The chief nodded and his eyes lost their bemused glimmer and became instantly veiled.
“You checked his alibi without Laurel’s knowledge, which was very thoughtful and sensitive, but you also never told me what that alibi was.” Olivia left the unspoken question dangling in the air between them.
The chief scraped his chair away from the table and held out his hand for Olivia’s empty coffee cup. “I didn’t tell then and I’m not going to now. Would you care for a refill?”
Olivia pushed her mug into his palm, her fingertips brushing against his. They smiled at each other for what seemed like a long moment before Wheeler called Rawlings over to the counter to pick up the snack he’d prepared for Haviland.
“That dog gets better service than I do,” a sunburned vacationer whined.
Wheeler mumbled, “Reckon it’s ’cause he’s got better manners,” and poured two fresh cups of his Coastal Coffee blend for Rawlings and Olivia. He then pasted on a congenial grin and handed the petulant tourist her order. “Soy latte no foam and an ever-so-gently toasted multigrain bagel with fat-free cream cheese on the side. May I get you anythin’ else, ma’am?”
The woman scrutinized her bagel but seemed pleased with its even golden hue. She then took the lid off her to-go cup to make sure that Wheeler hadn’t included the offensive froth. Satisfied, she dropped a dollar in his tip jar and walked out the door.
When she was safely away, Rawlings let out a laugh—a deep and hearty rumble that shook his whole entire torso.
Wheeler scowled. “Don’t you have criminals to catch, Chief? Go on, now. Drink your coffee while it’s hot.”
With that reprimand, Rawlings returned to the table and handed Olivia her replenished cup, but he did not sit down. Though his face still held traces of humor, it was evaporating quickly. “He’s right. I have a pile of reading to do on the New Bern prison camp and a phone interview with Nick Plumley’s agent at eleven.”
“Do you have another task to assign me?” Olivia asked coyly.
Rawlings put a finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his stern gaze. “Yes. Don’t find any more bodies.”
The chief held the door for a family of five and then disappeared into the sunshine. Olivia watched Wheeler and one of the teenagers he’d hired for the summer attend to the hungry family. They ordered breakfast sandwiches, complicated espresso drinks, fresh-squeezed orange juice, pastries, and fruit cups. After collecting their food, the father handed Wheeler a wad of bills and, signaling for him to keep the change, he joined his brood at one of the window tables. Olivia finished her own buttered sesame bagel and observed several more families enter, order, and leave, hands filled with carryout bags.
Eventually, the morning rush eased and Wheeler came out from behind the counter to wipe off the unoccupied tables.
“You’re amazing,” Olivia told him and studied the old-timer with genuine warmth.
He smiled wanly. “This place keeps me tickin’.”
Struck by a thought, Olivia touched his arm as he passed her table. “How long have you lived in Oyster Bay?”
“Seems like my whole life,” he replied in a tired voice and then saw that Olivia wasn’t satisfied by his answer. “I left a job at a paper mill and settled here in the fifties, a young man with his whole life ahead of him. Worked the docks for a decade, had a warehouse job for a decade, and then got hired here when this place was still a bakery.” He gestured at the room. “This was what I always wanted though. A little coffee shop by the sea. Sometimes life deals you a decent hand. Other times not.”
Unsure what to make of the cryptic phrase, Olivia put a hand on the rough brick of the interior wall. “And have you always loved art? Not this stuff”—she jerked a thumb at the photographs—“but the things you typically display. You have an eye for talent.”
Wheeler’s gaze grew distant. “Art’s in my blood. It’s a way of travelin’ to other places, to other times. It lets you forget or remember and it doesn’t have to say a word. It’s my favorite kind of company to keep.”
“Did you know that several of the German prisoners held in the New Bern camp during World War Two were gifted artists? Have you heard anything about the camps or those artists?”
Twisting the damp rag in his age-spotted hands, Wheeler shrugged. “I didn’t live here then, girlie, but I heard tell that there were men who could paint, men who could throw a pot, and men who could carve wood with such skill that they got a share of local folks’ precious rations in return for a piece of their work.”
“It’s a wonder there hasn’t been a significant exhibit featuring these wartime masterpieces,” Olivia mused softly. “What a story it would make.” She met Wheeler’s pale blue eyes. “I’ve seen one of the paintings. A snow scene by a man named Heinrich Kamler. Simply executed, yet utterly captivating. I’d never heard of him until Harris found the painting hidden under one of the stair treads of his new house, but I wish I could talk to someone who worked at the camp.”
The bell over the front door tinkled and a host of bronze and bare-chested teenage boys in board shorts entered the café, hair slick with water, faces flushed from an early morning spent riding the waves. They spoke in rich baritones and flashed white smiles, enveloped in an air of robust assurance.
Wheeler’s gaze fell upon the young men, and Olivia saw a flicker of sorrow or regret cross his wrinkled features. It happened so quickly she wasn’t sure what she’d seen, but she looked upon the boys with a brief stab of envy. She’d never known a carefree summer, had never been invited to be a part of a circle of friends such as this group of shining, beautiful boys. Their ability to live wholly in the present was alluring, and Olivia continued to stare at them as they jostled one another amicably to be first in line.
“Not too many old-timers left, my girl,” Wheeler said and slowly got to his feet. It was as if the presence of the young Adonises made him feel every minute of his age with painful acuity. “I can recollect what it was to be like one of them boys. Back then we thought nothin’ could touch us either. We’d win the war and get the girl, spend the next fifty years drinkin’ beer and goin’ to ballgames with our best pals, have piles of money in the bank and a real nice car. Maybe a house and a kid or two. But that ain’t the way of things. Pennies lose their shine after they’ve been passed ’round long enough.”
Olivia wasn’t giving Wheeler her full attention. She was suddenly transported to the moment in Grumpy’s Diner in which the school librarian had asked Nick Plumley to sign her copy of The Barbed Wire Flower. She’d mentioned that the son of one of the New Bern prison guards had spoken at their annual fund-raiser. Perhaps Nick had tracked this man down. Perhaps the prison guard’s relative had become a useful source for the writer. He might unwittingly be in possession of a clue regarding Plumley’s murder.
After clearing off her table, Olivia patted her thigh, and Haviland lumbered to his feet, blinking sleep from his eyes. Wheeler was busy filling orders, so she didn’t bother to wave to him.
Edging past the chiseled bodies of the young men, she breathed in the coconut scent of their sun lotion and the salt water clinging to their shorts. Pausing, she allowed the pure smell of summertime to wash over her, bestowing upon her tiny particles of youth and promise.
Olivia spent over an hour looking for the name of the prison guard’s son on her computer. The school website had no evidence of the event, and she couldn’t find a record that anyone had spoken about the prison. The only hits she had involved a history professor at the University of North Carolina who’d posted his research on Camp New Bern on the university’s intranet. Olivia didn’t have access to his files and would have to get in touch with the professor during his office hours.