Writing All Wrongs (15 page)

While watching her guests out of the corner of her eye, Olivia discussed tomorrow’s launch party with Charles. After that subject was spent, she proposed seasonal menu ideas for the bookstore’s eatery, the Biblio Tech Café.

The café was new to Through the Wardrobe. When Charles purchased the failing bookstore, he also bought the abandoned warehouse building next door and renovated both spaces. Half of the bookstore looked exactly as it had before. The books were displayed in antique wardrobes, lending the space a magical, lost-era feel. However, when
Olivia stepped through the massive stainless steel wardrobe that divided the bookstore from the café, she felt like she’d left behind the library of an English country house for a chic bistro in SoHo. The newly renovated space was sleek, modern, and still inviting. The exposed brick wall was covered with oversize posters of book covers, and every table featured electronic screens promoting a range of interesting titles.

Patrons of Biblio Tech could enjoy the usual coffee drinks and a selection of artisan sandwiches. Charles had wisely included a small stage and projector screens in the design plans, giving local musicians a place to perform and encouraging organizations to rent the café for meetings. The front of the room featured a huge display window and a wall-length bar. The bar had numerous outlets, and it was Charles’s hope that people would bring their laptops to the bookstore and work while having coffee or a bite to eat.

Olivia loved the idea that Through the Wardrobe would merge two worlds. On one side were books, magazines, a large children’s section, and comfortable chairs. It was a reader’s paradise. On the other side, customers could hear live performances, savor a delicious meal, and learn about exciting new releases by viewing the screen on their table.

“Prepare yourself, Olivia,” Charles had said several weeks ago. “Through the Wardrobe is going to be the town hot spot. This will be one independent bookstore that does more than just survive. It will flourish. Mark my words.”

As a waiter cleared their salad plates, Olivia looked at Charles and saw him in a fresh light. He had, in truth, saved the bookstore. The place was dear to her, and she felt such a surge of gratitude toward him that she suddenly grabbed hold of his hand.

“Considering you’ve hated Oyster Bay for most of your life, you’ve done a great thing for its residents. If the bookstore had gone under, we’d have lost more than a shop. Part
of the town’s soul would have died too.” She shrugged self-effacingly. “I know I’m waxing poetic, but a person needs a place filled with books. People need to take them off the shelf, feel their weight, smell their pages, and examine their covers. The quiet joy of browsing in a bookstore is one of life’s greatest pleasures. The soft music, the coffee-scented air, the rounded depressions in the chairs where countless readers have lost themselves in a story. Whispered conversations, the squeak of a bookmark spinner being turned, the gentle rustle of pages. Paradise.”

“I should have had you write the press release,” Charles said, squeezing her hand. “I saved the store for you. And for Camille. I’ve never known two people more enamored with books and stories than you and your mother.”

“She would have loved it,” Olivia said.

Just then, a waiter cleared his throat behind Olivia’s shoulder. “Ms. Limoges, you have a phone call.”

Olivia reclaimed her hand and scowled. “Inform whoever it is that I’m not available. We’re in the middle of dinner.”

The waiter lowered his voice so that only Olivia could hear. “The caller asked me to tell you that it’s urgent. His name is Emmett Billinger.”

Olivia nodded. “I’ll take it in my office, thank you.” As she got to her feet, she touched Charles on the arm. “Be right back. Some drama in the kitchen.”

“It’s not always easy being the boss, but you’re a natural.” Charles raised his wineglass in salute.

Rawlings, who was still deep in conversation with Amy, glanced up just long enough to meet Olivia’s eyes. She flashed him a brief smile and then wove her way through the dining room with as much dignity as she could muster. Her every instinct told her to hurry, but she fought her body’s urge to rush until she passed through the swing doors and into the kitchen.

Shutting her office door so hard that she startled her
sleeping poodle, Olivia snatched the cordless phone from its cradle. “Emmett?”

“I’m sorry, Olivia. I know you’re having dinner, and I know that I could jeopardize things by interrupting, but I had to call.” Emmett sounded winded, as though he’d just finished a fast sprint.

“What happened? Are you all right?”

Emmett took a gulp of air. “I’ve been running around the parking lot at the ferry dock, looking for my car. It’s not here. That’s why I’m calling.”

Olivia was confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Damn. It’s definitely gone.” He exhaled noisily. “Okay, I’m heading to the police station, and I’ll explain as I walk. Not that I ever wanted to step foot in there again, but—”

“Emmett!” Olivia said sharply.

“Sorry.” Emmett was instantly contrite. “I drove straight back to Palmetto Island from your house. This morning I started talking to people. Members of the conservancy, museum employees, the people working at the lighthouse gift shop, the manager and employees of the marina store. The restaurant staff. Having discovered nothing useful, I invited George and Boyd Allen to my place for an early supper.”

Olivia sank into her chair and pressed the receiver against her ear. She could tell that Emmett was still moving and could feel her anxiety rising with his every breath. “And? How did it go?”

“It was a weird evening from the start. They both kept saying how sorry they were that I’d been arrested. However, when I said that I’d soon have to plead my case in court and could use their help avoiding a jail sentence, they went quiet.” Emmett paused. “I’m going to sit on the bench outside the station even though it isn’t that warm. I have to finish talking to you before I go in. Maybe I shouldn’t go in at all. Maybe I’m losing my mind.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Olivia said. “Go on.”

“Well, George started talking about what the island wanted and how the island resisted change. I wasn’t too surprised by this because he said similar things when I was a kid. I thought he was old even then. Part of the reason why he seemed ancient was how he always acted as the island’s mouthpiece.”

Olivia was unaware that she was shaking her head. “George is in his nineties. If he wanted to stop any changes from occurring, Boyd would have to carry out his wishes.”

“I don’t think Boyd is healthy enough to have committed those acts, Olivia. I’ve seen sick people before. If I had to guess, I’d say he has cancer.”

Closing her eyes, Olivia was transported back to the Allens’ gloomy living room. She remembered the black-and-white photographs and the stacks of old newspapers in vivid detail. The past was preserved in that space, and both of the Allens had devoted their lives to keeping the island’s history alive. “George said that his son has headaches, but I think it’s more serious than that,” Olivia agreed. “Migraines. Seizures. I’m not sure. What I do know is that the Allens have motive, if not the means. They’re against the development, and they clearly disapprove of the way Silas presents coastal history.”

“That’s true, but can you see either of them shooting that deer? Or killing Leigh?”

Olivia admitted that she didn’t think it possible. “All right, then,” she said, feeling a fresh bout of frustration. “Tell me the rest of your story.”

“At one point during the day—and I don’t know when—someone entered my house and took my car keys,” Emmett said. “I left them in the kitchen by the phone. I was out all day questioning people, so I don’t know when it happened, and the deck door was unlocked. Caesar and Calpurnia were with me. They’re still too upset to be left alone.”

Coldness spread through Olivia’s chest. She recognized the familiar sensation. It was dread. “And your car is gone?”

“It’s been stolen.” Emmett’s voice was tight with worry. “The only explanation I can come up with is that I unknowingly spoke with the killer today. I made him or her nervous or angry or what-have-you. Now they’ve either fled or . . .” He trailed off, waiting for Olivia to fill in the blank.

“Or they’re coming to Oyster Bay,” she said. “Is that what you believe?”

Emmett hesitated. “I think Silas is the target. I think he’s been the target all along.”

“If that’s true, then why not wait for him to return to the island?” Olivia argued, though she’d voiced the same theory about the crimes focusing on Silas.

“I’ve tried to put myself in the killer’s place, and the answer to your question seems clear enough,” Emmett said. “Silas will be surrounded by hordes of people when he returns. On-set security, assistants, actors, cameramen, grips, makeup artists, etcetera. Over the next few weeks, he’ll hardly ever be alone.”

“Whereas he’s vulnerable here. With us.” Olivia cast a wild glance around her windowless office. The coldness in her chest seeped into her limbs, and she was desperate to move. To act. “I need to tell Rawlings. Report your missing car to the cops, and I’ll call you back later. When I know we’re all safe.”

After begging her to be careful, Emmett hung up.

Olivia put down the phone and rushed out of her office. She didn’t bother walking gracefully through the dining room, but hurried toward their table. Before she was halfway there, Rawlings was on his feet. Olivia waved for him to follow her to the side of the hostess station. When they were out of sight of most of the diners, she grabbed the chief’s arm.

“We might be in danger,” she said and repeated what Emmett had told her as quickly and succinctly as possible.

Rawlings reached for his cell phone and headed for the front door before Olivia finished talking. She continued with
her hushed narrative until they stepped outside, where they both scanned the street and parking lot.

“What’s the make and model of Emmett’s car?” Rawlings asked when Olivia was done.

“Damn, I forgot to ask.” Olivia felt incredibly foolish. “I’ll call him back.”

Rawlings shook his head. “No, I’ll have Officer Cook contact the Riverport desk clerk. If Emmett’s inside the station reporting the theft, he might not answer his phone.”

“What should we do, Sawyer?”

“We should treat this very seriously,” he said, his eyes moving slowly over the parked cars. “Mr. Black and Ms. Holden will stay with me in town tonight. The killer will expect them to be in a hotel, so they’ll be safer at my house.”

Olivia nodded. “Then I’m staying with you. As is Haviland.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll put a car with two officers outside the house, and I’ll keep watch from inside.” Rawlings brushed her cold cheek with his fingertips. “If the killer is after Silas, then I want to put as much distance between you and him as possible.”

Olivia gazed at the shadowy trees and shrubs that created a natural barrier between The Boot Top Bistro and the main road. “The Allens know my name. I told them about growing up next to a lighthouse. If they can’t find Silas, they might come looking for me.
If
the Allens stole Emmett’s car. I still don’t think either one of them is physically capable of these crimes.”

Rawlings said nothing for a long moment. He stood and listened. His jaw was clenched, and his body was tense. “Our dining companions should be done with their entrées by now,” he finally said. “Let them continue with their meal. I don’t want to move them until Cook arrives. Go into the kitchen and lock the back door. Keep your cell phone on you. After I text you, calmly lead our friends and guests through the kitchen and outside.”

“I don’t want to leave you out here by yourself,” Olivia said though she knew he’d been armed the entire evening.

Rawlings removed his handgun from its holster and clicked off the safety. “This is what I do, Olivia. Go inside, please.”

When she didn’t move, he smiled at her. “I’ll be all right.”

Nodding solemnly, she reached for the door. She paused for several seconds, her fingers closing around the brass handle, and glanced back at Rawlings. They exchanged a long and tender look.

And then Olivia left him to face the shadows
alone.

Writing is both mask and unveiling.

—E. B. W
HITE

O
livia explained the situation to her friends and guests over dessert. Her voice was calm, but her gaze kept straying to her cell phone.

“I’m
from
the North Carolina coast,” Silas blurted. He seemed more offended than afraid. “How can they view
me
as an outsider?
My whole life
has been defined by the history of this state. This is ridiculous.”

No one responded to his outburst.

Harris, who’d only taken a bite of his dessert, frowned at Olivia. “Why does the professor blame the Allens for stealing his car?”

“Emmett doesn’t know who took it for certain, but George and Boyd were at his house for dinner last night, and he thinks they’d do anything to defend the island,” Olivia said in a low voice. “Either way, the chief is concerned for Mr. Black’s and Ms. Holden’s safety, so we’re going to do exactly as he says.”

Charles sighed. “I was hoping we could put that horrible business of the ghost stories behind us.”

Millay shook her head. “I knew it would follow us here. Something prompted the killer to act, and I think it was the sale of the Allen’s Creek land. The ghost stories were just stories until that deal became publicized.” She spread her hands. “I’m sorry to be blunt, Silas, but I believe your business venture started all of this.”

“But the debate over the land went on for months before the purchase was finalized,” Silas argued. “There were numerous town hall meetings and plenty of press coverage. The land was surveyed, investors visited the island—I’ve been twice in the past year. If someone wanted to take a shot at me, they didn’t have to wait.”

“But the sale didn’t become public until the day the deer was killed and put on display,” Harris said. “That can’t be coincidence.”

“Did the Allens have a claim on that land?” Laurel asked Silas. “It does bear their name.”

“No,” he answered firmly. “The creek was named after George’s father, but he never owned a square foot of land near its banks. In fact, there are no deeds connected to the Allens other than the cottage they currently live in.”

Olivia turned to Charles. “Then who owned the land? It’s a done deal, so there’s no need to protect the seller’s identity any longer.”

Charles shrugged. “His name is Bill Henley and he lives out-of-state. His family has owned the tract since his father, Bill Senior, tried to turn Palmetto Island into a vacationer’s paradise in the sixties. Back then, the endeavor failed, so Bill Senior sold the marina and hotel outright and loaned the Allen’s Creek land to the wildlife conservancy. There was a clause in the loan stating that Bill’s heirs could reclaim the land at any time. Bill Senior passed away a year ago, and Bill Junior decided that he wanted to see his father’s vision
of an island resort come to fulfillment. However, he didn’t want to take on the project himself, so he decided to sell the land to someone who would develop it.”

“So how did you become involved?” Olivia asked Silas.

“Bill and I were fraternity brothers. We’re also neighbors on Palmetto Island,” Silas said. “Knowing I’d be interested in investing in a development, he reached out to me. I brought Charles on board and the rest is history.”

Olivia glanced at Charles and saw a wary look in her father’s eyes. It was the same look she’d seen on the island. The one that told her that Silas and Charles shared a secret.

Before she could let Charles know that she was on to him, her cell phone vibrated. She read Rawlings’s message and slowly rose to her feet. “Please get your things and follow me into the kitchen. Officer Cook is waiting by the back door.”

Charles gestured at one of the wine bottles, which was half-full. “Too bad I’m driving.”

“You’re not,” Olivia said firmly. “The chief has arranged for another officer to take you home.”

Laurel touched Millay’s arm. “I’ll take you and Harris. Other than the glass of wine I had before dinner, I’ve stuck to water. That makes me your designated driver. Besides, you’re now a star, so you need a chauffeur.”

“And your minivan’s just like a limo,” Harris teased. “It has a TV and lots of cup holders.”

Olivia led her friends through the dining room and into the kitchen.

The staff paused in the midst of chopping, steaming, sautéing, and cleaning to stare at the interlopers.

“Excellent meal, Chef,” Charles said, clapping an astonished Michel on the back. “One of the best I’ve ever had.”

While Olivia fetched Haviland from her office, the rest of the Bayside Book Writers complimented Michel until his chest puffed with pride.

“I am very grateful for the praise, but this is highly irregular.” He waved his arm around the kitchen. “Normally, the chef visits the dining room.”

“We wanted to thank you, but we also needed an escape route,” Silas said placidly. “Stalkers. Happens all the time.”

Baffled, Michel looked to Olivia for an explanation. Not wanting to cause him unnecessary worry, she said. “As a precaution, the chief has assigned two officers to keep an eye on the restaurant. They’ll be outside until you lock up. There’s no cause for alarm.”

Taking Silas by the elbow, she practically pulled him to the exit door. At the same time, she called for Haviland to heel. She didn’t want her poodle darting outside with armed policemen waiting on the other side of the door.

Olivia cracked the door and was relieved to see Officer Cook’s familiar face. He told her to send everyone out.

“Let’s go,” she ordered and gave Silas a little push.

Unable to resist a dramatic exit, he glanced over his shoulder and saluted the kitchen staff. “If I die tonight, I die having dined on excellent food. Good night and thank you!”

Officer Cook, who was clearly displeased by Silas’s cavalier attitude, bustled Silas and Amy into the backseat of his cruiser. With his hand on his holster, he scanned the parking lot before waving the rest of the group outside. Another patrol car was idling behind Cook’s, and a third was closer to the street. Two officers were searching the property on foot. They swept their flashlight beams over the parked cars, and the light refracted off windows and rearview mirrors.

In these brief seconds of illumination, Olivia’s imagination ran wild. Dry cleaning hanging from hooks became a man hiding in the backseat, and every shadow between every car turned into a killer, crouched and waiting to spring.

Olivia stood with Cook and watched Laurel’s minivan pull out of the lot. Charles was settled in the patrol car
behind Cook’s, and Haviland was shifting uneasily by Olivia’s side. It was time to go.

“Where’s the chief?” Olivia asked.

Cook pointed. “In his car. He wants to leave last—to make sure no one’s following us to his place.” He opened the passenger door for Olivia. “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll be watching the house all night. No one will come anywhere near you.”

Reassured by Cook’s confidence, Olivia got in the car. Haviland sat on her lap, his nails digging into her thighs and his nose pressed against the window. Olivia used her sleeve to wipe away the smudges he made. She wanted to be able to see every car that passed by.

“What’s the make and model of the stolen car?” she quietly asked Cook.

“A silver Ford Explorer with a custom roof rack for kayaks and canoes.” He recited the license plate number. “It’s an Adopt a Greyhound plate. Has a dog outline and a red heart on the left-hand side.”

“Of course it does,” Olivia said and held Haviland a little tighter.

*   *   *

Olivia tried to sleep but couldn’t. Amy had gone to bed soon after arriving at the chief’s house, and Rawlings and Silas were in the living room, speaking in hushed tones. Haviland was curled up by Olivia’s feet, his steady exhalations a familiar and comforting sound.

Olivia’s mind refused to quiet. It wasn’t fear that kept her awake, but the unanswered questions swirling around and around in her head like a whirlpool.

A blade of moonlight snuck through the gap in the curtains and painted a white line on the duvet cover. Every so often, the wind would nudge the bushes outside the window and shadows from the crape myrtle branches would fracture the light.

The crooked shadows reminded Olivia of the island’s maritime forest. Her mind leapt from image to image. The lighthouse, Land End Lodge, the Allens’ sad cottage. She’d never sensed malice in George or Boyd. To her, they were tragic figures. Men who dwelled in the past and had little hope or joy in the future. Olivia remembered how affectionate George and Boyd were with each other. She recalled George’s bone-deep weariness and Boyd’s weakness and pallor. It was impossible for her to accept the idea that they’d taken Emmett’s car keys, crossed the Cape Fear River, and were headed to Oyster Bay. For what purpose? To bring another ghost story to life?

From the living room, Olivia heard Silas laugh.

She turned on her side, putting her back to the window, and closed her eyes. She pictured herself on that first ferry ride when the deckhand had told her about the quarantine platform. She remembered the brown pelicans diving into the water and the small boats dotting the water around them.

Suddenly, she sat up.

“Boyd had a boat. He caught fish and crabs to sell to the island’s two restaurants. He had a boat.” Getting out of bed, she slipped one of Rawlings’s sweatshirts over the T-shirt and boxer shorts she’d taken from his dresser, and tiptoed into the living room.

Seeing her, Rawlings jumped to his feet. “Did you hear something?”

“No.” She briefly laid a hand on his chest, silently assuring him that all was well. “I can’t sleep. The same questions have been running on a loop in my head, but then a new thought floated to the surface when I started thinking about boats.”

Silas, who had a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, peered at her from under heavy lids. “At two in the morning?”

Ignoring him, Olivia sat down next to Rawlings. His right hand rested on the arm of the sofa, inches away from the
end table where he’d placed his sidearm. Olivia took his left hand and pressed her palm against his.

“Whoever broke into the museum was either already on the island or had access to a boat,” she said, noting the exhaustion on Rawlings’s face. The lines between his brows and bracketing his mouth looked deeper, but his gaze was still sharp and alert. “Whoever killed that deer needed a boat too. That man from the conservancy—Brett, I think—was adamant about the doe not being from the island. Every island deer was tagged and tracked, so the white doe must have been
brought
to the island. By boat.”

Rawlings had a faraway look in his eye and Olivia knew that he was reviewing the details of each crime.

“The killer could have used a boat to lure Ms. Whitlow along the beach. He could have played a recording of the ship bell while quietly motoring in the shallows. Though this seems like a great deal of trouble to go through to replicate the sounds of a ghost story. And why would Ms. Whitlow follow the sound of the bell in the first place? I keep coming back to the question,” he mused to himself. “But if the killer did use a boat, any hull marks could have been erased by the incoming tide by the time you found Ms. Whitlow the following morning.”

“Boyd Allen has a boat,” Olivia said. “Though I have no idea what kind or where it’s kept. From what I understood during our visit, the boats in the harbor are all luxury yachts or motorboats owned by vacationers. Since no one other than the Allens lives on the island, there’s no need for anyone to own a permanent mooring. But what about the people who work on Palmetto Island? Does Jan Powell or someone else who was passionately against the sale of the Allen’s Creek land also have a boat?”

Silas groaned. “Not
her
again!”

“She supposedly had a solid alibi, but I wonder . . .” Olivia leaned toward Silas. “Is Peterson involved in the
development? Has he been promised a kickback of any kind?”

“In exchange for what?” Silas’s tone was glib. “Covering up my involvement in Leigh’s murder? I know you think I’m somehow culpable. Charles told me.”

The words were a knife-twist in Olivia’s heart. How could her father be so duplicitous? “Your alibi is too convenient.”

Silas shook his head. The movement was very slow, as though he was under water. He suddenly seemed drained of all energy. “I didn’t hurt Leigh. Not physically, anyway. I hurt her in every other possible way during our time together, but I haven’t so much as touched her for weeks.” He took a swallow of whiskey and winced. “You don’t really believe I’m a murderer. If you did, we wouldn’t be having a cordial chat in the police chief’s living room.”

“You’ve done something wrong,” Olivia insisted. “Charles knows what it is. You and he share a secret, and I believe that secret set these events in motion. If not, we wouldn’t be sitting in the police chief’s living room.”

“Touché.” Silas polished off his whiskey and saluted Rawlings with the empty glass. “I’m turning in. Thank you for watching over us.” He walked toward the hall and then paused. Glancing back at Olivia, he said. “To paraphrase the Bard, I plan to sleep despite the thunder. I hope you will too.”