Olivia dropped the paper onto the desk and sat down next to Laurel. “By now, Chief Rawlings will probably have a press release ready, but let me tell you what happened from my point of view and then you can zoom over to the station to get a quote. And, Laurel, we can forget about critiquing my book on Saturday.”
“Why?”
Gesturing at the newspaper article, Olivia said, “Because we need to help the police track down a murderer instead.”
While the employees of The Bayside Crab House began their trial run, Olivia made phone calls to Harris and Leona Fairchild. Without telling the librarian why she wanted to dig deeper into the background of the former inhabitants of Harris’s house, Olivia asked her how to find out more about the families. The computer-savvy librarian provided her with a simple solution.
“These days, most public records are available online. You can look up birth, marriage, and death certificates, criminal records, background checks, property values, and even the names and ages of other residents in the household. The further back you go, the fewer the details, but it’s a start.” She gave Olivia the URL. “You can often pay to get more information, especially from some of the genealogical sites. I’ll give you the one I prefer.”
Armed with this information, Olivia began to delegate tasks. She asked Millay to research the White, Carter, and Robinson families during her shift break at Fish Nets, and if she couldn’t complete the task that night, to return to it the next day. Millay had heard of Nick Plumley’s death only moments before Olivia’s call, but she had no idea that foul play had been involved.
“How is Harris taking it?” Millay inquired with marked indifference, but Olivia wasn’t fooled. She knew her friend was genuinely concerned.
“He’s understandably disturbed. After all, the painting came from his house, and Plumley had clearly been searching for it there. Harris is worried that the killer might come looking for it too.”
Millay was silent for several moments. “Someone needs to find out more about Plumley. So he wanted this painting. Whatever. He didn’t even have it in his possession when he was killed. There’s more to this murder than some old piece of art. It’s got to be about Heinrich Kamler or Plumley. And I mean the man, not the writer. We need to know
“Agreed,” Olivia answered readily. “I’m putting Harris in charge of that. He has the necessary computer skills to hunt for the sort of biographical tidbits not included in the inside flap of
By the time the grand opening celebration of The Bayside Crab House got under way Friday night, Olivia was already exhausted. During yesterday’s trial run, both the wait and kitchen staff had made inexcusable blunders, and Olivia could only pray that having Hudson back in the kitchen, working his magic amid the cacophony of shouting, chopping, and sizzling, would eradicate some of her stress. In fact, when she saw him that afternoon, his face flushed by a geyser of steam billowing from a lobster pot, he was the picture of contentment.
“How’s Anders?” she asked.
He gave her a small smile as he dumped a load of crabs into a steamer basket. “He’s doing fine. Thanks . . . for being with him. I’m . . . You’re a good sister.”
Olivia was spared from having to respond because, at that moment, a flustered waitress burst through the kitchen’s double swing doors, leaving them to flap in her wake like untethered sails in a squall. “Ms. Limoges! The bar’s totally
Hudson and Olivia exchanged satisfied looks. “Pace yourself, Angie,” Olivia told the girl. “It’s going to be a long and profitable night.”
Her prediction was correct. The restaurant was packed from the moment it opened until well after midnight. Olivia helped out wherever she could; refilling empty glasses, clearing tables, and making small talk with customers. Despite the crowd, the kitchen stayed on top of all the orders, and every dish was presented before the expectant diners warm and fragrant with freshness.
Olivia’s feet were throbbing by the time the last patron left. While the weary waitstaff began their closing duties, she took a seat at the bar and sent one of the waiters to ask Hudson to join her.
“Chivas Regal over ice.” Julesy, the bartender, put Olivia’s drink on a white paper napkin featuring The Bayside Crab House logo and then started to clean off the bar with quick, efficient strokes.
“Another for the chef, if you would,” Olivia said, envying the girl’s energy. She didn’t seem tired at all, even though she’d been racing from one end of the bar to the other all night, serving glasses of frothy microbrews and an array of colorful frozen cocktails. Julesy was Gabe’s cousin and had the same all-American good looks as The Boot Top’s barkeep. With her sun-streaked hair, tanned skin, athletic figure, and sincere smile, she’d been an immediate hit with the crab house clientele.
“Let’s pour a round for the staff,” Olivia suggested to Julesy’s barback, a reserved Hispanic man in his early twenties. “I’d like to raise a toast to an amazing night.”
Julesy nodded in approval. She and Raulo began to line up pint glasses and fill them with a light summer wheat beer. The color was beautiful, reminiscent of sunrise at the beach or the vibrant gold of crisp corn.
Olivia kicked off her pumps and curled her toes over the rung of the barstool. The live band, which had played Jimmy Buffett and Bob Marley songs for the past three hours, had mercifully turned off their amps and mics. They’d have to return tomorrow night and perform the entire set again, yet they seemed in no hurry to leave. In fact, the atmosphere in the restaurant was downright festive. Even as the bone-tired waitstaff wiped tables and swept the floor, they laughed and chatted animatedly as though they hadn’t just pushed their bodies to the limit over the past eight hours.
When Hudson entered the bar area, he was met with a round of applause and shrill whistles. He waved off this show of praise, his dark eyes glimmering with pleasure. He clinked glasses with Olivia and took a generous swallow of Chivas Regal.
“Best tips I’ve ever made,” the waitress named Angie told one of her coworkers. “If every weekend’s like this, I’ll be able to pay for graduate school.”
“And I can quit the gym,” the waiter replied, and the pair raised their pint glasses in Olivia’s direction. She gave them a regal nod over the rim of her tumbler.
Confident that her employees could finish closing the restaurant without her watchful eye, Olivia picked up her shoes, said good night to Hudson, and collected a groggy Haviland from the office. At home, she managed to brush her teeth and wash her face before falling into bed. She slept, but her dreams were filled with images of lobster claws and paintings of a forest in winter.
The next morning, Olivia woke late, filled a thermos with coffee, and took Haviland down to the beach for a walk. Saturdays were traditionally treasure hunt days, but her muscles still ached from last night’s exertions and she didn’t feel like toting the metal detector or trench shovel.
After the leisurely stroll, she showered and dressed in a gauzy cotton sundress in an indigo hue and a pair of silver sandals and headed into town for brunch at Grumpy’s. She brought her laptop along out of habit but never actually removed it from the case. Her meal of eggs Benedict with a side of sliced strawberries was constantly interrupted. By this time, word of Nick Plumley’s death was all over town, and Dixie wanted to hear every detail. The Oyster Bay gossip chain had somehow gotten hold of the fact that Olivia had discovered the body.
Cautioning her friend that the writer’s demise was still under investigation, therefore preventing her from sharing certain aspects of the case, Olivia managed to satisfy Dixie’s curiosity by describing how she’d smashed the window with Plumley’s patio chair. “But there was nothing I could do to revive him.”
At that point, Olivia abruptly stopped speaking. There was no way she was going to mention the book pages stuffed into the writer’s mouth.
Dixie, who was clad in a frayed denim skirt, rainbow tube socks, and a T-shirt reading, “Ms. Pac-Man for
