“It’s some sort of box.” She eased open the case and upturned it, shaking loose a sprinkle of sand. The interior was empty. Olivia closed her eyes and lifted the box to her nose. There were no lingering scents, no telltale remnants of a heady perfume or an exotic spice. “There are letters here, Haviland.” She peered at the lid. “Something illegible and then the letters
E
period
M
period. Doesn’t sound familiar. Ah! There may be some writing on the front too, but it’s covered by splotches of rust. We’ll have to soak this for a spell.”
Stroking the soft curls between the poodle’s ears, Olivia stood and slipped the small box into her pocket. “Breakfast time, Captain.”
Haviland barked and the pair retraced their steps. The Bounty Hunter, now rendered mute as its owner was always satisfied with a single discovery, was slung over Olivia’s shoulder like a rifle. The pair walked for a mile, Haviland trotting faster as soon as he caught the sight of the orange “No Trespassing” signs flanking the path that wound through the dunes toward Olivia’s low country-style home. She paused to appreciate the sunlight dazzling against the bank of windows facing the Atlantic. The gray stonework seemed to absorb the hesitant warmth, and Olivia never failed to gaze upon her custom home without a feeling of deep contentment.
Haviland raced ahead of her toward the Range Rover, but Olivia pointed at the house. “It’s not a Grumpy’s day. We’ve got quite a list of errands to do.”
Although she had a state-of-the-art kitchen with cherry cabinets, soapstone countertops, and a bevy of quiet and efficient appliances, Olivia wasn’t much of a cook. Most mornings, she microwaved a bowl of instant oatmeal or grits, mixed the cereal with a thick pat of butter, and then rounded out her meal by eating a banana or a handful of pitted prunes. If she didn’t feel like dirtying a bowl, she went to Grumpy’s.
As Haviland pressed his wet nose against her leg, indicating an eagerness for his meal, Olivia rummaged around in her deepest cabinet. “I’ll have you know that I only bought this double boiler for you, Captain. Your polenta will be ready in no time. What would Michel or I have done if I hadn’t discovered such a glorious list of healthy recipes on that fantastic Coddled Canine website? Why right now, you might be eating
canned
dog food!” Haviland flattened his ears as Olivia crashed pot and pans. “We’re lucky Michel doesn’t mind cooking for you. He’s told me you’re to expect chicken liver dumplings for dinner. Ah, here’s that double boiler.”
After stirring together the mixture of cornmeal, milk, and Parmesan cheese and leaving it to simmer, Olivia sat down in front of her MacBook. She pushed her partially completed critique of Camden’s chapter to the far side of the desk and directed her mouse to Google’s home page. The rectangular container she and Haviland had unearthed on their walk was now soaking in vinegar, but she had brushed off enough of the heavy clots of rust using baking soda and a toothbrush to reveal an acronym reading, “G.E.M.” Olivia took a bite of a soft, overly ripe banana and typed the letters into Google’s search box.
“Global Electric Motors. That’s a bit too modern for this object, I’d say. Graphical Environment Manager. A relatively new term. So is this reference to documentation for PCs.” She continued to scroll down the list of results, bypassing references to gem mining, gem shows, and the county of Gem, Idaho. “None of these fit.”
Haviland put his paws up on the counter closest to the cooktop and sniffed.
“Your polenta! Forgive me, my dearest.” Olivia removed the top saucepan and scooped the contents into a ceramic bowl on his elevated feeder. “It’s still too hot. Let’s rinse off our mystery box and see if the rust is gone while your breakfast cools.”
The poodle watched eagerly as Olivia dumped the vinegar into the sink, rinsed the silver box, and gingerly dried it with a paper towel. Squinting, she eased back the lid and smiled. “Here’s something! It says ‘G.E.M. Brooklyn, New York. Made in U.S.A.’” She shut the lid and turned the case over in her hand. “Looks like a patent number here.”
Olivia returned to her computer and refined her search. “Gem pawnbrokers in Brooklyn, Acme Smoked Fish on Gem Street in Brooklyn, Gem Auction Company. Brooklyn. No, no, no!”
After pouring herself a second cup of coffee and serving Haviland his polenta, she decided to switch tactics. Logging on to eBay, she typed in the exact words found inside the silver lid.
“Eureka!” she yelled and Haviland barked in excitement. “G.E.M. safety razor. Produced between 1912 through 1979 in Brooklyn. Formerly known as G.E.M. Cutlery Company of New York.” Olivia showed her poodle their metal container. “This piece of steel is a shaver head, Captain. It’s missing its blade and the handle too. According to this auction, it’s worth a whopping twelve dollars.”
Haviland lowered his head and closed his eyes, clearly ready for a post-meal nap. Olivia stroked the smooth metal of the shaver head. “Now, now. We don’t do this for profit, Captain. You don’t have to act so disinterested. It’s the adventure we’re after.” She shut the lid of her laptop. “You lick your bowl clean, I’ll get dressed, we’ll put this little gem in ajar, and then we’re off to the furniture store.”
The sun had seared away all traces of the fog by the time Olivia turned from her gravel drive and climbed onto an empty stretch of gray blue asphalt the color of a heron’s plumage. On the narrow street marking the northernmost end of the compact town of Oyster Bay, there was once a plethora of vacant stores and available parking spaces, but ever since
Time
magazine had hailed Oyster Bay as one of the nations “Top Ten Best-kept Vacation Secrets,” their half-deserted berg had been overrun with tourists.
Pale-legged vacationers descended like a locust swarm to trample the natural beauty of the shoreline, watch birds through thousand-dollar binoculars, sample Southern country cooking until their buttons burst, and host drunken deep-sea fishing trips for their rich friends. In their wake, they left behind mounds of garbage, soiled linens, crisp, inconvenient hundred-dollar bills, and a sour taste in the mouths of the yearlong residents.
Despite this influx of new faces and businesses, Olivia had to drive for more than an hour to reach a decent furniture store. She quickly selected two sofas and a pair of oversized club chairs in warm fabrics, a room-sized sea grass rug, and breezy curtains in a shimmering ecru.
Trouble arose, as Olivia expected it to, when the designer informed her that the furniture would take eight to ten weeks to be delivered and that the items on the floor were absolutely not for sale.
“How would we be able to show how wonderful this sage and almond checkered fabric looks on our club chairs if it wasn’t in the store?” the woman questioned rhetorically.
“Perhaps there is another equally attractive chair in your warehouse?” Olivia suggested, placing a fat roll of twenty-dollar bills into the woman’s hands. “And I would
certainly
make it well worth the while of the gentlemen delivering my new furnishings if they could arrive at my cottage, say, by five this afternoon?” Placing her credit card and a calling card bearing her name, address, and phone number on the designer’s desk, Olivia met the other woman’s eye.
“I’m going to check on my dog,” she announced. “I’ll be back in to sign my receipt in a moment.”
She had been right in assuming that the decorator wanted to examine the wad of twenties more closely before agreeing to the deal. Olivia was also confident that four hundred dollars in cash would sway most people into figuring out a way to break the rules, especially since no one would be the worse for the transgression.
After promising Haviland that her errand was almost complete, Olivia walked briskly back into the store, scribbled signatures on several pieces of paper, and then drove off in search of some colorful art.
“Don’t worry. We’re going to eat first, Captain. Should we be naughty today?”
Haviland knew perfectly well that naughty meant unhealthy and offered a jubilant bark. Thirty minutes later, the pair was seated at a patio table, enjoying the shade of the umbrella as they dined on tender cheeseburgers and thin, crunchy curls of fried onions.
After lunch, the poodle insisted on a brief squirrel-chasing session through the park before being dragged off to the next errand. Olivia was more than happy to comply. Thus far, the day had progressed with great promise. The mystery of their beach find was solved and the lighthouse keeper’s cottage was almost renovated. All she needed now was some inspirational art, but the furniture store, with its Impressionist prints and unattractive modern art silk screens, had been a disappointment.
Oyster Bay wasn’t quite cosmopolitan enough to support an entire gallery, but several local artists sold their works by displaying them on the brick walls of the local coffee and pastry shop. Olivia opened the front door to Bagels ‘n’ Beans and waved hello to the octogenarian proprietor, who was also one of her tenants. Her favorite one, in fact.
“I’m here to check out your art, Wheeler.” Olivia and Haviland breezed past the “No Dogs” sign and began to scrutinize the grouping of paintings, sketches, and framed black-and-white paper-cut designs.
“I like the paper cuts of the herons, don’t you?” Olivia pointed at the framed art hanging above the eatery’s worn purple sofa. Haviland snorted in assent. “Let’s take the one of the three birds in the roost and the other showing them fishing in the cove. I particularly like how this artist made the tree branches. Spindly-shaped. They don’t seem sinister to you, do they?” she asked her dog.
“More angular than sinister, I’d say,” a man two tables down remarked.
Olivia turned to look at the speaker and recognized him right away. “Hello, Chief Rawlings.” She glanced back at the paper cuts. “I’ve never seen such delicate work.”
The chief of the Oyster Bay Police Department nodded. “My sister Jeannie will be mighty pleased to hear you say that. Nothing sinister about
her
, that’s for sure. I don’t think she’s had a negative thought since 1965.”
“What happened in 1965?” Olivia couldn’t help but ask.
“I was born.” The policeman laughed and took a sip of his coffee. “And spent the next sixteen years making her life a living hell. Who’d have thought we’d be the best of friends now.”
Olivia took a second look at the lawman. Stocky and wide-shouldered, with dark hair going gray above the ears, Rawlings didn’t come across as the type of man to have a female as his closest confidante. In fact, whenever Olivia saw him in public, he was always accompanied by at least one other equally bulky officer. Rawlings and his officers tended to swagger down the street as though the heavy Maglite banging against the right hip didn’t equally balance the weight of the gun resting just above the left hip. Today, he wasn’t in uniform but wore a loud Hawaiian shirt covered by yellow pineapples over a pair of wrinkled brown shorts.
Returning her attention to the art, Olivia only took a brief glimpse at the watercolor landscapes hung above a row of small cafe tables. With their soft illumination and pastel hues, the pictures of gardens, shorelines, and children playing on the beach were fine, but didn’t hold her interest. The next pair of paintings was very large and looked to be oils.
The first showed a row of boats tied to the dock. Their sails were unfurled and it appeared as though their bowlines were about to be set free from the cleats holding them in place. Rows of colorful flags streamed from the masts, reminding Olivia of medieval pennants. People moved about the boat decks and the surface of the dock with a tangible energy. The picture conveyed a feeling of happy anticipation as well as an invitation to freedom. It was as if the boats were only waiting for the viewer to board before being launched into the sun-drenched water. She found herself wishing to be among the sailors waiting to embark.
The second painting was a contrast in calm. An old-fashioned bicycle, the kind Olivia had once pedaled into town as a young girl, had been left on a solitary stretch of beach. The kickstand kept it propped upright and its front tire was pointed very subtly toward the surf. Again, the painting conveyed an invitation to the viewer, a promise of leisurely days and a release of responsibility. Olivia felt infused by serenity by simply gazing at the scene.
“We’ll take these too, Wheeler!” Olivia shouted over her shoulder to the hearing-impaired shop owner. “They’re just what I was looking for,” she murmured happily to herself.
Without having been asked, the chief plucked the canvas of sailboats from the wall. “I painted these, so the least I can do is take them to your car. After you, Ms. Limoges.”
“You’re
the artist?” Olivia glanced at the initials in the lower right of the painting left on the wall in surprise.
How can someone wearing such a horrid shirt create such appealing art?
she thought, puzzled.
Rawlings slid the painting into the back of the Range Rover. “I’ve only been at it since my wife died. Jeannie thought it would do me good, but you’re only the second person to buy one. Maybe you’re just trying to get on the good side of the law.” He pretended to glower at her. “After all, I saw where you parked the other day. You’ll have to explain your
handicap
to me sometime.” He then gave her a friendly wink and ducked back inside the coffee shop to retrieve the rest of Olivia’s purchases.
“Oh Lord, is he flirting with me?” Olivia whispered to Haviland and the poodle cocked his head to the side. “I think he winked at me at the last Planning Board meeting too.”
Somewhat discomfited by the chief’s attentions, Olivia quickly told Rawlings that she needed to stop by the new bookstore before heading back home to meet the furniture truck. The lawman placed the rest of the paintings in the SUV and gently closed the hatchback.
“Through the Wardrobe,” Rawlings said as he leaned an elbow on Olivia’s side mirror. “Good name for a bookstore. I was there earlier,” he informed her. “You’re mighty busy these days, Ms. Olivia. Rumor has it you’re remodeling the lighthouse keeper’s cottage—even offering it to our local writer’s group to use. That’s quite generous of you.” He gazed at her through the open window, his brown eyes glimmering with humor. “Are you planning to join those folks? Pen the next bestseller?”