someone to say those exact words to me.”
And then Olivia held her niece close, trying her hardest to believe the little girl’s promise.
Chapter 18
It would take Oyster Bay a long time to recover from the shock.
From the outside, everything looked the same. The shops and beaches were filled with tanned tourists, and the rental homes and hotels were booked right through the first weekend of September. The locals smiled and appeared to be as merry and carefree as always, preserving the utopian image of their seaside town.
But in the privacy of bars like Fish Nets, the less glamorous hair salons, and on the fishing boats, people whispered about what had happened. They talked and wondered and argued over Wheeler’s crime and then tied on their aprons or rolled up their sleeves and got back to work.
The Bayside Book Writers took a hiatus. Only Laurel was able to put pen to paper following Wheeler’s arrest. Reluctantly, she wrote the article unveiling the identity of Nick Plumley’s killer. It was her finest piece to date. The front page spread was read by wide-eyed townsfolk and fascinated tourists, the latter flocking to Bagels ’n’ Beans so they could later brag to neighbors and coworkers that they’d bought a bagel or a cappuccino from the killer’s cafe.
Wheeler’s employees, with a little guidance from Olivia, were struggling to keep the place running smoothly until Ray Hatcher decided what would become of it. The cafe belonged to him now, as Wheeler had legally transferred all of his worldly possessions to his son the morning after his arrest.
Ray, who’d spoken to Olivia shortly after a DNA test confirmed that Wheeler was his father, didn’t seem interested in the windfall. He quit his job, moved into Wheeler’s house, and spent his free time visiting his father in jail and avoiding the press. Rumor had it that he had enrolled in an introductory painting class at the community college and, come September, would see whether or not he’d inherited any of Heinrich Kamler’s artistic talent.
As for Wheeler, he’d known that he would never return to Oyster Bay following his arrest. After confessing to murder and admitting that he was once a prisoner of war, he faced federal and state charges and was sure to spend the remainder of his life in prison. Before he was sentenced, he’d written Olivia a letter asking her to help Ray sell his paintings.
“If they’re worth anything, you’ll know how to get the most money for them on behalf of my boy,” he’d written. “And don’t let Ray spend a dime on lawyers. Being with him every day has been a gift I probably don’t deserve. For the first time since I left my tent that night to follow Ziegler, I feel alive. I hear the deputy call my name and I know my son is waiting for me down the hall. He’s got Evie’s eyes.”
Olivia had folded the letter in half and put it down on her desk blotter. Covering it with her palm, she made several phone calls regarding the paintings. Then, after sharing her opinion with Ray, she contacted Shala Knowles.
“We have one hundred and twenty-five Heinrich Kamler originals to lend your museum,” she’d told the thunderstruck curator. “You may have them for a total of ninety days and then they’re to be sold. Yours will be the only comprehensive exhibit of Kamler’s work. Can you drop everything and set up a space for the first of next month?”
Shala eventually found her tongue and assured Olivia that she and her staff would work tirelessly to mount the finest possible exhibit.
“Then I’ll bring the paintings to you tomorrow morning,” Olivia said. “But I have one condition.”
“Yes?” Shala asked, her voice still quavering with excitement.
“I’m sure you’ve read about the criminal charges brought against Mr. Kamler, but his son and I would like his art, and not the newspaper headlines, to speak for his life. I must personally approve any biographical information you plan to print in museum brochures or advertisements regarding the exhibit. Mr. Kamler’s son has graciously agreed to put off the sale of these paintings at my request. I told him that I owed both you and the museum a favor.”
Shala made a sound of protest at the other end. “I was just doing my job, Ms. Limoges.”
“But with a rare blend of sincerity and passion,” Olivia said before her voice became steely. “However, if I read a single line mentioning Kamler’s connection to the death of author Nick Plumley or a World War Two prison guard from Camp New Bern, I will storm into your museum and rip his paintings right off the wall.” She let her threat hang between them for a moment. “Do I have your word that you’ll show me any material you mean to print on Kamler?”
The curator hesitated. Olivia knew she was asking this woman to deliberately ignore the sensational details of the artist’s life, details that would lure hundreds of new visitors to the museum. “Do you mind if I ask why you’re so keen on protecting Kamler?”
“He’s been living in my town for over forty years, but I knew him under a different name,” Olivia explained. “In fact, he’s a friend. A close one.”
Shala absorbed this unbelievable revelation in silence and then said, “In that case, I promise to respect your wishes, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you’re giving us this opportunity.”
Olivia’s final call was to an auction gallery in Hills-borough, the same town where Mabel, Evelyn’s girlhood friend, passed her days in an assisted-living facility. The auction company had an excellent track record with art sales, and Olivia planned to bring Mabel to the preview so she could pick out a painting—a painting that Olivia would later purchase for her.
As for Olivia’s Kamler original watercolor, it hung from the narrow wall of her bedroom, directly in the middle of a pair of large windows facing the ocean. It was one of the first things Olivia saw just before falling asleep and again when she woke.
While early-morning sunrays fell into her room, she would stare at the old couple walking along the sand. Her eyes always found them first and then drifted to the water beyond her window. The picture elicited a contradictory mixture of sadness and hope, but Olivia loved it all the same.
When she drove to Wheeler’s house the next day, it was jarring to be met at the front door by Ray. He seemed a little embarrassed to invite her inside a home that had belonged to his father for so many years, but Olivia was pleased to know that Ray was living there. He and the house were well suited. Each was weathered and worn but sturdy enough to bear the most ferocious storm. They were survivors, just as Wheeler was.
Together, Ray and Olivia collected the bundle of paintings and carried them to the Range Rover. Ray stroked Haviland’s fur, his gaze fixed on the harbor, and in that moment, Olivia felt as if Wheeler were right there with them. “Did you keep any of the paintings?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I liked the ones of the peanut farms and paper mills. And I kept two of the bakery pictures. That’s how my dad ended up with the bagel shop, you know. It used to be the town bakery.” Ray led Olivia and Haviland into the bedroom and showed her a watercolor featuring shelves of pastries, breads, and cakes. “He worked in the back, baking bread and pies and cakes, for almost twenty years. He loved the job and was real good at it. He and the baker grew close, and when the man died, he left the place to my dad. I think that’s so cool.”
“Me too,” Olivia agreed. “What will you do with the bagel shop?”
Ray shook his head. “I dunno. I gave one of the full-time guys a raise and told him to manage it for now. I can’t worry about that place. I only have so much time left with my dad.”
Having lived a lifetime without knowing the names of his biological parents, Raymond Hatcher wasn’t going to waste a second serving bagels and coffee to tourists when he could be with Wheeler instead.
Olivia thought back on the scant number of hours she’d had with her own father before he died. She smiled at
