The Last Word (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

outstretched. “Come in,” he whispered, his voice thick with longing.
    She smiled, reveling in the yearning that propelled her into his arms.
    And then his mouth was on hers, warm and wet, his hands sliding up the skin of her bare back. Deftly, he peeled off the straps of her gown before she had even crossed the threshold. She dug her fingertips into his hair and pressed her hips against him, surrendering to her desire.
    Just before Rawlings closed the door against the night, Haviland shot inside and went off to explore. Olivia barely noticed. Every cell in her body was tuned in to Rawlings. She knew nothing except for his breath in her ear, the feel of his lips on her neck, his wide, rough hands cupping her breasts.
    He carried her like a bride into the bedroom and laid her down, easing off her heels and running his fingers up her smooth calves. She sat up only to pull off his shirt and then tugged him downward by the arms, inviting him to crush her under his weight.
    They made love as if they’d known each other for decades. To Olivia, the feel of Sawyer Rawlings’ body, his smell, even the sound of his groans, was intrinsically familiar.
    The world beyond the bedroom slid away. Olivia felt as if she were drowning in heat, enveloped in a happiness far deeper than mere physical pleasure.
    Sometime before dawn, with Rawlings sleeping soundly beside her, one of her hands captured in his own, she remained awake, drowsily studying his face.
    Olivia felt as though she had entered the woods of Heinrich Kamler’s painting. She had crossed the ice-crusted stream and maneuvered through the bare trees and the shadows on the snow. She’d seen the smoke curling from the chimney and the light radiating from the window and had climbed the gentle slope leading to the cabin. To this man. To love.
    It had been a long and lonely journey.
    But at last, Olivia Limoges was home.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE
    The Last Word sprang to life after I ran across an article about World War II POW camps in North Carolina. Stunned to learn that Germans, Italians, Poles, Czechs, Dutchmen, Austrians, and men from several other nations had been held prisoner in camps throughout the Tar Heel State, I began to research the subject in earnest.
    From New Bern to Butner to Greensboro, North Carolina became home to thousands of POWs, including Nazis. What I found amazing is how quickly some of these men, foreigners to our land, adopted the American way of life. I was also awed by how well they were treated. Not only did these men work the vacant jobs at area farms and mills, but they also attended baseball games, went to the movies, and even dined out at local restaurants. And yet these camps were so secretive that the average North Carolinian had no idea that the men harvesting their peanut crops, for example, were prisoners of war.
    As mentioned in The Last Word , many POWs were taught the principles of capitalism and democracy and were encouraged to produce their own wares with which they could barter with the guards or townsfolk. One of my primary sources was a book called Nazi POWs in the Tar Heel State by Dr. Robert D. Billinger Jr. While reading this book I came across a photograph of a German POW painting a landscape. It was from this single image that the central mystery of The Last Word was born.
    Some of the dates and details have been altered in the name of good storytelling, but most of the Bayside Book Writers’ discoveries about the POW camp in New Bern could have taken place.

Turn the page for a preview of Ellery Adams’s next Books by the Bay Mystery . . .
    Written in Stone
    Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!
    He would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was—a woman.
    —WASHINGTON IRVING

    “There’s a witch in Oyster Bay,” Dixie, the rollerskating dwarf and diner proprietor, announced. She set a breakfast strata made of eggs, tomato, basil, and mozzarella on the table and slid a plate of bacon onto the floor.
    Immediately, the black nose belonging to the standard poodle sleeping on the booth’s vinyl cushion began to quiver. Flashing Dixie a brief look of gratitude, Captain Haviland lowered his paws to the checkered tiles and began to eat his breakfast with the delicacy and restraint of