The Last Word

on me, waitin’ for the war to be over . . .”

“You had to run,” Olivia said soothingly.

His face clouding with grief, Wheeler nodded. “I wanted to go straight to Evie, just to tell her I’d be back for her and that I didn’t do what they were gonna say I did, but I didn’t know where she lived.” He stared at the water, the hopelessness of that night replaying across his features. “I had a general idea, but there wasn’t time to roam around the streets lookin’ for her window.”

“Did you know where Ziegler was headed?”

“No. If I’d known, I’d have gone after him, dragged him back by his hair. He was a snake and a coward and all twisted inside.” Wheeler gestured to the west. “I made my way to the mountains. Took clothes hangin’ out to dry and pinched scraps from farms. I hated myself for it too. I’d always been good with my hands and I found work at a mill, fixin’ gears and wheels and such.”

Olivia looked at him. “And you became Wheeler Ames. Wheeler by trade and Ames as a show of respect to the murdered guard?”

He sat back in surprise. “That’s what his buddies called him. See, one of the non-English-speakin’ prisoners couldn’t get the J out, and after that, Ames just stuck. I never wanted to forget the man, so I used that name for my own. By that time, I could pass as a local and I never did talk much anyhow. Folks thought I had gone soft in the head durin’ the war and they were only half wrong. Havin’ to leave Evie . . . havin’ her wake up to hear I was a murderer and a liar . . . a runaway . . .” He trailed off.

“You never tried to contact her?”

Anguish pulled the corners of Wheeler’s mouth down. “I sent her letters in the beginning, but she didn’t answer. I reckoned she’d washed her hands of me, that she thought I was a killer. I even found her house when I thought it was safe to come back, but she and her family were gone.” He shook his head mournfully. “I let her go. Or tried to. I’ve been with other women, but I never loved any woman but her.” His eyes flashed, anger chasing away the regret. “And when I heard Ziegler’s boy talkin’ about her, whisperin’ to that ex-wife of his and her lump of a boyfriend, I knew I was gonna end him. It’s a scary thing, girlie, to realize you’ve got that inside you. And I’m not real sorry either, ’Livia. Only about hurtin’ folks like you. But I don’t have much life left in me anyhow. If folks think bad of me, I won’t hear about it for long and I don’t have to read the papers in jail.”

“You sound almost relieved that you’ll be locked up,” Olivia said gently.

Wheeler reached over and placed a weathered hand over hers. “I’m tired, my girl. I’m old and there are places achin’ inside that I thought were all scarred over. I just wanna sit down for a spell, read a few books, and die in my sleep. Don’t care where that happens. Jail’s as good a place as any other.”

Olivia tried to imagine her aged friend lying quietly on a cot, reading a novel as his cell neighbors adorned themselves with homemade tattoos or wrote entreating letters to a family member or, if they were lucky, to a lover.

“Do you wanna know it all?” Wheeler asked, and Olivia knew that he hoped she’d say no.

“I do,” she answered without pause. “We’ve all been involved, my friends and I, in some way or another. I need to know.”

Wheeler hesitated. “I hate to have you look at me with different eyes, but it’s too late to fret about that now.” He took a long drink of sun tea, and Olivia was aware that she had never heard Wheeler speak as much as he had for the past few minutes. The effort was draining him, the paper-thin wrinkles beneath his eyes drooped lower on his cheek and his breath was slightly labored.

“I didn’t have a plan,” he began slowly. “Just spent the whole night imaginin’ how Plumley had killed Evie. They didn’t whisper about that part, he and that Cora woman, and I only heard as much as I did because she thought he wasn’t gonna pay up anymore. She started hollerin’ at him when I was in the kitchen diggin’ around for more coffee filters, but I heard. I heard her mention Evie and what Plumley did to her with her own pillow. I nearly went blind with hate. It crippled me, or I would have killed the man then and there.”

“Cora Vickers,” Olivia said. “She and Boyd came to Oyster Bay to collect Cora’s scheduled payment. Plumley had to pay or she’d sell the story of what he’d done to Evelyn to the highest bidder.”

“I don’t know the ins and outs, but Plumley was stallin’, tellin’ her to be patient. Guess he’d been burnin’ through his book money real quick—seems he was a gambler and not a very good one—and had to wait for some check to come in. That’s when his ex said Evie’s name, and I felt like Ziegler had sucker punched me all over again.” He put his glass down, hard, and strung his fingers together. “The next mornin’, I grabbed Plumley’s favorite bagel and drove over to the big house he was rentin’ near yours.” He frowned. “I never thought you’d find him,’Livia. If there’s somethin’ I really regret, that’s it.”

Olivia touched him on the arm. “Go on.”

Wheeler nodded. “He was in his robe with a cup of coffee in his hand when I rang the bell. He was surprised to see me, but he asked me in. I sat across from him at the table and told him my real name. I told him how Evelyn White had been the shinin’ star, the brightest memory of my life and how a day didn’t go by that I didn’t think of her.”

“Wow.”

“I asked him if what that Cora woman said was true. For a second he thought about lyin’, but he knew I’d already seen the answer in his eyes.”

It was impossible for Olivia to imagine how Nick’s confession had impacted Wheeler, and she listened in astonishment as her old friend continued to talk about the moments leading up to Nick Plumley’s death.

“He told me how she’d read his book and nearly lost her mind. She was that upset. He promised that he’d just wanted to get her to hush up, and that before he even knew it, he’d killed her.” Wheeler’s hands curled into fists. “He acted sorry while I was starin’ him down, but then he managed to finish most of his breakfast. What kind of man can do that?”

Turning her gaze to the horizon, where smudges of gray clouds hung low in the sky, Olivia thought about Wheeler’s question. “A man who could no longer separate fact from fiction. I think Plumley had come to believe his own version of the truth. It allowed him to survive, to act normal.”

Wheeler didn’t acknowledge Olivia’s reply. “Seein’ him eat with the same hands he’d used to snuff the life outta my Evie . . . I felt myself growin’ cold all over, deep into my bones. Every part of me was cold. I thought I’d surely see my own breath . . . I had the gloves I use for handlin’ food in my pocket and I put them on. Then I unrolled a painting I’d done when I was in prison. It was nothin’ special. Just a bunch of guys smokin’ and play-in’ cards, but I told Plumley he needed to wear gloves if he wanted to touch it.”

“And he put them on?”

Wheeler said nothing. The answer was obvious. “Then I walked behind him while he was porin’ over the painting, slid the belt off his robe, and paid him in kind for what he’d done to my sweet, darlin’ girl.”

After a moment, he placed his hands on his chest. “I know I don’t look strong, but I’ve worked every day of my life. It was over quick enough, but it felt like I was watchin’ myself from far away. I barely remember doin’ it. Then I saw the book . . .”

“You stopped to read the scene in The Barbed Wire Flower, the one that had upset Evelyn so much, the one depicting you as the villain,” Olivia finished for him. When he still didn’t say anything, she said, “It brought back all you’d lost.”

But Wheeler had retreated somewhere within himself, and Olivia didn’t try to draw him out. Her time was almost up and she wanted to say something comforting and poignant before Rawlings arrived, but when she most wanted to have the right words at her power, they zipped off like dragonflies.

“Evelyn always believed in your innocence,” she spoke into the silence. “I visited her old friend Mabel in a nursing home. She told us that Evie never doubted you.”

A light surfaced in Wheeler’s eyes. “We showed her the painting Evelyn hid inside her house,” Olivia continued. “Do you remember it?”

Wheeler smiled. “It was her favorite. She’d never seen snow, so I made her snow. She wanted me to paint a place in the woods, a place we’d build someday up in the mountains. Every time we had an art lesson, she’d ask me what a snowflake felt like. If they were really as different as stars. I promised her a million snowfalls as soon as the war was over.” He sighed heavily, decades of sorrow in his breath.

“It’s a beautiful piece,” Olivia said softly. “People all over the country admire your work. Your paintings are worth tens of thousands of dollars.”

At this, Wheeler released a dry laugh. “There’s a sucker born every minute. I’ve got a pile of them in the