A Deadly Cliche bbtbm-2

by Ellery Adams

  The water gently bubbled and hissed and then Haviland was at her side, nudging Olivia with his nose before racing off again to chase a gull. Though the poodle was a threat, the bird flew just out of Haviland’s reach, as if enjoying a game with the canine.

  When Olivia looked back down at the sand, she noticed that it was pocked with fiddler crab holes. Recalling a trick from childhood, Olivia pierced the sand next to one of the holes with a twig and the crab darted out of the burrow. Olivia followed the creature’s progress, which was made slightly awkward due to the one large and fiddle-shaped claw. The crab scuttled several yards away from the water line and immediately began to dig a new hole. Olivia had watched the crabs do this hundreds of times before, but she still loved to sit and wait as the tireless creatures produced a tidy ball of sand in the process of creating a new home.

  “Not a very exciting existence,” she mused aloud. “You dig yourself a hole—” She stopped and glanced up the beach. “Dig yourself into a hole. That’s the cliché Rawlings figured out at The Boot Top.” She stood, brushed sand from her pants, and whistled for Haviland. “Felix Howard wasn’t the first person to suffer violence at the robbers’ hands. They’ve killed before. They committed premeditated murder right here!”

  Reclaiming the metal detector, Olivia switched it on, ignoring Haviland’s plaintive look. “I know you’ve had enough, but I can’t quit yet. Just pick a spot and start digging. I’m going to sweep this entire perimeter once again. There must be something here.”

  There wasn’t.

  Tired, hot, and frustrated, the pair set off for home.

  Olivia spent the afternoon critiquing Millay’s chapter. Her phone rang once, but she was so engrossed in Millay’s fantastical world that she allowed the answering machine to pick up. It was Flynn, asking that she return his call as soon as possible. “Otherwise I’m going to have to turn to another smart, no-nonsense woman to help me out,” he teased. “She’s not quite as attractive, but I’m out of my league here. Call me, please?”

  The sound of Flynn’s voice seemed incongruent with Millay’s narrative. Her heroine, Tessa, was about to embark on her first battle, and Olivia felt anxious for the fictional girl. In the previous chapter, the Bayside Book Writers had learned that Tessa could not learn the secret name of her Gryphon until they were victorious in three battles against terrifying foes. Only by calling the Gryphon by his true name would the young warrior girl and her mount be truly united. This union would awaken Tessa’s magical abilities, giving her the necessary prowess to face the enemy of her people: the Dark Witches and their mounts, the Wyverns.

  Taking a sip of iced tea flavored with lime, Olivia returned her attention to Tessa.

  Learning to fly had been hard enough. Tessa had to sit at the base of the Gryphon’s neck, her legs folded and her hands buried in the thick, downy feathers behind his head. Her thighs ached from having to squeeze the Gryphon’s shoulders where his feathers gave way to fur. In the beginning, she had fallen again and again, but now that she was more skilled, the Gryphon soared higher into the sky, above the shimmering green seas and lush fields of her homeland. On the morrow, they would leave the secluded valley behind and travel to the edge of the Sea of Bones. Three girls had gone before her. Three Gryphons had returned without their riders. Tessa spent the night in her Gryphon’s cave. The other girls chose to sleep in the communal lodge. Though the lodge’s linen covered pallets were far more comfortable than as pile of straw, Tessa found she could not wander too far from her beast without feeling an ache to be near him again. At dawn, one of the priests blew a shell horn into the mist. The deep, lonely call resonated inside the cave, waking Tessa immediately. She dressed in her warrior’s garb of deer hide breeches and a flowing white tunic and shouldered a quiver made of dark green leather. The image of a Gryphon’s haughty profile had been stitched on both sides in white thread. Tessa’s arrows also had white shafts with moss green fletches. The weight of the quiver on her back was a comfort, and she prayed her aim would be true. As they flew toward the Sea of Bones, she feared that her prayers would not be enough. Before saying good-bye to the other girls, Tessa had strapped a lance to each leg, and now, as the Gryphon stretched out his neck and cried with the voice of one thousand eagles, she untied a lance and gripped it tightly in her fist. She’d heard tales of the monsters living in the black water of the Sea of Bones since she could walk. With the face and torso of a giantess, two pairs of finlike arms as pliable and slithery as eels, and a dozen coiled tails like those of a sea serpent, this breed of water witch was especially feared. For years, the Gryphon warriors had whittled down their numbers, but the water witches were far from extinct, and those that survived had become very strong. They fought with their arms and tails, spewed mouthfuls of seawater powerful enough to knock their enemies off their mounts, and wielded serrated swords fashioned from the spines of sea dragons. The Gryphon released a second battle cry and the head of a sea witch burst through the surface of the water directly beneath them. Tessa nearly lost her seat as her mount abruptly pivoted to the left to avoid the sweep of a barbed serpent’s tail. Aiming at the witch’s eye, Tessa released her lance. The witch batted it aside with a slick arm and laughed. It was a horrible sound, a wet gurgle of insatiable hunger and timeless evil. Most warriors would have been filled with dread, but the noise only served to anger Tessa. She hadn’t worn herself out with training for the past few weeks to fail here. She threw her second lance, again aiming for an eye. The witch lifted her chin and Tessa’s weapon cut her lower lip. Howling, the monster wiped at a trail of black blood and snarled. Suddenly, four bone swords sliced through the air. The Gryphon dove out of reach, but Tessa was unable to fire any arrows because she was forced to cling to her mount’s neck or be flung into the churning waves below.

  Olivia finished reading the chapter without pausing to make notes. She needed to know that Tessa had succeeded in vanquishing the sea witch before jotting comments on word choice or passages in which she wanted more detail. At times, Olivia felt that Millay’s writing was too fast paced and wished her friend would learn to ease back on the narrative throttle. Tessa was a fascinating character, but it was difficult to get to know her because she was always on the move.

  Let us in, Olivia wrote at the end of the chapter. What is Tessa feeling? Even when she defeats the sea witch, she just flies off into the sunset. I know she’s exhausted from the experience, but you’re keeping the reader at a distance by not sharing what’s going on in Tessa’s mind.

  The phone rang again, but by this time Olivia was ready for a break. When she saw Will Hamilton’s number on her caller ID box, she snatched the receiver from the cradle.

  “I hope you have news for me, Mr. Hamilton,” she said.

  The private investigator cleared his throat, which Olivia sensed was a sign that he was about to impart bad news.

  “Mr. Burkhart picked up the package in question at quarter past eleven on Thursday morning. While still inside The UPS Store, he examined your return address carefully, and then tossed the envelope on the passenger seat of his truck. It’s been there ever since.”

  “That’s it?” Olivia didn’t bother to hide her irritation.

  “He made a phone call as soon as he got in the truck but the package has remained unopened.”

  This surprised Olivia. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Hamilton paused. “And seeing as that envelope contains a thousand bucks in cash, I’d say Mr. Burkhart isn’t exactly hurting for money. Either that or he’s holding the envelope for a third party.”

  Olivia considered the latter theory. “You may be on to something there.” She sighed. “I haven’t been completely forthcoming with you, Mr. Hamilton, but it’s high time I was. When I first hired you, I was afraid that I was being made a fool of, but now I’m so confused that I don’t know what to think. I have no interest in entering into a business arrangement with Rodney Burkhart. That was an untruth.” Having confessed as much, she told the
private investigator about the letter she’d received concerning her father.

  “I’ve handled dozens of missing persons cases, ma’am,” Will answered solemnly when she was done. “They rarely have happy endings.”

  “I want to know who sent me this damned letter! And I want to know why! Is this only about money or is there some possibility that my father is alive?” Olivia felt her cheeks flush in indignation. “After all this time, to have this wound reopened . . .” She struggled to steady her voice. “Mr. Hamilton, I need closure. Once and for all. Keep watching Mr. Burkhart. I can wait a little longer to see where that envelope ends up and it’s well worth the cost of your services if you can identify the bastard who’s ruined any chance I have of a sound night’s sleep!”

  The private investigator heard her anguish. “I won’t let you down, ma’am. On my honor, I’ll find out who’s behind this.”

  Satisfied, Olivia hung up and went upstairs to change into a silver-hued sheath dress and a necklace of large turquoise stones. The Boot Top would soon be packed with tourists in town for the Cardboard Regatta and she wanted to be present to ensure that her restaurant sparkled like Oyster Bay’s crown jewel.

  She’d barely had time to settle Haviland in her office before patrons began streaming into the bar. Most of the Cardboard Regatta participants attended the race year after year and had come to know one another on a first-name basis. In general, they were an extremely friendly and funloving group and the locals were glad to have them.

  Gabe was hugged and kissed like a long-lost relative and Olivia received her fair share of hearty handshakes and embraces as well. Wine, beer, and cocktails were consumed in hedonistic amounts and the noise in The Boot Top’s dining room escalated beyond its traditional murmurs and soft laughter. As the evening progressed, the competitors exchanged boisterous boasts and taunts while the wait staff scurried about, frantically trying to keep glasses filled and to set course after course of Michel’s exquisite fare in front of the diners.

  Saturday promised to be even more hectic. The Bayside Book Writers were planning to watch the races and then gather for a midafternoon critique session. Millay had to be at Fish Nets earlier than usual and Olivia wanted to be at The Boot Top by six, so their time together was limited.

  The regatta was Oyster Bay’s last tourist-driven revenue generator until spring returned, and by nine o’clock Saturday morning, there wasn’t a parking space to be found within miles of the harbor.

  The downtown merchants had dressed their store windows with the deft touch of Fifth Avenue designers. The flower planters lining the streets were bursting with a vibrant mix of gold lantana and red geranium, and canvas flags celebrating the Cardboard Regatta hung from every signpost. The streets closest to the docks had been closed to automobile traffic and local vendors were selling a variety of wares, from beaded necklaces to handmade ceramics to funnel cakes, at a rapid rate.

  Olivia and Haviland strolled among the tourists, enjoying the September sunshine and a strong sense of community pride. One would never know that Ophelia had done her best to cripple the town. Every piece of broken glass or tattered shingle had been replaced. New coats of paint freshened front doors and shutters, and the sidewalks had been swept until they glimmered in the late morning light.

  Unable to resist buying roasted corn on a stick, Olivia chewed on the salty, buttery snack until her attention was caught by a display of oil paintings. She recognized Sawyer’s work immediately.

  “Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” a woman asked, looking up from a book of crossword puzzles. Her gaze was friendly and warm, but sharpened slightly as she recognized the tall woman with the white blond hair. “Ms. Limoges. I don’t believe we’ve ever met. I’m Jeannie, Sawyer’s sister.”

  Olivia reached out to shake Jeannie’s hand. She was a handsome woman closing in on fifty, with a trim figure and soft waves of auburn hair.

  “I was hoping you’d stop by,” Jeannie said. “Sawyer put me in charge of giving something to you.” She lifted the skirt of the cobalt tablecloth and peered around. “Now where did I put that thing?”

  While she hunted, Olivia examined the paintings. Much smaller than the chief’s usual works, they were all simplistic beach scenes. Though skillfully executed, they lacked the central object or figure Sawyer traditionally placed in his large-scale paintings. However, the tourists thronged around the booth, looking over this work with keen interest. A husband and wife grabbed a painting each and entered into a good-natured debate over whether to purchase a landscape of the beach at sunset or a painting of three children flying kites along the water’s edge.

  “What the hell, let’s get them both!” the man declared and was rewarded with a kiss from his spouse.

  Meanwhile, Jeannie had found what she’d been looking for. “Give me a sec to take care of these lovebirds first. I don’t want to miss your reaction to this,” she added with a wink.

  Turning away to toss out her corncob, Olivia felt an inexplicable impulse to walk away. She could disappear within seconds and simply allow the throng to carry her off like a powerful current. What had Sawyer entrusted to his sister? Olivia doubted he wanted to pass along information regarding the robbery cases and it was unlikely that his chapter had been rewritten and was now ready for her perusal, so what was Jeannie about to deliver? Olivia thought of how Sawyer had placed her hand on his chest and her face grew warm. If only she could be alone with him again, to figure out why he possessed the ability to stir her feelings as no one else had before.

  “Here we are!” She carefully reached over a group of paintings displayed on wooden easels in order to place a rectangular package in Olivia’s hands. “Go on, open it, honey.”

  Olivia obeyed, peeling away the brown butcher paper enveloping a canvas. When she saw the image, she cried out in surprised delight. “Haviland!” She put her fingertips on the layers of dried paint Rawlings had used to form her poodle’s black curls. There were Haviland’s intelligent, smiling eyes, the color of golden caramel, and his toothy grin. His seated posture was somehow as dignified as a king’s and as jaunty as a rogue’s.

  “It’s amazing!” Olivia exclaimed, her throat tight with emotion. When she spoke again, her voice was a mere breath, barely audible above the multitude of tourists. “It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen, let alone been given.”

  Jeannie’s eyes, which were the same shape as her brother’s but more green than hazel, sparkled with pleasure. “He’ll be glad to hear that.”

  Tenderly rewrapping the small painting in its protective layer of butcher paper, Olivia moved closer to Jeannie. “Why didn’t he give this to me himself?”

  “Oh, some stuff and nonsense over having to be on duty right up until the start of your writer’s meeting and that wasn’t the time or the place to give it to you anyhow and blah, blah, blah.” Jeannie shook her head in exasperation. “The man cares for you. It’s plain as day, but he’s afraid of having feelings for anyone after what he went through with his wife.”

  “If he doesn’t feel, he won’t get hurt.” Olivia understood his rationale.

  Jeannie nodded. “I suspect you know a bit about that fool notion.”

  She began to tape the corners of the butcher paper together and then slid the painting into a grocery bag. She set the bag gently on the table and smoothed the paper as though she were petting a cat.

  “I was a teenager when your daddy went missing. I remember seeing your grandmother’s fancy car motoring through town. I figured she must be a movie star to have her own driver.” Jeannie smiled at the memory. “Do you know what? I was actually jealous of you. You rode off in that big, black car and it seemed so glamorous to me, like you were going to live a real life while the rest of us stayed here and rotted.” She reached out and touched Olivia’s arm. “I was a silly girl then. But after you came back, I wish I’d had the guts to walk up and tell you that I’d wondered about you over the years, that I’d always prayed you were okay.”

  Embar
rassed by the other woman’s sincerity, Olivia looked away. “I did lead a glamorous existence to some extent. I ate croissants at a sidewalk café near the Eiffel Tower, climbed on the pyramids at Giza, felt the spray of Victoria Falls on my face . . .” She trailed off. “But I would have traded it all for another day with my mother or to have had a brother or sister. Someone to share a bedroom with, to whisper to when we were supposed to be asleep.”

  The loneliness of her childhood—all those years spent with only imaginary playmates as she drifted from room to room or wandered the grounds of one of her grandmother’s several mansions—came back in force. Jeannie must have recognized the sadness flit over Olivia’s features and immediately sought to dispel the gloom.

  “Well, you’re back where you belong now,” she declared brightly. “And I hear you bought the old cotton mill.” Jeannie gestured vaguely in the direction of Olivia’s new property.

  Grateful for the change of subject, Olivia nodded. “Yes. My offer was accepted yesterday. I plan to open a crab house this spring.”

  “That’s good. More jobs for the locals and another of the town’s landmarks that won’t slide into the sea.” Jeannie’s attention was caught by a girl dancing to a bluegrass tune coming from the radio at the next booth. “Are you going to have music?”

  Olivia smiled. “Oh, yes! Live bands, a cappella groups, jazz ensembles, all kinds of music.”

  Jeannie scrawled something on a piece of scrap paper. “You call me when you’re ready to book bands. My son’s been doing church gigs for the past two years and he’s pretty good. His band can play anything from The Rolling Stones to Jimmy Buffet to Dave Matthews. Cody’s a high school sophomore but has been putting away money for college since he was in the third grade.” Her eyes shone with pride. “Me and his father had two years of junior college and that was enough for us, but Cody wants to be like his uncle Sawyer.”

  “Not a bad role model,” Olivia answered and then stepped away to allow a new wave of customers to view the chief’s paintings. “It’ll take months to get the place ready, but I promise to put your son’s name on the top of the audition list. What’s his band called?”