“You’re not going to make much of a profit giving away food like that,” Olivia remarked with a grin.
Grumpy was a man of few facial expressions. He glanced at her and then cracked a pair of eggs onto the sizzling grill. “With the tips you give Dixie, I don’t need to worry about it.”
Casting her eyes around the orderly kitchen, Olivia paused for a moment to consider what it would be like to spend eight hours in the same space, day in and day out, with only an aged radio for company. “What’s it like? The life of a master fry cook.”
Many people would have taken offense at such a question, but Grumpy knew she meant no harm. “It’s quiet,” he answered stoically. “Before this, I didn’t have much quiet. I’m no chef, but I make decent food, and folks can afford to eat here regular. I’m proud of that.”
Grumpy slid the eggs on a plate, dumped two cups of crisp hash browns beside them, and piled four strips of bacon on top of the potatoes.
Olivia snapped her fingers at Haviland, and then, before turning to leave, she touched Grumpy briefly on the shoulder. “This diner is the heart of our town. And your food is far better than decent. Don’t tell your wife, but I don’t come here because of the décor.”
A rare rumble of laughter followed her through the swinging kitchen door.
Olivia’s drive to Chapel Hill was uneventful. On the way, she listened to an audiobook dramatizing the life of one of her favorite women, Eleanor of Aquitaine. It was easy to become lost in Eleanor’s world of drafty castles, thwarted romance, and endless wars while traveling west on I-40, but when she neared Chapel Hill, she was too distracted by the traffic and a landscape populated predominantly by chain stores that she had to turn off the CD.
“Talk about suburban sprawl,” she said to Haviland. “Last time I was here, none of these strip malls existed.” She sighed. “Small-town America is disappearing before our eyes. I hope the area around the university is better preserved. I remember it as being so charming.”
To her relief, Franklin Street was relatively unchanged. The college town was not as bustling as it would be when the students returned in August, but it was far from sleepy. Olivia knew that downtown Chapel Hill was a hotspot for both foodies and music lovers and felt a pang of remorse that she’d have to make do with sandwiches for lunch when she could be trying out one of the many unique cafes. Instead of enjoying summer rolls at Lime & Basil or vegetable fritters from Mama Dip’s, she’d probably end up with cold turkey, processed cheese, and a leaf of limp lettuce squashed between two store-brought slices of bread.
Her anticipatory mood could not be deflated by thoughts of lunch, however. The university at Chapel Hill’s tree-lined campus was simply too lovely, too replete with tasteful architecture and an aura of history to inspire any feelings other than optimism and a sense of purpose.
Finding parking near Hampton Hall was no easy feat, and Olivia flirted with the idea of occupying a faculty spot.
“I doubt they’re all here today,” she stated defensively to Haviland, who cocked his head to the side and sniffed to indicate his disapproval.
Billinger’s office was on the second floor. The thick, wood door was ajar, and Billinger was at his desk. He was examining a document turned yellow with age but immediately glanced up when he heard Olivia’s footsteps and the sound of Haviland’s paws come to a halt at his threshold.
“You’re ten minutes early,” he said, rising to his feet. “Excellent.”
Moving around his desk, he shook Olivia’s hand firmly and then held out his palm for Haviland to smell. The poodle was clearly interested in the scent of other canines he detected on Billinger’s skin and clothes but was too polite to sniff the professor’s pant leg or shoe. Instead, he gave the man a welcoming smile and waited to be invited inside.
Emmett Billinger was handsome in a bookish way. In his late forties, he was tall and slim like Olivia. Like her, his thin frame radiated good health and strength, and the flush on his cheeks indicated that he didn’t spend all of his time indoors. His eyes were brown, as were the frames of his glasses and his tousled hair. Olivia liked his face, seeing in it a contrary mixture of boyish eagerness and the wisdom of an old soul.
The jacket of Billinger’s seersucker suit was draped on the arm of a small sofa, and he’d rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, revealing gently freckled forearms. Olivia had never laid eyes on a man who looked sexy in a bowtie, but Emmett Billinger did.
“Are you hungry?” he asked politely, indicating a neatly laid table with a view out the only window.
Olivia shook her head, taking in the built-in bookcases, the wooden file cabinets, and the attractive design of the blue and maroon Oriental rug obscuring most of the industrial gray floor. “This is a wonderful office.” She removed the canvas bag holding Harris’s painting from her shoulder and laid it carefully on the sofa. “Would you like to clear a space on your desk?”
Billinger jumped to comply. He piled papers, file folders, and his laptop onto the bookshelves behind the desk and then stood back, waiting for her to set the painting on the clean surface.
Without speaking, she unwrapped the watercolor from its protective layers and stepped back, allowing Billinger the time and space he required to examine it.
Olivia settled on the sofa with Haviland at her feet and watched the professor. She liked how he sat very still and studied the winter scene, his eyes glimmering with unadulterated pleasure. He then slid on a pair of gloves, similar to those worn by the museum curators, and drew a jeweler’s loop from a desk drawer. He looked at Heinrich Kamler’s initials and then, a slow smile creeping across his face, turned the painting over.
“This is marvelous,” he declared happily, meeting Olivia’s eyes briefly before letting them fall on the handwriting again. “This inscription . . .” He pushed back his chair, grabbed a file folder, and hurried to take a seat next to her on the sofa. “It sheds light on a relationship that presented itself during the course of my research earlier in the year. I’ve seen a photograph of Kamler and Evelyn White and, earlier this year, heard stories about them from another guard’s child. That child, who’s now an elderly woman named Mabel, has been my primary source up until this point, but this is the first written evidence I’ve laid eyes on that suggests the extent to which Kamler cared for Miss White.”
He handed Olivia a black-and-white photograph. “This has been digitally enhanced, but it shows Heinrich Kamler giving Evelyn White a painting lesson.”
The image showed a dark-haired girl in a modest, light-colored dress, seated on a campstool in front of an easel. She held a paintbrush in her right hand and was facing a small canvas, but her eyes slid sideways and her mouth curved into a slight and secretive smile. Kamler was in profile, but it was clear from his chiseled features and locks of thick hair that he had been a good-looking man. He held a palette in one hand and was gesturing at the canvas with a wood-handled knife in the other. His expression was one of unmasked adoration.
“That’s the knife that was used to kill the guard the night Kamler and Ziegler escaped.” Billinger handed her another photo, this one a blowup of the knife in Kamler’s hand.
But Olivia didn’t take the photo. Her mouth hung agape in shock. “Ziegler? That was the second prisoner’s name? The one who escaped with Kamler?”
“Yes. I thought you knew that already.” Billinger’s face clouded in confusion.
Accepting the photograph, Olivia explained, “Nick Plumley’s real name is Ziegler. That’s no coincidence.”