The Last Word

Chapter 1

Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.

—CHARLES DICKENS

“All houses have secrets.”

Olivia Limoges was surprised to hear such an enigmatic statement from her contractor, but there wasn’t a hint of humor on Clyde Butler’s weathered face. Perhaps the seasoned builder was merely trying to make a point to the eager first-time homebuyer who stood nearby, one arm wrapped possessively around the porch post.

Harris Williams gazed toward the front door of the aged bungalow with a look of pure devotion, and Olivia could tell he was already visualizing himself living there.

“Regardless of what you’ve discovered, Clyde, I don’t think you can talk Harris out of purchasing this place,” Olivia stated with amusement. “He’s clearly fallen in love.”

Captain Haviland, Olivia’s standard poodle, sniffed around the foundation of the 1930s home and then trotted around the corner, conducting a canine version of a house inspection.

Wearing a hopeful grin, Harris watched the poodle until Haviland disappeared from view, and then picked at a flake of peeling paint with his fingernail. “Everyone thinks I’m crazy, but I can feel that this place has history. That’s important to me. There’s more character in this rusty nail than in all the other places I’ve seen put together.”

Olivia surveyed the facade of the two-bedroom bungalow. It had whitewashed brick walls and rows of large windows with black shutters. Olivia’s favorite feature was the wide and welcoming front porch. Leaves had gathered in between the railings and there were rents and holes in the screen door, but the slate steps felt solid under her feet. She’d been inside with Harris a few days ago and had liked the house. Harris was right. The place had a warm personality. Its modest design spoke of simpler times, of family traditions, hard work, and perseverance. She believed Harris was making a good choice.

Harris continued to defend the bungalow even though no one had argued with him. “I’ve seen a dozen new houses in my price range and, yeah, sure, they all had pristine white walls and stainless steel appliances and shiny light fixtures to go along with the flat lawns and four little bushes and a pair of ornamental trees, but they had zero personality.” He puffed up his cheeks. “They were all like the straw house from the Three Little Pigs, but the wolf doesn’t stand a chance against this place. It’s a rock.”

Clyde nodded. On this, he and Harris agreed. He gestured toward the front door. “If you want strong bones and a solid foundation, you’ll find them here. Houses are like women. The new ones might seem attractive because no one’s touched them and you feel like they’ll treat you well without giving you an ounce of trouble.” A snort. “But they’re built out of cheap materials and will start falling down the second you move in. This old girl is sagging in places and, yes, she’s a bit wrinkled, but she can be made over until she looks like a June bride. She’ll be faithful to the end, but it’ll take lots of labor and expense on your part, my boy.”

Harris’s grin expanded. “Did you know that all the houses on this street were moved during the late sixties to make way for the highway’s expansion? Twelve houses were trucked right down Main Street and brought back to this stretch of empty land like horses being set free on an open pasture.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “This is one of those times I’m thankful you write science fiction, Harris. If you had put a metaphor like that in your recent chapter, I would have sliced it out with a box cutter.”

Harris pushed a strand of unruly, ginger-colored hair away from his eyes. His looks were often compared to those of Peter Pan, and Harris was constantly striving to prove that he was a man, not a boy. Olivia knew her friend believed that being a homeowner would make him appear more of a bona fide adult, and he certainly behaved like he wanted to acquire this house without delay.

As though sensing her thoughts, Harris eased back the sleeves of his shirt and flexed his left bicep. “This property has half an acre bordering on three more acres of woodland. Think of all the manly man activities I can do here. I can chop wood, refinish furniture, spackle walls, grout tile!” He held out his arms, encompassing the house. “I’ll be like Ty Pennington. A bachelor handyman with mad computer skills to boot! Before you know it, I’ll have my own reality show.”

Clyde shook his head. “Before you start rewiring ceiling fans and installing A/C units, we’d better go over my inspection list.”

The two men moved into the house, which Harris’s real estate agent had unlocked a few minutes earlier before retreating to the comfort of her Cadillac. Her daughter, who happened to be nine months pregnant, had phoned shortly after the Realtor had turned the key in the front door. Gesturing for the threesome to enter without her, she’d hurriedly rushed off to take the call in the privacy of her car.

Inside the bungalow, Harris listened carefully as Clyde pointed out flaw after flaw, from the presence of mold behind the wallpaper to wood rot on the stair treads. Pulling back a corner of the stained and faded blue carpet running down the stairs and into the living room, Clyde showed Harris a series of water stains and areas of damage permeating the subfloor. From there, the contractor reviewed every item in his report, explaining how to address each problem and offering an estimate as to what it would cost to fix.

When they were finished, Olivia joined them on the back patio. Haviland reappeared from a copse of trees and settled on his haunches, his warm caramel-colored eyes darting from one face to another, his mouth hanging open in a toothy smile.

Harris rubbed the black curls on the poodle’s neck and then walked over to the brick retaining wall and sat down. He gazed first at the house and then toward the woods, which bordered the scraggly patch of lawn.

Winter’s chill had abated for good and the sun lit the pines, dappling the soft needles on the forest floor with a ruddy light. Squirrels raced up and down the rough bark, and birds twittered from the branches.

Olivia sat beside Harris on the wall, relishing the peacefulness of the moment. Her life had had little quiet of late, and this patio of cracked flagstones surrounded by a garden of weeds was an oasis of blissful calm.

Clyde’s focus remained on the house. He glanced from his notes to the structure and back at Harris. “I know I took some of the wind out of your sails, boy, but I don’t want you to think this is going to be easy. She’s going to make demands of you, but all houses do. In the end, she’ll be worth the work you’re going to have to put in.”

Harris smiled, his cheeks dimpling with pleasure. “And you’ll help me find the right guys to do the jobs I can’t figure out how to do?”

After a solemn nod, Clyde jerked his thumb at Olivia. “I’d get in here with my own toolbox if my taskmaster would let up on me for just a day or two, but she’s hell-bent on opening her Bayside Crab House by Memorial Day weekend.”

“So that’s why you’ve been so interested in real estate lately,” Harris said. “You must be scoping out houses for your brother and his family.”

“Half brother,” Olivia corrected tersely. “And it’s not for me to decide where they’re going to live. I just thought I’d rule out the duds to save time. I need Hudson to review the final kitchen layout for the restaurant, and if he’s running all over Oyster Bay comparing three-bedroom properties, we’re sure to fall behind deadline.”

Clyde gave Harris a meaningful look. “See what I mean? We should send her to Washington. She’d have the deficit licked and both our jobs and our soldiers back from overseas before the lawmakers knew what hit ’em.”

Olivia grimaced. “I have no interest in politics. Let’s go, gentlemen. I believe Harris has an offer to submit before this day is done.”

Olivia shot a glance at Millicent Banks, Harris’s real estate agent, who was parked alongside the curb in front of the picturesque bungalow. She’d been chatting on her cell phone since they’d arrived, and Olivia had hoped the conversation would be a long one. In fact, she had been pleased to have been left alone with Harris and Clyde. Millicent was a shrewd saleswoman, and Olivia hadn’t wanted the Realtor to talk their ears off the whole time. One could glean the true sense of a house only in absolute silence. It was a feeling really. A hunch.

Having stood side by side with Harris inside the sturdy bungalow, Olivia saw no reason to dissuade her friend from submitting a bid, and as the amicable young software designer waved good-bye to Clyde and approached Millicent’s Caddy, the look on his face made it clear that he was smitten with the house.

Olivia smiled as Millicent hastily completed her phone call and sat back against the supple leather of her seat with a nearly imperceptible smirk of satisfaction. Millicent was also the listing agent on this house and stood to make a tidy commission on the property, and while Olivia admired the older woman’s drive, she didn’t want her friend to pay a single cent over what she deemed to be a fair price for the house.

“Can we go back to your office and draw up the papers?” Harris asked as he jumped in the car.

Millicent was about to answer when Olivia leaned against the open passenger door. She gestured for Harris to come close and then whispered a figure into his ear.

“In this market, that’s a solid offer,” she said firmly and then acknowledged Millicent’s presence with a polite nod. “Fixing this place up will put a strain on his savings account as it is.” She fixed her sea blue gaze on Millicent. “The Bayside Book Writers need him to have enough money left over to buy coffee and printer paper, so I’ve given him my recommendation on what I consider to be a fair price. I’m sure there’s wiggle room to be had, seeing as you represent the sellers as well. Am I right?”

“Of course!” Millicent readily agreed and plastered on her best saleswoman grin. “Any friend of yours is a friend of mine.”

“That’s good to know.” Olivia tapped on the Caddy’s hood as though giving Millicent permission to drive away. She then whistled for her poodle and strode to her Range Rover, casting one last glance at the house Harris longed to call his own.

Inside her SUV, she noted the time on the dashboard clock and cursed. She was supposed to meet April Howard for a business lunch at Grumpy’s Diner to go over paint and carpet colors for The Bayside Crab House and was now sure to be late. Olivia hated tardiness. She preferred to arrive for any prearranged meeting at least ten minutes ahead of schedule. Now, she’d have to rush downtown, search for a parking spot along Main Street, and hope that April had secured Olivia’s favorite window booth before anyone else could.

With the onset of spring, tourists had begun streaming back to Oyster Bay. The coastal North Carolina town was already thirty degrees warmer than many northern locales, and the pale-faced, sun-starved vacationers had been counting down the days until their children’s schools let out for spring break. Bypassing long flights to Cancun, Caribbean cruises, and the chaos of Dis-neyworld, the residents of a dozen snow-covered states opted for the quiet beauty of Oyster Bay instead.

Ditching heavy parkas in favor of T-shirts and sunglasses the moment they arrived, the vacationers hopped aboard rental bicycles and pedaled merrily through town, passing yards filled with blooming dogwood trees, pink and purple azalea bushes, and oceans of daffodils. The lawns were Ireland green, and the buzzing of industrious bees and hummingbirds blended with the tourists’ contented sighs.

The locals were equally relieved to see the last of what had been a particularly long and damp winter. Oyster Bay’s economy depended heavily on tourism, and a dry and sunny spring meant the replenishment of the town’s depleted coffers.

Olivia Limoges was landlady to many downtown merchants, but she spent most of her time overseeing the management of her five-star restaurant, The Boot Top Bistro. Today, she drove right by the entrance, searching for a parking spot closer to Grumpy’s Diner, but decided on a space in a loading zone.

A middle-aged dwarf wearing roller skates and pigtail braids met her at the diner’s door. “As I live and breathe!” Dixie Weaver declared, waving at her flushed face with her order pad. “Miss Punctuality is late!”

Frowning at her child-sized friend, Olivia stepped aside as Haviland entered the diner. He placed his black nose under Dixie’s palm and gazed up at her in adoration.

“You sure know how to turn on the charm, Captain.” Dixie ruffled the poodle’s ears and then accepted one of his gentlemanly kisses on the back of her hand. “I know you’re just anglin’ for a juicy steak or some turkey bacon, but I’m the closest thing you’ve got to a godmother, so I might as well spoil you silly!”

It was unlikely that Haviland had heard anything beyond the word “bacon,” as he’d turned tail and made for Olivia’s customary window booth before Dixie could finish speaking, but the diner proprietor gave him an indulgent smile nonetheless.

“You’re certainly in a good mood,” Olivia said, still holding the door. An elderly couple shuffled in and headed for the Evita booth.

Dixie had a strange fascination with Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musicals. As a result, she’d plastered Broadway paraphernalia on every inch of available wall space. Each booth had its own unique theme, and while most patrons found the décor charming, Olivia did not share in her friend’s Webber worship.

Her eyes gleaming with excitement, Dixie looked over her shoulder and then whispered, “You too would be as happy as a cat in a tuna factory if you knew whose lovely, rich buns were planted on the leather in the Starlight Express booth.”

Olivia stole a glance at the middle-aged man dining on a chicken salad sandwich and a mountain of fries. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him. “He’s handsome in a bookish sort of way. An older version of Brad Pitt in spectacles. I suppose he’s a celebrity, since you’re this flustered. Let me guess. He played the lead in Jesus Christ Superstar?”

Placing a hand over her heart, Dixie released a dramatic sigh. “You’ve got the wrong field, but he does work in the arts. Keep guessin’. He’s good-lookin’, smart, is in great shape for a man in his fifties, has the Midas touch. And I just read in People that he sold the film rights to his famous novel for a figure with lots and lots of zeros.”

Now Olivia knew the identity of the diner. “Ah, it’s Nick Plumley, Booker Prize–winning author of the international bestseller The Barbed Wire Flower. I wonder if he’s here conducting research. The Internet’s been rife with rumors regarding a sequel, and his groundbreaking novel was set down the road in New Bern.”

“You’ll have plenty of chances to ask him,” Dixie replied enigmatically. When Olivia didn’t rise to the bait by asking her how, the diner proprietor gave an irritated tug to her sequin-covered lavender top. “You’re about as fun as a preacher at a strip joint, but I’ll tell you anyhow. Mr. Plumley’s rented a house down the beach from your place. You two can bump into one another on a lonely stretch of sand.” Her eyes were shining with mischief. “There’ll be an instant spark between you. Passion will ignite! You’ll tear off your clothes and have wild, steamy—”

“Dixie! You’d better go. The lady in the Evita booth is waving her menu at you. I promise to ogle Mr. Plumley during my meeting with April, but we both have far too much work to do for me to stand here staring at him any longer.” Olivia turned away.

“First you dump Oyster Bay’s most eligible bachelor, and now you don’t give a fig that a gorgeous, unattached, and gifted writer is sittin’ ten feet away, ripe and ready for the pluckin’,” Dixie muttered loudly enough for Olivia to hear. “Maybe what folks say is true: You do have ice runnin’ through your veins.”

“A large cup of your excellent coffee should clear that ailment right up. You can decide what I want for lunch too. You always seem to know what’s best,” Olivia said over her shoulder and then greeted April Howard, the woman in charge of interior design for The Bayside Crab House.

Olivia and April spread swatches of fabric, paint palettes, and carpet samples across the booth, barely leaving room for their lunch plates. April had chosen Grumpy’s famous country fried steak, and Olivia was envious of the lightly battered meat smothered in gravy until Dixie appeared with her lunch—a generous wedge of cheese, shrimp, and mushroom quiche. Olivia had to taste only one bite of the golden crust to know that she’d been given the superior dish.

After serving the two women, Dixie lingered at their booth. She gave Haviland a platter of ground sirloin mixed with rice and vegetables and then asked after April’s kids. She voiced her opinion on the array of fabric samples, picking the gaudiest one of the lot and chiding Olivia for being too conservative.

“This place should be lively! Red, white, and blue, with a few disco balls here and there!” Dixie exclaimed. “Where’s your sense of adventure? Folks are gonna be crackin’ crab claws with little mallets and tearin’ at the meat with their front teeth. This isn’t fine dinin’, you know.”

“We’ll have checkered tablecloths,” April said with a conciliatory smile. “But we need to keep the wall color relatively neutral because we plan to hang dozens of nautical flags in place of framed photographs or posters. Trust me, it’ll be bright and busy.”

“Bright and busy, huh? Just how I like my men,” Dixie joked and skated away to clear dishes from the countertop.

Olivia concluded her business with April, insisted on paying for lunch, and then remained behind while her employee left to make phone calls to suppliers before meeting her kids’ school bus.

Watching April jog across the street, Olivia recalled how she’d first met the talented designer. Last September, April’s husband had been murdered and Olivia had been involved in the investigation. She’d appeared at the Howard’s home in search of a clue and had found one that helped break the case wide open.

Slowly, April was healing from the devastating loss. She often called in sick, and on those days, Olivia guessed the mother of three had been assaulted by a wave of grief too potent to overcome. Olivia knew plenty about the grieving process and was fully aware that time wasn’t the consummate healer people claimed it to be. There were stretches of time in which the pain surfaced with such a raw and unexpected power that it crippled the grief-stricken until it required an immense feat of strength just to get out of bed.

“You did a good thing, takin’ her on.” Dixie had appeared bearing a fresh carafe of coffee.

Olivia waved off the suggestion. “I needed an interior designer and she needed a job. Nothing more to it than that.”

Dixie snorted. “You’re as transparent as a ghost,’Livia. I know you’re payin’ for her kids to be on that special soccer team. Fixed it up to look like some kind of sports scholarship, but you can’t fool this dwarf.”

Olivia put her fingers to her lips. “Don’t tell anyone about that. April isn’t looking for handouts.”

The bells above the diner door tinkled and a man wearing a pale blue blazer strolled in. Both women recognized the logo on the nametag pinned to his lapel. Engraved with a beach house, a lone wave, and the words “Bayside Realty,” the tag indicated that Randall McGraw had come to Grumpy’s to meet with a prospective client. He headed straight for Nick Plumley’s booth and, after shaking the author’s hand, pulled a sheet of paper from a yellow folder bearing the realty’s name and placed it reverently on the table.

Dixie and Olivia exchanged curious glances.

“What are you waiting for?” Olivia hissed. “Get those wheels spinning! I’m dying to know which property he’s looking at.”

With a toss of her bleach blond pigtail braids, Dixie zipped over to Nick’s table, held out the order pad she only pretended to use, as she’d never forgotten an order in her life, and beamed at the real estate agent. She then took her time clearing Nick’s plate and finally skated into the kitchen.

Before Dixie had the chance to report back to Olivia, Nick was pulling bills from his wallet. He collected the sheaf of paper from the Realtor, folded it in half, and left the booth. Instead of exiting the diner, however, he walked right up to Haviland and stopped.

“Your companion is beautiful. Male or female?” he asked Olivia, his eyes on the poodle.

“His name is Captain Haviland,” Olivia answered. “No need to be shy. He’s extremely friendly.”

The author extended his hand, palm up, and Haviland immediately offered him his right paw in return.

“I miss having a dog,” Nick said wistfully. “But I travel so much and it wouldn’t be fair to leave a pet in someone else’s care all the time.”

Olivia grinned, for Nick had given her just the opening she needed to satisfy her curiosity. She gestured at the man in the blazer who was pouring sugar into a glass of iced tea. “It looks like you might be thinking about staying in one place for a while.”

The writer adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. “I’m renting a place at the moment, but I’d like to put down roots here. I have ties to Oyster Bay, and I believe I can achieve a level of anonymity in this town that I’ve yet to find in other places.”

Playing dumb, Olivia cocked her head. “Should I recognize you?”

Nick laughed, and attractive crinkles formed at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “That’ll bring me down a peg.” He extended his hand. “I’m Nick Plumley, author and dog lover at your service.”

Olivia was pleased that his handshake was firm and that his eyes held a smile as he asked for her name.

“I knew who you were,” Olivia confessed after introducing herself. “Still, I couldn’t resist giving you a hard time. Consider it one of our new-resident initiation rites.”

“As long as you don’t shave my eyebrows while I sleep,” Nick replied smoothly and took a seat across from Olivia. “It’s taken me years to perfect this arch.”

The pair began exchanging ideas for other pranks when one of the public school librarians entered the diner. She stopped just inside the door and scanned the room. When she saw Nick, her eyes widened and she scurried over to the window booth, clutching a hardcover against her chest.

“I am so sorry to interrupt, Mr. Plumley.” Her voice was an animated whisper. “But when I heard you were here, in our little diner, I had to rush right over. I am such a big fan. This book—” She gently eased the novel away from her body and touched the cover with reverence. “I thought of those German soldiers as my own brothers. Now that is skillful character development, to make me empathize with Nazis when I lost two uncles to that war.”

My, but Dixie got the word out fast. What’s she doing? Sending out tweets about the diner’s guest? Olivia wondered, watching the author’s reaction over having failed to avoid his celebrity status.

Nick Plumley opened his mouth to thank the elderly librarian, but she didn’t give him the opportunity. “And the murder scene! Utterly chilling. I researched the actual events, of course. We even had the son of one of the Nazi prison camp guards speak at the school’s annual fund-raiser.” She glanced behind her as though the rest of the diners were hanging on her every word. “If you’re working on the sequel, you should interview him. He says he remembers all kinds of stories from those days. I could introduce you.”

Something altered in Nick’s expression. The change was subtle. The laugh lines became shallower, and a shadow darkened his eyes until he blinked it away. His smile, which had been sincere when the librarian first approached the booth, became stiff.

He recovered quickly, however, and offered to sign the woman’s book. She prattled on about area book clubs, wringing her hands in delight as she spelled her last name with deliberate slowness.

“I have quite a collection of signed books,” she informed Nick. “And this one will be given a place of pride among the John Updikes and the Dan Browns.”

Olivia was growing bored with the librarian’s fawning and wondered how the man seated opposite her had survived hundreds of events in which he was subjected to an endless horde of such sycophants.

Without regard for the librarian’s feelings, Olivia cleared her throat and made a show of examining her watch. Luckily, the older woman took the hint and scuttled off, the book once again pressed against her chest.

“Sorry about that,” Nick said, looking strangely weary from the encounter. He sat back, withdrawing into himself, and all traces of the amiable camaraderie that had begun to bloom between them evaporated.

Her curiosity aroused, Olivia tried to draw Nick into revealing more about his personal life, but he politely deflected all of her questions and began to shift in his seat. In a moment, she knew, he’d be gone.

“At least let me see the house listing you’ve got there. I know the best contractor in town, should you need an inspection or repairs.” She gave Nick her warmest smile, opening her deep sea blue eyes wide.

It worked. “Showing you where I hope to live doesn’t say much for my ability to guard my privacy, but for some reason I trust you.” He slid the paper across the table to her.

Olivia unfolded the sheet and drew in a sharp breath. Of all the houses in Oyster Bay, the wealthy writer wanted to purchase the one Harris was dead set on buying.

As Olivia stared at the familiar bungalow, Nick excused himself and headed toward the restroom. Within seconds, Dixie was leaning over Olivia’s shoulder, studying the black-and-white photo.

“I’d have thought he’d go for somethin’ fancier.” Dixie frowned. “What’s the point of bein’ loaded if you don’t toss your money around. It’s not like you can take it with you.”

Olivia jabbed at the paper with her index finger. “Never fear, Dixie. Nick Plumley won’t be living here. He’ll have to choose something more suitable.”

Dixie shook her head. “I don’t think so. I heard him tell the real estate broker that he had to have this house, so I reckon it’s as good as sold.”

Handing Dixie some cash, Olivia stood up and signaled to Haviland to follow suit. “You tell Nick Plumley that this house is unavailable. Tell him it has ghosts or asbestos or that it’s been condemned. Tell him it’s built on sacred Indian burial ground. I don’t care what you say, but tell him it’s off the market.”

Dixie put her hands on her hips. “What on earth has gotten into you, ’Livia? Whether you like it or not, Oyster Bay’s newest celebrity is gonna leave that gorgeous place he’s renting and set out a welcome mat at this little house by Memorial Day. You just mark my words.”

Olivia snatched the paper from the table and opened the front door. As soon as Haviland had trotted outside, Olivia turned to Dixie and calmly declared, “The only way he gets this house is over my dead body.”

Without waiting for a response, she left, shutting the door so firmly that the bells were still ringing when Nick Plumley returned from the restroom to find that the woman, the poodle, and his house listing were gone.