The chief of the Oyster Bay Police Department nodded. “My sister Jeannie will be mighty pleased to hear you say that. Nothing sinister about
“What happened in 1965?” Olivia couldn’t help but ask.
“I was born.” The policeman laughed and took a sip of his coffee. “And spent the next sixteen years making her life a living hell. Who’d have thought we’d be the best of friends now.”
Olivia took a second look at the lawman. Stocky and wide-shouldered, with dark hair going gray above the ears, Rawlings didn’t come across as the type of man to have a female as his closest confidante. In fact, whenever Olivia saw him in public, he was always accompanied by at least one other equally bulky officer. Rawlings and his officers tended to swagger down the street as though the heavy Maglite banging against the right hip didn’t equally balance the weight of the gun resting just above the left hip. Today, he wasn’t in uniform but wore a loud Hawaiian shirt covered by yellow pineapples over a pair of wrinkled brown shorts.
Returning her attention to the art, Olivia only took a brief glimpse at the watercolor landscapes hung above a row of small cafe tables. With their soft illumination and pastel hues, the pictures of gardens, shorelines, and children playing on the beach were fine, but didn’t hold her interest. The next pair of paintings was very large and looked to be oils.
The first showed a row of boats tied to the dock. Their sails were unfurled and it appeared as though their bowlines were about to be set free from the cleats holding them in place. Rows of colorful flags streamed from the masts, reminding Olivia of medieval pennants. People moved about the boat decks and the surface of the dock with a tangible energy. The picture conveyed a feeling of happy anticipation as well as an invitation to freedom. It was as if the boats were only waiting for the viewer to board before being launched into the sun-drenched water. She found herself wishing to be among the sailors waiting to embark.
The second painting was a contrast in calm. An old-fashioned bicycle, the kind Olivia had once pedaled into town as a young girl, had been left on a solitary stretch of beach. The kickstand kept it propped upright and its front tire was pointed very subtly toward the surf. Again, the painting conveyed an invitation to the viewer, a promise of leisurely days and a release of responsibility. Olivia felt infused by serenity by simply gazing at the scene.
“We’ll take these too, Wheeler!” Olivia shouted over her shoulder to the hearing-impaired shop owner. “They’re just what I was looking for,” she murmured happily to herself.
Without having been asked, the chief plucked the canvas of sailboats from the wall. “I painted these, so the least I can do is take them to your car. After you, Ms. Limoges.”
Rawlings slid the painting into the back of the Range Rover. “I’ve only been at it since my wife died. Jeannie thought it would do me good, but you’re only the second person to buy one. Maybe you’re just trying to get on the good side of the law.” He pretended to glower at her. “After all, I saw where you parked the other day. You’ll have to explain your
“Oh Lord, is he flirting with me?” Olivia whispered to Haviland and the poodle cocked his head to the side. “I think he winked at me at the last Planning Board meeting too.”
Somewhat discomfited by the chief’s attentions, Olivia quickly told Rawlings that she needed to stop by the new bookstore before heading back home to meet the furniture truck. The lawman placed the rest of the paintings in the SUV and gently closed the hatchback.
“Through the Wardrobe,” Rawlings said as he leaned an elbow on Olivia’s side mirror. “Good name for a bookstore. I was there earlier,” he informed her. “You’re mighty busy these days, Ms. Olivia. Rumor has it you’re remodeling the lighthouse keeper’s cottage—even offering it to our local writer’s group to use. That’s quite generous of you.” He gazed at her through the open window, his brown eyes glimmering with humor. “Are you planning to join those folks? Pen the next bestseller?”
Now Olivia was certain the chief was being more friendly than necessary. “I’m mulling it over, Chief. But right now, I need to get these paintings home. Thank you for loading them, but if you’ll excuse me...”
“You need to go home
“And what do you read? Police procedurals? Mafia thrillers?” Olivia lightly mocked the lawman as she turned on her engine.
Unperturbed, the chief pointed his finger at her. “I see you tend to pigeonhole, Ms. Limoges. I read everything, including the books you mentioned, but my latest Amazon box contained some classic literature, poetry, and cook-books. But it looks as though my online ordering is over now that Mr. McNulty’s here. Have a nice day, ma’am.” With a subtle bow, the chief walked away.
“Remarkable. Our chief is an interesting character,” Olivia announced and then drove to the western fringe of town where Flynn McNulty had converted the ground floor of a former commercial fishing supply warehouse into his new bookstore. Upon passing through the wooden doors, Olivia expected her olfactory senses to be assailed by the taint of old fish and saltwater, but she smelled Murphy Oil Soap instead. The inviting aroma was only the beginning of the pleasant surprises. Without doubt, she had stepped inside a reader’s paradise.
The front portion of the store contained oversized antique wardrobes. Standing shoulder to shoulder, these massive pieces of vintage furniture had their doors thrown open, inviting browsers to glance inside at the treasures held within. Rare books, coffee table books, art books brimming with color plates, and signed first editions took residence in the polished interiors made of walnut and southern yellow pine. Small framed signs describing the contents of each case had been tastefully mounted in the center of each wardrobe’s crown molding.
“I’m hoping to see your works in this armoire one day.” Flynn had appeared silently next to Olivia. He now gestured at a stunning English oak arts and crafts wardrobe that bore the sign: “Coastal North Carolina History / Local Authors.”
“Where did you find all of these incredible pieces?” Olivia asked in admiration.
Flynn gazed at his collection with pride. “Several belonged to my aunt. The rest I found in antique malls, thrift stores, or at auctions. It took me over a year to clean them all up, and if this place shows a profit, I plan to keep on buying. So far, only the front of the store has wardrobes, but one day, I’d like every book to be displayed like these sections.” He held his arm out in front of his body. “May I give you a tour?”
Olivia paused. “That depends on how you feel about dogs entering your shop.”
“Well-mannered canines are welcome.”
Pleased by his answer, she asked him to wait a moment while she retrieved Haviland from the Range Rover.
“Come in, Captain. We can add this to the list of places that recognizes the superiority of your breed.”
Barking with eagerness, Haviland bounded toward the door and then sat on his haunches, as if to show Olivia that he would be calm and dignified inside the place that smelled, to his finely tuned nose, faintly of fish.
Flynn knelt and held out his hand. “Flynn McNulty. And you are?”
Haviland offered Flynn his right paw.
“This is Captain Haviland,” Olivia made the introductions.
Flynn grinned. “Limoges and Haviland. A fine match. Do you collect porcelain by chance?”
“I have a few pieces,” Olivia replied enigmatically as they walked deeper into the store. Here, standard wooden bookshelves had been bolted into the wall around the perimeter. To the left, Flynn had arranged works of fiction and to the right, nonfiction. The center of the room contained a grouping of upholstered chairs, end tables, and an enormous coffee table. The table was built with a glass top. A drawer slid out from beneath the glass and Flynn had cleverly displayed magazines for sale within the drawer.
“All you need now is a cappuccino machine,” Olivia commented.
“You haven’t read the sign next to the register yet.” Flynn jerked his head toward the front room. “Free coffee with any purchase.” He placed a hand on Haviland’s head. “I can see I’m going to need to buy a jar of dog biscuits as well.”
Haviland licked Flynn’s hand and smiled at him. The trio continued into the back of the building, where a curtain of shimmering fabric made of floor-to-ceiling rainbow stripes created a distinct separation. To gain entry to this area, one had to pass through a particularly wide wardrobe whose feet had been cut down. The doors were
