A Deadly Cliche (4 page)

“No wallet? No ID?”

“Don’t you get what I’m saying? There’d be no place to hide personal effects!” she exclaimed and waved for him to follow her. “The guy was buried buck-ass naked!”

 

 

Olivia was met at the front door of Grumpy’s Diner by a roller-skating dwarf. Dixie Weaver was the manager, bookkeeper, hostess, and head waitress of the eatery bearing the same name as her husband. Grumpy, the gifted fry cook, was actually quite pleasant, but he was a man of so few words that people assumed he was unfriendly. He’d earned the moniker early in life, and when it came time to choose a name for the diner, Dixie assured him that “Grumpy’s” would soon become a household word in Oyster Bay. As usual, she was right.

“You’re late this mornin’!” The diminutive proprietor put her hands on her hips and glared at Olivia. “I can’t hold your table on a Labor Day weekend,”

“Believe me, I hadn’t expected to be delayed by the police . . .” Olivia trailed off. Rawlings wouldn’t be pleased if the news that a body was found on the Point traveled around town before he even made it back to the station.

Unfortunately, Olivia could see that she had said too much. Dixie’s eyes lit up and she practically forced the customer seated at the end of counter to topple from his stool. Scooping up his check and his money without a thought to providing change, she pushed him toward the front door and called out, “Have a nice day now, ya hear!”

Flying back to the counter to wipe the area clean, Dixie stood as tall as she could on her white roller skates and patted the stool. “I’m gonna get you some fresh coffee, but if you expect to taste a single drop, you’d best be prepared to finish that sentence.”

She returned with a bowl of water for Haviland and a clean coffee cup for Olivia. Dangling a steaming carafe from her free hand, Dixie batted her false eyelashes. “Come on, lady. I don’t have all day. Those folks in the
Evita
booth want a refill.”

“Blackmailing me with java.” Olivia scowled in disapproval. “That is low, even for you.”

Dixie dumped the coffeepot on the counter and tugged at a pair of Hello Kitty arm warmers. “Is that a height joke?”

“Of course not.” Olivia wiggled her index finger so that Dixie would skate closer. “You have to swear on all twelve of your children not to breathe a word of this until it’s become a matter of public record.”

Dixie smirked. “My kids ain’t eggs. I don’t have a dozen. Last count it was five. Six at the most.” She poured the coffee. “But you have my word.”

“I found a body on the beach this morning. About a mile and a half north of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage,” Olivia whispered. She watched Dixie absorb the startling information.

Oddly, Dixie’s expression was not of curiosity, but of concern. “Are you okay?”

“I am, thank you. I didn’t know the man, but I pity him. His death was no accident.” Olivia clammed up. “Have you heard of any locals that have gone missing? A wife complaining about a wayward husband for example?”

Ignoring the waving hands coming from the
Evita
booth, Dixie thought about the question. “I haven’t, but I’ll keep my ears open and my mouth shut. Can I at least tell Grumpy? I’ll explode like an overstuffed turkey if I can’t share this with somebody!”

Olivia nodded. She knew Grumpy was no gossip. “Ask him the same question. He might hear talk among his friends about someone not turning up at home or at work. Maybe we can help the police identify the dead man.”

“We aren’t gonna be able to help unless he’s in the damned restaurant business.” Dixie plastered on her best waitress smile and signaled to the man holding his coffee cup in the air. “
Most
folks have three whole days off,’Livia. The dead guy probably didn’t have to be anywhere’til Tuesday, the lucky bastard.”

Recalling the grotesque visage and foul odor of the corpse, Olivia frowned. “Trust me, he was not lucky.” She reached into her purse for the chapter she needed to critique by that evening. “And if ever he was, then every ounce of that ran out.” She uncapped her pen to signal that the subject was now closed.

While Dixie skated from the kitchen to tables with platters of three-egg omelets, cinnamon French toast, or double bacon cheeseburgers for those ordering an early lunch, the hum of conversation brought Olivia a sense of calm. She didn’t come to Grumpy’s for the atmosphere, nor did she share Dixie’s deep admiration for Andrew Lloyd Webber. Every booth paid homage to one of his musicals, and though Olivia was amused by the displays showcasing
Starlight Express
,
Cats
, or
Phantom of the Opera
, she preferred to sit at the sole window booth and work on her writing projects.

Olivia ate at the diner at least once a week. Upon returning to Oyster Bay, Dixie had become her first true friend. Olivia was fond of the smaller woman’s feisty personality and sharp wit. Dixie also adored Haviland and had Grumpy prepare special meals for the coddled poodle while requesting items not found on the regular menu for Olivia. This morning, she skated to the counter with a frittata made of fresh spinach and shredded provolone and a bowl of honeydew melon squares.

“Those folks at the
Jesus Christ Superstar
table are drivin’ me hog wild!” Dixie said through gritted teeth. “They wanna know if our bacon is local. Shoot, I told them we’ve got more pig farms in this state than gas stations.” She whipped a compact from her apron pocket and applied a fresh coat of pink frosted lip gloss. “Don’t think they cared for that answer, but I reckon they’re lousy tippers anyhow. All those yoga-twistin’, garbage-recyclin’ tree huggers are tightwads.”

“It’s the booth decor, Dixie,” Olivia said after swallowing a bite of frittata. “It makes some people uncomfortable. Maybe you should replace Jesus with a poster of Glenn Close from
Sunset Boulevard.
”

“That right there is blasphemy!” Dixie presented Haviland with a plate of gently cooked ground beef mixed with rice and greens. He gave her his most sincere canine smile and then turned his attention to his second meal of the morning. “Maybe
Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat
would make people more at ease. I’ll have a look-see on eBay tonight.”

Using the green pen Harris had given to his fellow writers, Olivia circled a typo in the first line of the second chapter of his work in progress, a science fiction novel entitled,
The Chosen One
.

Having critiqued the first chapter, Olivia knew that the story’s heroine, Zenobia, had been safely evacuated from her dying planet, Zulton. However, upon arriving at her new home on the Planet Remus, Zenobia discovered that the ship carrying her parents and most of the other government officials was destroyed in an inexplicable collision with a floating prison colony.

Olivia didn’t care for science fiction as a rule, but she was interested in Zenobia’s fate, proving that Harris knew how to create a strong, complicated female character. However, his writing was often bogged down by too many details concerning space travel or the complicated names and nuances of alien races. His minor characters also spoke in dialogue riddled with clichés.

“Let’s see what will happen to Zenobia now,” Olivia murmured, took a sip of coffee, and began to read.

Olivia stopped reading, pausing to write comments here and there on Harris’s word choice. The book’s tone seemed to grow heavier with each sentence, but Olivia was unsure if it was the content or her experience earlier that morning that made her reticent to read any more.

“I know that look,” Dixie said, appearing at her side. “You need somethin’ sweet.”

Save for two tables of tourists struggling to finish every morsel of their copious brunches, the diner had cleared out. Dixie laid checks down at both booths and then slid a plate containing a slice of warm apple bread in front of Olivia. She performed an ungainly climb onto the next stool and sighed. “This is the only time I feel like I’m the same size as everybody else, but it’s a right pain to get up here.”

“Your brain makes up for your lack of height,” Olivia replied with a smile. “And you have an uncanny gift for knowing exactly what I need to eat. My mother used to make bread like this for my first day of school and she always packed an extra slice for my teacher.”

Dixie twirled a strand of her feathered hair around her finger. “I should do that. Might save me a few trips to the principal’s office. I was there so much last year that I got to know all about his secretary’s love life. Lord, but that woman is a tramp!”

Olivia laughed. “Thanks, Dixie. I’m going to finish this life-affirming treat and then head to the restaurant. Maybe if I watch over Michel’s shoulder while he cooks I can take my mind off what I saw on the beach.”

“He’s a chef, ’Livia. You hang over his shoulder and you’re liable to get a cleaver in the face. Go see that man of yours. If those eyes and that bod don’t make you think of somethin’ else besides a dead stranger, then nothin’ will.”

After placing a twenty on the counter, Olivia stepped out into the sunlight. Instead of walking to her car or in the direction of her lover’s bookstore, she and Haviland headed for the docks. There was a decrepit building on the waterfront she’d had her eye on for some time. It was a mess, requiring months of work at enormous expense, but it was for sale. Only someone with very deep pockets and a love of old buildings would consider purchasing the dilapidated warehouse.

It was perfect for Olivia

“I couldn’t do anything to help the man on the beach,” she said to Haviland. She shielded her eyes against the sun’s glare and studied the building. “But I can rescue this place. Restore a piece of Oyster Bay’s history and create some new jobs. I’m in the mood for a new project. Don’t you think The Bayside Crab House has a nice ring to it?”

The poodle barked his assent.

—RAY BRADBURY

 

 

 

 

 

O
livia wondered if Chief Rawlings would be able to push away the images of the crime scene photos and the scant facts written on the whiteboard in the station’s conference room before knocking on the door of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage. But it took only a glance for her to see that the details of the investigation clung to him like cigarette smoke. His hazel eyes, which were tinged with green and gold in direct sunlight, were murky as shallows in the marshes, and the skin of his face was pinched.

Rawlings stepped forward to greet the other writers, but Olivia blocked his path and placed a tumbler of scotch whiskey in his hand.

The chief was surprised by the act. Olivia had generously refurbished the neglected building for the use of their writers’ club and other community organizations, but her charitable gestures did not typically include the sharing of her twenty-five-year-old Chivas Regal. True, the cottage refrigerator was regularly stocked with beer and white wine and Olivia supplied her friends with the same bottles of fine merlot and cabernet blends featured on The Boot Top’s wine list, but everyone knew better than to reach for her scotch.

“Thank you.” Rawlings took a grateful sip. The night was warm, but the amber liquid felt good sliding down his throat. It settled in the pit of his empty stomach, blended with his blood, and eased the tension from his knotted neck and shoulder muscles. “A few more swallows and I might actually make some intelligent comments this evening.”