publish that sequel.”
“Talk to the chief.” Olivia rose and carefully shouldered the tote bag. “And forget about critiquing my chapter on Saturday. We’ve got more important things to do.”
Harris absently put a hand to his throat. “Like staying alive.”
Chapter 8
Olivia and Haviland trotted down the stairs leading to the windowless lower level of the town hall building. The woman in charge of the register of deeds was examining a stack of forms when Olivia appeared at her desk. Her eyes went wide when she noticed the poodle and then her face closed off and she smacked the piece of paper in front of her with a rubber stamp.
“You can’t have a dog down here, ma’am.” She slammed the stamp down on another piece of paper and continued her work without looking up.
Glancing around the empty room, Olivia was about to point out that there was no one around to be troubled by Haviland’s presence, but she sensed that the government employee, with her taut ponytail and humorless eyes, was a stickler for rules.
“He accompanies me for medical reasons,” Olivia whispered and then cleared her throat, as though it shamed her to admit to having such a serious health problem. “Hopefully, I won’t have an
The woman hesitated, clearly debating whether it would require more effort to toss Olivia out or simply fulfill her request. Sighing heavily, she turned to her computer and began to type in the address on Oleander Drive.
It wasn’t long before she presented Olivia with several pages, still warm from the printer. “Anything else, ma’am?” she asked, her mouth puckering as though she’d bitten into something sour.
Olivia read through the sheets, recognizing names from her conversation with librarian Leona Fairchild, including the Carters and the Robinsons, the couple that sold the house to Harris.
“There’s an owner missing from this pile,” she murmured and then retrieved a small notebook from her purse. “The White family lived there as well.”
The clerk crossed her arms over her chest. “Not according to my records.”
“Can you check again?”
At this request, the woman’s lips compressed into an angry, thin line. She jabbed a few buttons on her computer keyboard and gestured at the screen. “There were no owners by the name of White at the address. Perhaps you’re mistaken.”
Suppressing a surge of annoyance, Olivia stared at the street address and then shook the pages in her hands like they were pompoms. “You’re brilliant!” she told the startled clerk. “The house was moved during the highway expansion project. This address is only current for the past fifty years or so.”
“I’m not old enough to remember the date of that event,” the woman declared smugly. “You’ll have to come back when you have an accurate address.”
Olivia recalled Harris telling the Bayside Book Writers that Nick Plumley had found a copy of the newspaper article describing the move and, therefore, Laurel could easily get ahold of the same information. Thanking the clerk, Olivia jogged upstairs and called her friend.
“Olivia! I was hoping I’d have an excuse to take a break,” Laurel said. “I’m working on this yawn-inducing piece about average household incomes and—”
“I need you to find an old article for me,” Olivia cut in. “It’s urgent.” She explained what she needed. “Could you bring it by The Bayside Crab House as soon as you find it?”
There was a pause. “Is something going on with Harris? What’s wrong, Olivia?”
Silently berating herself for assuming that Laurel wouldn’t ask why the information was so crucial, Olivia promised that Harris was fine and that she’d fill Laurel in when she delivered the article. Olivia was quite surprised that Nick Plumley’s death hadn’t been leaked to the press yet and wondered if Rawlings had kept his team so busy that not a single officer had been able to contribute to the famous Oyster Bay gossip chain. It would certainly be a coup for Laurel to break the news first, especially since she’d established her reputation as a respected local journalist based on her articles on the Cliche Killers.
“Just do this for me,” Olivia coaxed. “And I’ll tip you off on what’s to become the biggest story of the summer.”
Laurel sucked in a quick breath. “I’ll take the tip. It’s been mighty sleepy in the news department.”
“That’s about to change,” Olivia stated solemnly and hung up.
An hour later, she was well into her speech on treating customers like royalty, the employees of The Bayside Crab House listening to her every word with a mixture of trepidation and awe, when Laurel arrived.
Olivia wished her staff good luck, cautioned them that the first guests would be arriving at five, and led Laurel into the manager’s office.
“Is this yours?” Laurel asked, taking a seat and glancing around the space with interest.
“It’s really Kim’s domain. She’s in charge of supplies and bookkeeping. Once we have an established routine, I’ll only come in to sign checks.”
Laurel frowned. “But what will Kim do with the baby? You’re their only family in Oyster Bay, right?”
Having no desire to introduce the emotionally charged subject of Anders, Olivia shrugged. “I suppose she’ll bring the baby with her. Caitlyn’s going to day camp this summer and Kim’s hours are fairly flexible. She’ll be home when the kids are home. I agreed to that arrangement from the start.”
“What a boss,” Laurel said with a wistful smile. “Wish you ran the
Olivia accepted two sheets of paper from Laurel and quickly scanned the article. Before the houses were moved and the two-lane road became a highway, it was called Stillwater Street. The article described the complexities of the expansion project and featured a photograph of a bungalow atop the flatbed of a tractor-trailer. Even from the grainy black-and-white image Olivia could tell that the house wasn’t Harris’s. It was smaller and had a slightly different roofline. A group of people clad in their Sunday finery was gathered around the truck. The women were impeccably turned out in tailored skirts, hats, and gloves; the men were in suits and felt fedoras; the little girls looked angelic with their curled hair and crinoline; and the boys wore high-waisted shorts with suspenders and argyle knee socks.
The caption listed the names of the four men grouped together near the left side of the trailer. “There! Frank White must have been the original owner of Harris’s house. Now I just need to search for the deed for Stillwater Street.”
Laurel drummed her fingers on the arms of her chair. “You’re killing me, Olivia! What is going
