The Last Word

Chapter 16

The eyes indicate the antiquity of the soul.

—RALPH WALDO EMERSON

Thursday passed with Olivia attending to a vast array of tasks at both restaurants. She and Laurel also went on a whirlwind shopping excursion to prepare for the homecoming of her young nephew.

To keep her mind off the fact that she hadn’t heard a word from Rawlings since he’d left The Boot Top to interview Raymond Hatcher, Olivia threw herself into work, scouring the docks for the freshest seafood, tweaking menus with Hudson and Michel, and answering hundreds of e-mails from customers, suppliers, and food critics.

When the inbox on her desk was barren, she and Laurel drove to the closest megamall, talking about everything under the sun other than Laurel’s marital problems. Her articles on Cora and Boyd Vickers and the love story between Evelyn White and Heinrich Kamler had been picked up by several of the big-name papers. As a result, she’d had job offers from across the country, which she’d used as leverage to gain more flexible work hours and a higher salary.

“I’ll be able to bring the boys to their preschool and pick them up again. And when I can’t be there, I can afford to hire this wonderful retired schoolteacher who lives in our neighborhood,” Laurel told Olivia with a smile. “I’m getting the best of both worlds. I get to be around for my kids and have the job of my dreams.”

“I don’t know how you do it all,” Olivia told her friend. “You’re so busy. How will you find the time to work on your book?”

Laurel shrugged. “I write after I put the boys to bed. I’m tired, but I pour myself some wine and sit down at the computer with Michael Bublé or Harry Connick and type away for an hour or two every night.” She twisted a strand of wheat blond hair around her forefinger. “It’s not like Steve and I are sharing a bottle of merlot in the kitchen and swapping stories about our day. We’re not even watching TV together. For the past few months, I’ve barely seen him. He comes home after I’m already in bed, smelling like beer and cigarettes.”

“Have you asked him where he’s been?”

“I’m afraid of the answer,” Laurel said after a pregnant pause. “As long as we’re in this limbo, we’re still a family.”

Olivia cast her a sidelong glance. “And how does Michel fit in this familial arrangement?”

Laurel colored. “He’s just a good friend.”

“You know he wants to be more than that.”

“I told him that I can’t,” she said firmly. “Not while I’m still married. I’m not that kind of woman.”

Olivia wasn’t sure what else there was to say. Only Laurel could determine when she was ready to address the problems with her marriage, and Olivia knew nothing about the intricacies of the institution. It had taken her most of her adult life to meet a man worth taking a risk for, and yet, she had no idea how to follow Jeannie’s advice and do something big to show Sawyer Rawlings that she had no reservations left when it came to starting a relationship with him.

Laurel perked up the moment she entered the children’s boutique. Moving through the store with utmost assurance, she filled a cart with bedding, clothes, diapers, bathing equipment, and toys. She then chose the nursery furniture, insisting upon same-day delivery. When the woman running the customer service desk spluttered an excuse, pointing at the schedule on her computer, Olivia gestured at the pair of loaded shopping carts and said, “We could leave these here and go to another store if that’s what you’d prefer.”

“No, no!” the woman hastily capitulated. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

“I wish I had the guts to do that,” Laurel said after their purchases had been totaled.

Olivia grinned. “I wouldn’t have been so forceful, but the schedule page she showed us was for last week. I don’t like being lied to, I don’t like laziness, and I don’t like people treating me like I’m a nitwit.”

“No wonder Michel respects you so much,” Laurel said with a laugh. “He refers to you as Madame General to the staff, you know.”

“I think that has a nice ring to it,” Olivia replied breezily.

After shopping, the two women and Haviland ate lunch at a dog-friendly outdoor café and then Olivia dropped Laurel off and drove across town to meet Hudson at his house. Hudson gave her a quick tour of his home and then they sat on the stoop and drank iced coffee. It wasn’t long before the deliverymen from the children’s boutique arrived and set up the nursery furniture. Olivia tipped them handsomely and then she and Hudson hung curtains and framed prints and washed a load of baby clothes, blankets, and burp cloths. They put board books and soft toys on the shelves and plugged in a crescent moon nightlight.

When they were done, Hudson stood in the doorway and gazed around the room. Laurel had chosen a sailboat theme for the crib sheets, bumper, and quilt. A mobile of bright boats bobbed from the ceiling, and a lamp shaped like a blue whale threw a scattering of stars against the wall above the changing table. A rug made of squares of primary colors and the framed prints of swimming fish lent the small space a cozy, cheerful atmosphere.

Olivia couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to have such a tiny, helpless being sleeping in this room. She pictured her nephew, his beautiful gray eyes gazing up at the boat mobile, hands curled into fists as he gurgled and cooed at the small aquarium attached to one of the crib rails. Would he cry as he watched the plastic octopus swimming by? Would the lullabies or bubbling noises soothe him to sleep during the early hours of the morning or stimulate him so that he woke up the entire household? Would Anders dream?

“Kim’s going to pass right out when she sees this,” Hudson said, his eyes smiling. “I planned to buy a used crib and a pack of diapers and let it go at that. This room looks like it could be on TV.”

Knowing this was high praise, Olivia nodded in agreement and then removed a gift-wrapped package from a shopping bag. “May I put this in Caitlyn’s room? I didn’t think it was fair to lavish things on my nephew while ignoring my niece.”

“Sure.” He examined the rectangular shape. “What is it anyhow?”

“An art set. It’s a little advanced for her age, but the girl has real talent. You should have seen the drawings she did the night you and Kim came to The Boot Top to finesse the menu for the crab house.” Olivia held up the present, which was wrapped in pink paper covered by silver and purple butterflies. “This has everything a budding artist needs. Colored pencils, pastels, charcoal, paints, brushes, and tons of paper.”

Hudson put his heavy arm around Olivia. He didn’t say a word, but she could feel his gratitude in the gentle squeeze he gave her shoulders. He then gave Haviland a scratch on the neck and glanced at his watch.

“Time for work,” he declared, not bothering to conceal his eagerness to head for the restaurant.

Olivia followed him outside. “You’re going to take a day off when Anders comes home, aren’t you?”

Looking horrified at the prospect, Hudson shook his head. “Not a chance. I plan to be at the restaurant as much as possible. You’ve never lived with a newborn. All they do is eat, sleep, poop, and cry. By the time Caitlyn starts school, things’ll be better, but until then, this is gonna be the summer of no sleep. Don’t be surprised if you find me stretched out on the floor in the office.”

Olivia thought of Laurel, of how she juggled her career and motherhood without much support from her husband.

“Aren’t you modern-daddy types supposed to be hands-on? Changing diapers and getting up with the baby in the middle of the night?”

Hudson snorted. “I’d just make a mess of things. Kim’s real good with the kids. I don’t know how to do things like she does.” He paused, his gaze going distant. “I used to watch her with Caitlyn when she didn’t know I was looking. I’d wonder how she could tell exactly what that kid needed. She knew when to burp her, when to change her, when to sing to her. Seeing Kim like that . . . it was like spying on a stranger.”

Olivia let a moment of quiet settle between them. “I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

“It’s good, I guess. It was just different, that’s all.”

He shifted uncomfortably, and Olivia recognized that her brother had had enough sibling intimacy for the moment. However, she was in a lighthearted mood from working in Anders’ room, so she laughed and chucked Hudson on the arm. “I don’t like change either. Unless I’m revitalizing an old building or starting up a new restaurant, I’d rather stick with the status quo forever. But look at us, Hudson. The time is flying by. We’ve got to be able to keep pace with it, stare it in the eye, and say, ‘Bring on the change. I’m ready.’ ”

Hudson gave her a strange look. “Are we still talking about me here?”

Olivia felt a tinge of heat prickle the skin of her cheeks. “Maybe not.”

By Friday, Rawlings still hadn’t returned Olivia’s calls. He sent the Bayside Book Writers an e-mail saying that he’d try to make their next meeting but that he hadn’t had an opportunity to critique Millay’s chapter. Olivia had switched weeks with Millay because she didn’t know what to do with Kamila now that her character had slept with Ramses. It wasn’t the first time Olivia had faced writer’s block, but this one seemed more formidable than previous ones. She sensed there was a parallel between her own stymied romance and her inability to plot the next passage of Kamila’s life.

“How can I decide what happens next?” she’d complained to the blank document on her computer screen, glowing poltergeist white in the evening light. “I can’t even map out the next scene in my life, damn it.”

Now, as she waited for Kim to call to say that she and Anders and Caitlyn were home, Olivia turned her attention to Millay’s chapter. She was looking forward to seeing what new adventure Millay’s heroine, Tessa, had embarked upon.

A Gryphon Warrior, Tessa had been chosen to defend her land against a scourge of frightening mythological creatures. Up to this point, the narrative had focused mainly on Tessa and her Gryphon. The two were bonded like the dragons and their riders from the Anne McCaffrey books, and Tessa had recently discovered the secret name of her Gryphon. By calling his name, she’d awakened her own magical abilities, but with no training in magic, she was now vulnerable to attack as she headed to the furthermost outpost of her people.

Olivia leaned back in her chair and began to read.

Tessa held on to Variynt’s thick mane as he dove between the sharp spires of rock. The Needle Mountains were a menacing cluster of towering stones, so tall that they blotted out the sun and obscured the horizon. Flying between their narrow, clawlike spires was dangerous at best, and in a thunderstorm with the wind currents shifting every few seconds, it was close to madness.

The Gryphon blinked drops of cold rain from his amber eyes and veered away from a jagged outcrop of rock. Tessa flew with her head tucked against Variynt’s neck, but the biting rain battered the flesh on her hands and face. Finally, the icy downpour abated and the mountains gave way to a stretch of dark wood. It happened without warning. In the space of a heartbeat, Tessa looked up and the rocks were gone.

We’re going to make it, she thought and knew that Variynt had heard her relief. She and her Gryphon were bonded telepathically. Tessa also experienced his pain as if it were her own and had been told by the priests that if her Gryphon died, she would follow him to the White Plains, the place where Gryphon Warriors rested after exhausting lives of battle and strife.

Suddenly, a trio of nets was discharged from the canopy of trees, pinning Variynt’s wings to his sides. He cried out in rage and crashed through the foliage, the branches piercing his skin like razors, Tessa screaming with agony.

Just when she thought they’d collide with the hard ground, their bones snapping like kindling in the fire, the nets jerked upward, and they swayed back and forth, hovering over a clearing.

Tessa fought to regain her breath. The sound of her heartbeat roared inside her head, and Variynt was flooding her with a mixture of anger and distress.

Voices speaking in a foreign, raspy tongue surrounded them, and Tessa struggled to pull the blade from her bootstrap. She never got the chance, for the netting was rapidly removed and several men grabbed her, pinning her down. Though she cursed and spat, her hands were lashed behind her back and then she was yanked to her feet as though she weighed less than a pile of Variynt’s feathers.

Before her stood a cloaked man. He slid the hood from his head, and Tessa held back a gasp. Both of his cheeks were tattooed with dragon scales.

He was a Wyvern Warrior, Tessa’s mortal enemy. The race Tessa’s people had warred against since the dawn of time. He was also the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

And he was smiling at her.

Olivia went back to the beginning of the chapter and made a few notes in the margins. In her opinion, Millay had a tendency to take her metaphors too far. She knew that Millay was a huge admirer of Dean Koontz’s style but didn’t feel that her metaphors were as successful, or original, as Mr. Koontz’s.

Overall, Olivia enjoyed every installment of Tessa’s journey, but something about the last line made her forget all about mythological beasts. Instead, her thoughts turned to Rawlings. Why wasn’t he returning her calls?

Her iMac binged, indicating the receipt of a new e-mail. Olivia minimized Millay’s chapter and noticed the sender was Professor Billinger. He’d sent her an enormous attachment, and she could only hope that he’d discovered something useful. The moment she read his message, she knew that he had.

Dear Olivia,

I hope this note finds you well. Excuse the clichés, but I have been burning the candle at both ends in search of more information on the ill-fated lovers. After exhausting the documents at the North Carolina Museum of History, I traveled to DC and began hunting there.

I won’t bore you with the details, but within the seemingly endless archives of the Library of Congress, I found a treasure trove of documents and photographs on the prison camps of North Carolina. There were dozens of photographs from Camp New Bern, including the one I’ve attached featuring our mutual friend, Heinrich Kamler. Unlike the photo you saw in my office, this one shows his face quite clearly, and as you can see, Kamler stands apart from the rest of the prisoners.

I’ve also attached images of his watercolor rendition of the camp and some shots of the men taking exercise and engaged in other daily tasks. I still have many letters and military reports to wade through and will be in touch if I stumble across anything that could be of use to you.

Please let me know if you’ve made any fresh discoveries. I believe we make an excellent research team.

Affectionately yours,

Emmett Billinger

Olivia scrolled down, her finger hovering over the mouse as her eyes drank in the black-and-white photograph showing a group of uniformed prisoners standing on a row of wooden bleachers. A baseball game was in progress, and the spectators were facing the camera, relaxed and grinning.

The caption indicated that Heinrich Kamler was the last man in the second row, and Olivia immediately understood what Billinger had meant by his comment that Kamler stood apart from the others. He was a head taller than the rest of the men and had a lean, wiry body and the kind of chiseled, handsome face that would be at home on a movie screen. His eyes gazed into middle distance, but the unmistakable look of longing struck Olivia to the quick. She had seen the same expression in those very eyes. Recently.

Her mouth went dry.

She stared at the square jaw, the smooth brow, and the straight, proud nose and wanted to put her head back and cry out in misery. Instead, she hit the print button, pacing back and forth in front of the printer as it strung the pixels together into an image. An image that would shake the entire community.

Haviland watched her with anxious eyes, but Olivia was too lost in the picture emerging from the printer to pay him any heed.

The machine completed its task and the image fell neatly into a tray. Olivia snatched it up and carried it to the window. There was no denying it. The eyes gave him away.

Olivia leaned against the glass, pressing her right cheek against its cool surface as she glanced out at the ocean for a long time, desperately needing to be soothed by the dips and swells of blue.

It failed to comfort her.

She turned her stunned gaze on the interior of her house, her eyes staring at the well-known patterns of tile and wood flooring and carpet. It was as if she didn’t know where she was. Her surroundings, her town, and the people in it seemed to have turned inside out, and all that she knew had become cold and strange.

And no matter how much she wanted to, she could not avoid knowing what she now knew. There was no way to deny the truth that burned her lungs and brought hot tears to her eyes.

Olivia knew the identity of Heinrich Kamler. She’d known him for years and cared for him deeply.

The doorbell rang. Olivia leapt backward like a startled doe.

Haviland began to bark and raced into the kitchen. Olivia followed him slowly, like a sleepwalker. When she opened the door to Rawlings, she could not speak. She merely shook her head, again and again, clutching the photograph of Heinrich Kamler in her hand.

“Shhhhh,” the chief hushed her and gently pried the paper from beneath her fingers. He studied the image in silence and then touched her cheek. “Olivia, I’m sorry that it has to end this way. Raymond Hatcher is innocent of Nick Plumley’s murder. Heinrich Kamler is the killer.”

Mutely, Olivia averted her gaze, but Rawlings put a hand under her chin and forced her to look at him. “I came to tell you before I picked him up. It’s against every rule and regulation, and I’m half disgusted with myself for being here, but I knew this would hurt you. I didn’t want you to find out from anyone but me, but I can see that I’m already too late. I suppose your professor friend sent you this?”

Olivia didn’t even hear the question. She dug her fingertips into the fabric of the chief’s uniform sleeve and squeezed him hard. “Let me be the one,” she begged, her voice hoarse and pitiful. “Let me go to him first.”

Rawlings dropped his eyes. “I can’t allow that. You’d have him on the next plane, the next boat, anything to save him.”

“Even if I offered, he wouldn’t run,” she whispered. “He didn’t want to before. Ziegler forced him to. Please, Sawyer. I want him to have a friend there when you come for him. He’s been on his own for so long.”

The muscles in the chief’s jaw pulsed as he waged an internal battle over what was more important, following procedure and ensuring an airtight case or allowing another human being a moment of grace. In the end, he decided that Heinrich Kamler was worthy of a little compassion.

“You have an hour,” he stated sternly. “And I’m trusting you, Olivia.”

Too overwhelmed by emotion to respond, Olivia wiped the tears from her cheeks and gestured for Haviland to accompany her to the car. She backed out of the driveway, leaving sprays of dust and sand in her wake.

Never had she imagined that the end of the investigation would lead to the door of a friend. She’d always assumed that the killer would be some cruel and twisted stranger, a vengeful, spiteful, or greedy man with a black heart. But this one was funny, kind, and hardworking. He was one of them. He belonged to them.

Olivia sped through town, oblivious of everything around her. Five miles beyond the business district, she turned onto a narrow lane sloping down to the harbor. A small house with brown shingles sat perched on a gentle rise above the water. A worn path led to a small dock where a one-man fishing skiff was tethered, leisurely bobbing in the mild current.

The sight of the tiny vessel nearly made Olivia stumble, but she managed to make it to the front door.

There was no need to knock. Heinrich Kamler had seen her coming and had opened the door to welcome her inside.

“I’m glad it’s you, ’Livia,” he said in a voice heavy with sorrow. “Of all the people in this town, I’d have chosen you to know the truth.”

Olivia nodded, angry that she could not control the tears that rushed down her face.

“There, there,” the man said and reached for her. “I reckon we’ve got time for a glass of sun tea before the chief comes for me.”

She went to him, putting both arms around his back, taking in the frailty of his body. She traced the vertebrae of his spine and could feel his ribs through his thin, aged skin. Yet in her mind, she saw him as Evelyn White had seen him, a young man in the prime of life. A young man doomed by a lie.

The only comfort she had to offer was this embrace.

Olivia held him close. Haviland licked their hands and whined anxiously, as she whispered his name over and over again. “Wheeler . . . Wheeler . . .”