“If Plumley’s working on a sequel, there might be a connection between someone who lived in the house and the prison camp,” Olivia insisted.
“That was my theory as well, but those families were made up of fathers who went to the office five days a week, mothers who tended house, and children who did their best in school and stayed out of trouble. They were churchgoers and sailors, gardeners and Masons. They played baseball and went to proms. I don’t see them as book material.”
Olivia didn’t either, but asked Leona for printouts of the same material Plumley had collected.
“That’ll be quite a bit of work on my part,” Leona said with a playful wink. “I’m perfectly willing to do it and I understand that you feel protective of your young friend, but I doubt he faces any danger from the house or from Mr. Plumley. He seems like a good man and he
High praise from a librarian, Olivia thought and decided she would have to find an alternate means of snooping or run the risk of offending her mother’s friend by confessing that she suspected Plumley’s interest in Harris’s house wasn’t as innocent as it seemed. “You’re right,” she conceded. “I’m sure the real source of my anxiety stems from the fact that Mr. Plumley will be a guest at our book writer’s group next week and my chapter is up for review.”
“You’re writing a book?” Leona clasped her hands together in delight. “My dear girl, your mother would be
To Olivia’s dismay, a lump formed in her throat and her eyes grew moist. Abruptly, she pushed back her chair, stood, and carried her empty mug to the sink. The librarian’s words had caught her by surprise and moved her deeply, but she didn’t want it to show. Gesturing for Haviland to follow, she moved toward the staff room door. “Thank you for your help.”
Leona didn’t rise but studied Olivia fondly. “She’s still with you, child. We carry those we love in our hearts. It’s where heaven truly exists.”
Olivia paused at the threshold. “If you believe in heaven,” she murmured to herself as she walked away.
Thwarted in her detective work, Olivia turned her attention back to the grand opening of The Bayside Crab House. She arrived at the restaurant in a sour mood that neither the smell of fresh paint nor the sight of the banners announcing opening day could dispel. The visit to the library had raised too many old memories, and Olivia disliked how vulnerable she felt whenever the past collided with the present. Failing to discover what Nick Plumley was after was extremely frustrating, but since April Howard was waiting, eager to show off the restaurant’s interior, Olivia did her best to adopt an amicable expression.
The Bayside Crab House was a formidable structure. The entrance, with its heavy wood entry doors flanked by rows of porthole windows, faced Water Street. Customers would enter under a cheerful red awning, pass by oversized planters brimming with coleus, red geranium, and marigolds, and finally step up onto a gentle ramp built to feel like a dock. Ship’s anchors partially submerged in a sea of blue gravel surrounded both sides of the makeshift wharf.
Olivia had decided to maintain the original appearance of the warehouse by keeping the clapboard the same dolphin gray hue. Most of the wall space to the right of the entrance now featured an electrified sign bearing the restaurant’s name and the image of a smiling neon red crab.
Inside, the tables, chairs, and floor were of pine, but the uniform appearance of yellowish wood complemented the bright, checkered tablecloths, red napkins, and multicolored nautical flags pinned to the walls.
A large bar area occupied the length of the left-hand wall and featured five television screens and a small stage where local musicians would perform on weekend nights. Nautical pennants dangled a few feet above a mirror reflecting an impressive pyramid of liquor bottles. Old barrels, sawed in half and turned on their sides, served as storage vessels for the restaurant’s wine selection.
“It’s perfect,” Olivia told April, allowing a sigh of satisfaction to escape from between her lips. “You’ve done an amazing job.”
April smiled. “I’ll probably never pour so much of myself into a project again, but it was worth it. This building helped me put myself together. The least I could do was return the favor.”
“And I hear Clyde’s taken you on as a full-time employee. You’ll be working for the best contractor in town. Congratulations.”
“Yep. I’m the first woman on his team,” April replied proudly.
Olivia shook her head. “About time he came to his senses. Come on, Haviland, let’s check out the outdoor seating area.”
April moved ahead of the pair and opened a set of double doors leading to the deck with a triumphant flourish. Immediately, the jovial sound of fiddle music burst into the air.
“What’s going on?” Olivia stepped out onto the expansive deck and immediately smelled jasmine. Pots of the vine bearing heady yellow flowers flanked the doors and had grown halfway up the lattice trellis that covered the deck. Thousands of tiny white electric lights shone down from the trellis’s frame and would compete with the stars on clear summer nights.
At one end, a fiddler was swaying on the balls of his feet while a young woman bobbed her head in time with the music. The fiddler dipped his chin her way, and she lifted a pennywhistle and effortlessly fell into harmony with his jaunty tune.
The Bayside Book Writers, seated at a large picnic table in the center of the deck, began to clap, and the musicians responded to their encouragement by putting even more energy into the song.
“Welcome aboard!” Millay shouted. She rose to her feet and saluted Olivia with a glass of beer. Haviland darted toward the table, clearly hoping to escape the high pitch of the pennywhistle. The lucky poodle was greeted warmly by Laurel, who slipped him something under the table and stroked his black fur.
“I kind of feel like we’re embarking on an ocean voyage,” Laurel said. “A feast before we set off to raid and pillage.”
Harris gestured at Rawlings with a king crab claw. “Sounds like your book, Chief.”
“Congratulations, Olivia.” Rawlings also stood and gave her a warm smile. “This place is going to be a hit.”
At that moment, Hudson walked onto the deck carrying a pair of oval platters filled with crab cakes, lobster tail, and fried shrimp. Kim followed behind bearing a bowl of cheese grits and a basket of hushpuppies.
“Caitlyn’s eating in the kitchen,” Kim whispered in Olivia’s ear. “Too many people for her liking.”
“I’ll bring Haviland back to keep her company,” Olivia replied and then indicated the food-laden table. “I take it this impromptu party is your idea.”
Kim shrugged, her face pink with happiness. “What better way to test the kitchen before the big day?”
Rawlings pulled out the chair placed at the end of the table and bowed gallantly at Olivia. Their eyes met, and as always, Olivia found it difficult to look away. “Thank you,” she said as he laid a napkin on her lap and then let his fingertips linger on the nape of her neck long enough to send a shiver down her spine.
Millay handed her a glass of beer. “A toast to vats of melted butter and food you can hit with a hammer!”
The company shouted a hearty, “Here! Here!” and then eagerly began to pass dishes around the table.
Olivia waited until she’d had her fill of scallops tossed in a Parmesan cream sauce, Creole-style crab cakes, and Hudson’s homemade slaw before taking Haviland into the kitchen. “Someone wanted to see you,” she told Caitlyn. “Do you think there are any leftovers for a hungry poodle?”
Caitlyn nodded shyly. “I could fix him something.”
“That would be splendid. No shrimp though. Too many of those aren’t good for his tummy.” Olivia walked around the kitchen, newly christened with dirty pots, remnants of steam, and a blend of scents, the most notable being crabmeat and cayenne.
Hudson had made the entire meal himself, and Olivia was impressed by his versatility. She was also relieved that she’d trusted her instincts in offering him the manager’s job, but he told her that he was meant to wear an apron, not a jacket and tie. He’d hired several assistant cooks but told her that he planned to be in the kitchen as much as possible.
“I can run the place a helluva lot better from behind a stove,” he’d said. “If the food isn’t right, folks won’t
