The Last Word (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

appeared to be as merry and carefree as always, preserving the utopian image of their seaside town.
    But in the privacy of bars like Fish Nets, the less glamorous hair salons, and on the fishing boats, people whispered about what had happened. They talked and wondered and argued over Wheeler’s crime and then tied on their aprons or rolled up their sleeves and got back to work.
    The Bayside Book Writers took a hiatus. Only Laurel was able to put pen to paper following Wheeler’s arrest. Reluctantly, she wrote the article unveiling the identity of Nick Plumley’s killer. It was her finest piece to date. The front page spread was read by wide-eyed townsfolk and fascinated tourists, the latter flocking to Bagels ’n’ Beans so they could later brag to neighbors and coworkers that they’d bought a bagel or a cappuccino from the killer’s café.
    Wheeler’s employees, with a little guidance from Olivia, were struggling to keep the place running smoothly until Ray Hatcher decided what would become of it. The café belonged to him now, as Wheeler had legally transferred all of his worldly possessions to his son the morning after his arrest.
    Ray, who’d spoken to Olivia shortly after a DNA test confirmed that Wheeler was his father, didn’t seem interested in the windfall. He quit his job, moved into Wheeler’s house, and spent his free time visiting his father in jail and avoiding the press. Rumor had it that he had enrolled in an introductory painting class at the community college and, come September, would see whether or not he’d inherited any of Heinrich Kamler’s artistic talent.
    As for Wheeler, he’d known that he would never return to Oyster Bay following his arrest. After confessing to murder and admitting that he was once a prisoner of war, he faced federal and state charges and was sure to spend the remainder of his life in prison. Before he was sentenced, he’d written Olivia a letter asking her to help Ray sell his paintings.
    “If they’re worth anything, you’ll know how to get the most money for them on behalf of my boy,” he’d written. “And don’t let Ray spend a dime on lawyers. Being with him every day has been a gift I probably don’t deserve. For the first time since I left my tent that night to follow Ziegler, I feel alive. I hear the deputy call my name and I know my son is waiting for me down the hall. He’s got Evie’s eyes.”
    Olivia had folded the letter in half and put it down on her desk blotter. Covering it with her palm, she made several phone calls regarding the paintings. Then, after sharing her opinion with Ray, she contacted Shala Knowles.
    “We have one hundred and twenty-five Heinrich Kamler originals to lend your museum,” she’d told the thunderstruck curator. “You may have them for a total of ninety days and then they’re to be sold. Yours will be the only comprehensive exhibit of Kamler’s work. Can you drop everything and set up a space for the first of next month?”
    Shala eventually found her tongue and assured Olivia that she and her staff would work tirelessly to mount the finest possible exhibit.
    “Then I’ll bring the paintings to you tomorrow morning,” Olivia said. “But I have one condition.”
    “Yes?” Shala asked, her voice still quavering with excitement.
    “I’m sure you’ve read about the criminal charges brought against Mr. Kamler, but his son and I would like his art, and not the newspaper headlines, to speak for his life. I must personally approve any biographical information you plan to print in museum brochures or advertisements regarding the exhibit. Mr. Kamler’s son has graciously agreed to put off the sale of these paintings at my request. I told him that I owed both you and the museum a favor.”
    Shala made a sound of protest at the other end. “I was just doing my job, Ms. Limoges.”
    “But with a rare blend of sincerity and passion,” Olivia said before her voice became steely. “However, if I read a single line mentioning Kamler’s connection to the death of author Nick Plumley or a World War Two prison guard from Camp New Bern, I will storm into your museum and rip his paintings right off the wall.” She let her threat hang between them for a moment. “Do I have your word that you’ll show me any material you mean to print on Kamler?”
    The curator hesitated. Olivia knew she was asking this woman to deliberately ignore the sensational details of the artist’s life, details that would lure