No one said a word to Olivia about Haviland’s presence. Perhaps because she sat so upright and so still, her gaze fixed on the too-bold arrangement of lilies, they believed she was visually impaired.
To escape the madness of waiting, of not knowing, Olivia had been thinking deeply about art. Influenced by the flowers, she visualized all the Matisse paintings she could call to mind. She repeated the exercise with Georgia O’Keefe. Then, trying to imagine what kinds of paintings would fit best on the waiting room’s walls, she sifted through a mental gallery of Rembrandt and Dürer and Caravaggio, thinking that their use of chiaroscuro was more suitable for the oppressive atmosphere than the lackluster botanicals lined up above Estelle’s head.
A doctor in Carolina blue scrubs pushed open the doors to the OR, and the images of art vanished from Olivia’s mind like a snuffed candle flame. The physician scanned the room with quick, intelligent eyes and picked out Mr. and Mrs. Williams. He pushed his paper mask below his chin, and the smile of assurance he bestowed on the frightened parents caught everyone’s attention.
Estelle sprang to her feet, peppering the man with questions until he put a hand on her shoulder and waited for her to calm down. Keeping his focus on Harris’s parents, he spoke in a deep, confident tone, and though Olivia couldn’t hear the specifics, she caught enough phrases such as “avoided major organs,” and “bullet intact,” and “in stable condition,” to know that Harris was out of danger.
When Estelle demanded to see him, the doctor told her that the patient had had significant blood loss and he’d need to rest for now. The result of his gentle refusal was that Estelle burst into a fresh bout of tears. Looking pained, the doctor removed the paper cap from his head and scrunched it into a ball between his hands. “The moment he woke up, Harris asked to see Millay. Are you Millay?”
Estelle’s pretty mouth curled into an angry sneer. “No. I’m his girlfriend. You must have misunderstood. Harris mumbles all the time. I’m always telling him to speak clearly, like I do on the phone. That’s an important part of my job, you know.” She sniffed and then dabbed at her eyes. “People notice you if you enunciate.”
The surgeon sent Harris’s parents a glance of befuddlement, but they were staring at Estelle with distaste. Olivia wondered if Estelle was even aware that it was unwise to insult their only child, especially when Harris had come so close to losing his life.
Millay, who had stopped pacing during this exchange, touched the surgeon lightly on the arm. “I’m the one he’s asking for,” she said softly, joy shining from her face like a lighthouse beacon. She then looked directly at Estelle, and Olivia was surprised to see sympathy in her friend’s dark eyes. “Harris doesn’t mumble. And unlike most people, he only talks when he’s got something to say. You should have listened more closely. I bet you missed out on some good stuff.” She paused. “I know I have.”
The surgeon promised to return for Harris’s parents as soon as it was clear he was up to having more visitors and led Millay away, cautioning her that she’d only have a few minutes with the patient.
“Don’t worry, Doc. I’ll make them count,” they heard her say before they rounded a corner and were gone.
Olivia only hung around long enough to see Millay reemerge from the recovery area ten minutes later. Her skin, which had previously appeared jaundiced with shock and worry beneath the waiting room’s harsh flu-orescents, now glowed with relief and something else Olivia couldn’t identify. Gratitude? Devotion?
Her friend shot her a brief, encouraging smile before heading straight for Harris’s parents. Millay put her hand on his mother’s arm and began to talk quickly and calmly. As Olivia watched, air seemed to rush from Mrs. Williams’ lungs and the tight cords of fear that had pushed her shoulders together relaxed. Murmuring her thanks, she and her husband went off to the nurses’ station to beg for a few moments with their son.
Estelle had fallen mercifully silent, clutching her can of diet soda and watching Millay with venomous eyes.
Having no wish to be around when the girl’s dramatics began again, Olivia touched Haviland on the collar and crossed the room to where Laurel sat. “We probably won’t be able to visit Harris until tomorrow, so why don’t I call us a cab?”
Rawlings, who had left the waiting area to phone into the station, returned. His purposeful gait told her that his subordinates had given him good news and that he was impatient to join them. Once Millay informed him of Harris’s condition, it was clear that the chief wouldn’t hang around any longer.
“I’d like to get statements from everyone tonight. An officer will drop you ladies at home afterward.”
Millay shook her head. “I’m not leaving.”
Estelle slowly rose from her seat, chin held high like a queen, and said, “You don’t have to stay. I’ll make sure they treat Harris right. I’m his girlfriend, remember?”
Olivia expected Millay to snap at her rival, but she didn’t. “Okay,” she agreed placidly. “You hold down the fort and I’ll be back as soon as I’m done helping the cops tie Cora up in a supertight bow.” Her lips thinned in anger and her voice grew cold as she turned to Rawlings. “I don’t want anything to get in the way of her being shipped to the roughest, dirtiest women’s prison in the state. I hope her cell mate has some major anger-management issues.”
Rawlings slipped an arm around the girl’s tiny waist and gave her a fatherly squeeze. “Rest assured, Millay. Mr. and Mrs. Vickers won’t look back on their early days of marriage very fondly.”
“And since those are the best ones, they don’t have much to look forward to,” Laurel mumbled but then hastily brightened. “But Harris is going to be all right and Oyster Bay is safe again. That’s what really matters.”
Olivia was momentarily stunned by Laurel’s behavior but grinned and gave her a friendly nudge, buoyant with relief that she and her friends and her town could sleep soundly tonight. Not one of the Bayside Book Writers believed Cora’s claim that she hadn’t killed Nick. The woman had already been caught lying, but Rawlings would gently ease the truth from her. Olivia was certain of it. “Once again, you’re going to have the lead article in the paper,” she told Laurel. “Maybe you should consider writing a true-crime novel.”
Laurel shook her head. “No way. I’m half done with my women’s fiction novel, and I need to see how The Wife ends up.”
“Me too,” Olivia said quietly, looking her friend in the eye. “But wherever that is, she won’t be alone. She’s got us.”
Late the next morning, Olivia stopped by the station with bagels and coffee only to be informed by Officer Cook that Rawlings was on his way to Beaufort.
“Gathering evidence?” she asked conversationally, but the look on Cook’s face was troubled.
She handed him the box of bagels along with a bag containing pints of flavored cream cheeses. “Is something wrong?”
He gave the hint of a shrug and set the food offerings on a desk. Prying open the cardboard carrier filled with bagels, he gave them an appreciative sniff. “There’s been a little complication, but the chief’ll sort it out.”
Olivia knew the men and women of the Oyster Bay Police Department had complete faith in Rawlings, but there was a pause in Cook’s voice that told her the case against the Vickers was not quite open and shut.