’ to do with what happened last night at The Boot Top?”

Haviland got up from his seat on the floor, stretched, and stuck his nose between Dixie’s skates. He sniffed the wheels with great interest and then sat on his haunches, looking expectantly from one woman to the other.

“See? Even Captain wants you to spill.” Dixie lowered her voice. “Fifty bucks says she’s got the hots for Michel.”

Olivia, who had just poured a small whirlpool of cream into her coffee, held her teaspoon in the air. “How did you know that?”

Dixie lifted her chin and looked smug. “Honey, I’ve got two good eyes in my head. Every time I run into that man at the docks or the grocery store or even at the farm stand south of town, he acts like he’s lost in a dream. A man doesn’t walk around wearin’ a secret little smile on his face unless there’s a woman involved.” She shook her head. “I just never thought it would be Laurel. I know your French-fried chef has a thing for married women, but Laurel? She’s a girl scout!”

“I don’t think they’re having an affair, so don’t go spreading this around like a cold. Last night, I walked in on Michel comforting Laurel, and they looked, well . . .”

Dixie studied her friend. “Like they fit in each other’s arms?”

Olivia nodded.

“And what about Mr. Pearly Whites? Do you think he knows his wife has her eye on another man?”

Even though the cream had already dissipated into the coffee, Olivia stirred the spoon around and around, staring into the light brown brew as though it held an answer. She raised the spoon, cutting through a swath of steam, and then placed it absently on a napkin. “Laurel believes that Steve has been cheating on her for months, maybe longer. The whole thing’s a mess.”

“What are you going to do?” Dixie asked with concern.

“Not a damn thing,” Olivia answered in surprise. “I make it a point not to get involved in domestic squabbles.”

Dixie undoubtedly had much to say on the subject but was forced to call an end to her impromptu break when Grumpy stuck his head out of the kitchen and bellowed, “Order up!”

Haviland took this as a sign that he should accompany the dwarf as she zipped off to the pickup window. Seeing as he was encouraged by Dixie’s whispered promises of a plate of crunchy turkey bacon, Olivia let the poodle wander away.

Thankfully, her phone vibrated again, and this time, Olivia recognized the name and greeted the caller with uncharacteristic affability.

Professor Emmett Billinger was exuberant. “I phoned the second I finished listening to your voice mail this morning. I’d be glad to exchange information and to show you these extraordinary photographs. And you’re willing to drive here? And to bring the painting?”

Olivia assured him that she was more than happy to spend a few hours in the car if it meant discovering a clue to Nick Plumley’s murder. Harris’s Heinrich Kamler watercolor had been safely stored in the vault of the Coastal Carolina Bank, and Olivia told the professor that she’d pick up the painting and be at his office by lunchtime.

“Splendid! I’ll have sandwiches ready so we don’t have to interrupt our time together searching for food.”

Sensing that she was going to get along with this efficient academic, Olivia asked whether he had any objection to Haviland’s presence.

“Not at all. I’m owned by a pair of rescued greyhounds,” he replied cheerfully. “They go to daycare when I’m at work, but I’ll have a suitable meal on hand for your companion.”

Olivia left money on the table and peered into the kitchen while Dixie was busy delivering platters of Belgian waffles. On the other side of the swinging door, Olivia caught Grumpy tossing a piece of meat into the air directly above Haviland’s quivering snout. With a flash of teeth and a lightning-quick snap of the jaw, the meat disappeared into the poodle’s mouth.

“You’re not going to make much of a profit giving away food like that,” Olivia remarked with a grin.

Grumpy was a man of few facial expressions. He glanced at her and then cracked a pair of eggs onto the sizzling grill. “With the tips you give Dixie, I don’t need to worry about it.”

Casting her eyes around the orderly kitchen, Olivia paused for a moment to consider what it would be like to spend eight hours in the same space, day in and day out, with only an aged radio for company. “What’s it like? The life of a master fry cook.”

Many people would have taken offense at such a question, but Grumpy knew she meant no harm. “It’s quiet,” he answered stoically. “Before this, I didn’t have much quiet. I’m no chef, but I make decent food, and folks can afford to eat here regular. I’m proud of that.”

Grumpy slid the eggs on a plate, dumped two cups of crisp hash browns beside them, and piled four strips of bacon on top of the potatoes.

Olivia snapped her fingers at Haviland, and then, before turning to leave, she touched Grumpy briefly on the shoulder. “This diner is the heart of our town. And your food is far better than decent. Don’t tell your wife, but I don’t come here because of the décor.”

A rare rumble of laughter followed her through the swinging kitchen door.

Olivia’s drive to Chapel Hill was uneventful. On the way, she listened to an audiobook dramatizing the life of one of her favorite women, Eleanor of Aquitaine. It was easy to become lost in Eleanor’s world of drafty castles, thwarted romance, and endless wars while traveling west on I-40, but when she neared Chapel Hill, she was too distracted by the traffic and a landscape populated predominantly by chain stores that she had to turn off the CD.

“Talk about suburban sprawl,” she said to Haviland. “Last time I was here, none of these strip malls existed.” She sighed. “Small-town America is disappearing before our eyes. I hope the area around the university is better preserved. I remember it as being so charming.”

To her relief, Franklin Street was relatively unchanged. The college town was not as bustling as it would be when the students returned in August, but it was far from sleepy. Olivia knew that downtown Chapel Hill was a hotspot for both foodies and music lovers and felt a pang of remorse that she’d have to make do with sandwiches for lunch when she could be trying out one of the many unique cafes. Instead of enjoying summer rolls at Lime & Basil or vegetable fritters from Mama Dip’s, she’d probably end up with cold turkey, processed cheese, and a leaf of limp lettuce squashed between two store-brought slices of bread.

Her anticipatory mood could not be deflated by thoughts of lunch, however. The university at Chapel Hill’s tree-lined campus was simply too lovely, too replete with tasteful architecture and an aura of history to inspire any feelings other than optimism and a sense of purpose.

Finding parking near Hampton Hall was no easy feat, and Olivia flirted with the idea of occupying a faculty spot.

“I doubt they’re all here today,” she stated defensively to Haviland, who cocked his head to the side and sniffed to indicate his disapproval.

Billinger’s office was on the second floor. The thick, wood door was ajar, and Billinger was at his desk. He was examining a document turned yellow with age but immediately glanced up when he heard Olivia’s footsteps and the sound of Haviland’s paws come to a halt at his threshold.

“You’re ten minutes early,” he said, rising to his feet. “Excellent.”

Moving around his desk, he shook Olivia’s hand firmly and then held out his palm for Haviland to smell. The poodle was clearly interested in the scent of other canines he detected on Billinger’s skin and clothes but was too polite to sniff the professor’s pant leg or shoe. Instead, he gave the man a welcoming smile and waited to be invited inside.

Emmett Billinger was handsome in a bookish way. In his late forties, he was tall and slim like Olivia. Like her, his thin frame radiated good health and strength, and the flush on his cheeks indicated that he didn’t spend all of his time indoors. His eyes were brown, as were the frames of his glasses and his tousled hair. Olivia liked his face, seeing in it a contrary mixture of boyish eagerness and the wisdom of an old soul.

The jacket of Billinger’s seersucker suit was draped on the arm of a small sofa, and he’d rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, revealing gently freckled forearms. Olivia had never laid eyes on a man who looked sexy in a bowtie, but Emmett Billinger did.

“Are you hungry?” he asked politely, indicating a neatly laid table with a view out the only window.

Olivia shook her head, taking in the built-in bookcases, the wooden file cabinets, and the attractive design of the blue and maroon Oriental rug obscuring most of the industrial gray floor. “This is a wonderful office.” She removed the canvas bag holding Harris’s painting from her shoulder and laid it carefully on the sofa. “Would you like to clear a space on your desk?”

Billinger jumped to comply. He piled papers, file folders, and his laptop onto the bookshelves behind the desk and then stood back, waiting for her to set the painting on the clean surface.

Without speaking, she unwrapped the watercolor from its protective layers and stepped back, allowing Billinger the time and space he required to examine it.

Olivia settled on the sofa with Haviland at her feet and watched the professor. She liked how he sat very still and studied the winter scene, his eyes glimmering with unadulterated pleasure. He then slid on a pair of gloves, similar to those worn by the museum curators, and drew a jeweler’s loop from a desk drawer. He looked at Heinrich Kamler’s initials and then, a slow smile creeping across his face, turned the painting over.

“This is marvelous,” he declared happily, meeting Olivia’s eyes briefly before letting them fall on the handwriting again. “This inscription . . .” He pushed back his chair, grabbed a file folder, and hurried to take a seat next to her on the sofa. “It sheds light on a relationship that presented itself during the course of my research earlier in the year. I’ve seen a photograph of Kamler and Evelyn White and, earlier this year, heard stories about them from another guard’s child. That child, who’s now an elderly woman named Mabel, has been my primary source up until this point, but this is the first written evidence I’ve laid eyes on that suggests the extent to which Kamler cared for Miss White.”

He handed Olivia a black-and-white photograph. “This has been digitally enhanced, but it shows Heinrich Kamler giving Evelyn White a painting lesson.”

The image showed a dark-haired girl in a modest, light-colored dress, seated on a campstool in front of an easel. She held a paintbrush in her right hand and was facing a small canvas, but her eyes slid sideways and her mouth curved into a slight and secretive smile. Kamler was in profile, but it was clear from his chiseled features and locks of thick hair that he had been a good-looking man. He held a palette in one hand and was gesturing at the canvas with a wood-handled knife in the other. His expression was one of unmasked adoration.

“That’s the knife that was used to kill the guard the night Kamler and Ziegler escaped.” Billinger handed her another photo, this one a blowup of the knife in Kamler’s hand.

But Olivia didn’t take the photo. Her mouth hung agape in shock. “Ziegler? That was the second prisoner’s name? The one who escaped with Kamler?”

“Yes. I thought you knew that already.” Billinger’s face clouded in confusion.

Accepting the photograph, Olivia explained, “Nick Plumley’s real name is Ziegler. That’s no coincidence.”

Billinger nodded. “Absolutely not. Nick was Ziegler’s son.” He pointed at the photo, unaware that Olivia was still trying to absorb what he’d just said. “See this knife? There’s an H burned into the handle. The piece is now in the North Carolina history museum. It’s difficult for me to call it a weapon after seeing it in this scene with Kamler and Evelyn.”

“They’re both so young,” Olivia whispered, temporarily distracted by the first photo of Evelyn and Heinrich Kamler. She’d need a moment to herself to fully consider the significance of Nick’s parentage.

“Evelyn would have been sixteen and Kamler eighteen,” Billinger agreed. “He was one of the youngest crew members on the U-352 sunk off the North Carolina coast. It’s no wonder he and Evelyn hit it off. According to the woman I spoke with in the spring, Kamler already knew some English and, by the time of his escape, spoke it like a native North Carolinian, right down to our ever-so-subtle drawl. And Evelyn had always loved art, so it’s easy to see why she fell for the talented German.”

“But I’m astonished that her parents would approve of her being taught by the enemy. Wouldn’t the Whites have been ostracized by giving their consent?”

Billinger was clearly delighted by the question. “In the beginning of the war, probably. But as the war dragged on, most of them became a part of the community. They went to baseball games and the cinema, worked the area farms, and traded with the townsfolk. All of these activities took place under guard, but toward the end of the war, several locals were being given language lessons by the prisoners. As long as Evelyn was chaperoned, no one viewed her art classes as a scandal.”

Fascinated, Olivia took the rest of the photos Billinger held out. “Did you get all of these from Raymond Hatcher?”

Billinger shook his head. “Just those three on top. They’re perfect for my research, though, because they show the prisoners interacting with the guards and other locals. Here’s a prisoner trading handmade soap for some fresh fish.” He moved closer to her, pointing enthusiastically at the next photograph. “Now we have two prisoners and three guards playing cards for peanuts. It wasn’t uncommon for prisoners to work in the peanut farms or pick cotton or help out in the paper mill, and as you know, peanuts are a healthy and filling snack and were often more useful than money.”

Olivia was amazed at the expressions of amicability between the prisoners and their keepers.

“In these next few photographs, the prisoners are wearing American uniforms or civilian clothing,” Billinger explained. “These men had probably been in our country long enough to blend in. Even today, many people are startled to learn that Germans and Italians, Austrians and Poles, and French and Czechs were filling the manual labor jobs left empty after our men went overseas.”

When Olivia came to a large image showing a group of prisoners posing for the camera with the frank, open stares of schoolchildren, she paused for a long while. These young men were as fresh-faced and wholesome as any group of American soldiers. They stood straight-backed and proud in the back row. In the front row, they knelt, one arm slung casually over a raised knee, as though they’d been interrupted in the middle of playing baseball or dancing with a pretty girl.

Olivia looked into their eyes, all rendered into dark pools by the black-and-white film, and wondered which of these men had returned to their homes, which had been shipped to another camp, and which had died before the armistice.

She felt the waste of war in her hands, and suddenly, the photographs felt very heavy. The images of these boys, both foreign and American, whose lives had been turned inside out by circumstances beyond their control, filled her with sorrow. A part of her felt foolish too. She lived so close to Camp New Bern and had never known about its existence or that prisoners from other countries had toiled to put food on the tables of her fellow North Carolinians.

“Very few of these guys were Nazis, you know,” Billinger said, misreading her frown. “Many were coerced into joining the army. Threatened. Some wanted to defend their homeland even though they didn’t support Hitler. Nothing about war is as black-and-white as these photographs.”

His words echoed Olivia’s feelings exactly. War, like a murder investigation, was a mess of emotion, conflicting stories, and useless violence. The pair fell silent for a moment. Haviland yawned and gazed up at them, his eyes conveying his interest in procuring a midday meal.

“Why don’t you tell me how I can help while we eat?” Billinger suggested, ruffling Haviland’s ears. “I picked up some muffulettas from one of my favorite sandwich shops, and I have bottles of Perrier in my dorm fridge. Please.” He pulled a chair up to the table by the window and held the back, waiting for Olivia to be seated. “I brought Haviland organic chicken breast. That all right?”

“Perfect,” Olivia answered, warming to the professor more and more as the hour progressed. The sandwich was delicious. Her fear of being forced to swallow processed meat and cheese disappeared the moment she tasted salami, ham, mortadella, mozzarella, provolone, and a tangy olive spread piled between round slices of fresh Italian bread.

Billinger poured Perrier into two coffee mugs and clinked the rim of his cup against hers. “So what are you looking for, Olivia? What does Nick Plumley’s death have to do with Kamler’s painting or the New Bern camp?”

She swallowed a mouthful of sandwich. “As I said over the phone, Nick Plumley didn’t just die; he was murdered. I can only assume that he changed his name from Ziegler to Plumley because he was ashamed to be the son of an escaped prisoner. Either that, or his father had adopted the surname Plumley in order to avoid capture. Whatever the reason, Nick’s father must have given him a firsthand account of life in the camp, his and Kamler’s escape, and how Kamler killed the prison guard, so why was Plumley searching for additional accounts?”

Picking a wayward sesame seed from his shirt, Billinger looked thoughtful. “Since listening to your voice mail, I’ve wondered about that as well. I’m writing a nonfiction book on the POW camps in North Carolina, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a historian, it’s that one cannot find the facts without also sifting through a heap of gossip and rumor. Sometimes, rumor leads to fact. I wonder if that might be the case with your murder investigation.”

Olivia put down her sandwich. “Please explain.”

“Mabel, the woman I mentioned, was also the child of a prison guard. Like our mutual friend Raymond Hatcher, Mabel was a terrific source for personal accounts of life at Camp New Bern from a young person’s perspective. In fact, Mabel was a teenager then, so her memories are more detailed than the ones Mr. Hatcher recalls his older brother having told him. Mabel and Evelyn White were best friends.”

This revelation caused Olivia to lean forward in her chair, anxious for the professor to keep talking.

Billinger took a sip of Perrier, as though he needed a moment to pluck up the courage to continue. “Mabel repeatedly told me that Evelyn and Heinrich Kamler were lovers. She also refused to accept that Kamler murdered Hatcher. According to Mabel, Kamler had a gentle and quiet nature. He was popular among the guards, the other prisoners, and the locals. More importantly, he was content, or so Mabel claims. She was adamant that Kamler had no desire to escape because he had no family left in Germany and he would never want to be parted from Evelyn. He planned to marry her when the war was over, naive as that may sound to you and me.”

Rising to her feet, Olivia returned to Billinger’s stack of photographs and picked up the one of Evelyn and Heinrich. His features were too distant to be perfectly clear, but even a blurred image couldn’t suppress the easy attraction passing between him and Evelyn. “What if Kamler was innocent?” Olivia looked at Billinger. “He was never captured, right?”

“No.”

“What if Kamler wanted to punish Plumley for branding him a murderer?”

Billinger rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And becoming the thing he was falsely accused of being? And why now? The Barbed Wire Flower has been out for ages.”

“Maybe Kamler didn’t have access to Plumley until now,” Olivia guessed. “Maybe he didn’t know he was Ziegler’s son. Maybe Ziegler was actually responsible for the guard’s death.”

With an indulgent grin, Billinger indicated the seat Olivia had abandoned. “All conjecture.”

“And what of Evelyn?” Olivia asked, her eyes betraying her hope. “Is she still alive?”

“I’m afraid not,” Billinger replied softly. “She passed away several years ago.”

Olivia didn’t return to her lunch. She was too restless to sit down. Something was gnawing at her, an elusive thought she couldn’t grasp. It fell away like a handful of sand running between her fingers. She also knew she wasn’t asking the right questions yet. “Plumley was looking for this painting. If I can find out why it mattered to him, I believe this murder investigation will crack wide open. Could we visit Mabel? I’d like to hear her talk about Evelyn and Heinrich.”

Billinger hesitated. “She’s in a nursing home in Hills-borough, a town north of here. It’s only a twenty-minute drive, but it might be a waste of time. Mabel’s mind is not what it once was. She’s been steadily deteriorating into senility.”

Wrapping up her sandwich to indicate her decision, Olivia stared, unseeing, at the butcher paper. “Did Mabel ever mention Ziegler?”

“Several times. He was a late arrival to the camp and a full-blooded Nazi. He and a small group of men kept themselves apart from the rest of the prisoners, and according to Mabel, Ziegler was also in love with Evelyn White.”

Olivia walked around the professor’s desk and looked down at the faint note written on the back of Kamler’s painting. “This message can be read one of two ways. Either Heinrich is telling Evelyn that he’s planning to escape and they can elope, or he’s assuring her that the war is drawing to a close and that he will find a way to remain in the States and build a life for them both.”

After wiping his hands on a napkin, Billinger put on his cotton gloves again and tenderly turned the painting over. “What do you see when you look at that cabin?”

“Sanctuary,” Olivia answered immediately. She had had plenty of time to consider the emotions that the cozy structure evoked. “Security. Home. Welcome.”

Billinger nodded. “This might very well be an image from Kamler’s past, from his childhood. But it could also be his hope for the future. A simple life, a private life, a place where one could step away from the world and hide. A nest, so to speak.”

“Evelyn would have been a legal adult by the end of the war,” Olivia said, her eyes riveted on the bar of light streaming from the crack under the cabin’s front door. “How was he planning to support her even if he could stay? As an artist? A farmhand?”

An idea struck Billinger. He clamped his hand around Olivia’s forearm in an attempt to gain her full attention even though her eyes were already locked on his face. “The last time I went to visit her, Mabel was going on and on about Evelyn’s treasures. It didn’t make any sense at the time, but what if Evelyn had more paintings? What if there are more of these”—he gestured at the watercolor—“hidden in your friend’s house?”

A knot of fear formed in Olivia’s stomach. “Then Harris isn’t safe. Kamler’s works are worth a small fortune.”

Wordlessly, the pair flew into motion. Olivia packed up the painting, and Billinger tossed the debris from their lunch into the trash bin. Grabbing his suit jacket, he hurriedly collected the photographs and dropped them into a large envelope.

“Bring the painting,” he told Olivia. “Who knows what flood of memories might come flowing from Mabel’s mind when she sees it.”

Olivia shouldered the bag and pulled her cell phone from her purse. “I’m glad you’re driving. I need to put a call in to Oyster Bay’s police chief and have him put a detail on Harris’s house.”

“You know the chief of police?” Billinger seemed impressed.

Thinking of Rawlings’ brown eyes flecked with green and gold, his tacky Hawaiian shirts, his penchant for chocolate milk, and his undeniable skill as an artist, Olivia murmured, “Not as well as I’d like, but I plan to do something about that very soon.”