“Is Nick Plumley a nom de plume?” Olivia asked.
Harris shrugged. “It must be, but if that’s the case, I can’t find his real name anywhere. However, I discovered that he lives, ah, lived, in Beaufort.”
Laurel looked confused. “But that’s so close. Why would he want to move here when he already had a home in a quaint seaside town?”
Recalling Plumley’s declaration that he’d come to Oyster Bay in search of anonymity, Olivia repeated the conversation she’d had with the author in Grumpy’s. “At the time I believed him.”
“I don’t buy that explanation for a second,” Harris said. “I had to jump through a dozen cyber hoops locating the guy’s permanent residence, and I know how to find people on the Internet. Nick spent so many days of the year on tour, both here and in Europe, that he was rarely in Beaufort. In fact, more than one state claims him as one of their resident authors. Trust me, he was not getting hounded by the paparazzi in Beaufort, North Carolina.”
Examining the diminished ice cubes at the bottom of her glass, Olivia walked into the kitchen to fix herself a second drink. “In my opinion, this strengthens the theory that he came to town in search of your painting, Harris.”
“I still haven’t seen this masterpiece,” Laurel said with a pretty sulk. “And I don’t get why he wanted it so badly.”
Harris shook his head. “I’m stumped on that question too. Obviously, Nick was interested in the connection between the artist, Heinrich Kamler, and the New Bern prison camp. Oyster Bay’s at least twenty miles away from New Bern, so he didn’t pick our town because of its proximity to the POW camp. There’s got to be something we’re not seeing clearly. If only I had his laptop. There must be a clue embedded in his manuscript.”
“I’d let you see every file on Mr. Plumley’s computer,” a deep voice stated from the doorway. “If only we’d found one.”
Chief Rawlings smiled at the writers. “It’s my dinner break. I decided that discussing certain elements of the case with you four would be more productive than staring at the ME’s report for the hundredth time while choking down a burger.”
“Nick’s laptop was stolen?” Harris looked stricken. He, Millay, and Laurel began to exchange thoughts as to where else Plumley might have backed up his work while Olivia watched Rawlings assemble a sandwich from the platter of sliced rolls, meats, and cheeses she’d picked up from The Boot Top’s walk-in fridge earlier that afternoon.
He carried a thick sandwich made of prosciutto, smoked Gouda, red onions, and mustard on a crusty roll to one of the wing chairs. The writer friends waited with barely concealed impatience as he took a large bite. Influenced by the sight of Rawlings’ supper, Millay began to assemble a sandwich of buffalo mozzarella, sliced tomatoes, and pesto spread. No one else seemed eager to eat.
“There were no computers in Mr. Plumley’s house or car,” Rawlings stated. “There were also no printouts, no file folders containing outlines or notes, not even a journal. Nothing. I expected to at least discover correspondence with his agent or publisher, but even his phone records are sparse. Too sparse.”
Laurel cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
“Mr. Plumley and I both live alone, but I probably made four times the phone calls he made last month. Think about your average day. You speak with friends and family members. You contact businesses.” He put down his sandwich, too engrossed in the topic to continue eating. “There were many days when Mr. Plumley neither made nor received a single call. Even for a writer in search of privacy, that strikes me as unusual.”
Harris slowly made his way into the kitchen, his expression pensive. “He might have done most of his communication via e-mail. If so, it’d be another reason for the killer to steal Nick’s laptop.” He began to build a tower of Genoa salami, pepperoni, Soppressata, and provolone. “What about his place in Beaufort? Any computers there?”
Rawlings, who was about to take a sip of light beer, froze, and then lowered the bottle like an automaton, his eyes never leaving Harris’s face. “How did you know about Mr. Plumley’s permanent residence?”
Instead of answering, Harris pivoted his laptop screen so the chief could read the results of his research. “As you can see, I hit a wall. Prepublication, the man’s a ghost. I figured Plumley was a pen name, but couldn’t find his real one no matter where I looked.”
“It’s Ziegler. Nick Ziegler.”
With a grin, Harris saluted Rawlings with his massive sandwich. “Point scored by the blue team.”
Millay leaned forward eagerly. “So what’s shady in Ziegler’s past? Drug deals? Child porn? A penchant for farm animals?”
Rawlings raised a brow at the last phrase. “The fact of greatest interest was that he was married. His ex-wife, Cora, is sitting in our interview room as we speak.”
“Is she a suspect?” Olivia asked.
“Mrs. Ziegler, excuse me, she’s Mrs. Vickers now, is the sole beneficiary of Mr. Plumley’s life insurance policy. We don’t have a full picture of the victim’s finan-cials, but there was an insurance card in his wallet. We spoke to his agent, who put us onto the ex-wife.” Finished with his sandwich, Rawlings wiped his hands on a paper napkin and then began to steadily wind it around the first two fingers of his left hand. “If she hadn’t been vacationing at Emerald Isle with her new husband at the time of the murder, she wouldn’t have raised my suspicions.”
Laurel motioned for Millay to pass her the wine. Olivia observed her friend pour herself another generous glass. It was unlike Laurel to consume more than one serving per evening, but tonight, she was drinking zinfandel like a marathon runner chugging water at the end of a race. Millay shot Olivia a concerned glance and, in an exchange of unspoken agreement, Olivia began to fix Laurel a plate of food.
“Two husbands, huh?” Laurel snorted ruefully. “When did she and Plumley or Ziegfried or whoever he was break up? And did she wait until he was rich and famous to dump him so she could live happily ever after with another man?”
Rawlings stared at her in bewilderment for a moment before answering. “According to Mrs. Vickers, she and her former husband had an amicable parting years before his novel was published. During most of their three-year marriage, Mr. Plumley had worked as a freelance journalist and photographer. He traveled often, leaving Cora alone and unhappy. One day, he returned from an assignment and she told him that their marriage was over. He took the news well, they divided their things, and Cora moved to the western part of the state. She’s been living there ever since.”
“Yet she brought her new husband to Emerald Isle? That’s right near Beaufort. Why would she vacation so close to where she and her ex lived?” Harris inquired before attacking his sandwich again.
“Cora and Boyd were married the day before Mr. Plumley was murdered. We’ve confirmed the details with both the officiant and their sole witness. The Vickers claim to have come to the coast because they wanted a beach wedding and both swore in separate interviews that they spent most of the hours following their nuptials inside a rental cottage. Celebrating.” Rawlings sighed and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “The reason Mr. and Mrs. Vickers have been questioned for the past four hours is that Emerald Isle is an easy drive from here and the Vickers are broke. And in my experience, very few divorces are truly amicable.”