Writing All Wrongs (18 page)

“So did Vernon get his hands dirty?” Millay asked. “George couldn’t manage the physical stuff required to re-create the ghost stories. But could Boyd do it all on his own? And I still don’t see how Leigh Whitlow fits into any of this.”

“I don’t know either. All I can say is that Boyd isn’t much stronger than his father.” Olivia told Millay about the debilitating symptoms of Boyd’s cancer.

Haviland raised his head and Millay resumed her scratching. “If Boyd’s vision was impaired, then how did he drive from Riverport to Oyster Bay?”

Despite the heat of the fire, the skin on Olivia’s arms broke out in gooseflesh. “He couldn’t have.”

Millay stole a glance at the tall windows. “He’s here, isn’t he? Vernon’s here.”

“He must be.” Olivia slowly got to her feet. She felt as
though she were in a waking dream. Her head was heavy, and her thoughts were slow and somnolent.

“Harris!” Millay shouted, startling both Haviland and Olivia. “Get in here, pronto! We have a problem! Are you still on with the chief?”

Harris appeared, his open laptop balanced on his forearms. “No, he just got back to the station and had to talk to someone. As far as problems go, we have bucket loads of them. After hearing the tail end of your conversation, I sent a group text message to Cook and the chief.
If
Vernon realizes that Boyd got the wrong man—sorry to put it that way, Olivia, but I’m too stressed to be delicate—then our crazed curator will probably try to take out Silas himself.”

“
If
he’s in Oyster Bay,” Millay said. “Too bad we’d have to ask those useless Riverport cops to check on his whereabouts.”

Harris looked thoughtful. “They’ve been ripped apart by the media over how Leigh Whitlow’s murder was handled. Peterson in particular. So the powers that be might be eager to polish their tarnished image. I’m going to call down there and tell them what happened here. We need to work together now.”

Before either woman could respond, Harris was already speaking to someone at the Riverport station. Five minutes later, he ended the call with a triumphant grin. “Two officers are en route to Vernon’s apartment. They’re also going to contact the other museum volunteers. Maybe they know something that can help us.”

“Good work,” Olivia said.

“Now what?” Millay asked.

“I’m going to see what else I can find out about Vernon.” Harris took a seat at Olivia’s desk and focused on his computer again.

The fire crackled and threw shadows on the walls. Haviland groaned and stretched in lazy contentment while Olivia
and Millay listened to the soft sound of Harris’s fingers moving over his keyboard.

Eventually, Harris broke the silence. “There’s not much on the guy. He doesn’t exist on social media. He owns next to nothing. An old boat and an even older car. He’s rented the same one-bedroom apartment in Riverport for the past twenty years. He’s never been arrested. Not even a moving violation. Pays his taxes. According to this”—he tapped his computer—“he’s practically a ghost.”

Millay got off the floor, went into the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of beer. She took a long pull from the bottle and stared at the fire again. “Aren’t we making some major assumptions about this guy? For instance, how would Vernon know that Boyd failed to kill Silas unless he was watching from inside the bookstore Dumpster or something? And here’s another question. How did he get back to town after leaving Emmett’s car at the lighthouse? Did he thumb a ride from one of Olivia’s neighbors?”

Harris shrugged. “That SUV has a big cargo hold. He could have had a bike or moped back there. I’ll call Cook and ask him to check it out.”

Olivia tried to picture Vernon pedaling into town just before daybreak, a hooded sweatshirt obscuring his face and a bag with supplies strapped to his back. Was it possible?

“Vernon can’t get to Silas anyway,” she said to no one in particular. “Isn’t he safely tucked away in an interview room at the station?”

“I’m not sure,” Harris said after a moment’s pause. “He told Cook that rumors about the skull cup have been attached to several William and Mary grads, which is true enough, and refused to admit to stealing from the Ocean Isle Museum.” He raised his phone to his ear. “With two active crime scenes and a suspect in the hospital, we’re spread too thin.” He jerked to attention, his eyes sliding away from Olivia’s. “Cook? That text I sent about Vernon Sherrill? Yeah, I think there’s more.
He might be in Oyster Bay, hoping to take a shot at Silas Black. I know I acted without authorization, but I went ahead and asked the guys in Riverport to visit his residence.” He paused to listen. “Are Silas Black and Amy Holden still at the station?”

Without waiting to hear the answer, Olivia retrieved her own phone and dialed Rawlings’s number. “Where are you?” she demanded when he picked up.

“Driving Ms. Holden to The Yellow Lady,” Rawlings said, referring to the bed-and-breakfast Silas had commandeered for the weekend. “Actually, she’s in the lead car. I’m taking up the rear.”

Olivia stiffened. “Vernon Sherrill could be waiting there.”

“Yes,” Rawlings said. “Which is why we’ll take every precaution.”

“Where’s Silas?”

Rawlings chuckled dryly. “Spending the night in a holding cell. Not quite as comfy as the Captain’s Quarters at The Yellow Lady, but it’s for his own protection. We gave him a choice, and he chose wisely. Ms. Holden won’t be staying in the main inn either. It’s too big to guard, and we don’t have the manpower. After I get her settled in the guest cottage, I’ll rejoin Cook at the station.”

“What can we do?”

“I’m glad you asked,” Rawlings said. “If Vernon Sherrill is the mastermind behind the ghost story reenactments, then he’s most likely gone through all this trouble not just for revenge, but to publically one-up Silas Black. To be the greater storyteller. To dramatize these old ghost stories better than Silas ever did on his television drama. And to do this, he needs to complete his work with a breathtaking finale—the death of Silas Black—by mirroring Blackbeard’s murder. Is that what the three of you believe as well?”

Olivia darted a glance into the kitchen. Harris was pressing his phone to his ear with his left hand while typing with
his right. “Yes. It explains why Boyd had an antique cutlass in his possession.”

“What I’d like you to do is to try and put yourself in Mr. Sherrill’s place. Mr. Allen’s attack failed, so what do you do now? How and when do you strike? Because you have
one
chance. There’s no room for error.” Rawlings paused to listen to chatter on his police radio. “We’re pulling into the inn now. I’ll get back to you later.”

“Be careful,” Olivia whispered, but Rawlings was already gone.

Millay, who’d overheard Olivia’s side of the conversation, arched her brows in question. “Should we call Laurel?”

Olivia nodded. “Only because she’d be furious if we didn’t. But tell her to stay home. She can think from the safety of her house.”

The three friends took their seats around the kitchen table again. Millay read different versions of Blackbeard’s death out loud while Harris took notes. Olivia tried to focus on Rawlings’s assignment, but the anger she’d been trying to tamp down was steadily overpowering her thoughts.

“Olivia?” Millay snapped her fingers. “Are you in there? You look like you want to punch someone.”

“It’s Charles,” she said tightly. “If he’d mentioned this damned cup earlier, Leigh would still be alive. Jenna wouldn’t be injured. Neither would he.”

Harris grabbed Olivia’s hand. “It’s down to us to put an end to what started with that deer, and I know what might help. Think back to your trip to the maritime museum on Palmetto Island. Which pirate weapons were on display? Even if you don’t know what they were called, try to describe them to me.”

Olivia nodded, glad to have something to focus on other than her anger. “The displays were both organized and eye-catching. One case contained blades. Daggers, dirks, swords, cutlasses.” Her voice took on a dream-tinged quality as she
reconstructed the exhibits in her mind. “Another held boarding weapons such as grappling hooks, axes, and some kind of pike. There were quite a few firearms as well. I don’t remember the names of all the guns, but there was a set of flintlock pistols, a blunderbuss, and a much longer gun that looked like a musket.”

“That was probably a matchlock,” Harris said, examining a website on pirate weapons. “I think Vernon is carrying this beauty.” He tapped on the image of a flintlock pistol.

“Because after Blackbeard received that nasty gash in the neck, he was shot,” Millay said, pointing at a line in Harris’s notebook.

“Exactly. Plus, the fighting took place on deck, at close range,” Harris said. “That would call for the flintlock pistol. Vernon had access to a pair. Assuming one of the guns is in working order, which might be a stretch considering their age, I’d say that’s his weapon of choice.”

Having no knowledge of pirate weapons, Olivia and Millay had to defer to Harris’s opinion on the matter.

“So we’ve deduced that a maniac with an antique gun is planning to put a lead ball into Silas Black. That’s just peachy,” Millay said. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“What we always have to do,” Olivia said. “Wait for the chief.”

*   *   *

An hour later, Rawlings entered the house. Haviland met him at the back door, barking sleepily and giving him a cursory lick on the hand before returning to his resting place in front of the fire.

Rawlings sank into a chair at the kitchen table and waved off Olivia’s offer of coffee. “If I have another cup, I’ll float away.” He leaned back and sighed. “I just came home to rest for a few minutes. Wash my face, put on a fresh shirt, have a sandwich. Unless the three of you figured out where he’s
hiding, my men and I will be driving through town in shifts looking for Mr. Sherrill.” He smiled at Olivia. “This has all the makings of a very long night.”

“I’ll come with you,” Harris volunteered and then turned to Millay. “Come on, I’ll drop you off at home first. The chief can pick me up from my place.”

“Good,” Rawlings said approvingly. “I already called Laurel and told her to stay put. I know she has a police scanner next to her desktop.”

After Harris and Millay left, Olivia carried the coffee cups to the sink and rinsed them with hot water. She let the water run until the steam fogged the window, so she was unaware that Rawlings had come to stand behind her until she felt his arms around her waist. “Maybe you should wait to see Charles tomorrow,” he said softly. “Check in with his nurse by phone instead. You’ve been through enough today.”

She shook her head. “I won’t sleep anyway. I’d just lie there, rehashing the day’s events or picturing Vernon hiding in random places throughout town. In alleyways. Under docks. Construction sites.” She turned off the water. “He could be anywhere, Sawyer.”

“Yes,” Rawlings agreed and held Olivia in silence for a long moment. “Officer Peterson called to confirm that Mr. Sherrill is not at home. He hasn’t collected his mail for two days, and he also entrusted the museum to his docent. I spoke with her earlier. She said that although Mr. Sherrill rearranged the pirate displays right before he left town, she’s not sure if any of the weapons are missing. She’s going to check the remaining items against the inventory and call me in the morning.”

“Can we actually trust that Peterson did his job this time?” Olivia’s tone was derisive.

“He apologized for what he realizes was shoddy police work. It’s too late, of course, but I feel for him. He was too green. Too starstruck by Silas. You’d better believe there’s
going to be a shakedown because of what happened on Palmetto Island.” Rawlings stepped away from Olivia and passed his hands over his face. “Such an enormous fallout over a goddamn cup.”

“That’s what I thought too. Initially. But it’s not about the cup,” Olivia said. “It’s about being seen. George. Boyd. Vernon. They’ve been seen now. They’re not invisible anymore.”

Rawlings eyes grew glassy. “Maybe they wanted to be ghosts. Specters. Haints. To become a part of local lore the way they never could have in life. Maybe they believed their deaths were the only things left that mattered. The only time they’d be seen and not forgotten. The only way to right a lifetime of wrongs.”

“In that case,” Olivia said, feeling a current of cold air sneak into the room, “Vernon is prepared to die. But not tonight. Not under cover of darkness. He wants to fire that pirate pistol—to take out his enemy in front of witnesses. He wants to become a legend.”

Rawlings turned his gaze to the window. Patches of steam still clung to the panes, but the darkness waiting on the other side seemed to have crept closer. To have grown denser.

“People always think of dawn as a peaceful time,” he murmured. “Birds stirring. A gentle awakening. But a poet I admire, George Bradley, described it very differently. He wrote a poem about the sound of the sun. It’s an explosion we don’t hear. Roiling gases raging. A burning sky. Every morning, an Armageddon. Tomorrow’s dawn will not come on slippered feet. I have a feeling it’s going to be full of cracks and shouts. And violence.” His fingertips brushed the holster on his hip, and he drew in a resolute breath. “I cannot let Mr. Sherrill have the storied ending he so desperately
craves.”

The river is within us, the sea is all about us.

—T. S. E
LIOT

O
livia let Haviland out once more before kissing him on the nose and giving him a small pile of treats. She left the house while he was still crunching away.

The trip to New Bern took forty-five minutes, and by the time Olivia appeared at the ICU nurses’ station, her mind was as drained as her body. She didn’t want to think anymore. She wanted to sit in a hushed room beside Charles’s bed and be still.

“Your father was awake and talking earlier, but he’s asleep now,” a nurse whispered to Olivia outside Charles’s room. “His temperature started climbing around seven, so we’ve been pumping him with fluids and trying to keep him quiet. The more he sleeps, the better.”

Olivia was immediately concerned. “If he has a fever, doesn’t that mean he’s fighting an infection?”

The nurse nodded. “Abdominal wounds are tricky, and a fever is common after surgery. We’ll just have to keep an eye on him.” She smiled. “You’re lucky Dr. Boardman was
on rotation today. She’s one of the best general surgeons in the state.” She poked her head into the room. “You can go in now. I’ll be at the desk if you need anything.”

Olivia put her coat and bag on the recliner in the corner of the room before approaching the bed. Her father seemed to be sleeping comfortably. She stood over him, her gaze slowly traveling from his face down the length of his arm to where the tube from the IV bag entered the swollen vein in the back of his hand, when he opened his eyes.

“Olivia,” he croaked.

She put her palm to his forehead. It was too warm, and his hairline was damp with sweat. “No talking,” she gently admonished him. “I’ll stay with you, but only if you promise to go back to sleep. You have a fever, and you need rest.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was a dry rasp. “I should have told you. I’m sorry, Olivia.” He spread the fingers, wordlessly asking for contact.

She slid her hand under his, careful to avoid the IV line, and sat on the edge of the bed. “Close your eyes,” she whispered. “If you do, I’ll hum you a French song Camille used to sing when she was happy. You might even recognize it. It’ll give you good dreams, and you’ll wake in the morning feeling much better.”

Olivia began to hum “La Mer” while lightly tracing the veins on the back of her father’s hand. She thought of how they flowed through his body like tiny rivers—dozens of tributaries rushing into the sea of his heart. His blood flowed through her body too. Would that help Olivia forgive him for what he’d done?

She was suddenly caught in a terrible moment of déjà vu—of the night she’d sat vigil at Willie Wade’s deathbed. She’d held his hand too. She’d been with him as his life had ebbed like the retreating tide.

The notes of her mother’s song stuck in her throat. Charles stirred, and fearing he’d come fully wake again,
Olivia swallowed and continued the soft song. She wanted him to live. And in that moment, she knew she would forgive him. He was the only parent she had left, and they’d lost enough time as it was.

When the nurse entered the room, Olivia put her finger to her lips. The nurse nodded, checked the IV bag, placed a blanket on the arm of the recliner, and left.

As the minutes ticked by, Olivia’s head grew heavier and heavier, and her back began to ache from perching on the edge of the bed. Very slowly, so as not to disturb her father, she eased off the bed and settled on the recliner. She covered her legs with the blanket and told herself that she’d just rest her eyes for an hour. As soon as her father’s fever broke, she’d drive back home.

*   *   *

She woke hours later to the sound of a man’s voice close to her ear.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

Olivia turned her head to find Silas Black crouching beside her. He held out a takeout cup from Starbucks. “You look like you could use this more than me.” He put the cup down on the side table and stood erect. “I’ve been up for ages already.” Jerking a thumb at Charles, he whispered, “How’s the patient?”

Olivia’s eyes were full of grit. Her tongue felt like cotton, and her neck was stiff and sore. The morning light streaming in through the rectangular window was too bright, and Silas’s presence was both intrusive and unwelcome.

She took the water pitcher from Charles’s nightstand and poured herself a glass. As she drank, she noted how fresh and well rested Silas looked. His vitality reminded her of Jenna. Jenna, who cheerfully rang up sales at Through the Wardrobe. Jenna, who hosted every children’s story hour and loved to moderate book clubs. She’d spent the night in
the hospital because her neck had been cut, and that wound had been meant for Silas Black.

“Get out,” Olivia hissed in quiet fury.

Silas blinked at her in surprise. “What?”

“Your secret killed one woman and nearly killed a second,” Olivia’s voice was a harsh whisper. “It almost killed my father. I know he shares in the blame, but not equally. Why don’t you save Vernon Sherrill the trouble and drink some drain cleaner from Blackbeard’s skull? Better yet, there’s sure to be a supply of bleach in a nearby maintenance closet. You can help yourself to a bottle on your way out. You’re good at taking things that don’t belong to you.”

“Charles told you?” Silas gaped at her for several seconds before dropping into a wooden chair across from the bed with a disappointed sigh.

Afraid that her anger would wake her father, Olivia turned away from Silas. She retrieved a comb from her handbag and pulled it roughly through her tangled hair. She focused on the sound of Charles’s steady breathing and was comforted by the fact that color had returned to his face.

After a few minutes, she put her comb away and dug around in her purse for a pack of gum. “He didn’t tell me. He only gave me a hint,” she whispered to Silas. “Harris pieced the rest of the puzzle together. Other than how Leigh fit in. We couldn’t figure that out. Obviously, she knew you’d stolen the cup, and somehow, that knowledge chained the two of you together.”

“That’s right. I served a decades-long prison sentence with that woman.” Silas spat out the words. “I paid and paid for what she had on me. Which, before you ask, was a videotape.” He snorted. “I was already done with Leigh when she caught me. It was the summer after our college graduation, and I’d moved back to my hometown while I looked for a job. I was putting the moves on the woman who managed the gift shop at the museum because I knew the cup
was there. I’d drunk from a fake one the summer before—so had Charles—but I figured there had to be a real one, so I tracked the items Spotswood left his children and found it.”

“Amazing that you were able to do that when no else could,” Olivia said disdainfully.

“I know,” Charles said. “It was purely by chance. The cup donated to the Ocean Isle Museum was mistakenly listed as being made of pewter, which was quite common for the time, but Blackbeard’s cup was silver. I thought the mistake might be deliberate, and I was right. I had it tested by an archaeologist friend of mine. I have the real cup,” he added smugly. “I’ve only shown it to two people, including Charles.”

Olivia gave him a flat stare. “How did you get it?”

“One night, I slipped something in the gift shop gal’s drink, used her keys to get inside the museum, and the rest is history. No sign of breaking and entering. No proof of the theft. It was beautiful. Except that I had no idea Leigh was following me. Or that she had a camera. Damn that woman.”

“She filmed you stealing the cup.”

Silas nodded miserably. “Yes, and though the footage was probably crap—I was wearing black and had a baseball cap covering part of my face—she also had a key to my apartment because we didn’t actually break up until July. That night, I celebrated my victory by drinking from the cup. She filmed that too, of course, though I was too drunk to even know she was there. She showed me the footage later. She stashed copies everywhere as insurance and held that video over me for half of my life. I bought her everything she wanted. Clothes, jewelry, cars. But I wouldn’t marry her, and she didn’t force me to. She wanted that to be my choice. I refused. Still, she wouldn’t go away. Even when I blatantly slept with other women, she stayed.”

“She loved you,” Olivia said. “She probably hoped that, just by sticking around, you’d eventually change your mind. She was murdered because of your crime. She paid, and so
did Jenna and my father.” Olivia unwrapped a piece of gum and pinched it hard between her fingers. “You knew Vernon Sherrill was behind the ghost story reenactments. You could have put a stop to them after the dead doe was found.”

Silas shook his head. “I didn’t know. I’d completely forgotten the man. His name vanished from my head years ago. And I definitely didn’t remember what he looked like.”

“This is why Vernon hates you,” Olivia said sorrowfully. “You ruined his life. And yet you could pass him on the street without recognizing him.”

“It wasn’t until after Leigh was killed that Charles suggested that this whole mess might be about the cup. I thought he was being ridiculous—that he was tossing theories into the wind. But when Officer Cook showed me old newspaper articles from when the cup was stolen and I saw Sherrill’s name, I knew Charles was right.” He shrugged. “So I’ll agree to be bait or whatever the cops want, but I won’t admit to the theft. Not ever. That cup is mine. The Graveyard of the Atlantic was my playground. I am a son of the Carolina coast.”

“Then why don’t you see that it’s the
people
that make a place memorable?” Olivia asked. “It’s not the relics that matter. Your stories sell because the characters resonate. Your television show is successful because the characters resonate. Your love of history shines through. If you realize that history is about
people
, then why are you so callous about the ones you meet?”

“Like Sherrill? Or the woman who ran the gift shop? Or Leigh? Come on.” Silas’s tone was dismissive. “The cup is priceless. Blackbeard is
inside
it, for Chrissakes. It symbolizes everything I love about my home. From the time I started working in my parents’ shop, I saw what people bought. Anything to do with pirates. Ghost stories. Legends. Tales of freedom and adventure. I planned to make a living off those things. I was working on my first book when I took
that cup. It was my Holy Grail. My talisman. I knew that if I had it, there’d be no stopping me, and I was right.”

Olivia stared at him in disbelief. “You thought the cup possessed some kind of power?”

“All I’m saying is that it was meant to be mine.”

“It’s not the only artifact you’ve stolen, is it? That shipwreck off the coast of Palmetto Island? Aren’t you funding it so you can have first dibs on the finds?”

Silas shrugged. “It’s not uncommon for the benefactor to receive a gift. Once those pieces are in a museum—”

“You can’t get your hands on them,” Olivia interrupted coldly. “That’s why you don’t support museums. Only underwater digs.”

“It’s not like there isn’t an entire antiquities market for these items. And that’s just the legal one. Better
I
should own these pieces of local history than some Chicago banker or California vintner. What do they know of our coast? We grew up here. We live and breathe its stories. We deserve to own these things.”

Olivia’s phone, which had been set to vibrate, began to buzz from inside her handbag. She searched for it without taking her eyes off Silas. “Your arrogance sounds more Hollywood movie producer and less small-town souvenir shop boy to me. You have no remorse whatsoever. I nearly lost a friend yesterday. I nearly lost my father. Because of you.”

“Father? Are you talking about me?” came a weak voice from the bed, and Olivia dropped her phone back into her bag and bolted from her chair.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, taking Charles’s hand. “Did we wake you?”

Charles smiled at her. “I’ve been hoping you’d call me that one day.”

“I’m still angry with you,” Olivia said, pulling her hand away to check his forehead. It felt cool to the touch. Pleased,
she pushed the nurse call button. “And I don’t understand why this man deserves your loyalty.” She pointed at Silas without turning. “He’s a thief. He uses people and then discards them. And he’s an egomaniac.”

Looking to where Silas stood at the foot of the bed, Charles said, “That egomaniac saved my life. One night, back in school, I’d had too much to drink. I was showing off, probably for some girl, and I walked out on a frozen lake that wasn’t quite frozen and fell through the ice. I couldn’t pull myself up. I started sinking. Silas jumped in after me. He almost died getting me out. I owed him, Olivia.”

Stunned, Olivia put a straw in a water cup and held it up to her father’s lips. He drank greedily and then let his head fall against the pillow with a sigh.

“Good morning!” A different nurse from the one who’d been on duty the previous night entered the room. She had a blood pressure cuff under her arm and moved to the opposite side from where Olivia stood to check Charles’s vitals.

Moving behind Olivia, Silas gave Charles an affectionate pat on his blanketed foot and said, “You must have a thick hide under those Brooks Brothers suits.”