The Last Word (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

Fairchild but was informed that the senior librarian never worked on Sundays. That left Harris. Olivia had a feeling that her friend might be spending time with Estelle, and though she didn’t mind interrupting the couple’s leisurely Sunday, she decided that sending an e-mail would be just as effective as calling. Harris was never far from his computer, and she knew from experience that he kept the volume turned up high enough to be able to hear the ping of an incoming message from any room in his house.
    Made restless by her lack of progress, Olivia decided to take a walk on the beach. Donning a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of sunglasses, she gathered her metal detector, backpack, and trench shovel and set out with her grinning poodle. There was nothing Haviland enjoyed more than being given the freedom to rush over the dunes into the shallows, the water parting beneath his paws and splattering his black curls with cool moisture.
    He pranced at the ocean’s edge, barking happily, until Olivia caught up. She tossed a stick toward the sandbar and watched as he leapt into the waves, his mouth hanging open in anticipation, pink tongue lolling to one side. Smiling, she turned on her Bounty Hunter and began to sweep the head of the detector over the damp sand along the waterline.
    She absently listened to the blips and bleeps, her thoughts wandering. Aimless theories concerning Nick Plumley’s death darted about like a school of startled minnows until she finally focused on the metal detector’s display.
    Ignoring the readouts occurring near the lighthouse, Olivia walked farther east where she’d be less likely to encounter bottle caps or soda can tabs. The stretch of beach between the lighthouse and her nearest neighbor had yielded interesting finds in the past, but today her device remained stubbornly mute. After pausing to throw Haviland’s stick a few more times, she rounded the jetty and strolled on the sand leading toward Plumley’s rental house.
    Her Bounty Hunter gave a high-pitched signal, indicating the likely presence of an object made of silver. Tired of carrying the ungainly device, Olivia decided this was as good a place as any to dig and pulled her trench shovel from her backpack.
    “Come help, Captain!”
    Haviland was pleased to oblige, and together, they dug until they reached moist sand.
    “Hold on a sec,” Olivia said, wondering whether they’d gone too far. She directed the metal detector at the pile of the discarded sand, but it stayed quiet. Placing it over the hole resulted in a bold chirp.
    Discarding the shovel, Olivia used her fingers to comb through the damp sand. Eventually, she felt a tiny object beneath the nail of her index finger and pulled a coin from its cool, dark bed. Sitting back on her haunches, she brushed off granules of sand and held out the find to the sun.
    “A dime,” she murmured. “But an unusual one.”
    The coin needed cleaning. Olivia couldn’t make out the date, but despite the coating of dirt and grit on its face, she recognized that the profile did not belong to Franklin D. Roosevelt. Plus, it was heavier than a modern dime and felt solid in the middle of her palm.
    Olivia slipped the coin into the pocket of her shorts and packed up her shovel.
    “I prefer this sort of mystery, Captain,” she told her panting poodle. “Let’s go home, get you some water, and wash our find. Perhaps the ocean has something to tell me today.” She cast a covert glance at the sparkling waves. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a message.”
    Untying her shoes, she added them to the backpack and waded past the gurgling sea foam, letting the waves lap at her ankles. Olivia walked back to her house this way, reconnecting with the sea like a mermaid who spent far too long on dry land.

    Later that afternoon, before she headed downtown to check in at both of her restaurants, Olivia removed the dime from its vinegar bath. When she’d first found the coin, it had the dark gray hue of sharkskin, but now it had reclaimed much of its original silver shade along with a sheen of oil slick blue and green when held directly under the light. A true coin collector wouldn’t have cleaned the dime in this manner if they’d cleaned it at all, but Olivia didn’t sell her beach finds. They were placed in jumbo pickle jars labeled by the year. In the depths of winter, when it was hard to believe summer would ever return, she’d dump out the contents of a jar onto her living room