A Deadly Cliche (6 page)

Haviland bounded up the steps, pressed his wet nose against Olivia’s hand, and raised his ears. “You can play for a little longer,” she told him and the poodle dashed away again, his black coat blending into the darkness. “There’s another thing about this crime that strikes me as odd.” She gestured in the direction of the isolated stretch of beach. “Why here? Was the killer counting on a remote spot to avoid the chance of a passerby coming to his victim’s aid?”

Rawlings puckered his lips in thought. “I don’t believe he chose the Point for that reason. The murderer was very particular. He brought his victim to a place of few inhabitants, but where eventually, the body would be found. He wasn’t trying to hide what he’d done. In fact, he staged a scene. He also cleared any traces of his presence from that scene.”

“Did the neighbors hear anything? A car or boat motor?” Olivia asked.

“Nothing.”

Olivia listened to the ocean’s murmur against the shore. The steady rhythm raised another question in her mind. “If he wanted the tableau to be found intact, he took a big risk. The tide would have ruined it had I not set out on my morning walk when I did.”

Rawlings grunted and then eased himself out of the rocking chair. He walked to the railing and held on to the wood with both hands. It was the pose of a man searching for answers in the distance and Olivia imagined the chief spent less of his time looking at crime scenes, written reports, and photographs and more of it engaged in active thought. She also realized it was not a job for an impatient man. Like now, Rawlings was forced to wait for clues to come to light.

“The killer might not be a seaman, but I think he’s a local. He banked on someone living on the Point to take a walk over the holiday weekend and come across that body.” Rawlings turned and stared at Olivia. “I just hope he hasn’t been watching that beach, gathering info on who took their strolls and when. I don’t like the idea of him hiding somewhere nearby with a pair of binoculars.”

Olivia glanced past him to where her poodle was splashing in the shallows. “Me either.” She squared her shoulders and rubbed at the raised flesh on her arms. “But even if he did, I don’t mean anything to him. I discovered his find. I played my part. He’d have no more use for me.”

“We’re dealing with a clever and manipulative individual.”

“And a very angry one. The murderer hated the man he buried in the sand. He was disgusted with him.” She exhaled.

They fell silent after that, each reflecting, and not for the first time that day, on what had provoked the killer and how he had channeled his rage, shaping it into a ruthless and premeditated crime.

“Well, I’d best get going. I could sit here all night, but I’d like to review the few facts I’ve got in the case file before falling asleep in front of the television.” Rawlings smiled at her.

“Of course. I wish I could be of more help.” Olivia took his tumbler and walked him to the front door of the cottage, calling for Haviland as she did so.

After the chief had gone, she loaded the soiled plates and glasses into the tiny dishwasher in the cottage’s kitchen and turned out the lights. She locked up and then she and Haviland made their way up the sandy path through the dunes to her stone and wood Low Country-style home. Inside the living room, the most noticeable feature was the bank of windows facing the ocean. A few stars burned through the night haze but the moon wasn’t visible. Searching for it out the nearest window, Olivia was suddenly aware of being alone.

Usually, she cherished her solitude, but now she felt strangely vulnerable. She knew part of this unfamiliar feeling was a reaction to the murder, but there was something about seeing Chief Rawlings drive away that had her reluctant to face a Saturday evening at home.

Casting a gaze at the clock, she suspected that her lover, Flynn McNulty, would be closing his bookstore right about now. She could picture him counting the cash from the till, switching off the coffeepot, and turning out lights. He’d flip over the hand-painted sign on Through the Wardrobe’s front door from “Open” to “Closed” and, jiggling his keys as he hummed or whistled or gave some other evidence of how content he was with life, he would ride his mountain bike home.

Olivia was attracted to Flynn because he was everything she was not. A textbook extrovert, he relished the exchange of small talk and gossip with his customers. He played with their children in the store’s puppet theater and bantered with them in area bars and restaurants. He was lively and friendly and fun. Everyone liked him. Men wanted to befriend him, women of all ages flirted with him, and children idolized him.

Olivia rarely saw him in the act of charming members of the general public, as she preferred to call on him once darkness had fallen. They often shared a late meal together or, if it was past dinnertime, had a nightcap on Flynn’s patio. Sometimes, they’d dance on the flagstones and Flynn would croon silly songs in her ear.

Afterward, they’d have sex. Their bodies would intertwine as one day gave way to another and then, despite Flynn’s protests, Olivia would leave. She couldn’t wake up in his bed, the sun streaming through the slats of his blinds. She couldn’t begin a new day in his house. Somehow, that would mean too much of her belonged to him. And Olivia Limoges belonged to no man.

For months, Flynn had accepted what Olivia was willing to offer. He let her initiate contact, was always available when she called, and never pried into her past. They lived completely in the present, and even though Flynn was familiar with every curve of Olivia’s body, he knew very little about her as a person. In keeping with the parameters of their relationship, he limited communication to the sharing of amusing work anecdotes or the discussion of books. Literature provided the cement for their tenuous connection. They exchanged books, argued about books, and read books aloud to one another.

Without books, without the words penned by others, their relationship would have crumbled almost immediately. Instead, fictional narratives knit them together, loosely, like a mitten that could easily be unwound by tugging on a loose string.

Turning away from the window, the dark sea, and the missing moon, Olivia caught Flynn on his cell phone. He was heading out to pick up a small pizza for dinner and offered to share the pepperoni, sausage, and ham pie.

“I’ve already eaten,” she told him. “But I can bring an excellent Chianti to accompany your gourmet meal.”

Flynn loved to be teased. “You think that’s fancy? You should have seen what I had for lunch. I could have sailed a paper boat in the river of grease streaming from my hamburger.”

“At least you’ll give a local cardiologist business in the near future.”

Laughing, Flynn said, “I burn it all off when I run. For a middle-aged man-about-town, I’m the picture of health.”

Olivia couldn’t argue with that statement. “I hope you haven’t run
too
far today. You’ll need your strength for later tonight.”

“Why do you think I ordered all that extra protein on my pie?” Flynn answered huskily and hung up.

—ELBERT HUBBARD

 

 

 

 

 

T
he Boot Top Bistro was closed on Mondays, but Olivia often went in to catch up on paperwork. She loved to sit in her small office, which was located off the kitchen near the dry goods pantry, and complete a list of mundane tasks while listening to the radio. When Michel and his team were on the job, the kitchen was filled with noise. Raised voices, the gurgle of boiling water, a knife slapping against a carving board, and the hiss of the door leading to the walk-in refrigerator blended to form the melody of industry. Today, the kitchen was silent, its stainless steel surfaces, pots, and utensils gleaming under the overhead lights.

Olivia inhaled the odors still clinging to the air from last night’s meal. She detected cilantro and garlic, rosemary and butter, ground mustard, fresh scallions, and a faint trace of warm apples and nutmeg. Haviland raised his snout high and sniffed eagerly, but the lingering scent of braised lamb chops refused to materialize into lunch.

“I’ll whip you up some meat and veggies in a bit, Captain. I’ve got the budget to balance and this week’s menu to review first.”

Haviland snorted, displeased to be at the mercy of the whims of his mistress. To illustrate his unhappiness, he refused to keep her company by curling up on the plush dog bed in her office. Instead, he trotted through the kitchen into the lounge and stretched out at the foot of the baby grand. The two companions ignored one another for the better part of an hour before a knock on the rear door startled Haviland into a frenzy of barking.

Assuming that a deliveryman had confused the days of the week, Olivia looked through the door’s peephole and then turned to the poodle. “It’s okay, Captain. It’s Laurel.”

Olivia opened the door and stepped aside to let Laurel in. “This is a surprise. How did you ever find me here?”

Laurel pushed a tendril of damp hair from her cheek and blushed prettily. “I’ve been stalking you since this morning. I drove to your house and then cruised through town, hoping to spot your Range Rover. When I couldn’t find your car anywhere, I decided I had nothing to lose by coming to the restaurant. Steve and the twins are at a Labor Day moon bounce party, so I have about twenty minutes left before I have to be back.”

“Has something happened?” Olivia led her friend through the kitchen and into the bar. “Do I need to start pouring?”

Laurel waved off the suggestion. “No, it’s nothing like that! I wouldn’t have bothered you at all, but you’re the only woman I’m close to who actually enjoys her work. My other friends prefer to shop, and cook, and do crafty stuff at home . . .” She sighed and pointed at one of the leather club chairs. “Can we sit down?”

Unaccustomed to social visits at the restaurant, Olivia recovered her manners and offered Laurel her pick of refreshments, but the younger woman was only interested in capturing Olivia’s full attention. “I woke up this morning and realized I don’t like being at home all the time anymore. Actually, I feel a little trapped, and what I want, well . . . I want a job!”

“Here?” Olivia was dumbfounded.

“
No!
” Laurel hastily replied. “No offense, but I’m done with waitressing! I worked at a Mulligans to help pay for college. I will
never
wear suspenders again!” She covered her collarbone with her hands as though to assure herself that the offensive accessory was no longer present.

Olivia gave a soft laugh. “What job would you like?”

“I want to apply for the part-time writer position advertised in yesterday’s paper.” Laurel’s light blue eyes twinkled. “I saw the ad and figured, why wait to become a published writer? I can start small, gain experience, and build a writing résumé. I used to write for my high school paper and I loved it!”

Olivia was impressed. “Sounds like a good opportunity. So what’s the quandary?”

Turning pink with embarrassment, Laurel fiddled with the ends of her ponytail. “Steve doesn’t support my decision to work part-time and frankly, neither do my in-laws.”

“I thought they moved to Oyster Bay to help you with the twins. Let them watch the boys while you work.”

Laurel smirked. “If you count buying the most expensive and noisy toys known to man, feeding them junk food, and keeping them up past their bedtime ‘helping,’ then they’re doing
more
than enough, thank you very much!” She shook her head, ashamed of her outburst. “Oh my, that sounds so ungrateful, but whenever I want to do something for myself, they get really busy all of a sudden. If Steve wants to go out, then they’re over in a flash, hands filled with choking hazard toys and snacks made of twelve different kinds of sugar. But they never want to babysit if it means I get to do something just for me.”

Olivia was at a loss. She’d never had problems like Laurel’s. She didn’t have children, a husband, or in-laws. Still, her employees often came to her seeking advice concerning personal problems and she always listened intently and gave them honest counsel. Though she was unskilled at delivering her recommendations with gentleness, she made up for her directness with sincerity. In Laurel’s case, Olivia decided to be as forthright as always.

“If you want this job, then you should apply for it. This is the modern era, Laurel! You don’t need your husband’s permission, though it would be nice to have his support.” She tried to ease off the judgmental tone. “Aren’t the twins doing some preschool kind of thing starting tomorrow?”

“It’s just a mom’s morning out provided by the church. The boys will go twice a week for two hours and I don’t think that would give me enough time to research and write more than one article for the
Oyster Bay Gazette.
”

Olivia considered this. “No, you’ll certainly need more free time than that.” A mischievous glint entered her eyes. “What if you told the in-laws that you needed their babysitting services twice a week so that you could do an activity that would meet with their approval?”

Laurel frowned. “Like what?”

“I remember you telling the Bayside Writers that Steve’s mother has always been critical of your culinary skills. Tell her that in order for Steve and the boys to dine on the best possible meals you need to enroll in a cooking class. I bet she’ll offer to babysit in a flash.” Olivia sat back, feeling smug.

“You think I should
lie
?” Laurel looked aghast.

Olivia shrugged. “If you truly want this job, then you tell your family that you’re applying for it and that’s that or you’re going to have to bend the truth until you’re ready to stand up for yourself. They obviously see nothing wrong with
you
dancing like a puppet on strings. You’re late nearly every Saturday because you feel guilty leaving your family. Don’t be ashamed because you’re pursuing a dream, Laurel!” Olivia knew she was being deliberately harsh, but she wanted her friend to gain a measure of freedom. “Are you a puppet or are you a writer?”