The Last Word (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

make of the cryptic phrase, Olivia put a hand on the rough brick of the interior wall. “And have you always loved art? Not this stuff”—she jerked a thumb at the photographs—“but the things you typically display. You have an eye for talent.”
    Wheeler’s gaze grew distant. “Art’s in my blood. It’s a way of travelin’ to other places, to other times. It lets you forget or remember and it doesn’t have to say a word. It’s my favorite kind of company to keep.”
    “Did you know that several of the German prisoners held in the New Bern camp during World War Two were gifted artists? Have you heard anything about the camps or those artists?”
    Twisting the damp rag in his age-spotted hands, Wheeler shrugged. “I didn’t live here then, girlie, but I heard tell that there were men who could paint, men who could throw a pot, and men who could carve wood with such skill that they got a share of local folks’ precious rations in return for a piece of their work.”
    “It’s a wonder there hasn’t been a significant exhibit featuring these wartime masterpieces,” Olivia mused softly. “What a story it would make.” She met Wheeler’s pale blue eyes. “I’ve seen one of the paintings. A snow scene by a man named Heinrich Kamler. Simply executed, yet utterly captivating. I’d never heard of him until Harris found the painting hidden under one of the stair treads of his new house, but I wish I could talk to someone who worked at the camp.”
    The bell over the front door tinkled and a host of bronze and bare-chested teenage boys in board shorts entered the café, hair slick with water, faces flushed from an early morning spent riding the waves. They spoke in rich baritones and flashed white smiles, enveloped in an air of robust assurance.
    Wheeler’s gaze fell upon the young men, and Olivia saw a flicker of sorrow or regret cross his wrinkled features. It happened so quickly she wasn’t sure what she’d seen, but she looked upon the boys with a brief stab of envy. She’d never known a carefree summer, had never been invited to be a part of a circle of friends such as this group of shining, beautiful boys. Their ability to live wholly in the present was alluring, and Olivia continued to stare at them as they jostled one another amicably to be first in line.
    “Not too many old-timers left, my girl,” Wheeler said and slowly got to his feet. It was as if the presence of the young Adonises made him feel every minute of his age with painful acuity. “I can recollect what it was to be like one of them boys. Back then we thought nothin’ could touch us either. We’d win the war and get the girl, spend the next fifty years drinkin’ beer and goin’ to ballgames with our best pals, have piles of money in the bank and a real nice car. Maybe a house and a kid or two. But that ain’t the way of things. Pennies lose their shine after they’ve been passed ’round long enough.”
    Olivia wasn’t giving Wheeler her full attention. She was suddenly transported to the moment in Grumpy’s Diner in which the school librarian had asked Nick Plumley to sign her copy of The Barbed Wire Flower . She’d mentioned that the son of one of the New Bern prison guards had spoken at their annual fund-raiser. Perhaps Nick had tracked this man down. Perhaps the prison guard’s relative had become a useful source for the writer. He might unwittingly be in possession of a clue regarding Plumley’s murder.
    After clearing off her table, Olivia patted her thigh, and Haviland lumbered to his feet, blinking sleep from his eyes. Wheeler was busy filling orders, so she didn’t bother to wave to him.
    Edging past the chiseled bodies of the young men, she breathed in the coconut scent of their sun lotion and the salt water clinging to their shorts. Pausing, she allowed the pure smell of summertime to wash over her, bestowing upon her tiny particles of youth and promise.
    Olivia spent over an hour looking for the name of the prison guard’s son on her computer. The school website had no evidence of the event, and she couldn’t find a record that anyone had spoken about the prison. The only hits she had involved a history professor at the University of North Carolina who’d posted his research on Camp New Bern on the university’s intranet. Olivia didn’t have access to his files and would have to get in touch with the professor during his office hours.
    Resigned, she called the public library and asked for Leona