A Deadly Cliche bbtbm-2

by Ellery Adams

  Olivia was silent for a moment. “What’s your book about, Sawyer?”

  “Pirates.”

  She couldn’t help it. She laughed. “I’m not making fun of you, I swear! I just had this image of you as Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean. Not that you wouldn’t make a dashing buccaneer, but picturing you with dreadlocks and a sword threw me off guard.”

  The chief’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Dashing, huh?” His amusement faded almost as quickly as it had surfaced. “I imagined writing a thriller in which a retired police chief hunts down a bunch of villainous treasure hunters. In the end, he finds Blackbeard’s secret stash and turns it over to a museum.”

  “Sounds like a decent plotline,” Olivia said.

  Rawlings snorted. “It wasn’t honest though. I created such a two-dimensional character that I could have slipped him through a mail slot. I need to start over.”

  Olivia pivoted her shoulders. Her fingertips reached for his, sliding over the cool metal of the bench. “I don’t think it’s ever too late to fix a mistake. To begin again.”

  Her heart was tripping over itself. For once in her life, she wanted nothing more than to make a connection with the man beside her, but the moment she made contact with the rough skin of his hand, her fingers caressing the ridges and valleys of his knuckles, the radio clipped to his shirt pocket crackled. She jumped back involuntarily.

  Rawlings answered the call while trying to convey an apology with his eyes. He and an officer exchanged information in a series of terse codes. The chief’s final words were that he’d meet his subordinate in the hospital lobby. As he stood and smoothed the wrinkles in his uniform pants, he gave Haviland one last pat. “Are you visiting someone here? Is everything all right?” he asked, gesturing at the boxlike building across the parking lot.

  “Laurel is friends with April, the wife of the man assaulted during the latest robbery. She wanted me to come along for moral support though she should know by now that that’s not one of my strong points.” Seeing the chief doubted her explanation, Olivia hurriedly continued. “What is Felix’s condition?”

  Rawlings pulled his belt upward and made a slight adjustment to his holster. “I’m afraid it’s quite grave. He has brain injuries, and from what I’ve been told, a dangerous amount of intracranial swelling. I don’t know what hope his wife can hold out for, but for her sake, and the sake of that man’s children, I truly pray there is hope to be had.” He began to walk and Olivia fell into step beside him.

  She peppered him with questions about the robbery, but his information was limited. The officers at the crime scene hadn’t finished investigating and Rawlings had gotten all he could from April. In the end, he had ceased trying to get answers from the woman and, instead, held her while she cried. In the stiff, plastic chairs of the hospital waiting room, he had put aside his title as police chief and took on the role of big brother. He had handed April tissues and got her coffee and slowly, she told him what she could about what she’d found upon returning home from Myrtle Beach.

  “Originally, Felix was supposed to go with them to the soccer tournament, but he had some presentation to do for work,” Rawlings said to Olivia. “April told me her husband is an ad man and that his company threatened to let him go if he didn’t come up with a dazzling campaign for a prospective client. Felix stayed home, fearing he could lose everything if he didn’t.”

  Olivia glanced at Rawlings. “And now his family stands to lose more than they ever imagined.” She grabbed his arm. “Will you promise me something?”

  Startled, Rawlings stopped walking. “Go on.”

  “If this robbery bears similarities to the Quimby case and your department doesn’t have the culprits behind bars by Thursday night, will you come to the restaurant and talk things over with me? Laurel and I might be able to help, but we haven’t finished gathering information yet.”

  A glint entered Rawlings’ eyes. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Olivia Limoges, but I’m willing to find out.” Sensing movement to his right, the chief put more distance between himself and Olivia. “Here comes Laurel now.”

  Laurel ran toward them, but as she grew nearer, she seemed to lose steam and almost tripped over the curb. Her face was ashen.

  Rawlings reached for her and she sagged against his chest. Olivia put her hand under her friend’s elbow, steadying her.

  “I can’t handle this, Olivia!” she cried, her fingers clawing at Rawlings’ shirt, roughly creasing the blue material on either side of the buttons. Looking up she fixed an agonized gaze on Olivia. “This isn’t a story about theft anymore. Now it’s about murder! Oh, poor April! And those poor children! Felix Howard . . . husband, father . . . dead. Dead!”

  Chapter 9

  We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men.

  —HERMAN MELVILLE

  Laurel was too upset to pick up the twins, so Olivia convinced her to drive home and calm down before venturing out again. Rawlings went back inside the hospital, promising to call Olivia that evening.

  Not knowing what else to do, Olivia took Haviland to The Boot Top and was pleased to discover several members of her staff stacking pieces of the pine tree that had fallen across the parking lot onto the bed of a pickup. When she thanked them, one of the dishwashers replied, “We gotta get ready to open. None of us can afford to go without a paycheck.”

  “Your weekly check will look exactly the same,” Olivia assured her employees. “I’m hardly going to dock your wages because an act of nature shut us down.” She gestured at the building. “And you will work this week, even without power. We’re going to make box lunches and deliver them to anyone who’s out there trying to restore electricity, clearing away debris, or performing any other task that will help us return to business as usual.”

  Another member of the kitchen staff tossed a limb into the truck and then dusted off his hands. “We have a lot of fruit in the big fridge. I can start cutting that up. Maybe make a fruit salad.”

  “Too messy,” one of the waiters argued. “These guys need sandwiches with a lot of meat, chips, and Gatorade.”

  “That’s precisely what we’re giving them,” Olivia said. “Michel will be here shortly so let’s get this parking lot cleared, and be ready to unload the van. I have a feeling he bought a few pallet’s worth of supplies.”

  Olivia told Haviland he’d have to wait for his lunch and then joined in the cleanup effort around the restaurant. Once the tree had been removed, one of her waiters cleared the asphalt with a leaf blower and the crew set about picking up branches and litter from the flowerbeds surrounding the building. By the time they’d finished, Michel had arrived and thrown open the rear doors of the van with a flourish, revealing cases of bottled water, Gatorade, cold cuts, bread, condiments, fruit, nuts, granola bars, milk, ground coffee, and two jumbo-sized boxes of diapers.

  Olivia was proud of her employees. Without hesitating, they immediately surged forward to unload the van. There was enough daylight in the kitchen to create a functional assembly line and Michel barked orders until the room hummed with the same brisk efficiency it did during the preparation of five-star meals. Everyone seemed happy to have something useful to do and it warmed Olivia’s heart to see that her staff made sandwiches and arranged apple slices and pretzels into cardboard lunch boxes with the same measure of pride with which they created rose blossoms out of strawberries or drizzled remoulade over a shrimp and avocado salad.

  Well before noon, the owner and employees of The Boot Top donned white aprons and piled into Michel’s white van. By now, the streets were stirring to life. Industrious business owners and locals looking to help with Oyster Bay’s restoration had replaced the curiosity-seekers of early morning. The town was suddenly alive, like a hermit crab creeping out from the safety of its shell. And like a colony of busy ants, people scattered over the sidewalks and streets bagging trash, picking up sticks, sweeping, and chatting.

  The presence o
f the utility trucks seemed to add an extra dose of energy to the mix. People knew, despite the damage Oyster Bay had received, that they would recover from the storm. Lights would go back on, shattered windows would be replaced, roofs would be patched. There would be an endless string of phone calls to insurance companies and repairmen, but Olivia was confident that the town would sparkle by the Cardboard Regatta’s opening day.

  She and her staff wasted no time in handing out lunches. From anxious shopkeepers to sanitation workers, the simple meal was received with sincere gratitude. Olivia began to feel like Ebenezer Scrooge delivering a fat goose to Tiny Tim’s family on Christmas Day. Her heart was swollen with affection for the town of her childhood and she felt drunk on the grateful smiles of her neighbors.

  Her exultation ebbed when she noticed Flynn perched on the top of a ladder at the end of the block. He held a crooked street sign straight while a second man drilled the green- and white-lettered rectangle back into place.

  Olivia paused for a moment, realizing that she hadn’t thought of Flynn once during the storm. Had he wondered about her? The fact that he hadn’t called to ascertain how she had weathered the tempest reinforced her conviction that the bookstore owner harbored no deep feelings for her.

  “Not that I care,” she muttered to herself. Still, it took no small effort to paste on a smile and airily called out, “Top of the morning to you, gentlemen! Care for a roast beef and Swiss or a ham and cheddar sandwich?”

  Flynn glanced down from the ladder and grinned. “Are you the new president of the Red Cross?” Waiting for the other man to give him a thumbs-up, Flynn nimbly climbed to the ground and accepted two box lunches. “You’re better looking than Clara Burton.”

  “And my purse is deeper,” was her breezy reply. “How’s your store?”

  “Untouched.” Flynn made a wide gesture, encompassing all of Main Street. “I could probably open for business today. The windows of that old fish warehouse are huge and the shop has plenty of light, but I couldn’t run my credit card machine and people carry around less cash then they used to.” He shrugged. “So I thought I’d take the day off and lend a hand. I’m not much of a handyman, but I take orders well.”

  “Folks won’t be lookin’ to buy books today anyhow, more like milk and bread,” the other man said. He scratched his graying beard pensively. “It’s the same after every storm. People focus on the simple things. Me, I think it’s a blessing when all our gadgets and computers get shut down against our will. Folks gotta play cards and tell stories like they did in the old days. It slows us down, reminds us who our neighbors are and how damned fine it feels to take a hot shower.”

  Olivia had to agree. Somehow, the lack of noise from car engines and booming radios allowed people to converse with greater ease. The town was filled with a different form of music; voices wove into a melody and the sound of people at work formed a steady rhythm. Every now and then, the high pitch of a gull’s hungry cries overshadowed the human symphony.

  Wishing the two men luck with their task, Olivia spent another hour distributing food. She then waited for one of the men from the power company to take a much-needed break. Sitting alongside him on the curb, she asked how widespread the outages were.

  “I need to get something in the mail today,” she added, keeping an eye on Haviland, who had wandered off to sniff the base of a streetlamp. “So if you could point me to the nearest functioning township, I’d be grateful.”

  “Cedar Point,” the man answered promptly while unwrapping his sandwich. “My cousin lives there. Only part of the town has power, but the business district is movin’ along steady as a freight train.”

  Olivia thanked him. She and Haviland trotted back to the Range Rover and made their way to Cedar Point. There weren’t many people on the road and the landscape was littered with hundreds of downed trees. It was as if one of the Titans of Greek mythology had swept a colossal arm across the entire region, flattening pines, oaks, and magnolias in a fit of rage.

  The UPS Store was open, but hardly doing a brisk business. A bored clerk reluctantly shoved aside her Star magazine and examined Olivia’s neon pink parcel. “You just missed the truck. We can send this overnight but it won’t get there ’til Thursday morning at the earliest.”

  “Perfect,” Olivia answered and paid for the service. In the Rover, she sagged against the leather seat. “Now there’s nothing to do but wait,” she told Haviland, picturing Rodney Burkhart retrieving the pink package from his mailbox while Will Hamilton followed his every move through a camera lens.

  Haviland nudged her elbow, indicating he was ready for her to begin driving so he could stick his head out the window and partake of an hour of ecstasy delivered by the rush of wind through his nostrils.

  As the afternoon passed into evening Oyster Bay remained dark. Olivia sat at The Boot Top’s bar, surveying the mast lights on the boats in the harbor as she sipped a glass of Chivas Regal.

  “Nothing to do but wait,” she said to the empty restaurant.

  By Thursday, people spoke of Ophelia as though she were a distant relative who’d come in for a holiday weekend, behaved poorly, and then mercifully departed, leaving the house in disarray.

  When power was restored to the business district Thursday morning, the townsfolk milled about the shops and eateries comparing their hurricane woes. Many were still without electricity but had gratefully returned to their jobs and daily routines.

  Hoping Steve was busy filling a cavity, Olivia called Laurel at home.

  “Are we on for today?” she asked her friend and then realized she shouldn’t have opened the conversation with that line. If she’d been more sensitive, she would have asked if Laurel had recovered from the shock she’d received over being present when a woman of similar age and circumstance suddenly, tragically, became a widow.

  Laurel didn’t answer immediately. “I’ve been thinking about the whole reporter thing, Olivia. I’ve been acting like my life is missing something, but I have this beautiful house and a husband who provides for me. Seeing April at that hospital . . .” She struggled to find the right words. “I should learn to count my blessings, not complain about them.”

  “Who says those should be limited?” Olivia demanded. “I understand your being upset. Afraid even. But, Laurel, do you want other women to go through this or do you want to help the police catch these bastards and put a stop to future murders?”

  One of the twins whined in the background. “I’m sorry, but I need to take care of Dermot.” Laurel clearly wanted to get off the phone. “You do the interview if you want. I’ll e-mail you the address. Meanwhile, I am going to cook a delicious dinner for my family, even if it takes me all day to do it!” The sound of whining escalated into a full-blown howl and a second high-pitched voice joined in.

  Haviland’s ears lifted in alert.

  “I gotta go!” Laurel shouted and hung up.

  Olivia scowled at the phone. “Well, how do you like that?” She drummed her long fingers on the kitchen counter and recalled the chief’s promise to compare notes with her that evening. If she didn’t interview the other burglary victim, she might not have any useful information to impart and she very much wanted to be able to provide Sawyer Rawlings with a solid lead at the most and a few possible theories or relevant clues at the very least.

  Picking up the phone, Olivia made another call. “Did I wake you?” she inquired genially when a very groggy Millay grunted out a hello. It didn’t take long to fill the young woman in on the role Olivia wanted her to play. “You’re sharp and you can read people, which is a surprising attribute for someone in their mid-twenties.”

  “I’m a bartender,” Millay reminded her irritably, still half asleep. “If I didn’t have that skill, I couldn’t pay my rent.”

  “So you’ll come with me?”

  Millay produced a muffled grunt. “It’s either that or do laundry. I’ll be your wing man.”

  Pleased, Olivia had a final thought. “And I hate to s
ay this, being that I admire most expressions of individuality, but could you strive to dress more conservatively for today’s interview?”

  Snorting, Millay replied, “Just for you, I’ll take out one or two eyebrow rings.”

  “That would be a start,” Olivia answered and rang off.

  An hour later, Olivia pulled in front of Millay’s apartment complex. When her young friend waved in greeting, Olivia almost failed to recognize her. Millay was wearing a simple black skirt, sandals with a wedge heel, and a short-sleeved white blouse beneath an argyle vest. Her hair was pulled under a beige cap and, instead of her customary black eyeliner, deep purple eye shadow, and crimson lipstick, she wore very little makeup. Olivia was struck afresh by the girl’s beauty.

  “Not bad,” she said as Millay hopped into the car and reached around to pet Haviland.

  “I only do this in the name of Truth and Justice,” Millay answered. “And I’m not going anywhere without coffee, so swing into the Exxon on our way out of town.”

  Olivia was horrified. “You’re going to drink gas station coffee?”

  “Yeah, and I might eat a pink hot dog and a bag of pork rinds too,” Millay taunted.

  “Cover your ears with your paws, Captain,” Olivia suggested. “This girl speaks of food whose existence is best forgotten.”

  Haviland spent most of the ride to Beaufort County sniffing the air in the Range Rover’s cabin. True to her word, Millay had bought a large coffee at the Exxon station, but in lieu of a chemically enhanced hot dog, she’d purchased a custard-filled donut. She polished off the pastry before Haviland could even beg for a bite.

  “No sugar for you, Captain,” Olivia remonstrated. “You can have a nice organic Buffalo knuckle bone while we’re inside the . . .” She gestured for Millay to read the paper resting on the dash. “What’s Sue’s last name?”