The Last Word (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

scrutinizing a sheet of paper on a clipboard and headed straight for him.
    “Excuse me,” she said, giving him her most dazzling smile. “Could you tell me where to find Raymond Hatcher?”
    “Sure thang, sweetheart.” The man ogled her appreciatively and then immediately caught himself. “Sorry. We don’t get fine-lookin’ women such as yourself in here every day.” He gestured at a pair of vending machines positioned near the back wall. “Ray’s gettin’ himself his tenth Mountain Dew of the mornin’. See him? He’s the big guy in the John Deere cap.”
    Olivia thanked him and, skirting around idling forklifts and veritable mountains of boxes, she came to stand behind Raymond Hatcher. Her first impression was of his height. She was nearly six feet, but he probably had another five or six inches on her. He wasn’t lanky like many very tall people, but was as solid and heavily muscled as an NBA center. When he turned, she met his electric blue stare and momentarily felt at a loss for words. There was something familiar about his face, but she knew she’d never seen him before. His eyes alone were unforgettable, and one didn’t pass by a man in his midsixties of Raymond’s size without taking note.
    “Hello,” she finally managed to say. “Are you Raymond Hatcher?”
    He nodded, his gaze intense but not unfriendly. He said nothing.
    “Do you have a moment? I’d like to talk to you about Nick Plumley.” She waited for the giant to react to the writer’s name, but he only cocked his head to one side like a curious bird. “I’m here because I’ll be ghostwriting the rest of the sequel to The Barbed Wire Flower ,” she lied.
    Instead of answering, he popped the tab of his soda, raised it to his lips, and took several long swallows. “I can’t talk now,” he said after lowering the can to his side. He gave it a little shake and then absently squeezed the metal with his fingertips. “I don’t have a break for another two hours. You’ll have to wait until my shift’s over.”
    “When would that be?” Olivia asked, trying not to let her focus waver; the subtle cracks of the deflating soda can filled the air.
    Raymond glanced at his watch. “I came on at eleven, so I’ll be here ’til eight.”
    “Okay, then why don’t I buy you a beer? Are you familiar with a place called Fish Nets in Oyster Bay?”
    He nodded. “I’ve been there a time or two.”
    “How’s nine o’clock?”
    One of the nearby forklift engines roared into life, startling Olivia. Raymond watched her jump to the side, and the shadow of a grin curved his mouth upward. “All right, but it’s not the kind of place I expect you visit much. Are you sure you wanna go there?”
    “Trust me, I’ve been to Fish Nets more times than I care to remember, but I happen to know the bartender. She’ll take good care of us.”
    Raymond slipped a finger beneath the brim of his baseball cap and scratched his temple, his grin widening a fraction. “You can call me Ray.”
    “I’m Olivia,” she said and held out her hand. He shook it carefully, nodded at her, and then walked away. Several men observed his progress and then turned their attention toward her, clearly interested in why this beautiful, sophisticated woman had paid their coworker a visit.
    Olivia was accustomed to being the object of people’s stares. They did not trouble her. What did trouble her was that she considered herself an astute judge of character. She believed she had a gift for reading people and that everyone had a tell. Raymond Hatcher was an exception, however. Olivia couldn’t glean the slightest sense of his personality. She didn’t like that. In fact, it made her nervous.
    Inside the Range Rover, Haviland was obediently pacing himself and still had a full beef tendon left to eat. Olivia let him be. Turning on the car, she commanded her dashboard phone to dial Millay’s number.
    “You demonstrated a great deal of skill Saturday night,” she told her friend. “I hope you’re prepared for an encore performance.”
    Olivia paused to listen to the bartender’s confident answer. “This one’s different,” she warned Millay. “We need to tread carefully.”

Chapter 11
    A pure hand needs no glove to cover it.
    —NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

    H ad Ray Hatcher shown up at the crowded bar of The Bayside Crab House, the patrons would have done a double take upon seeing his formidable figure. Then they’d have carved a path for him, staring at him out