The Last Word

afternoon.

He carried a thick sandwich made of prosciutto, smoked Gouda, red onions, and mustard on a crusty roll to one of the wing chairs. The writer friends waited with barely concealed impatience as he took a large bite. Influenced by the sight of Rawlings’ supper, Millay began to assemble a sandwich of buffalo mozzarella, sliced tomatoes, and pesto spread. No one else seemed eager to eat.

“There were no computers in Mr. Plumley’s house or car,” Rawlings stated. “There were also no printouts, no file folders containing outlines or notes, not even a journal. Nothing. I expected to at least discover correspondence with his agent or publisher, but even his phone records are sparse. Too sparse.”

Laurel cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

“Mr. Plumley and I both live alone, but I probably made four times the phone calls he made last month. Think about your average day. You speak with friends and family members. You contact businesses.” He put down his sandwich, too engrossed in the topic to continue eating. “There were many days when Mr. Plumley neither made nor received a single call. Even for a writer in search of privacy, that strikes me as unusual.”

Harris slowly made his way into the kitchen, his expression pensive. “He might have done most of his communication via e-mail. If so, it’d be another reason for the killer to steal Nick’s laptop.” He began to build a tower of Genoa salami, pepperoni, Soppressata, and provolone. “What about his place in Beaufort? Any computers there?”

Rawlings, who was about to take a sip of light beer, froze, and then lowered the bottle like an automaton, his eyes never leaving Harris’s face. “How did you know about Mr. Plumley’s permanent residence?”

Instead of answering, Harris pivoted his laptop screen so the chief could read the results of his research. “As you can see, I hit a wall. Prepublication, the man’s a ghost. I figured Plumley was a pen name, but couldn’t find his real one no matter where I looked.”

“It’s Ziegler. Nick Ziegler.”

With a grin, Harris saluted Rawlings with his massive sandwich. “Point scored by the blue team.”

Millay leaned forward eagerly. “So what’s shady in Ziegler’s past? Drug deals? Child porn? A penchant for farm animals?”

Rawlings raised a brow at the last phrase. “The fact of greatest interest was that he was married. His ex- wife, Cora, is sitting in our interview room as we speak.”

“Is she a suspect?” Olivia asked.

“Mrs. Ziegler, excuse me, she’s Mrs. Vickers now, is the sole beneficiary of Mr. Plumley’s life insurance policy. We don’t have a full picture of the victim’s finan-cials, but there was an insurance card in his wallet. We spoke to his agent, who put us onto the ex-wife.” Finished with his sandwich, Rawlings wiped his hands on a paper napkin and then began to steadily wind it around the first two fingers of his left hand. “If she hadn’t been vacationing at Emerald Isle with her new husband at the time of the murder, she wouldn’t have raised my suspicions.”

Laurel motioned for Millay to pass her the wine. Olivia observed her friend pour herself another generous glass. It was unlike Laurel to consume more than one serving per evening, but tonight, she was drinking zinfandel like a marathon runner chugging water at the end of a race. Millay shot Olivia a concerned glance and, in an exchange of unspoken agreement, Olivia began to fix Laurel a plate of food.

“Two husbands, huh?” Laurel snorted ruefully. “When did she and Plumley or Ziegfried or whoever he was break up? And did she wait until he was rich and famous to dump him so she could live happily ever after with another man?”

Rawlings stared at her in bewilderment for a moment before answering. “According to Mrs. Vickers, she and her former husband had an amicable parting years before his novel was published. During most of their three-year marriage, Mr. Plumley had worked as a freelance journalist and photographer. He traveled often, leaving Cora alone and unhappy. One day, he returned from an assignment and she told him that their marriage was over. He took the news well, they divided their things, and Cora moved to the western part of the state. She’s been living there ever since.”

“Yet she brought her new husband to Emerald Isle? That’s right near Beaufort. Why would she vacation so close to where she and her ex lived?” Harris inquired before attacking his sandwich again.

“Cora and Boyd were married the day before Mr. Plumley was murdered. We’ve confirmed the details with both the officiant and their sole witness. The Vickers claim to have come to the coast because they wanted a beach wedding and both swore in separate interviews that they spent most of the hours following their nuptials inside a rental cottage. Celebrating.” Rawlings sighed and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “The reason Mr. and Mrs. Vickers have been questioned for the past four hours is that Emerald Isle is an easy drive from here and the Vickers are broke. And in my experience, very few divorces are truly amicable.”

Millay held up an index finger. “Motive.” She then raised her thumb. “Opportunity.” She fired her air gun while whistling the first three notes of Beethoven’s Fifth.

“It’s not that simple, I’m afraid.” Rawlings glanced at his watch. “Without any tangible evidence, we’re going to have to let the couple go.” He stood up and carried his plate to the sink. “This is where I could use some unofficial help.”

Olivia grinned. “We thought you’d never ask.”

“The two of them are hiding something. I don’t know what it is, and my hands are tied. I’ve questioned them, they’ve been relatively cooperative, and their statements match. Their alibi is weak, so I’ve sent officers to Emerald Isle to confirm the few facts that can be confirmed. That’s all I can do for now.” He looked at Olivia. “They plan to have a meal at The Bayside Crab House before driving back. It was my hope that you could see to it that their drinks were poured with a very liberal hand and that someone”—he cast a meaningful glance at Laurel, Millay, and Harris—“could strike up a casual conversation with them.”

Harris rubbed his hands together. “Recon! Sweet.”

“If possible, find out why they don’t have any money. Boyd’s a personal trainer and Cora’s an interior decorator. I don’t expect them to be rich, but it looks like Boyd’s maxed out his Visa card with this vacation and Cora’s credit has been shot for years. They’ll certainly benefit from the insurance payout.” He paused. “Just try to get a sense of what makes them tick. Are they greedy? Compulsive? Jealous? There was more than a trace of ire on Mrs. Vickers’ part when I questioned her about her ex-husband’s literary success. I got the sense that she feels she was owed a piece of Plumley’s earnings even though the book was published long after their divorce was final.”

Laurel drained her glass and set it so roughly on the coffee table that it tipped over and rolled onto the floor. Rawlings scooped it up in his large hand and quickly dabbed at the splatters on the rug with a napkin. “I’d better drop you off on my way back to the station,” he told her gently.

“I’m fine,” Laurel argued with a noticeable slur.

Olivia touched Rawlings on the arm. “I’ll take her home. I need to get going anyway if I’m going to talk to my staff about treating the Vickers like royalty tonight.”

Rawlings took a step closer, as though trying to transmit his reluctance to move away from her touch. “Thanks. Let’s meet for coffee at Bagels ’n’ Beans tomorrow morning. I know you’ll have something to tell me.”

“I’ll be there at nine.” Olivia dropped her hand. “What angle will you be running down in the meantime?”

The chief shifted his gaze toward the placid ocean. “I’ll be spending the rest of the evening reviewing Mr. Plumley’s financial records. Murder is usually about money, and I need to see what he was doing with his.”

“Well, if I don’t show up for my shift, I won’t be making any,” Millay said with an unhappy frown. “But I can’t leave this to you and Harris. You need me behind the bar.”

Olivia considered the dilemma as Rawlings walked out of the cottage. “Call in sick to Fish Nets. I’ll need your special talents tonight and will double your regular Saturday-night salary. And don’t worry, I’ll make certain Cora and Boyd end up seated in front of you.” She turned to Harris. “Carry a copy of The Barbed Wire Flower with you. Don’t talk to the newlyweds until Millay gives you the signal. I’m willing to gamble that once she works her magic, they’ll be falling all over themselves to talk about Nick Plumley and a whole host of other intimate topics.”

“I just hope you don’t have some dorky dress code,” Millay mumbled. “I am not wearing a white shirt and bowtie or anything made from a polyester blend.”

Olivia grimaced. “It’s not a T.G.I. Friday’s. You have to wear a Bayside Crab House T-shirt, but you can stay in your boots and skirt. Just don’t give away liquor and food to anyone but the Vickers.” She smiled indulgently at