The Last Word (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

hundreds of new visitors to the museum. “Do you mind if I ask why you’re so keen on protecting Kamler?”
    “He’s been living in my town for over forty years, but I knew him under a different name,” Olivia explained. “In fact, he’s a friend. A close one.”
    Shala absorbed this unbelievable revelation in silence and then said, “In that case, I promise to respect your wishes, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you’re giving us this opportunity.”
    Olivia’s final call was to an auction gallery in Hills-borough, the same town where Mabel, Evelyn’s girlhood friend, passed her days in an assisted-living facility. The auction company had an excellent track record with art sales, and Olivia planned to bring Mabel to the preview so she could pick out a painting—a painting that Olivia would later purchase for her.
    As for Olivia’s Kamler original watercolor, it hung from the narrow wall of her bedroom, directly in the middle of a pair of large windows facing the ocean. It was one of the first things Olivia saw just before falling asleep and again when she woke.
    While early-morning sunrays fell into her room, she would stare at the old couple walking along the sand. Her eyes always found them first and then drifted to the water beyond her window. The picture elicited a contradictory mixture of sadness and hope, but Olivia loved it all the same.
    When she drove to Wheeler’s house the next day, it was jarring to be met at the front door by Ray. He seemed a little embarrassed to invite her inside a home that had belonged to his father for so many years, but Olivia was pleased to know that Ray was living there. He and the house were well suited. Each was weathered and worn but sturdy enough to bear the most ferocious storm. They were survivors, just as Wheeler was.
    Together, Ray and Olivia collected the bundle of paintings and carried them to the Range Rover. Ray stroked Haviland’s fur, his gaze fixed on the harbor, and in that moment, Olivia felt as if Wheeler were right there with them. “Did you keep any of the paintings?”
    He nodded. “Yeah. I liked the ones of the peanut farms and paper mills. And I kept two of the bakery pictures. That’s how my dad ended up with the bagel shop, you know. It used to be the town bakery.” Ray led Olivia and Haviland into the bedroom and showed her a watercolor featuring shelves of pastries, breads, and cakes. “He worked in the back, baking bread and pies and cakes, for almost twenty years. He loved the job and was real good at it. He and the baker grew close, and when the man died, he left the place to my dad. I think that’s so cool.”
    “Me too,” Olivia agreed. “What will you do with the bagel shop?”
    Ray shook his head. “I dunno. I gave one of the full-time guys a raise and told him to manage it for now. I can’t worry about that place. I only have so much time left with my dad.”
    Having lived a lifetime without knowing the names of his biological parents, Raymond Hatcher wasn’t going to waste a second serving bagels and coffee to tourists when he could be with Wheeler instead.
    Olivia thought back on the scant number of hours she’d had with her own father before he died. She smiled at Ray. “You’ve given him what he’s wanted his entire life.”
    “What’s that?” Ray asked, flustered by the compliment.
    Opening the passenger door for Haviland, Olivia watched the poodle hop inside and then turned back to Ray. “A family and a home. In you, he’s found both of those things.”

    A few weeks later, the Bayside Book Writers donned suits and cocktail dresses and drove to Raleigh to celebrate the opening of the largest exhibit of Heinrich Kamler work ever assembled.
    The museum’s illuminated gallery was packed with people. Carrying champagne glasses, they murmured to one another in discreet excitement as they studied the paintings. Laurel, who planned to interview several art connoisseurs for her next article, had actually brought Steve to the gala. The couple appeared rather stiff with each other, but Olivia noticed that Steve was serving as his wife’s photographer and seemed to be enjoying the role. He’d show her the images he’d captured while she scribbled quotes down in a notebook.
    “We’re seeing a marriage counselor,” Laurel told Olivia when Steve left the room to sample the array of heavy hors d’oeuvres in the lobby. The two women stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the painting that had