A Deadly Cliche bbtbm-2

by Ellery Adams

  “There’s a queen missing,” Harris pointed out as she sat down. “Not that I’d blame one of the robbers for taking one of these gorgeous matriarchs, but now the Ridgemont boys have no hopes of ever playing with a full deck.”

  He handed the cards to Olivia, but she didn’t move a muscle. “Not playing with a full deck.” Her blood quickened. Words clicked into place in her mind and she tapped excitedly on the computer screen. “Like a knife through butter!”

  Harris followed her train of thought. “Clichés? The thieves are leaving behind clichés?”

  “Two might not be enough to prove a theory, but if the third robbery—the one that turned violent—had some bizarre tableau in the kitchen, then these guys have a signature.”

  Harris dropped the cards on the table. “Even if they do, would that help the cops catch them?”

  Olivia shrugged. “I think Rawlings apprehends guilty parties by getting to know them, by discovering their story, so to speak. This modus operandi of the robbers is a message. It’s part of their story.”

  “Whatever you say.” Harris looked doubtful. “I just hope theirs has an unhappy ending.”

  Rawlings was comfortably established at The Boot Top’s bar by the time Olivia arrived. He and Gabe chatted amicably despite the din created by a party of four devouring a bowl of snack mix at one of the nearby tables. Olivia led Haviland into her office, said hello to the kitchen staff, and hurried to the restroom before Rawlings could spot her.

  Olivia checked her reflection in the mirror, smoothing tiny wrinkles from her belted scoop-neck dress. The garment’s simple cut and deep blue shade was accentuated by a triple-strand necklace of red coral beads. In the low light of the ladies’ room, she brushed her hair until it shone like moonlight and then spritzed the skin of her neck and wrists with Shalimar.

  As though the perfume announced her presence, Rawlings raised his chin and pivoted in his seat, watching intently as she closed the distance between them.

  He rose, and though his face remained stiff and formal, his eyes smiled. “When I was a boy, I was fascinated by mythology, yet I never understood why a sailor would willingly jump into the ocean because he heard a woman’s song. But I believe that if saw a siren looking like you do tonight, I would leap overboard at the sound of her first note.”

  Rawlings may have delivered the words in a breezy voice, but Olivia had never been given such a unique and lovely compliment. Suddenly, she felt as though everyone in the bar could tell that the air around their bodies was electrically charged, like lightning before the strike.

  Gesturing at an open table, Olivia led the chief to one of the leather club chairs and made eye contact with Gabe. Though he was busy mixing a martini, he glanced over at her and nodded. Within minutes, he was at their table with a tumbler of Chivas Regal and one of the restaurant’s microbrews in a frosted glass.

  Rawlings and Olivia clinked glasses, sipped from their drinks, and then the chief arched his brows in curiosity as Olivia placed her laptop on the table.

  “Did you bring your file on the latest robbery?” she asked.

  Glancing at the images surfacing on Olivia’s computer screen, Rawlings patted a worn leather-handled satchel at his feet. The bag called to mind an aging professor or laboratory scientist, but somehow suited the police chief as well. “This is a murder case now, Olivia. I’m not going to simply hand it over for your perusal.”

  She bristled. “I hadn’t expected that, but could you take a look at the chart Harris created? It shows a thorough comparison of the other robberies, including the one that occurred in Beaufort County.”

  The chief’s brow rose higher. “This is Laurel’s work?”

  “In part,” Olivia answered cryptically and pointed out the athleticism of all the victim’s children. “None of them play the same sport or belong to the same country clubs, but these families send their kids to private schools. What of the third?”

  Now Rawlings removed the case file from his satchel. “Let’s see. The Howard children attend The Neuse River Academy.” He examined the computer screen. “As do the Quimby children, I see.”

  Olivia fell silent and let Rawlings think. His gaze grew distant as he turned his face toward the window and fixed his eyes on the twinkling lights out in the harbor. She followed suit, wondering if a tutor or teacher or bus driver linked the families, but dismissed each possibility as it surfaced in her mind.

  “Is it plausible that there’s some sort of coach working at both schools?” she ruminated aloud. “Perhaps an assistant coach? Or a referee? Someone knew exactly when these families would be away from their homes.”

  Rawlings removed a sheet of paper from his file. “These are the names of all the teachers, coaches, close friends, and carpool drivers who come into regular contact with the children.” He placed another piece of paper on top of the first. “Here are the cleaning, garbage, and lawn services used by each family as well as doctors, beauticians, barbers, dentists, veterinarians, accountants, et cetera. Notice anything interesting?”

  He waited for Olivia to read through the names. When she came across the one he’d also recognized, she jabbed at the paper with her finger. “Steve Hobbs! These families all go to Laurel’s husband to have their teeth cleaned?” She released the paper as though it had singed her fingertips. “Pure coincidence.”

  “I’m certain it is as well, but nonetheless, I’ll have to establish his whereabouts on the days the robberies occurred.” Rawlings looked miserable over the prospect.

  Olivia took a generous swallow from her glass. “Can you talk to him during office hours? I’d rather Laurel not have to worry when this turns out to be nothing.”

  Rawlings smiled. “Of course.” He looked up as a waiter hovered over them, clearly unsure how to ask his boss to move her laptop to make room for the hors d’oeuvres Michel had prepared especially for Olivia and her guest. “Allow me,” the chief told the waiter and put the computer on a nearby chair.

  “Chef Michel sends his compliments,” the waiter said to Rawlings. “He’s made several items not listed on this evening’s menu in your honor. First, we have Boursin and spinach bouchée. Next, duck canapés and beef teriyaki brochette. And finally, crab cakes with a Cajun remoulade and mushroom crescents drizzled with a creamed sherry sauce. Enjoy.”

  Rawlings rubbed his chin and stared at the gourmet fare. “Boursin? Bouchée? Brochette? What are we eating?”

  Olivia smiled. “Boursin is a cheese that comes from Normandy. Bouchée is a pastry. Brochette simply means food cooked and oftentimes served on skewers.” She served him a sample from each of the dishes.

  “Do all of your patrons speak gastronomy?”

  “Hardly. That’s one of The Boot Top’s charms. We sound fancy, but the trick is blending the correct fresh ingredients together. We awaken the senses through a single mouthful of tender duck or a sip of fine burgundy.” She gestured at the food on their table. “None of this would be possible without Michel. He could work anywhere, but he chose to be here.”

  Rawlings tasted a crab cake and moaned. “Mother of God! There are so many flavors in this one bite! Sweet and salty, creamy and crispy—all going off like a perfectly timed fireworks display. Michel is a maestro.”

  Pleased, Olivia enjoyed some of her meal before Gabe appeared with two glasses of pinot noir. “While the food has you in such an agreeable state, would you tell me whether any unusual objects were left in the kitchen of the Howard household after the robbery?”

  The chief finished chewing and took a swallow of wine. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and then slowly sipped from his wineglass a second time, obviously appreciating the Pinot’s cherry bouquet. “How on earth did you know that?”

  She took the deck of playing cards out of her purse. “These were left on the Ridgemonts’ kitchen table, set up as though two people had been playing poker.” After describing the butter dish and knife found on the Quimby’s countertop, she explained how she and Harris had both recognized
that the tableaus represented well-known clichés.

  Rawlings didn’t need to check the Howard file. He leaned forward, the sumptuous fare on his plate forgotten. “The culprits set out three wooden blocks—taken from a old set that Mrs. Howard’s had since childhood. She kept them in a box in her bedroom closet. The thieves picked out three blocks and turned them so that the numbers faced outward. The numbers were one, two, and three.”

  Olivia ran her fingertip along the base of her wineglass. “As easy as one, two, three?”

  “That’d be my guess.” Rawlings agreed. “But why? What are they trying to say? Who is their audience? The victims? Law enforcement?”

  “It implies a level of intelligence.” Olivia said, knowing Rawlings wasn’t directing his questions at her. “I doubt your average thief could define ‘cliché,’ let alone create scenes using such a specific literary device.”

  The pair fell silent. Olivia leaned back in her chair, listening to the familiar sounds of subdued laughter from the patrons at the bar and the rise and fall of quiet conversation from the diners in the next room. The noises floated around her and she found comfort in the blend of murmurs, of cutlery being laid against an empty plate, of the tinkle of crystal as a couple toasted one another with flutes of champagne.

  “Perhaps there are only two of them,” she said after a few minutes. “That’s why two hands were dealt in their mock poker game.”

  Rawlings nodded. “It would certainly take two strong individuals to tote some of those flat-screen televisions. I know they’re not as heavy as they once were, but they’re still unwieldy. And it would be extremely time consuming to maneuver the goods without a partner, so yes, I believe we’re talking about a pair or a team working together.”

  A waiter materialized behind Olivia’s shoulder. Seeing that his boss and her guest were no longer eating, he asked for permission and then, after receiving an absent nod from Olivia, removed their plates. He returned shortly to serve them a platter of bite-sized pastries and then poured steaming cups of coffee for the pair. When he started to walk off, Rawlings reached out a hand to stop him.

  “Excuse me, good sir,” the chief halted his retreat. “Could you rustle up a glass of chocolate milk for me?”

  If the waiter was surprised by the request, he didn’t show it. “Certainly. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Olivia waved at the selection of éclairs, Napoleons, cappuccino mousse, and hazelnut dacquoise cakes. “Not enough sugar for you here?”

  “It’s how I get my daily supply of dairy,” Rawlings answered, unruffled by Olivia’s teasing.

  Lacking a taste for sweets, Olivia sat back and enjoyed her coffee. She was eager for the waiter to clear away the food so she could input the information from Rawlings’ file onto her spreadsheet. She knew he wouldn’t reveal the entirety of its contents and she didn’t want to see the medical examiner’s report or catch a glimpse of the crime scene photos in any case. What she hungered for were the facts. Indisputable, concise, comprehensible data. She didn’t want to think about the grief-stricken, shell-shocked family or wonder how April Howard would survive without her husband’s income.

  Olivia Limoges had always run from loss. Now was no different. She sought to escape from focusing on another woman’s terrible sorrow by training every thought on times and dates, school names and sports teams.

  The chief’s chocolate milk was delivered and he drank it pensively, his eyes locked on the dessert platter, unseeing. Finally, Olivia raised her hand and the waiter materialized as silently as a specter and removed their dishes. The noise from the bar area increased as more patrons arrived well ahead of their reservations in order to socialize before enjoying a delicious meal.

  Olivia and Rawlings remained wrapped in their cocoon of silence. As always, they were able to enjoy one another’s company without filling the space between them with unnecessary prattle.

  When Rawlings spoke, his eyes reflecting the light from the votive on their table, it was apparent that he’d decided to put aside the topic of burglaries for the moment. “I like being here with you, Olivia. It seems like a contradiction, but you are the only person who can infuriate me beyond rational thought and yet are also able to bring me the deepest sense of calm. You are much like the ocean.” He indicated the harbor beyond the window, which was just a dark smudge beneath an indigo sky. “It must be why your eyes remind me of the open sea.”

  Olivia smiled at him. The smile was so wide and warm that it felt unfamiliar to the muscles of her mouth. “Sawyer—” she began.

  “Hello!” The chipper visage of Flynn McNulty abruptly appeared before them. “Is this a meeting of future Hemingways and Dickensons, or might a simple shopkeeper pull up a chair?”

  Rawlings stood and shook Flynn’s hand. “I think you’re giving us too much credit. At least in regards to my writing. Ms. Limoges possesses the only genuine talent at this table.”

  Flynn set his tumbler of whiskey down and settled into a chair, crossing an ankle over the opposite knee in a posture of utter relaxation. For the first time, Olivia was irritated by Flynn’s easy confidence. Rawlings queried the bookstore owner about new fiction arrivals and the two men began to toss about author names as though they were playing a game of catch. Olivia heard Michael Connelly, Nick Hornby, Stieg Larsson, and Daniel Silva before she tuned out.

  Eventually, Flynn needed a refill and, wanting to chat with Gabe, went up to the bar instead of signaling a waiter. Rawlings had drained his drink and had a speck of chocolate milk on his chin. Olivia reached over with her napkin to wipe it away, but Rawlings caught her by the wrist before she had the chance and placed her palm flat against his chest. She could feel his heart beating as though she held it in her hand.

  “I’d better be going,” he said, his voice heavy with regret. He gently released her and swiped at his chin with his napkin. “I have two unsolved murder cases now, and though I doubt they’re related—” He stopped abruptly and his mouth went slack. His gaze was fixed on the framed reproduction of Vincent Van Gogh’s Beach at Scheveningen in Stormy Weather, that hung on the wood-paneled wall behind their table. “But they are related,” he breathed into Van Gogh’s muted browns and grays and the small splotches of black that formed the villagers waiting at the water’s edge as a lone fishing boat returned to shore.

  Olivia rose and moved to the chief’s side, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him.

  Rawlings raised one of his large hands, uncurled a finger, and pointed it at a solitary male figure on the right side of the painting. With a few simple brushstrokes, Van Gogh had managed to convey a sense of urgency as the man hurried across the sand. His featureless face betrayed no emotion, but his body pressed forward, legs bent, shoulders lurching forward, hands raised above the waist. Even the wind seemed to be against him, blowing the grass growing over the dunes nearly flat.

  “John Doe’s death scene is a cliché,” Rawlings whispered and then gathered his satchel. “Thank you, Olivia. For the meal, the company, and your ability to help me see clearly. I—”

  Again, they were interrupted by Flynn who had returned to the table with two tumblers of whiskey. He gave Rawlings a look of apology. “I didn’t know whether you’d be interested in chasing your milk with whiskey.”

  Mumbling a hasty good-bye, Rawlings departed.

  Olivia took the whiskey from Flynn’s hand with a brief thank-you and drank it down, her eyes never leaving the painting on the wall. “What cliché? What did you see?”

  “Olivia.” Flynn waved his hands in an attempt to gain her attention. “Are you free to stay awhile?”

  She turned to him, her deep blue eyes nearly black in the dim light. “Not tonight. I need to go home and think.”

  And with that, she strolled out of the bar and through the swinging door into the kitchen. The door had a small, rounded window and was marked by a sign that said “Staff Only, Please.” Olivia knew Flynn wouldn’t follow her into the restaurant’s inner sanctum.

&nbs
p; It would be like chasing a dragon into its cave.

  Chapter 11

  On life’s vast ocean diversely we sail,

  Reason the card, but passion is the gale.

  —ALEXANDER POPE

  Olivia carried the Bounty Hunter on her shoulder as though she were a lumberjack heading into the forest for a day’s work. Haviland bounded out in front, splashing in the surf, his brown eyes burnished gold by the earlymorning light.

  It wasn’t difficult to find the spot where the body had been buried in the sand. There were still multiple sets of tracks leading up to the dunes left by either the police or, judging from a scattering of empty beer cans, curious locals. Olivia switched on the metal detector and frowned.

  “I know it’s pure hubris to believe I could find a buried clue when a dozen cops, not to mention one of the area’s finest K-9 units, could not,” she confessed to Haviland. “But I hate standing idly by.”

  Slowly, deliberately, she began to sway the metal detector’s disc over the sand. She started where she believed the body had been and moved up the beach toward the dunes. Her machine was unusually silent and failed to signal the presence of useless pieces of metal like soda can tabs or bottle caps. The display screen was also lifeless.

  Olivia completed a wide semicircle and began to repeat the process in the opposite direction, heading toward the water’s edge. Again, the Bounty Hunter had nothing to offer and she set it aside, keenly disappointed. Kicking off her shoes, she sat down, curling her toes in the moist sand just shy of the ocean’s watery fingers.

  “You sent me signs last time someone I cared for was hurt,” she whispered, reaching out to touch the frothy ridge of a wave. “This man was a stranger to me, but someone must be missing him. Someone will want him to be at peace. You were the only witness. What secrets do you carry?”