The Last Word

locals who believe there’s something wrong with me because Haviland is my constant companion. They disapprove of my refusal to attend every street fair, regatta, shop opening, and ribbon-cutting ceremony. When I don’t buy a dozen boxes of stale Girl Scout cookies or chemically laced Boy Scout popcorn every time I leave the Stop ’n’ Shop, the troop parents fold their arms and shake their heads at me.” She paused to glance out the large picture window at the end of her booth. “Things were getting better, Dixie. I felt anchored here again, like a boat fastened to its moorings. For so long I was drifting, and that finally stopped. But after the events of the past few months, I feel like my tether is frayed . . .”

Dixie heard the pain in her friend’s voice. “None of that was your fault, ’Livia. You’re givin’ yourself a bit too much credit, don’t you think?” Dixie turned, slapped the coffee carafe on the counter, and faced Olivia again. “Chief Rawlings arrived at the same conclusion before you did.”

A flush of pink spread across Olivia’s cheeks. She hurriedly cut into her strata with the edge of her fork and filled her mouth with a bite of warm eggs, fresh tomatoes, and melted cheese.

“I see what you’re doin’,” Dixie said, shaking her pointer finger. “Stuffin’ your face so you don’t have to tell me what’s goin’ on between you and Sawyer Rawlings. The whole town knows you’re an item, so don’t bother denyin’ it. One of the chief’s neighbors saw you doin’ the walk of shame. She said Haviland spent the night too. Must be serious.”

Olivia bristled. “There wasn’t the slightest trace of shame on my part, but I’m not foolish enough to discuss intimate details with the biggest gossip in all of Oyster Bay. Meaning you.” The barb was softened by a smile, which was quickly hidden behind the rim of Olivia’s coffee cup. “Get back to the witch. That’s a far more interesting topic.”

“No, it is not, but I’ll play along. Hold on.” Dixie skated over to the Cats booth and slapped a check on the table. She spent a moment chitchatting with an elderly couple clad in matching lighthouse T-shirts and was undoubtedly explaining for the millionth time why she’d decorated the diner using Andrew Lloyd Webber paraphernalia.

Next, she pivoted and moved on to the Phantom of the Opera table. A jowly man in his late fifties dug around in the pocket of his madras shorts in search of his wallet. Ignoring Dixie’s question as to whether he enjoyed his food, he tossed bills on top of the check in dismissive little flicks of the wrist. His breakfast partner, a skeletally thin blonde in her early thirties clad in a miniskirt and a white tank top stretched taut over a pair of cartoonishly large implants, jabbed at the porcelain phantom mask with a long, curving fingernail.

From where she sat enjoying her meal, Olivia watched Dixie straighten to her full height. After donning her skates and teasing her hair a vertical inch into the air, she was barely five feet tall, but what Dixie lacked in stature she made up for in fearlessness.

“Y’all have a nice day,” she said tightly, her farewell clearly meant as a command.

The top-heavy blonde grabbed her takeout coffee cup and shimmied across the vinyl seat, granting the diners in the opposite booths a clear view of her leopard-print panties.

“Hurry up, babe.” The man in madras shorts began to walk away without waiting for his companion. He popped a toothpick in his mouth with one hand and jiggled a set of keys with the other. Using his elbow to push open the door, he let it go without bothering to see if his lady friend was behind him. She wasn’t. The door slammed in her face, and she jumped back with a little shriek. Jutting her lower lip into a collagen-enhanced pout, she followed her man out of the diner.

“High-caliber clientele,” Olivia teased Dixie after she’d cleared the couple’s table.

Dixie wasn’t happy. “Cheap bastard. Doctors are the worst tippers.”

“How did you know he’s a physician?”

“The caduceus on his key ring.” Dixie pointed out the window. “And the vanity plate on his I-am-not-well- hung-mobile.”

Olivia had been too absorbed rereading the latest chapter of her novel to notice the atomic-orange Corvette parked outside Grumpy’s Diner. She peered at the showy convertible as the man settled into his seat and revved the engine. The vanity plate read NIPTUCK.

“Having seen the missus, perhaps the plate should say ‘I Inflate You,’ ” Olivia said. “You could use the number eight and the letter U to save space.”

“Lady Watermelons is not the missus,” Dixie corrected. “I saw a picture of the missus and the doc’s three kids when he opened his wallet. Such a cliche. Why do they come here anyway? Why not go to Vegas or Cancun?”

Olivia shrugged. “He wants to show off his car. See?”

The object of their derision was donning sunglasses as the Corvette’s soft top folded back. The doctor glanced around, making sure he’d captured the interest of a few passersby before turning on the radio. The plate- glass window above Olivia’s booth began to vibrate as the Corvette’s speakers pounded out a thundering bass.

Dixie shook her head in disgust. “Pathetic.” And then her eyes narrowed angrily. “She’d better not do what I think she’s going to do.”

Olivia looked at the blonde, who’d pulled back her arm and was preparing to throw her takeout cup into a trash can on the sidewalk. At the same moment she launched the cup, the doc flicked his used toothpick into the street, put the sports car in drive, and launched out of the parking spot. The cup missed the rim of the receptacle by several feet and bounced off a lamppost, splashing coffee onto a parked car, the newspaper box, and the bare legs of a teenage girl. The girl shouted, her face registering pain and surprise.

Dixie swore through gritted teeth as the orange Corvette raced out of view.

“Maybe the witch can put a curse on those two cretins,” Olivia suggested, sharing Dixie’s indignation over the couple’s behavior. It was bad enough that they’d both blatantly littered, but to drive on after splattering a young woman’s legs with hot coffee bordered on criminal conduct.

Collecting Haviland’s empty plate, Dixie put a hand on the black curls of his head and sighed. “I wish all humans had your manners, Captain. But the spell thing isn’t a bad idea either. We just need to hop a boat, cross the harbor, head up a creek borderin’ the Croatan National Forest ’til it ends, and hike a trail for a few miles.”

“She’s hardly Oyster Bay’s witch then,” Olivia noted.

“Born and bred,” Dixie retorted. “Anyway, what kind of mystique would she have if she lived in a beachfront condo? A shack in the swamp is way better for business.”

This statement peeked Olivia’s interest. “What kind of business?”

Delighted to have her friend on the hook, Dixie was just about to answer when Grumpy rang the order bell in the kitchen. The breakfast rush was nearly over, but the family of four in the Evita booth was casting expectant glances at Dixie. When she skated over with a tray laden with stacks of buttermilk pancakes, sizzling sausage patties, cinnamon-laced French toast, and an omelet the size of a beret, their eyes grew round with appreciation.

“That should hold ’em for five minutes,” she said, coming to an abrupt stop at Olivia’s booth, her silver tutu billowing as she applied the brakes. “Back to the witch. Her name is Munin, and one of my cousins went to see her over the weekend.” Dixie pulled a stray thread from her left tube sock and lowered her voice. “He and his woman want a baby real bad, but it’s just not happenin’. They’ve both been checked out and there’s nothin’ wrong, medically speakin’. Been goin’ on five years since they started tryin’. Munin is kind of their last hope.”

Olivia dabbed her lips with a paper napkin. “And can they expect a healthy set of triplets nine months from now?”

“I reckon not,” Dixie replied. “See, Munin doesn’t take cash or checks. You have to bring her somethin’ that’s real precious to you to get her help. If the witch doesn’t think what you brought is special enough, she won’t lift a finger for you.”

“What does she do with the objects?”

Dixie shrugged. “Who knows?”

Impatient to return to her manuscript, Olivia offered to tell Laurel about Munin. “The big shot of the Oyster Bay Gazette staff might not cover the story herself, but maybe one of the Features writers would be interested.”

With a scowl, Dixie picked up Olivia’s empty plate. “I’m not tellin’ you about the witch so that you can turn her into a Disneyland attraction. I’d rather have my teeth pulled than visit her remote hideaway, let alone spread word about the woman. I’m only tellin’ you about her because she sent a message back with my cousin.”

“For you?”