The Last Word (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

ingredients.” She cupped his snout in her palm. “Don’t worry, Captain. I have some lovely dried lamb for you to snack on while I’m meeting with the curator.”
    Appeased, Haviland stuck his head out the open window and enjoyed the blast of warm air as Olivia headed toward Blue Ridge Road and the vast campus of the North Carolina Museum of Art.
    The museum was relatively new. Its buildings and outdoor sculptures sparkled in the sunshine. Olivia had attended the opening gala and had also donated a generous sum of money when plans were first being laid to build the finest art museum in the state.
    Right from the start, Olivia had admired the renderings of the aluminum structure that would house millions of dollars of paintings, sculptures, photography, prints, and textiles. With floor-to-ceiling windows and a roof punctuated by hundreds of skylights, the exhibit halls were roomy and had enough natural light to allow the true essence of each piece of art to show through.
    Haviland was not permitted inside the museum, and though Olivia was reluctant to leave him in the car, she knew that a few minutes alone with a water bowl and a pile of lamb treats wouldn’t kill him. She parked in the shade, put the windows down halfway, told the poodle she wouldn’t be long, and collected Harris’s painting.
    The moment she stepped into the cool building, she was immediately tempted by the posters announcing a pair of current special exhibits. One gallery boasted a collection of Audubon’s works while another featured a modern collection of video art. Silently vowing to return another time, Olivia informed a volunteer that she had an appointment with Shala Knowles. The volunteer made a quick call and then asked Olivia to follow her to the back of the museum where the offices were located.
    Olivia had expected the curator’s space to be stuffed full of books and paintings, for the desk to be covered with artsy knickknacks and strewn with disheveled piles of paperwork. She’d pictured Shala Knowles as a female version of Professor Indiana Jones—bespectacled, disorganized, and surrounded by unusual objects. She couldn’t have been more mistaken.
    The office was meticulously neat. There was a sleek chrome desk, a pair of black leather side chairs, and a drafting table. One wall was occupied by a bookcase containing art reference tomes of all shapes and sizes while the space above the drafting table displayed a series of black-and-white engravings of geisha girls.
    Shala herself looked like she’d stepped from the pages of Vogue . Tall and voluptuous, she flaunted her curves in a belted shirtdress of off-white cotton. A leopard-print pashmina was draped across one shoulder and tucked beneath the belt. As she came forward to shake hands with Olivia, the light streaming through the office windows illuminated bright strands of copper in her layered hair.
    As Olivia took Shala’s hand, she caught a delicate hint of camellia-scented perfume.
    So much for my absentminded professor image, Olivia thought with amusement.
    “I’ve been looking forward to your arrival since I woke up this morning,” Shala told Olivia, her eyes glimmering with anticipation.
    “I was surprised to have gotten an appointment so easily,” Olivia confessed and laid the painting, protected between parchment paper and two pieces of clean cardboard, on the drafting table. “What did I say on the phone to capture your interest?”
    Shala slipped on a pair of glasses with chic red frames and reached for a journal on her bookshelf.
    “It’s the signature mark you described.” She opened the journal and pointed to an enlarged image of the same symbol Olivia and Harris had seen on the bottom corner of the found watercolor.
    “That’s what it looks like!” Olivia felt a growing excitement but didn’t want to hear anything else in case the painting turned out to be a fake. She gestured at the cardboard. “Please, feel free to examine it.”
    The curator put on a pair of white gloves and then unwrapped the package with infinite care. She used felt-lined paperweights to anchor the watercolor’s four corners and then backed away, staring down on the scene. She stood like this for several minutes, and Olivia sensed that the rest of the world had ceased to exist for Shala Knowles. Olivia felt the same way when she was writing about Kamila.
    Finally, the curator leaned in closer to the painting. Using a large magnifying sheet, she examined the work