The Last Word

like dirt when she went back to work. Laurel thinks he’s having an affair. I know that a woman’s instincts are only truly understood by other females and the Almighty.” He glanced heavenward, shaking his head in awe. “But I have learned to respect them.”

Scowling, Olivia put down her pen. “But she hasn’t confronted him, has she? Whenever things get unpleasant at home, she runs into your open arms instead. This Shakespearean crap is what you thrive on, Michel. Laurel isn’t like you. She has two little boys and, I hate to tell you this, but she’s still in love with her husband. You’re going to get hurt, Michel. You always do.” She reached for his hand. “The difference is that this time, the woman whose heart you’re playing with is my friend.” Olivia exhaled wearily. “This has to stop before Laurel does something she regrets.”

“Mon Dieu, how I wish she would!” Michel exclaimed and flounced from the office.

“Is it cocktail time yet?” Olivia wondered aloud and then dialed the chief’s cell phone number. “You’re probably exhausted,” she said when he picked up. “But would you like to meet me for a drink?”

Rawlings hesitated. “Do you want my company or are you just fishing for updates on the case?”

“Both,” Olivia replied honestly. “Though I’d be glad to see you even if you refused to talk about anything but the weather.”

“Liar.” Rawlings laughed. “But I accept. Your bar or mine?”

“Gabe will pour more liberally than any other bartender in town,” was her answer. “Will you be off the clock or should he stock the bar with chocolate syrup?”

“I’ll have what you’re having,” the chief said and told her to expect him in an hour or so.

After making two more calls, one to Harris and the second to Hudson, Olivia took the cosmetic bag she kept in her desk drawer into the ladies’ room. As she combed through her white blond hair until it gleamed in the soft light of the wall sconces flanking the mirror and refreshed her lipstick, she thought of what a relief it was to know that Anders would be coming home in a week’s time to a more peaceful town. Tomorrow afternoon Laurel would take Olivia shopping for the best baby gear money could buy.

How she wished Rawlings would tell her that the case was closed, leaving Olivia to concentrate on her family members and her new business. More importantly, she could finally prove to Rawlings that she was ready to have a relationship with him. She dabbed fragrant droplets of Shalimar onto the nape of her neck and the inside of both wrists, suddenly struck by the realization that whether the murderer was apprehended or not had little to do with her desire to be with Rawlings. She needn’t conceal her feelings for him because the case was still open.

Seeing the glimmer of expectation in her eyes, Olivia gave her reflection a self-conscious grin and then headed to the bar.

Gabe began making her drink immediately. When Rawlings walked in, the barkeep welcomed the chief and gestured at the rows of shining bottles lined up behind the bar. “What’s your pleasure, Chief?”

“Same as the lady, please.” Rawlings ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair and sighed. “You’d better give me three fingers instead of two, Gabe. It’s been that kind of day.”

Olivia and Rawlings took their drinks and withdrew to one of the bar’s intimate tables and clinked glasses.

“I feel better already,” Rawlings said before taking a sip. “Just seeing you.”

“That shows just how tired you are,” she teased. “Harris is doing well, by the way. Millay’s been texting me with regular reports, and I talked to him about an hour ago. He sounds almost happy to have been shot.”

With a wry grin, Rawlings said, “Hey, if it gets you the girl . . .”

Their eyes met and they both smiled over the rims of their glasses. A waitress materialized and put down a plate of bruschetta with fresh basil and diced tomatoes as well as a small platter containing a round of baked Brie encircled by olives. Rawlings stared at the food but didn’t reach for any of it.

“The Vickers did not kill Nick Plumley,” he said solemnly. “The woman who owns their rental cottage inadvertently provided them with an alibi for the morning in question. Their credit card was declined the day before and she’d spoken to them about an alternate means of payment. They promised to have cash for her by the end of their wedding day on Wednesday but failed to give her any. By Thursday, she was concerned that the couple would try to skip out without taking care of their bill.” He sliced through the soft Brie with a cheese knife. “We’re not talking about small change here either. The landlady had taken care of all the arrangements for their marriage ceremony. Between the food, the photographer, and the rental house, they owe her a few thousand.”

Olivia whistled. “So she went knocking on the door of their honeymoon suite the morning after they got married. Whoa.”

Rawlings colored. “She stopped by several times but no one ever answered. Finally, she just let herself in and found Mr. and Mrs. Vickers in a rather, ah, compromising position. Mr. Vickers yelled at her to get lost and she was flustered enough to do just that.” He took a bite of bruschetta and rolled his eyes in delight. “Delicious.”

“The poor woman,” Olivia said with a laugh. “Not only is she out a few grand but she got an eyeful too.”

Nodding, the chief’s good humor quickly evaporated. “She was hoping that by telling me about the incident I could help recover her losses, but she ended up aiding the Vickers. They now have a solid alibi for the morning of Mr. Plumley’s murder.”

“But they are guilty of shooting Harris and of breaking and entering into more than one home. They stole the painting from my kitchen, right?”

“The Vickers have confessed to those crimes, yes. Thankfully, the painting was unharmed. I’ve got it in my office.”

Olivia hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until she let it go. “I was so worried about Harris that I forgot all about the watercolor.”

“As you should, considering all that’s happened.” Rawlings fell silent for a moment. He placed food on a small plate and handed it to Olivia and then fixed one for himself. They ate quietly for a little while, enjoying the creamy cheese, the crisp bread seasoned with garlic and olive oil, and each other’s company. “Mrs. Vickers told me something else,” the chief said sotto voce. “Something I’m only going to share with you because I trust you.”

Olivia could hear the unspoken directive. Rawlings was ordering her not to tell anyone else. She nodded in understanding.

“Mrs. Vickers confessed to having blackmailed her ex-husband for years. According to her, Mr. Plumley once told her that he was responsible for the death of an old woman. Other than his father, this woman was his primary source for The Barbed Wire Flower.”

Leaning forward in her chair, Olivia opened her mouth to ask a question but Rawlings held up a finger. “I know what you want to ask, but listen to the whole story first. Mrs. Vickers alleges that Mr. Plumley made this confession after drinking a great deal of vodka. It was the same night they conceived their son, in fact. The two parted ways and then Mrs. Vickers had her own secret to carry.”

He paused and Olivia wondered if he too was picturing Cora touching her swollen belly, her face slack with shock as her obstetrician gave her the hard news that her son had Down’s syndrome.

“So they lived separate lives until Mr. Plumley’s novel was released and immediately hit the bestseller list,” Rawlings continued. “At that point, his ex-wife paid him a visit and demanded money. They struck a deal. She would remain silent about what happened to his source in return for quarterly payments in cash.”

Olivia couldn’t contain herself. “Was the woman Evelyn White? Did Plumley kill her?”

“Mrs. Vickers claims that Mr. Plumley let Ms. White read an early draft of A Barbed Wire Flower. This was years before the book was actually published. Ms. White never knew that Plumley’s real name was Ziegler, and she told him over and over that it was Nicklaus Ziegler who murdered James Hatcher, the Camp New Bern guard, not Heinrich Kamler.”

Groaning, Olivia picked up her glass. “But Plumley ignored her and portrayed Kamler as the killer, just like the papers did in 1945.”

“Yes, and Ms. White became very upset. She’d only agreed to tell him her story on the condition that he’d rewrite that event the way she believed it to have happened.” Rawlings noted Olivia’s empty tumbler and gently took it from her hand. “Even though Mr. Plumley’s book was a work of fiction, Ms. White had hoped that it would help right the wrong done to Kamler’s reputation.” He sighed. “I’d better get you a refill before I continue. Be right back.”

Rawlings headed for the bar, but Olivia sat frozen in her chair. Once again, she was overwhelmed by the