“Interesting syntax,” Olivia remarked. She gently turned the paper over again. “The painting is both captivating and well executed.” She turned to Harris. “Listen, I’m going to Raleigh in the morning to meet with the PR firm I hired to publicize The Bayside Crab House. If you’d like, I could make it a point to stop by the North Carolina Museum of Art. I’m certain someone on staff could tell us more about this painting. If it’s worthless, then you can hang it on your wall and enjoy your discovery. If it’s valuable, you need to know everything you can about its provenance before you decide what to do with it.”
Harris looked relieved. “I knew you’d have the answer. Do you want to see where it was hidden?”
Olivia grinned. “Of course.”
The two friends peered inside the empty space hollowed out in the step below the second-story landing. Whoever had created the extended niche had little skill with carpentry. The edges of the hole were uneven and the interior was covered by tool marks.
“Not very neat, were they?” Harris’s eyes gleamed. “I imagine this person sneaking out in the middle of the night or when the house was empty and chipping away at the space bit by bit.” He pointed at the landing. “The carpet has a seam here, so it would have been easy to peel back, do a little novice woodworking, and replace. This little fantasy only holds water if the stairs were carpeted back then.”
Olivia smiled at his vision. “I like the picture you’ve created. Perhaps the novice woodworker was a woman. I see her in a flannel nightgown, hiding a small hand saw in the fold of her robe.” She touched the scarred wood. “But why hide this painting? And whose handwriting is on the back?”
“I don’t know, but it sounds like a love story to me,” Harris murmured, his cheeks tinged with pink.
Observing her friend’s wistful expression, Olivia patted him on the shoulder. “With a little luck, we’ll discover what part this painting plays in your narrative.”
Olivia tarried a little while longer to view the handsome tile in the kitchen and to praise Harris on the paint color he’d chosen for the room. The calm tones of the heron blue walls combined with the white cabinets and slate floor looked clean and contemporary.
Whistling for Haviland, she was about to take leave of the proud homeowner when she was struck by a thought. “I forgot to ask. What did Nick Plumley say about your manuscript?”
“Oh, he took it with him. He read a page or two while he was here, but then he stopped and offered to help me paint. He said it would be good for him to do some physical labor and that I could use the time to question him about the publishing industry.”
Olivia hid her skepticism. “How generous. And he was gone before the thermos was found?”
“Yep. Poor guy missed all the excitement. He could probably have dreamed up a whole book about it too.” Harris brightened. “But he took my manuscript and said he’d have something for me when the Bayside Book Writers meet this weekend.”
“It certainly promises to be one of our most interesting sessions,” Olivia remarked with a wry grin. “And we’ve had our share of interesting, haven’t we?”
The next morning, Olivia and Haviland embarked on the two-and-a-half-hour trek to the capital city. Olivia disliked driving to the PR firm because the office was located off the inner beltway, requiring several complex maneuvers on more than one highway to reach.
Despite the inconvenience, Olivia was very satisfied with the firm’s work. They’d gotten the word out on The Boot Top Bistro, helping it become a required stop for those with a taste for haute cuisine traveling to the coast.
The firm had drawn up a plan to target a wider audience for The Bayside Crab House, and Olivia examined with approval the ads that would appear in national magazines and on billboards lining Interstate 95. The advertisements were vibrant and appealing and created the same effect as Kim’s menu design. They made the viewer feel like an amazing dining experience was waiting to be had at The Bayside Crab House restaurant and that to pass up a chance to visit would be to miss out not only on fabulous food, but also on an evening of unadulterated fun.
“These are good,” Olivia stated, studying the images once more. “You’ve captured the freshness of the seafood, the beauty of the waterfront view, and the lively ambience.” She set the folder containing the proposed magazine ads back on the conference table and rose. “Thank you. I’ll be in touch regarding the autumn campaign.”
One of the junior executives walked her to the Range Rover, keeping a safe distance from Haviland, because no matter how many times Olivia had made assurances that the poodle didn’t shed, the dapper young man was fearful of getting black fur on his tan business suit. He did open Haviland’s door, however, and handed Olivia a package of dog treats. As soon as he’d said good-bye and disappeared into the office building, she strolled a few feet up the sidewalk and dumped them into a trash can.
Inside the car, Haviland shot Olivia a dirty look. “I won’t let you eat that chemical crap.
Appeased, Haviland stuck his head out the open window and enjoyed the blast of warm air as Olivia headed toward Blue Ridge Road and the vast campus of the North Carolina Museum of Art.
The museum was relatively new. Its buildings and outdoor sculptures sparkled in the sunshine. Olivia had attended the opening gala and had also donated a generous sum of money when plans were first being laid to build the finest art museum in the state.
Right from the start, Olivia had admired the renderings of the aluminum structure that would house millions of dollars of paintings, sculptures, photography, prints, and textiles. With floor-to-ceiling windows and a roof punctuated by hundreds of skylights, the exhibit halls were roomy and had enough natural light to allow the true essence of each piece of art to show through.
Haviland was not permitted inside the museum, and though Olivia was reluctant to leave him in the car, she knew that a few minutes alone with a water bowl and a pile of lamb treats wouldn’t kill him. She parked in the shade, put the windows down halfway, told the poodle she wouldn’t be long, and collected Harris’s painting.
The moment she stepped into the cool building, she was immediately tempted by the posters announcing a pair of current special exhibits. One gallery boasted a collection of Audubon’s works while another featured a modern collection of video art. Silently vowing to return another time, Olivia informed a volunteer that she had an appointment with Shala Knowles. The volunteer made a quick call and then asked Olivia to follow her to the back of the museum where the offices were located.
Olivia had expected the curator’s space to be stuffed full of books and paintings, for the desk to be covered with artsy knickknacks and strewn with disheveled piles of paperwork. She’d pictured Shala Knowles as a female version of Professor Indiana Jones—bespectacled, disorganized, and surrounded by unusual objects. She couldn’t have been more mistaken.
The office was meticulously neat. There was a sleek chrome desk, a pair of black leather side chairs, and a drafting table. One wall was occupied by a bookcase containing art reference tomes of all shapes and sizes while the space above the drafting table displayed a series of black-and-white engravings of geisha girls.
Shala herself looked like she’d stepped from the pages of
As Olivia took Shala’s hand, she caught a delicate hint of camellia-scented perfume.
“I’ve been looking forward to your arrival since I woke up this morning,” Shala told Olivia, her eyes glimmering with anticipation.
“I was surprised to have gotten an appointment so easily,” Olivia confessed and laid the painting, protected between parchment paper and two pieces of clean cardboard, on the drafting table. “What did I say on the phone to capture your interest?”
Shala slipped on a pair of glasses with chic red frames and reached for a journal on her bookshelf.
