The Last Word (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

the toe of her black boot. “Don’t play coy. Did you dig up anything important on Plumley or what?”
    He pointed at her footwear. “Do you sleep in those things?”
    “Wouldn’t you like to know.” She gave her bootlace a saucy twirl.
    It took Harris a moment to break eye contact and turn his attention to his laptop case. He placed his iBook on the coffee table and pointed at the document on the screen. “I learned quite a few interesting things about Plumley, but most of the data I came across in my cyber search focused on his post-publication years. Biographically speaking, it’s like he didn’t exist before The Barbed Wire Flower .”
    “Is Nick Plumley a nom de plume?” Olivia asked.
    Harris shrugged. “It must be, but if that’s the case, I can’t find his real name anywhere. However, I discovered that he lives, ah, lived, in Beaufort.”
    Laurel looked confused. “But that’s so close. Why would he want to move here when he already had a home in a quaint seaside town?”
    Recalling Plumley’s declaration that he’d come to Oyster Bay in search of anonymity, Olivia repeated the conversation she’d had with the author in Grumpy’s. “At the time I believed him.”
    “I don’t buy that explanation for a second,” Harris said. “I had to jump through a dozen cyber hoops locating the guy’s permanent residence, and I know how to find people on the Internet. Nick spent so many days of the year on tour, both here and in Europe, that he was rarely in Beaufort. In fact, more than one state claims him as one of their resident authors. Trust me, he was not getting hounded by the paparazzi in Beaufort, North Carolina.”
    Examining the diminished ice cubes at the bottom of her glass, Olivia walked into the kitchen to fix herself a second drink. “In my opinion, this strengthens the theory that he came to town in search of your painting, Harris.”
    “I still haven’t seen this masterpiece,” Laurel said with a pretty sulk. “And I don’t get why he wanted it so badly.”
    Harris shook his head. “I’m stumped on that question too. Obviously, Nick was interested in the connection between the artist, Heinrich Kamler, and the New Bern prison camp. Oyster Bay’s at least twenty miles away from New Bern, so he didn’t pick our town because of its proximity to the POW camp. There’s got to be something we’re not seeing clearly. If only I had his laptop. There must be a clue embedded in his manuscript.”
    “I’d let you see every file on Mr. Plumley’s computer,” a deep voice stated from the doorway. “If only we’d found one.”
    Chief Rawlings smiled at the writers. “It’s my dinner break. I decided that discussing certain elements of the case with you four would be more productive than staring at the ME’s report for the hundredth time while choking down a burger.”
    “Nick’s laptop was stolen?” Harris looked stricken. He, Millay, and Laurel began to exchange thoughts as to where else Plumley might have backed up his work while Olivia watched Rawlings assemble a sandwich from the platter of sliced rolls, meats, and cheeses she’d picked up from The Boot Top’s walk-in fridge earlier that afternoon.
    He carried a thick sandwich made of prosciutto, smoked Gouda, red onions, and mustard on a crusty roll to one of the wing chairs. The writer friends waited with barely concealed impatience as he took a large bite. Influenced by the sight of Rawlings’ supper, Millay began to assemble a sandwich of buffalo mozzarella, sliced tomatoes, and pesto spread. No one else seemed eager to eat.
    “There were no computers in Mr. Plumley’s house or car,” Rawlings stated. “There were also no printouts, no file folders containing outlines or notes, not even a journal. Nothing. I expected to at least discover correspondence with his agent or publisher, but even his phone records are sparse. Too sparse.”
    Laurel cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
    “Mr. Plumley and I both live alone, but I probably made four times the phone calls he made last month. Think about your average day. You speak with friends and family members. You contact businesses.” He put down his sandwich, too engrossed in the topic to continue eating. “There were many days when Mr. Plumley neither made nor received a single call. Even for a writer in search of privacy, that strikes me as unusual.”
    Harris slowly made his way into the kitchen, his expression pensive. “He might have done most of his