“Perfect,” Olivia answered, warming to the professor more and more as the hour progressed. The sandwich was delicious. Her fear of being forced to swallow processed meat and cheese disappeared the moment she tasted salami, ham, mortadella, mozzarella, provolone, and a tangy olive spread piled between round slices of fresh Italian bread.
Billinger poured Perrier into two coffee mugs and clinked the rim of his cup against hers. “So what are you looking for, Olivia? What does Nick Plumley’s death have to do with Kamler’s painting or the New Bern camp?”
She swallowed a mouthful of sandwich. “As I said over the phone, Nick Plumley didn’t just die; he was murdered. I can only assume that he changed his name from Ziegler to Plumley because he was ashamed to be the son of an escaped prisoner. Either that, or his father had adopted the surname Plumley in order to avoid capture. Whatever the reason, Nick’s father must have given him a firsthand account of life in the camp, his and Kamler’s escape, and how Kamler killed the prison guard, so why was Plumley searching for additional accounts?”
Picking a wayward sesame seed from his shirt, Billinger looked thoughtful. “Since listening to your voice mail, I’ve wondered about that as well. I’m writing a nonfiction book on the POW camps in North Carolina, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a historian, it’s that one cannot find the facts without also sifting through a heap of gossip and rumor. Sometimes, rumor leads to fact. I wonder if that might be the case with your murder investigation.”
Olivia put down her sandwich. “Please explain.”
“Mabel, the woman I mentioned, was also the child of a prison guard. Like our mutual friend Raymond Hatcher, Mabel was a terrific source for personal accounts of life at Camp New Bern from a young person’s perspective. In fact, Mabel was a teenager then, so her memories are more detailed than the ones Mr. Hatcher recalls his older brother having told him. Mabel and Evelyn White were best friends.”
This revelation caused Olivia to lean forward in her chair, anxious for the professor to keep talking.
Billinger took a sip of Perrier, as though he needed a moment to pluck up the courage to continue. “Mabel repeatedly told me that Evelyn and Heinrich Kamler were lovers. She also refused to accept that Kamler murdered Hatcher. According to Mabel, Kamler had a gentle and quiet nature. He was popular among the guards, the other prisoners, and the locals. More importantly, he was content, or so Mabel claims. She was adamant that Kamler had no desire to escape because he had no family left in Germany and he would never want to be parted from Evelyn. He planned to marry her when the war was over, naive as that may sound to you and me.”
Rising to her feet, Olivia returned to Billinger’s stack of photographs and picked up the one of Evelyn and Heinrich. His features were too distant to be perfectly clear, but even a blurred image couldn’t suppress the easy attraction passing between him and Evelyn. “What if Kamler was innocent?” Olivia looked at Billinger. “He was never captured, right?”
“No.”
“What if Kamler wanted to punish Plumley for branding him a murderer?”
Billinger rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And becoming the thing he was falsely accused of being? And why now?
“Maybe Kamler didn’t have access to Plumley until now,” Olivia guessed. “Maybe he didn’t know he was Ziegler’s son. Maybe Ziegler was actually responsible for the guard’s death.”
With an indulgent grin, Billinger indicated the seat Olivia had abandoned. “All conjecture.”
“And what of Evelyn?” Olivia asked, her eyes betraying her hope. “Is she still alive?”
“I’m afraid not,” Billinger replied softly. “She passed away several years ago.”
Olivia didn’t return to her lunch. She was too restless to sit down. Something was gnawing at her, an elusive thought she couldn’t grasp. It fell away like a handful of sand running between her fingers. She also knew she wasn’t asking the right questions yet. “Plumley was looking for this painting. If I can find out why it mattered to him, I believe this murder investigation will crack wide open. Could we visit Mabel? I’d like to hear her talk about Evelyn and Heinrich.”
Billinger hesitated. “She’s in a nursing home in Hills-borough, a town north of here. It’s only a twenty-minute drive, but it might be a waste of time. Mabel’s mind is not what it once was. She’s been steadily deteriorating into senility.”
Wrapping up her sandwich to indicate her decision, Olivia stared, unseeing, at the butcher paper. “Did Mabel ever mention Ziegler?”
“Several times. He was a late arrival to the camp and a full-blooded Nazi. He and a small group of men kept themselves apart from the rest of the prisoners, and according to Mabel, Ziegler was also in love with Evelyn White.”
Olivia walked around the professor’s desk and looked down at the faint note written on the back of Kamler’s painting. “This message can be read one of two ways. Either Heinrich is telling Evelyn that he’s planning to escape and they can elope, or he’s assuring her that the war is drawing to a close and that he will find a way to remain in the States and build a life for them both.”
After wiping his hands on a napkin, Billinger put on his cotton gloves again and tenderly turned the painting over. “What do you see when you look at that cabin?”
“Sanctuary,” Olivia answered immediately. She had had plenty of time to consider the emotions that the cozy structure evoked. “Security. Home. Welcome.”
Billinger nodded. “This might very well be an image from Kamler’s past, from his childhood. But it could also be his hope for the future. A simple life, a private life, a place where one could step away from the world and hide. A nest, so to speak.”
“Evelyn would have been a legal adult by the end of the war,” Olivia said, her eyes riveted on the bar of light streaming from the crack under the cabin’s front door. “How was he planning to support her even if he could stay? As an artist? A farmhand?”
An idea struck Billinger. He clamped his hand around Olivia’s forearm in an attempt to gain her full attention even though her eyes were already locked on his face. “The last time I went to visit her, Mabel was going on and on about Evelyn’s treasures. It didn’t make any sense at the time, but what if Evelyn had more paintings? What if there are
A knot of fear formed in Olivia’s stomach. “Then Harris isn’t safe. Kamler’s works are worth a small fortune.”
Wordlessly, the pair flew into motion. Olivia packed up the painting, and Billinger tossed the debris from their lunch into the trash bin. Grabbing his suit jacket, he hurriedly collected the photographs and dropped them into a large envelope.
“Bring the painting,” he told Olivia. “Who knows what flood of memories might come flowing from Mabel’s mind when she sees it.”
Olivia shouldered the bag and pulled her cell phone from her purse. “I’m glad you’re driving. I need to put a call in to Oyster Bay’s police chief and have him put a detail on Harris’s house.”
“You know the chief of police?” Billinger seemed impressed.
Thinking of Rawlings’ brown eyes flecked with green and gold, his tacky Hawaiian shirts, his penchant for chocolate milk, and his undeniable skill as an artist, Olivia murmured, “Not as well as I’d like, but I plan to do something about that very soon.”
Chapter 13
