“Global Electric Motors. That’s a bit too modern for this object, I’d say. Graphical Environment Manager. A relatively new term. So is this reference to documentation for PCs.” She continued to scroll down the list of results, bypassing references to gem mining, gem shows, and the county of Gem, Idaho. “None of these fit.”
Haviland put his paws up on the counter closest to the cooktop and sniffed.
“Your polenta! Forgive me, my dearest.” Olivia removed the top saucepan and scooped the contents into a ceramic bowl on his elevated feeder. “It’s still too hot. Let’s rinse off our mystery box and see if the rust is gone while your breakfast cools.”
The poodle watched eagerly as Olivia dumped the vinegar into the sink, rinsed the silver box, and gingerly dried it with a paper towel. Squinting, she eased back the lid and smiled. “Here’s something! It says ‘G.E.M. Brooklyn, New York. Made in U.S.A.’” She shut the lid and turned the case over in her hand. “Looks like a patent number here.”
Olivia returned to her computer and refined her search. “Gem pawnbrokers in Brooklyn, Acme Smoked Fish on Gem Street in Brooklyn, Gem Auction Company. Brooklyn. No, no, no!”
After pouring herself a second cup of coffee and serving Haviland his polenta, she decided to switch tactics. Logging on to eBay, she typed in the exact words found inside the silver lid.
“Eureka!” she yelled and Haviland barked in excitement. “G.E.M. safety razor. Produced between 1912 through 1979 in Brooklyn. Formerly known as G.E.M. Cutlery Company of New York.” Olivia showed her poodle their metal container. “This piece of steel is a shaver head, Captain. It’s missing its blade and the handle too. According to this auction, it’s worth a whopping twelve dollars.”
Haviland lowered his head and closed his eyes, clearly ready for a post-meal nap. Olivia stroked the smooth metal of the shaver head. “Now, now. We don’t do this for profit, Captain. You don’t have to act so disinterested. It’s the adventure we’re after.” She shut the lid of her laptop. “You lick your bowl clean, I’ll get dressed, we’ll put this little gem in ajar, and then we’re off to the furniture store.”
The sun had seared away all traces of the fog by the time Olivia turned from her gravel drive and climbed onto an empty stretch of gray blue asphalt the color of a heron’s plumage. On the narrow street marking the northernmost end of the compact town of Oyster Bay, there was once a plethora of vacant stores and available parking spaces, but ever since Time magazine had hailed Oyster Bay as one of the nations “Top Ten Best-kept Vacation Secrets,” their half-deserted berg had been overrun with tourists.
Pale-legged vacationers descended like a locust swarm to trample the natural beauty of the shoreline, watch birds through thousand-dollar binoculars, sample Southern country cooking until their buttons burst, and host drunken deep-sea fishing trips for their rich friends. In their wake, they left behind mounds of garbage, soiled linens, crisp, inconvenient hundred-dollar bills, and a sour taste in the mouths of the yearlong residents.
Despite this influx of new faces and businesses, Olivia had to drive for more than an hour to reach a decent furniture store. She quickly selected two sofas and a pair of oversized club chairs in warm fabrics, a room-sized sea grass rug, and breezy curtains in a shimmering ecru.
Trouble arose, as Olivia expected it to, when the designer informed her that the furniture would take eight to ten weeks to be delivered and that the items on the floor were absolutely not for sale.
“How would we be able to show how wonderful this sage and almond checkered fabric looks on our club chairs if it wasn’t in the store?” the woman questioned rhetorically.
“Perhaps there is another equally attractive chair in your warehouse?” Olivia suggested, placing a fat roll of twenty-dollar bills into the woman’s hands. “And I would certainly make it well worth the while of the gentlemen delivering my new furnishings if they could arrive at my cottage, say, by five this afternoon?” Placing her credit card and a calling card bearing her name, address, and phone number on the designer’s desk, Olivia met the other woman’s eye.
“I’m going to check on my dog,” she announced. “I’ll be back in to sign my receipt in a moment.”
She had been right in assuming that the decorator wanted to examine the wad of twenties more closely before agreeing to the deal. Olivia was also confident that four hundred dollars in cash would sway most people into figuring out a way to break the rules, especially since no one would be the worse for the transgression.
After promising Haviland that her errand was almost complete, Olivia walked briskly back into the store, scribbled signatures on several pieces of paper, and then drove off in search of some colorful art.
“Don’t worry. We’re going to eat first, Captain. Should we be naughty today?”
Haviland knew perfectly well that naughty meant unhealthy and offered a jubilant bark. Thirty minutes later, the pair was seated at a patio table, enjoying the shade of the umbrella as they dined on tender cheeseburgers and thin, crunchy curls of fried onions.
After lunch, the poodle insisted on a brief squirrel-chasing session through the park before being dragged off to the next errand. Olivia was more than happy to comply. Thus far, the day had progressed with great promise. The mystery of their beach find was solved and the lighthouse keeper’s cottage was almost renovated. All she needed now was some inspirational art, but the furniture store, with its Impressionist prints and unattractive modern art silk screens, had been a disappointment.
Oyster Bay wasn’t quite cosmopolitan enough to support an entire gallery, but several local artists sold their works by displaying them on the brick walls of the local coffee and pastry shop. Olivia opened the front door to Bagels ‘n’ Beans and waved hello to the octogenarian proprietor, who was also one of her tenants. Her favorite one, in fact.
“I’m here to check out your art, Wheeler.” Olivia and Haviland breezed past the “No Dogs” sign and began to scrutinize the grouping of paintings, sketches, and framed black-and-white paper-cut designs.
“I like the paper cuts of the herons, don’t you?” Olivia pointed at the framed art hanging above the eatery’s worn purple sofa. Haviland snorted in assent. “Let’s take the one of the three birds in the roost and the other showing them fishing in the cove. I particularly like how this artist made the tree branches. Spindly-shaped. They don’t seem sinister to you, do they?” she asked her dog.
“More angular than sinister, I’d say,” a man two tables down remarked.
Olivia turned to look at the speaker and recognized him right away. “Hello, Chief Rawlings.” She glanced back at the paper cuts. “I’ve never seen such delicate work.”
The chief of the Oyster Bay Police Department nodded. “My sister Jeannie will be mighty pleased to hear you say that. Nothing sinister about her, that’s for sure. I don’t think she’s had a negative thought since 1965.”
“What happened in 1965?” Olivia couldn’t help but ask.
“I was born.” The policeman laughed and took a sip of his coffee. “And spent the next sixteen years making her life a living hell. Who’d have thought we’d be the best of friends now.”
Olivia took a second look at the lawman. Stocky and wide-shouldered, with dark hair going gray above the ears, Rawlings didn’t come across as the type of man to have a female as his closest confidante. In fact, whenever Olivia saw him in public, he was always accompanied by at least one other equally bulky officer. Rawlings and his officers tended to swagger down the street as though the heavy Maglite banging against the right hip didn’t equally balance the weight of the gun resting just above the left hip. Today, he wasn’t in uniform but wore a loud Hawaiian shirt covered by yellow pineapples over a pair of wrinkled brown shorts.