patrons were tourists. His hazel eyes softening, he focused his gaze on Olivia’s face. “How’d it go last night?”
Olivia proudly recapped Millay’s brilliant performance. “The lovebirds are going to have a hell of a hangover this morning,” she declared at the end of her narrative.
Rawlings rubbed his chin, lost in thought. “Cora only cracked when Millay brought up the subject of children. I wonder why.”
“I have a theory,” Olivia said. “If Cora and Nick had a child, then that kid would surely be entitled to a share in his estate.”
The chief took a bite of his bagel and chewed heartily. Then he shrugged. “In that case, why didn’t Mr. Plumley name his dependent as a beneficiary on his life insurance policy?” He scribbled a notation in his pocket notepad. “This will have to wait until tomorrow. I’ll need to get ahold of Cora’s medical records, and without her being an official suspect, that won’t be easy.”
Taking a sip of coffee, Rawlings pointed at the framed photographs hanging from the brick wall above their table. “What do you think of these?”
Olivia had kept her eyes averted from the images since she’d sat down. The smiling infant faces served as a pointed reminder that she hadn’t called Kim to see how Anders was doing. “Wheeler usually displays such tasteful art,” she said. “Yours, for example.”
“These are more certainly commercial than Wheeler’s usual selections, but the photographer isn’t without skill.” Rawlings grinned. “Still, I’d never have pegged Wheeler as a fan of kittens, puppies, or babies.”
Olivia glanced at the photograph hanging above her right shoulder. It showed a toddler with gossamer blond hair being used as a climbing post by a pair of kittens. “All this picture needs is a balloon and a rainbow.”
Rawlings laughed. “I bet Laurel would think it’s cute.”
Briefly, Olivia wondered whether her friend had had any success communicating her feelings to Steve last night. Certain phrases surfaced in her mind, and Olivia realized that the time Laurel’s husband spent at the office coupled with his hypercriticism of his wife might have an obvious and unpleasant explanation. “Speaking of Laurel,” she paused, wondering how to broach the delicate subject to Rawlings. “Do you remember when you had to question Steve when you were working on the Cliche Killers case?”
The chief nodded and his eyes lost their bemused glimmer and became instantly veiled.
“You checked his alibi without Laurel’s knowledge, which was very thoughtful and sensitive, but you also never told me what that alibi was.” Olivia left the unspoken question dangling in the air between them.
The chief scraped his chair away from the table and held out his hand for Olivia’s empty coffee cup. “I didn’t tell then and I’m not going to now. Would you care for a refill?”
Olivia pushed her mug into his palm, her fingertips brushing against his. They smiled at each other for what seemed like a long moment before Wheeler called Rawlings over to the counter to pick up the snack he’d prepared for Haviland.
“That dog gets better service than I do,” a sunburned vacationer whined.
Wheeler mumbled, “Reckon it’s ’cause he’s got better manners,” and poured two fresh cups of his Coastal Coffee blend for Rawlings and Olivia. He then pasted on a congenial grin and handed the petulant tourist her order. “Soy latte no foam and an ever-so-gently toasted multigrain bagel with fat-free cream cheese on the side. May I get you anythin’ else, ma’am?”
The woman scrutinized her bagel but seemed pleased with its even golden hue. She then took the lid off her to-go cup to make sure that Wheeler hadn’t included the offensive froth. Satisfied, she dropped a dollar in his tip jar and walked out the door.
When she was safely away, Rawlings let out a laugh—a deep and hearty rumble that shook his whole entire torso.
Wheeler scowled. “Don’t you have criminals to catch, Chief? Go on, now. Drink your coffee while it’s hot.”
With that reprimand, Rawlings returned to the table and handed Olivia her replenished cup, but he did not sit down. Though his face still held traces of humor, it was evaporating quickly. “He’s right. I have a pile of reading to do on the New Bern prison camp and a phone interview with Nick Plumley’s agent at eleven.”
“Do you have another task to assign me?” Olivia asked coyly.
Rawlings put a finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his stern gaze. “Yes. Don’t find any more bodies.”
The chief held the door for a family of five and then disappeared into the sunshine. Olivia watched Wheeler and one of the teenagers he’d hired for the summer attend to the hungry family. They ordered breakfast sandwiches, complicated espresso drinks, fresh-squeezed orange juice, pastries, and fruit cups. After collecting their food, the father handed Wheeler a wad of bills and, signaling for him to keep the change, he joined his brood at one of the window tables. Olivia finished her own buttered sesame bagel and observed several more families enter, order, and leave, hands filled with carryout bags.
Eventually, the morning rush eased and Wheeler came out from behind the counter to wipe off the unoccupied tables.
“You’re amazing,” Olivia told him and studied the old-timer with genuine warmth.
He smiled wanly. “This place keeps me tickin’.”
Struck by a thought, Olivia touched his arm as he passed her table. “How long have you lived in Oyster Bay?”
“Seems like my whole life,” he replied in a tired voice and then saw that Olivia wasn’t satisfied by his answer. “I left a job at a paper mill and settled here in the fifties, a young man with his whole life ahead of him. Worked the docks for a decade, had a warehouse job for a decade, and then got hired here when this place was still a bakery.” He gestured at the room. “This was what I always wanted though. A little coffee shop by the sea. Sometimes life deals you a decent hand. Other times not.”
Unsure what to make of the cryptic phrase, Olivia put a hand on the rough brick of the interior wall. “And have you always loved art? Not this stuff”—she jerked a thumb at the photographs—“but the things you typically display. You have an eye for talent.”
Wheeler’s gaze grew distant. “Art’s in my blood. It’s a way of travelin’ to other places, to other times. It lets you forget or remember and it doesn’t have to say a word. It’s my favorite kind of company to keep.”
“Did you know that several of the German prisoners held in the New Bern camp during World War Two were gifted artists? Have you heard anything about the camps or those artists?”
Twisting the damp rag in his age-spotted hands, Wheeler shrugged. “I didn’t live here then, girlie, but I heard tell that there were men who could paint, men who could throw a pot, and men who could carve wood with such skill that they got a share of local folks’ precious rations in return for a piece of their work.”
“It’s a wonder there hasn’t been a significant exhibit featuring these wartime masterpieces,” Olivia mused softly. “What a story it would make.” She met Wheeler’s pale blue eyes. “I’ve seen one of the paintings. A snow scene by a man named Heinrich Kamler. Simply executed, yet utterly captivating. I’d never heard of him until Harris found the painting hidden under one of the stair treads of his new house, but I wish I could talk to someone who worked at the camp.”
The bell over the front door tinkled and a host of bronze and bare-chested teenage boys in board shorts entered the cafe, hair slick with water, faces flushed from an early morning spent riding the waves. They spoke in rich baritones and flashed white smiles, enveloped in an air of robust assurance.
Wheeler’s gaze fell upon the young men, and Olivia saw a flicker of sorrow or regret cross his wrinkled features. It happened so quickly she wasn’t sure what she’d seen, but she looked upon the boys with a brief stab of envy. She’d never known a carefree summer, had never been invited to be a part of a circle of friends such as this group of shining, beautiful boys. Their ability to live wholly in the present was alluring, and Olivia continued to stare at them as they jostled one another amicably to be first in line.
“Not too many old-timers left, my girl,” Wheeler said and slowly got to his feet. It was as if the presence of the young Adonises made him feel every minute of his age with painful acuity. “I can recollect what it was to be like one of them boys. Back then we thought nothin’ could touch us either. We’d win the war and get the girl, spend the next fifty years drinkin’ beer and goin’ to ballgames with our best pals, have piles of money in the bank and a real nice car. Maybe a house and a kid or two. But that ain’t the way of things. Pennies lose their shine after they’ve been passed ’round long enough.”
Olivia wasn’t giving Wheeler her full attention. She was suddenly transported to the moment in Grumpy’s
