“And miss the chance to finally critique your chapter?” she said. “Never. I’m switching to my red pen just for you.”
She heard the voice of another police officer in the background. Olivia caught the words “victims” and “Pampticoe High” and then Rawlings told her he had to go.
Olivia glanced at her watch. The chief was at work and probably had been for hours, but he had thieves and murderers to catch and it was probably too early to call Laurel. She wondered if Laurel had managed to turn in her articles to the
Gazette
editor before having to attend to the needs of her family.
“I’ll call her later,” Olivia told Haviland as she served him breakfast.
Feeling restless, Olivia waited for Haviland to finish eating and then the pair set off for a walk. On this occasion, the metal detector was left at home and Olivia carried nothing in her arms. She walked to the end of the Point where a narrow and irregular spit of sand jutted out into the ocean like an arthritic finger. While the sea stirring on both sides and the wind whipped her hair off her face, Olivia stared east across the water. East toward Okracoke.
It wouldn’t take me long to get there,
she thought, still a little surprised that she hadn’t jumped in the car the moment Will Hamilton had finished speaking. Yet there was something preventing her from acting, an irrational fear that she would once again become the frightened, reclusive girl of her childhood should she come face-toface with her father.
The morning sun soon gained in strength until Olivia had to turn away from its powerful rays. Back inside her cool house, she peeled a tangerine and sat at her desk, Rawlings’ chapter before her. She took a bite of the ripe fruit and closed her eyes, reveling in its sweetness. Uncapping a pen, she hesitated. What would the chief’s writing lay bare? Would his chapter reveal a flaw Olivia would be unable to accept or be filled with intimate memories of his late wife? Would there be a darkness she hadn’t sensed before or, even worse, a lack of substance?
Casting aside such ridiculous thoughts, she began to read.
Grandfather spoke of treasure until his dying day.
It was what I remembered most about him. No matter how much he was told he was a foolish old man by his wife and, later, by his daughter and son-in-law, he believed in its existence.
“Pirates!” my mother scoffed in exaggerated disgust the day they moved my grandfather into a nursing home. “He’s wasted half of his life on these damned pirates. He’s studied hundreds of books and letters and maps, and what’s he got to show for it? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!”
I knew my mother wasn’t really angry about my grandfather’s obsession. She was upset because he’d taken early retirement to conduct research on two of North Carolina’s most infamous buccaneers and in doing so had squandered every cent of his savings buying rare books and documents from auction houses across the country. My parents were thus forced into inviting him to move into our small house.
At first, they thought having Grandfather around could prove useful. He would be readily available to watch us kids while my folks worked extra shifts or went out on a rare dinner date, but after a few months it became clear that the old man couldn’t look after himself, let alone three hellions.
Grandfather was eventually diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and my parents’ anger turned bitter. My father paid for my grandfather’s nursing home, complaining about the cost each and every time the bill was pushed through our brass mail slot. My mother stopped visiting him altogether.
I was seventeen when he died.
I was alone with him in his sad room with its gray carpeting and faded butterfly wallpaper. The smell of mold and rot clung to every surface. But I was there—the only one to hear his final words.
I was seventeen and didn’t pay much attention to what he said. I was heading off to college in a few weeks where I’d study a little, party a lot, and decide that I didn’t want to be a doctor or a lawyer or any of the other respectable professions my parents hoped I’d pursue. I wanted to be a cop. And after that, I wanted to figure out what my grandfather had been talking about when he muttered, “Look in . . . Ruth’s . . . log . . .” and shuddered as though he felt a sudden chill.
After that final quiver, he died.
I sat there for a while, staring not at his slack face or the line of spittle near the corner of his mouth but at the hundreds of tiny butterflies on the wallpaper, forever trapped in a field of dirty white.
Olivia hadn’t expected to encounter Rawlings as a young man. She knew she was reading fiction, of course, but wondered which elements might have been pulled from the chief’s actual childhood. Perhaps an aging relative had moved in with the family or Alzheimer’s had afflicted one of his grandparents. Perhaps someone close to Rawlings had been consumed by an obsession. Olivia could easily picture him playing the role of confidante, even as a teenage boy. He was a gifted listener, patient and quiet, coaxing the speaker to continue with a soft word of encouragement.
With her green pen hovering over Rawlings’ pages, Olivia finished her read-through. Rawlings had named his character Easton Craig and had set the story in what was clearly a fictionalized version of Oyster Bay. Choosing his hometown made sense when penning a tale about pirates, for Blackbeard had made his home in the area. In fact, there had been long-standing rumors among the locals that Edward Thatch had hidden plunder along the banks of the Neuse River and hosted wild parties for other notorious buccaneers such as Charles Vane.
Blackbeard’s other refuge was Okracoke Island. Olivia sat back in her chair, considering the irony.
The infamous pirate met his death off the shores of Okracoke, run down by a lieutenant from the Royal Navy by order of Queen Anne. Blackbeard’s sloop, the
Adventure,
was anchored offshore the island. Cutting anchor, he tried to outrun his pursuers, but the wind, which had been his ally for hundreds of raids, betrayed the pirate when he needed it most. Blackbeard’s ship was boarded, and in a sword fight to the death, the pirate’s head was severed from his neck in an act of genuine barbarity.
Pushing herself away from her desk, Olivia was once again drawn to the map of North Carolina within her coffee table book. She stared at Okracoke, her thoughts fluctuating between a murdered pirate and a missing father.
In an effort to prevent herself from becoming maudlin, Olivia called Laurel.
“I did it!” Laurel shouted into the phone. “I submitted my articles this morning and I just got an e-mail from my editor. He’s putting them in tomorrow’s paper! I’m officially hired!”
“Wonderful news,” Olivia said with a proud smile. “And how did your conversation with Steve go? Do you have his support?”
Laurel hesitated. “I figured I would show him the articles first. You know, put the
Gazette
next to his bacon and eggs and let him see that someone is actually going to pay me to write.”
Olivia could imagine Laurel on the other end of the line, clasping her hands over her heart, her lovely face rosy as she indulged in a fantasy of her husband suddenly seeing her in a new light. Olivia hated to burst her bubble, but she wanted Laurel to be prepared for an unfavorable reaction. “What will you do if Steve’s unimpressed?”
“I’ll cry, I suppose,” Laurel answered honestly. “But I’m not going to back down. I’ve never felt so sure about myself as I did when I sent in that file. And I don’t think I’ve thanked you for helping me realize my potential. I wish there was some way to express my gratitude.”
“There is,” Olivia said. “Don’t give up. No matter what
anyone
says, don’t give this up.”
The next day, the lead-in to Laurel’s article was featured prominently on a right-hand column on the front page. Olivia read it eagerly and was impressed by how Laurel had managed to infuse the facts with compassion for the victims. There was also a short piece on the robbery in Beaufort County and a quote from Chief Rawlings about the department’s progress in the investigation. Laurel had indeed proved herself a capable reporter.
Over the course of the week the
Gazette
ran pieces on the burglaries. Laurel’s name appeared in the byline below each article and Olivia assumed that she hadn’t heard from her friend because she was too busy writing.
Olivia decided to be industrious as well. She and Michel designed an autumn menu featuring dishes like apple and Brie salad, veal cordon blue, chicken and pears in a gourmandise sauce, pork chops with roasted shallots and carrots, pumpkin bread pudding with candied ginger, and apple crisp with a dulce de leche drizzle. She also finished critiquing Rawlings’ chapter and added five thousand words to her own manuscript.
On Thursday morning, there was a knock on her door. Peering through the kitchen window, Olivia recognized Will Hamilton’s face from the photograph on his website.
“I’m sorry to just show up like this, but my cell phone went for a swim in the Pamlico Sound and I knew you’d want this as soon as possible.” He handed her a padded mailing envelope.
At a loss for words, Olivia indicated the investigator should come inside. She stepped back to let him pass and then removed the contents of the envelope. It was a vial of blood.
“What the hell is this?” she asked, slightly repulsed.
Hamilton stood alongside the kitchen table and laced his fingers together. “It’s supposedly your father’s blood.” When Olivia didn’t respond, he gestured at the nearest chair. “Could we sit?”
Nodding, Olivia sank down a chair. She couldn’t take her eyes off the vial in her right hand. Was it possible? Had this blood recently flowed through her father’s veins? “Tell me how you got this.”
“I kept a constant eye out for the
Ritaestelle
. When it docked, I recognized the fisherman who’d taken possession of the pink mailer containing your cash. When he disembarked, the envelope was in his hand. It was still unopened too. Anyway, I followed him.”
Olivia leaned forward. “Where did he go?”
“To a café near the harbor. He ordered a big breakfast and chatted with just about everybody in the place. He was clearly a local. I sat at the booth behind him and could easily listen in. Once his food came, he gave the envelope to the waitress, a worn-out-looking woman in her thirties. She looked at the postmark suspiciously and said, ‘What’s he up to?’ I could tell she wasn’t happy. She tossed the envelope on the table and walked away.”
“And then?”
Hamilton sat back in his chair. “She disappeared into the kitchen and a man followed her back out to the fisherman’s booth. He wore a dirty apron and looked at the envelope as if there was a snake hiding inside it. Still, he sat in an empty corner booth and sliced the envelope open with a knife from his apron pocket. Looked like he was gutting a fish,” the PI added. “He peered inside, saw the cash, and stuffed it in his front pocket, like he wanted to hide it. Then the woman, who I discovered was his wife, demanded to know what was going on.”
“Did you get these people’s names?” Olivia demanded tersely. Anger was rising within her and she tried to push it back down. “What do they have to do with my father, or more importantly, my father’s
blood
?”
“Their names are Kim and Hudson Salter. They own the café and a little bed and breakfast above the eatery. After I explained who I was and why I was there, Hudson told me that your father had rented rooms from them until he fell ill. Seem as though he’s run out of money and is almost out of time too. Pancreatic cancer. The Salters have been taking care of him. “
“And no doubt they think I’ll pay them a small fortune for their kindness toward their elderly tenant. I wonder exactly when they discovered that he’s my father.” Olivia didn’t trust the couple at all.
Hamilton looked a little embarrassed. “Ma’am, I believe the family is in a hard way and don’t have the funds to spare to cover the costs for his treatment. Mrs. Salter seemed pretty upset over the way this whole thing was handled. She didn’t say a word, but I could see that she was ashamed.”
“Did you see this dying man who’s supposed to be my father?”
“No. Hudson wouldn’t allow it. He was very protective of your father.” The investigator hesitated. “Mr. Salter seems like a hard man, but from what I’ve been told by the locals, he’s been really good to your father. They kept telling me that Hudson and your dad were
very
close. But they’re a tight-lipped lot on that island. They don’t like to talk about their own to a stranger.”
Olivia curled her fingers into her palms, digging her nails into the flesh as rage coursed through her. “I don’t care what the locals say. When I’m done with this man, he will regret his attempts to manipulate me.”
“Ma’am, Hudson swears that he did not send you a letter. He told me that he could guess who’d written it. He left me there then and came back about twenty minutes later with the blood sample. His face was flushed and it seemed like he’d had words with the letter writer, but he refused to give me their name.”
“I wonder why.” Olivia frowned deeply. “I don’t understand any of this! Why would these people take care of some elderly tenant? Why would they pay for his medical bills? Did they think
he
was some kind of cash cow? And who is the real blackmailer? Who are they protecting?”
Hamilton nodded in sympathy. “This certainly isn’t a clear case, but I didn’t want to push Hudson without talking to you first. He asked me to give the blood to you, in case you were interested in getting a DNA test.” Hamilton kept his voice soft and even. It was obvious that none of his news had been easy for Olivia to take. “Hudson told me you were welcome, once you were convinced that the sick man is your father, to travel to Okracoke and see him before time runs out. He’s keeping his best room reserved for you.”
Exhaling loudly in frustration, Olivia cried, “This guy’s claiming he didn’t write the letter and yet he took the money! What kind of fool does Hudson Salter think I am?”