A Deadly Cliche (26 page)

Unperturbed, the woman opened the door and indicated that Olivia was free to leave. “We’re pretty backed up right now. Seems like everybody in the county has come down with shingles. You’ll just have to be patient.”

Pausing in the doorway, Olivia made it clear that she wasn’t going to follow the woman to the checkout area. “I need these results immediately. If those blood results are positive, it means that my father, whom I believed drowned thirty years ago, is alive. But he’s
barely
alive. He’s got pancreatic cancer and is almost out of time. Do you think it’s acceptable to ask me to be patient, to possibly miss the chance to see him before he dies, because this lab is backed up identifying cases of
shingles
!”

The woman didn’t so much as flinch in the face of Olivia’s indignation. “We’ll do our best, ma’am,” was all she would say before walking up the hall to the waiting room. “Ms. Limoges is ready to check out,” she told the sourfaced receptionist, wished Olivia a good day, and called for the next patient.

Olivia received an instruction sheet on obtaining her lab results and marched out of the office, eager to vent her frustration. Seeing no nearby outlet, she returned Haviland’s boisterous greeting by hugging him around the neck. She then drove to a nearby sandwich shop to pick up lunch for herself and several slices of roast chicken breast for Haviland.

Keeping her promise to Haviland, she returned to the leash-free park. After serving him the chicken, Olivia stuffed salt and vinegar potato chips into her mouth without the slightest regard for ladylike delicacy. While Haviland frolicked under the afternoon sun, she consumed the entire bag, a tuna fish sandwich on whole wheat, and a dill pickle spear. With her hunger satiated and her frustration marginally relieved, Olivia looked at her watch and wondered what diversions could prevent her from obsessing over the lab results.

She called Laurel’s house but no one picked up. After leaving a brief message requesting that her friend get back to her as soon as possible, she threw out the empty potato chip bag and paper sandwich wrapper and dialed April Howard’s number.

“Are you and your portfolio free this afternoon?” she asked when April answered. “Can you meet me at Bagels’n’ Beans in an hour?”

“Yes. I don’t know if my appearance will look entirely professional, but I’ll be there. I need at least an hour to find my one decent suit and iron three years of wrinkles out of it.”

Listening to the fatigue in April’s voice, Olivia sought to ease the widow’s mind. “You’re only meeting with me, and frankly, I don’t care if you show up wearing pajamas. I’m serious, April. I’m your potential client and I don’t give a damn whether you’re in a suit and heels or sweats and sneakers. I just want to see your work and chat over a cup of coffee. Can someone look after your kids on such short notice?”

April issued a dry chuckle. “They’d love to get away from me for a few hours, trust me. I’ve been selfish to keep them close to me. When they’re around me, they feel guilty about playing or laughing at things on TV. My kids are better at grief than I am. They’re more resilient and more hopeful that they can be happy again one day.”

“I think it’s easier for them to put their feelings aside for periods of time,” Olivia agreed. “But they experience grief as deeply as you do. They just might not be able to express how it’s affecting them.”

“One day you’ll have to tell me how you know so much about this subject,” April answered. “But I’ll send the kids to Tina’s. She’s wanted them to come over for pizza for days and they could use a change of scenery. I’ll see you in an hour.”

Pleased, Olivia whistled for Haviland and set off for Bagels ’n’ Beans. When she reached the café an hour later, Wheeler was in the process of handing over the reins to a pair of high school students.

When he saw Olivia, he stopped and pointed at her arm. “You givin’ your blood away, ’cause I could use a fresh supply. Mine feels like it’s movin’ slower and slower through these droopy ol’ veins.”

Olivia dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. “That’s total nonsense. You’ll outlive us all.” She placed her drink order and then smiled at the feisty octogenarian. “Where are you off to now?”

Wheeler grinned. “I got a date. First one in a decade too. Her name’s Esther. I met her on the computer.”

Olivia couldn’t mask her disbelief. “You’re cyber-dating?”

“When it comes to women, I’m better at writin’ than talkin’.” He shrugged. “I just hope she looks like her picture. She’s a dead ringer for Betty White.” Wheeler stooped to pet Haviland and then strolled out the door, his jaunty step belonging to a man a quarter of his age.

“Betty White, huh?” Olivia laughed and settled back in her chair. Haviland curled up by her feet and closed his eyes, worn out from his exertions at the park.

Sipping her cappuccino, Olivia stared out the front window and felt a rush of affection for the town and its inhabitants. Somehow, just being back in Oyster Bay dissipated a fraction of her anxiety over the blood test results.

The bells hanging from the front door tinkled and April Howard walked in, a black portfolio case tucked under her arm. She spotted Olivia and made her way to the table, pausing to glance at the black-and-white photographs for sale on the wall above Olivia’s head.

“These are new,” she said. “Last time I was here there was a display of watercolor paintings.”

“Wheeler told me he couldn’t put up pieces of art fast enough during the Cardboard Regatta. Even with all the vendors selling comparable wares dockside, the tourists bought everything he had hanging on this wall.” Olivia studied the photographs of downtown, which had been taken during the busy season. She liked the movement captured within each shot—how the people on the sidewalk and the cars on the street appeared to be in motion even though the camera had rendered them permanently immobile.

Directly over her cafe table was a head-on shot of Grumpy’s façade. It showed a trio of teenage girls in shorts and bikini tops, a pair of children holding pinwheels, several women with shopping bags, and a cluster of locals chatting alongside the diner’s door. It was a quintessential summer day in Oyster Bay—a glimpse of small-town Utopia.

April was also staring at the photograph. “My folks want me to move back to Ohio, but I could never leave this place. I fell in love with Oyster Bay on a day just like the one in that photo. Felix and I were here for a weekend getaway. On Sunday, while we were packing to go, I told him I wanted to move here and start a family. And we did.”

“I grew up here, but I remember coming back to town after being away for a long time. I felt like I could breathe for the first time in ages.” Olivia pointed at the portfolio. “May I?”

“Of course.” April jerked her thumb toward the counter. “I’m going to order a complicated drink so you’ll have time to look that over without me staring at you.”

As the espresso machine gurgled and sputtered, Olivia examined April’s designs and was satisfied by what she saw.

“Give her a takeout cup,” she ordered the young barista.

Confused, April added a packet of sweetener to her drink and followed Olivia and Haviland outside.

“Let’s show her our new acquisition, Captain.”

The two women walked toward the harbor. A cool wisp of air drifted over them, carrying a hint of autumn. Olivia led April to the warehouse she’d own as soon as all the closing paperwork was finalized.

“This is it.” She gestured at the building. “I want to change this wreckage into the Bayside Crab House. Delicious food, lively music, and a casual setting overlooking the water. What do you think?”

April was stunned. “You want
me
to do the designs? I’ve never worked on a structure this . . . old before.”

Olivia laughed. “Don’t be daunted by her age. This girl’s about to have major cosmetic surgery. You’ll be working with my contractor, Clyde. He’s the best in the business. He can build anything I ask him to, but he needs design feedback.”

“Do you have blueprints?” April asked and then, without waiting for an answer, began to slowly move around the perimeter of the building. Haviland followed behind, sniffing an invisible trail of human and animal odors as April began to talk to herself. “The kitchen should be on this side. There’s decent access to the road for deliveries and garbage pickup. The front should be dominated by a large bar and I can see an expansive deck with plenty of room for tables . . .” She placed a hand on an exterior wall. “This place could become Oyster Bay’s next hot spot.”

Olivia smiled. She liked how April touched the building, acquainting herself with its bones of brick and wood. “The job’s yours if you want it. And before you give me an answer, I want you to know that there will be days you are simply not going to be able to work. No one expects you to act as though you haven’t been knocked flat by loss.”

“I’ll do my best,” April mumbled.

The clicking of Haviland’s manicured claws over the planks of one of the lower docks caught Olivia’s attention. She signaled for him to return and then focused on April again. “Right now I’d just like you to look over the schematics and do some preliminary drawings. Once the closing is done, I’ll want you to meet with Clyde. When you’re ready I’d then like you to present a final proposal to me.” She raised her hand to stop April from speaking. “Take the night to think it over. The terms of your employment are outlined in this contract, and I trust they will help relieve some of your financial worries.”

April was tactful enough not to peer inside. She thanked Olivia and walked away with her head held a little higher and Olivia knew she had judged the other woman correctly. April was a fighter. She’d hold herself and her family together despite the crushing blow they’d received. Eventually, perhaps years from now, she would emerge from her cocoon of grief. Olivia hoped that when that happened, a good man would appear and give April a second chance at happiness.

Evening fell and Olivia arrived home to the ringing of the phone. For a moment, she thought her lab results might have been completed early and dashed across the kitchen to grab the receiver from the cradle. She simultaneously noticed Laurel’s number on the caller ID.

“I’ve been meaning to catch up with you,” Laurel said hurriedly. “But there was a break in the case and I had to interview one of Rawlings’ officers and then submit an article to my editor before Steve came home.”

“What break?”

Laurel put her hand over the speaker and said something to one of her sons. She apologized for the interruption and then said, “The John Doe from the beach has been identified. When the cops were interviewing the area lawn-care companies, they found out one of the crew members of a large landscaping company stopped showing up for work around the time you found that man’s body in the sand. Not only was he in the lawn-care business”—Laurel paused theatrically—“but the man was also a parolee. His name’s Alan Dumfries.”

Olivia glanced at the clock. It was earlier than her usual cocktail time, but she didn’t care. Dropping a few ice cubes into a crystal tumbler, she opened a fresh bottle of Chivas Regal Reserve. “Let me guess. Alan served time for robbery.”

“Bingo! However, he doesn’t seem to have ties to anyone in town. No family, friends, nothing. Alan lived in Fayetteville before he got caught stealing in this county. Apparently, he preferred to break into cars, but I think it’s safe to assume he graduated to home burglaries. He must have done a few jobs with the Cliché Burglars before they killed him.” She paused thoughtfully. “Actually, they’re more like the Cliché Killers, aren’t they?”

“The Cliché Killers. Yes, that seems more accurate.” Taking a sip of her scotch whiskey, Olivia murmured, “I guess Alan was the third wheel. If he had no connection to the families who were robbed, I’d bet this bottle of Chivas Regal that he was just a lackey.”

“Maybe he was murdered because he broke a rule or something,” Laurel theorized. “Or the thieves in charge couldn’t trust him in the end.”

“Plausible,” Olivia agreed. “But it doesn’t give Rawlings much of a lead. It’s a step forward, something tangible for you to print in the paper, but knowing Alan Dumfries’ name doesn’t answer the who or the why in this case.” She shook the ice cubes in her glass. “Do you have your high school yearbooks handy?”

Laurel hesitated. “I think they’re in a box in the attic. Why?”

“I think our villain may have attended Pamplicoe High.” Olivia described how she’s overheard one of Rawlings’ officers connecting the victims to the school. “We should look through them for anyone with a physical abnormality.”

“That sounds so
mean
!” Laurel protested. “But I agree, though I can’t do it now. I have to make
something
for dinner or Steve will say that I can’t balance having a job with my responsibilities at home. Come over in the morning. The twins will be at preschool until twelve thirty. We can look through my yearbooks and then drive over to the high school if need be. The librarian, Ms. Glenda, has been there for ions. She has an uncanny memory for name and faces.”

Olivia refilled her glass, trying not to think of how much she’d rather find out the results of her lab test and formulate a plan based on the results instead of going through page after page of Laurel’s yearbooks. Her treasured tomes were undoubtedly filled with girlie signatures, hearts,
x
’s and
o
’s, smiley faces, and the usual gushing promises to remain best friends forever. Olivia had left her own yearbooks in her boarding school dorm room, having made no close friends. Even as a teenager, Olivia planned for an adulthood of solitude. All relics of her school days, whether they were report cards, art projects, or ribbons from horse shows, had been discarded at the end of every term. She didn’t want to look back. It was simply too painful. The only way to survive was to move stubbornly forward, forging no human connections.

“I’ll see you at nine,” she told Laurel and hung up.