“No.”
“What if Kamler wanted to punish Plumley for branding him a murderer?”
Billinger rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And becoming the thing he was falsely accused of being? And why now? The Barbed Wire Flower has been out for ages.”
“Maybe Kamler didn’t have access to Plumley until now,” Olivia guessed. “Maybe he didn’t know he was Ziegler’s son. Maybe Ziegler was actually responsible for the guard’s death.”
With an indulgent grin, Billinger indicated the seat Olivia had abandoned. “All conjecture.”
“And what of Evelyn?” Olivia asked, her eyes betraying her hope. “Is she still alive?”
“I’m afraid not,” Billinger replied softly. “She passed away several years ago.”
Olivia didn’t return to her lunch. She was too restless to sit down. Something was gnawing at her, an elusive thought she couldn’t grasp. It fell away like a handful of sand running between her fingers. She also knew she wasn’t asking the right questions yet. “Plumley was looking for this painting. If I can find out why it mattered to him, I believe this murder investigation will crack wide open. Could we visit Mabel? I’d like to hear her talk about Evelyn and Heinrich.”
Billinger hesitated. “She’s in a nursing home in Hills-borough, a town north of here. It’s only a twenty-minute drive, but it might be a waste of time. Mabel’s mind is not what it once was. She’s been steadily deteriorating into senility.”
Wrapping up her sandwich to indicate her decision, Olivia stared, unseeing, at the butcher paper. “Did Mabel ever mention Ziegler?”
“Several times. He was a late arrival to the camp and a full-blooded Nazi. He and a small group of men kept themselves apart from the rest of the prisoners, and according to Mabel, Ziegler was also in love with Evelyn White.”
Olivia walked around the professor’s desk and looked down at the faint note written on the back of Kamler’s painting. “This message can be read one of two ways. Either Heinrich is telling Evelyn that he’s planning to escape and they can elope, or he’s assuring her that the war is drawing to a close and that he will find a way to remain in the States and build a life for them both.”
After wiping his hands on a napkin, Billinger put on his cotton gloves again and tenderly turned the painting over. “What do you see when you look at that cabin?”
“Sanctuary,” Olivia answered immediately. She had had plenty of time to consider the emotions that the cozy structure evoked. “Security. Home. Welcome.”
Billinger nodded. “This might very well be an image from Kamler’s past, from his childhood. But it could also be his hope for the future. A simple life, a private life, a place where one could step away from the world and hide. A nest, so to speak.”
“Evelyn would have been a legal adult by the end of the war,” Olivia said, her eyes riveted on the bar of light streaming from the crack under the cabin’s front door. “How was he planning to support her even if he could stay? As an artist? A farmhand?”
An idea struck Billinger. He clamped his hand around Olivia’s forearm in an attempt to gain her full attention even though her eyes were already locked on his face. “The last time I went to visit her, Mabel was going on and on about Evelyn’s treasures. It didn’t make any sense at the time, but what if Evelyn had more paintings? What if there are more of these”—he gestured at the watercolor—“hidden in your friend’s house?”
A knot of fear formed in Olivia’s stomach. “Then Harris isn’t safe. Kamler’s works are worth a small fortune.”
Wordlessly, the pair flew into motion. Olivia packed up the painting, and Billinger tossed the debris from their lunch into the trash bin. Grabbing his suit jacket, he hurriedly collected the photographs and dropped them into a large envelope.
“Bring the painting,” he told Olivia. “Who knows what flood of memories might come flowing from Mabel’s mind when she sees it.”
Olivia shouldered the bag and pulled her cell phone from her purse. “I’m glad you’re driving. I need to put a call in to Oyster Bay’s police chief and have him put a detail on Harris’s house.”
“You know the chief of police?” Billinger seemed impressed.
Thinking of Rawlings’ brown eyes flecked with green and gold, his tacky Hawaiian shirts, his penchant for chocolate milk, and his undeniable skill as an artist, Olivia murmured, “Not as well as I’d like, but I plan to do something about that very soon.”
Chapter 13
It is singular how soon we lose the
impression of what ceases to be constantly
before us. A year impairs, a
luster obliterates. There is little distinct
left without an effort of memory, then
indeed the lights are rekindled for a
moment—but who can be sure that the
Imagination is not the torch-bearer?
—LORD BYRON
Rawlings was a step ahead of Olivia regarding Harris’s safety. He’d already established a rotation of drive-bys during the day and had offered overtime pay to any officers willing to sit in a squad car outside Harris’s house during the night.
“I can’t afford to do this much longer,” Rawlings admitted. “Don’t have the budget for it. If I can’t break this case soon, Harris might be living with me.”
Olivia would fund the cost of overtime herself if need be and told the chief as much. “Especially after dark. He’s more vulnerable then.”
“Except that he always has company,” Rawlings said after a discreet pause. “It’s one thing to incapacitate a single person in order to search the house for hidden artwork, but to take two people out requires more planning.” Olivia heard a rustling at the other end of the phone as if the chief was sifting through sheaves of paperwork. “But the killer’s had enough time to plan, and that puts me on edge. I feel like Mr. Plumley’s murder only partially fulfilled his agenda and that he or she is ready to make a move. I believe that the countdown was initiated by that murder but is racing toward another act of violence.”
Olivia had experienced the same prickling of unease, an unidentifiable sense of urgency that pushed at her like a wind at her back. Even now, on a wooded road north of Chapel Hill, Olivia felt the pressure building and intensifying like a wave preparing to crest. She tried not to fume at the ancient Chevy pickup in front of them, even though it forced them to drive below the speed limit.
Billinger was lost in his own thoughts, but Olivia found his presence comforting. She hadn’t expected to have formed an immediate alliance with the professor, yet here he was, having put aside whatever plans he might have had for the rest of the afternoon, taking a chance on an old woman with an inconsistent mental state.
Mabel was in a wheelchair in the garden of The Sunrise Retirement Community. Olivia almost made a caustic remark about the nursing home’s name, but held it back. She recognized a need to step into this insulated world with a positive attitude and could see that Billinger was well practiced in walking with soft footfalls and wearing a bright smile. He raised his hand and waved to a nurse watering a ceramic urn filled with red geraniums before approaching Mabel.
“Good to see you, Professor!” The nurse greeted him warmly. “Mabel’s havin’ a good day. She’ll be right glad for some company.”