The Last Word (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

frantic blend of passion and protestations.
    “Michel!” Olivia cut him off with a bark. “I do not care to discuss your infatuation with Laurel at the moment. I’m calling because she and the other writers are coming over tonight and I have nothing to offer them by way of an impromptu dinner. Can you help?”
    Vowing that he’d see to it personally, Michel cried, “I love her, you know!” and slammed the phone down.
    Olivia rolled her eyes to the ceiling, fed Haviland his supper, and then trudged up the stairs. She shrugged out of her clothes and into the warm embrace of the shower stream. After washing her hair, she ran conditioner through the short strands and waited the recommended thirty seconds before rinsing it out. The glass panels of her shower stall fogged over completely, and she could barely make out Haviland’s black form as he sank onto the bath mat for an after-dinner repose.
    Closing her eyes, she arched back into the rush of water, feeling the tension ebb from her shoulders, the images of Kamler’s cabin and Mabel’s stricken face receding.
    Suddenly, she heard a sharp crash followed by a violent thump from the first floor. Haviland leapt to his feet and was off in a blur of black fur and angry barking. Olivia knew from the hostile tone that the poodle was genuinely alarmed. She turned the water off with a jerk, stuffed her arms into a robe, and raced to the landing.
    Haviland was going wild in the kitchen. She could hear his enraged barks and snarls bouncing off the cabinets and terra cotta tiles. Without another second’s hesitation, Olivia grabbed her Browning BPR rifle from the coat closet, loaded it, and raised it to eye level. If someone were foolish enough to be in the kitchen when she turned the corner, they’d come face-to-face with the yawn of a gun barrel and a woman who was fully prepared to fire her weapon.
    But no one was there.
    Olivia lowered the gun but did not set it down. Tucking the stock under her right armpit, she approached the jagged hole in the glass of her closed kitchen door. She rapidly shuffled her feet into the shoes she’d discarded earlier and whipped the door open, crunching shards of glass beneath her heels. A large brown stone sat overtly on the welcome mat, discarded haphazardly by the intruders in their haste to gain entry to her house.
    Realizing what this meant, Olivia swung around, her eyes targeting the wide pine table upon which she’d laid the canvas tote bag containing the watercolor before heading upstairs to shower.
    It was gone.

Chapter 14
    It is by going down into the abyss that we recover the treasures of life.
    —JOSEPH CAMPBELL

    R awlings showed up out of uniform, wearing a Hawaiian shirt upon which cobalt sharks swam across a field of pale blue. His khaki shorts were covered with paint splatters, but his eyes were all business. While Officer Cook dusted for prints, Rawlings sat at Olivia’s kitchen table with an untouched cup of coffee, his fingers smoothing the pine surface as he took her statement.
    “What am I going to tell Harris?” Olivia whispered miserably when they were done.
    The chief covered the back of her hand with his warm palm. “We’ll get it back. The fact that it was stolen reinforces my belief that Mr. Plumley’s death was more about money and less about his profession.”
    “I don’t know,” Olivia said doubtfully. “The past is a part of these crimes. It’s possible that Heinrich Kamler has come back to the area to seek his revenge against Plumley for casting him as a murderer in The Barbed Wire Flower .” She told him of her visit to Chapel Hill.
    When she was done, Rawlings grew thoughtful. He asked for a broom and a dustpan and then squatted down and began to slowly sweep every shard of glass onto the pan. After dumping the entire contents into an evidence bag, the chief pivoted the bag under the overhead light, creating glints of light like sunshine on a level sea.
    Meanwhile, Officer Cook had finished dusting the doorknob for prints and had bagged the rock. “Good thing we’ve got you on file already, Ms. Limoges,” he said with a wry grin.
    Olivia nodded absently. She and Cook had come to an uneasy truce last year, but she still found the young man’s often condescending and close-minded attitude grating. “I’m sure the thief used gloves.” She looked at Rawlings. “If he’s after money, then he’ll try to sell this painting immediately. Where does one unload stolen artwork? This is