when the surgery was over, and she had touched his tiny hand. With that touch, she had instantly committed herself to him.
“Look at you, ’Livia!” Dixie teased. “That boy’s got you wrapped around his itty-bitty finger. I’m surprised you haven’t hired a helicopter to fly him home to Oyster Bay.”
Olivia pretended to mull over the idea. “Too noisy,” she replied. “But there is the nursery to consider. I don’t know if Hudson got the crib ready or has a supply of diapers and all the millions of gadgets one seems to need to raise a child these days. I should stop by the house and find out.”
“Bring Laurel along,” Dixie suggested. “She’ll point out what’s missin’, and you two can do some damage with your Visa card. Shoot, I might move into Anders’ room, especially if Grumpy won’t stop wakin’ me up at two in the morning . . .” She trailed off. “Hey, why’d a black cloud form over your head when I mentioned Laurel? Does she have somethin’ to do with what happened last night at The Boot Top?”
Haviland got up from his seat on the floor, stretched, and stuck his nose between Dixie’s skates. He sniffed the wheels with great interest and then sat on his haunches, looking expectantly from one woman to the other.
“See? Even Captain wants you to spill.” Dixie lowered her voice. “Fifty bucks says she’s got the hots for Michel.”
Olivia, who had just poured a small whirlpool of cream into her coffee, held her teaspoon in the air. “How did you know that?”
Dixie lifted her chin and looked smug. “Honey, I’ve got two good eyes in my head. Every time I run into that man at the docks or the grocery store or even at the farm stand south of town, he acts like he’s lost in a dream. A man doesn’t walk around wearin’ a secret little smile on his face unless there’s a woman involved.” She shook her head. “I just never thought it would be Laurel. I know your French-fried chef has a thing for married women, but
“I don’t think they’re having an affair, so don’t go spreading this around like a cold. Last night, I walked in on Michel comforting Laurel, and they looked, well . . .”
Dixie studied her friend. “Like they fit in each other’s arms?”
Olivia nodded.
“And what about Mr. Pearly Whites? Do you think he knows his wife has her eye on another man?”
Even though the cream had already dissipated into the coffee, Olivia stirred the spoon around and around, staring into the light brown brew as though it held an answer. She raised the spoon, cutting through a swath of steam, and then placed it absently on a napkin. “Laurel believes that Steve has been cheating on her for months, maybe longer. The whole thing’s a mess.”
“What are you going to do?” Dixie asked with concern.
“Not a damn thing,” Olivia answered in surprise. “I make it a point not to get involved in domestic squabbles.”
Dixie undoubtedly had much to say on the subject but was forced to call an end to her impromptu break when Grumpy stuck his head out of the kitchen and bellowed, “Order up!”
Haviland took this as a sign that he should accompany the dwarf as she zipped off to the pickup window. Seeing as he was encouraged by Dixie’s whispered promises of a plate of crunchy turkey bacon, Olivia let the poodle wander away.
Thankfully, her phone vibrated again, and this time, Olivia recognized the name and greeted the caller with uncharacteristic affability.
Professor Emmett Billinger was exuberant. “I phoned the second I finished listening to your voice mail this morning. I’d be glad to exchange information and to show you these extraordinary photographs. And you’re willing to drive here? And to bring the painting?”
Olivia assured him that she was more than happy to spend a few hours in the car if it meant discovering a clue to Nick Plumley’s murder. Harris’s Heinrich Kamler watercolor had been safely stored in the vault of the Coastal Carolina Bank, and Olivia told the professor that she’d pick up the painting and be at his office by lunchtime.
“Splendid! I’ll have sandwiches ready so we don’t have to interrupt our time together searching for food.”
Sensing that she was going to get along with this efficient academic, Olivia asked whether he had any objection to Haviland’s presence.
“Not at all. I’m owned by a pair of rescued greyhounds,” he replied cheerfully. “They go to daycare when I’m at work, but I’ll have a suitable meal on hand for your companion.”
Olivia left money on the table and peered into the kitchen while Dixie was busy delivering platters of Belgian waffles. On the other side of the swinging door, Olivia caught Grumpy tossing a piece of meat into the air directly above Haviland’s quivering snout. With a flash of teeth and a lightning-quick snap of the jaw, the meat disappeared into the poodle’s mouth.
“You’re not going to make much of a profit giving away food like that,” Olivia remarked with a grin.
Grumpy was a man of few facial expressions. He glanced at her and then cracked a pair of eggs onto the sizzling grill. “With the tips you give Dixie, I don’t need to worry about it.”
Casting her eyes around the orderly kitchen, Olivia paused for a moment to consider what it would be like to spend eight hours in the same space, day in and day out, with only an aged radio for company. “What’s it like? The life of a master fry cook.”
Many people would have taken offense at such a question, but Grumpy knew she meant no harm. “It’s quiet,” he answered stoically. “Before this, I didn’t have much quiet. I’m no chef, but I make decent food, and folks can afford to eat here regular. I’m proud of that.”
Grumpy slid the eggs on a plate, dumped two cups of crisp hash browns beside them, and piled four strips of bacon on top of the potatoes.
Olivia snapped her fingers at Haviland, and then, before turning to leave, she touched Grumpy briefly on the shoulder. “This diner is the heart of our town. And your food is far better than decent. Don’t tell your wife, but I don’t come here because of the decor.”
A rare rumble of laughter followed her through the swinging kitchen door.
Olivia’s drive to Chapel Hill was uneventful. On the way, she listened to an audiobook dramatizing the life of one of her favorite women, Eleanor of Aquitaine. It was easy to become lost in Eleanor’s world of drafty castles, thwarted romance, and endless wars while traveling west on I-40, but when she neared Chapel Hill, she was too distracted by the traffic and a landscape populated predominantly by chain stores that she had to turn off the CD.
“Talk about suburban sprawl,” she said to Haviland. “Last time I was here, none of these strip malls existed.” She sighed. “Small-town America is disappearing before our eyes. I hope the area around the university is better preserved. I remember it as being so charming.”
To her relief, Franklin Street was relatively unchanged. The college town was not as bustling as it would be when the students returned in August, but it was far from sleepy. Olivia knew that downtown Chapel Hill was a hotspot for both foodies and music lovers and felt a pang of remorse that she’d have to make do with sandwiches for lunch when she could be trying out one of the many unique cafes. Instead of enjoying summer rolls at Lime & Basil or vegetable fritters from Mama Dip’s, she’d probably end up with cold turkey, processed cheese, and a leaf of limp lettuce squashed between two store-brought slices of bread.
Her anticipatory mood could not be deflated by thoughts of lunch, however. The university at Chapel Hill’s tree-lined campus was simply too lovely, too replete with tasteful architecture and an aura of history to inspire any feelings other than optimism and a sense of purpose.
Finding parking near Hampton Hall was no easy feat, and Olivia flirted with the idea of occupying a faculty spot.
“I doubt they’re all here today,” she stated defensively to Haviland, who cocked his head to the side and sniffed to indicate his disapproval.
Billinger’s office was on the second floor. The thick, wood door was ajar, and Billinger was at his desk. He was examining a document turned yellow with age but immediately glanced up when he heard Olivia’s footsteps and the sound of Haviland’s paws come to a halt at his threshold.
