A Deadly Cliche bbtbm-2

by Ellery Adams

  Taking up Gabe’s position behind the bar, she checked the ice supply and reached for a tumbler. “What’s your pleasure?” she asked Laurel.

  “Normally, I’d say it’s way too early to be drinking, but I could easily slurp down a sea breeze or two.”

  “Purely medicinal,” Olivia said, beginning to mix Laurel’s cocktail. “You’ve had a rather extraordinary morning after all.” She glanced at her friend in concern. “What does Steve have to say about all this?”

  Laurel shrugged. “He doesn’t know yet. His whole office takes a long lunch hour, and when I called his cell, he didn’t answer. I told his folks that I was taking you to the hospital, but that’s as much information as I wanted to arm them with. They’ll be chewing me out soon enough.” She took a grateful sip of the fruity cocktail Olivia set on the bar.

  “I’ll have what she’s having!” Millay called out as she strolled into the bar, Harris close on her heels.

  Olivia paused in the middle of pouring out a generous measure of Chivas Regal. “This is a pleasant surprise. Have you both called in sick?”

  Millay glanced at her watch. “I’ve got two hours before my shift starts and Harris snuck out of a meeting. We had to show up after Laurel called and told us what went down today.”

  “Besides, my meeting was crap anyway and they’ll never notice I’m gone,” Harris remarked idly. “The whole staff is there and everyone just sits around and plays games on their phones while the boss yaps about the bottom line. During our last warm and fuzzy get-together, I achieved a new high score on Cannon Challenge. It was awesome!” He examined the beer taps and pointed at the one bearing the logo of an area microbrewery. “Amber ale. Perfect. Good thing you can work the tap with one arm, eh?” His voice abruptly lost its levity. “Seriously, Olivia. Are you okay?”

  Olivia distributed drinks before answering. “I’m fine, thank you. The Donalds are in police custody and I’m confident that Rawlings will get a confession from Ellen. She wants everyone to know exactly how she and Rutherford turned into monsters. Her anger hasn’t been assuaged and I believe she’ll enjoy having an audience.”

  “I hope they both confess,” Laurel said with a shiver. “I’d rather not have any more knives pointed at my eye.”

  Millay slapped Laurel on the back. “Just think of the article you can write now! A first-person account to totally wrap up all the groundwork you laid in your earlier pieces. This is Pulitzer material, girlfriend!”

  For a moment, Laurel’s blue eyes shimmered at the thought, but the light quickly died. “Steve will never let me continue my work after what’s happened. He’ll tell me that my actions might have endangered the lives of our boys. If they’d been home, that would have been true.” She hung her head in shame. “My selfishness could have led to the end of my family. And they’re my whole world.”

  Harris pushed his beer aside and jumped onto the barstool next to Laurel’s. He slung a lanky arm around her shoulders. “You’re a writer. It’s who you are. Whether you write for the paper or stay up all night working on a novel, you can’t just stop. It’s not selfishness, Laurel, it’s how you’re wired. You couldn’t turn that off even if you wanted to.”

  Olivia gave Harris a nod of approval. The simple truth of his words alleviated some of the guilt she felt for pushing Laurel into a career in journalism. She took a deep swallow from her tumbler, knowing full well that it was unwise to mix whiskey and narcotics. It was her hope that the alcohol would help numb the pain in her arm enough for her to abstain from taking another dose of medicine before bed.

  Laurel put a cocktail napkin to her face and cried silently. Her friends let her be, sensing that she needed the release. They drank and reflected on the Donald siblings, wondering whether the police had collected enough evidence to ensure that the twisted siblings would be in prison for a long time.

  Eventually, Laurel’s tears ceased and she managed a wobbly smile. “I don’t know what I’d do without such amazing friends. Thanks, everybody.”

  Millay rolled her eyes in disgust, but Olivia knew the gesture was all show. “I’m way bummed I missed the action. Here I am, my finely honed kung fu skills going to waste while Olivia’s getting sliced up by some crazy slasher bi—”

  Harris cut her off. “Do you really know kung fu?”

  “I promise to phone you before the next knife incident,” Olivia said and then shot Laurel a questioning look. “Ellen and Rutherford spoke quite clearly, didn’t they? They must have gotten the operation they’d always wanted as soon as they were out of the family home.”

  Laurel twisted her napkin into a white, wrinkled snake. “I called the police station while I was at the park with Haviland and asked Officer Cook to check on Mr. and Mrs. Donald. He said they already had but he sounded funny and got off the phone in a flash. I really hope they’re unharmed!”

  “They might be okay,” Harris tried to assure her. “Ellen and Rutherford’s first act of violence was killing that Alan guy and burying him in the sand.”

  Millay looked doubtful. “As far as we know. There could be a trail of dead bodies from here to Arkansas. We don’t know that Felix’s death was an accident. The Donalds might have been aware that he was at home all along. They could have been gunning for him like they were gunning for Laurel, here.”

  Fear flickered through Laurel’s eyes and Harris scowled at Millay. “How about showing a little sensitivity? The lady’s had a scary morning.”

  Returning his frown, Millay mumbled an apology to Laurel and then focused her energy on consuming the rest of her drink.

  Haviland appeared behind the bar, having been fed a selection of gourmet goodies by Michel. The chef fussed and cooed over the poodle even after Laurel explained how Olivia had ended up with her arm in a sling.

  “I’d give you oodles of sympathy,” he told his employer briskly, “but I know how you’d react, so I’ll just skip it and say that I’m overwhelmingly relieved that the person who signs my paychecks isn’t left-handed.” Michel then tried to be extremely solicitous to Laurel, but she only smiled weakly and thanked him.

  Soon, Gabe would arrive to put the bar in order and the kitchen would be filled with steam, noise, and delectable scents. Olivia was on the verge of breaking up their impromptu party when Rawlings stepped through the front door. He nodded at the ensemble and then crooked a finger at her.

  “Could you step outside for a moment?” he asked and then turned, giving Olivia no choice but to comply.

  Millay shook her head in sympathy and jumped down from her barstool. “Oh, man. You must be in major t-r-o-u-b-l-e. I’ll do the pouring until you come back.”

  “That’s fine as long as you answer my cell phone if it rings. I’m waiting for an important call.”

  “Secretarial services will cost you extra,” Millay replied with a saucy curtsy.

  Outside, it took Olivia’s eyes several seconds to adjust to the afternoon light. Rawlings was waiting for her at the end of the path leading to the parking lot, his cell phone pressed to his ear. Upon seeing her, he quickly ended his conversation and watched her approach with close scrutiny.

  Olivia’s heart beat faster beneath the intensity of his stare. “Why are you looking at me like that? Am I about to be frisked?”

  The chief ignored her attempt at playfulness. “How’s your arm?”

  “Stitched, sore, and ugly. I won’t be wearing sleeveless tops over the next few weeks,” she stated airily while her insides churned. Why did the very sight of this man leave her feeling so unsettled?

  Rawlings drew so near that Olivia thought he’d kiss her. He didn’t. He reached an arm around her back and gently eased her forward so that her sling barely touched his chest. He put his cheek against hers and used his free hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingertips then moved under the lobe, tracing a slow line down the skin of her neck to her collarbone. He breathed into her ear. “We got them. Full confessions. It’s done.”

  He pulled back so that h
e could look into her eyes, leaving Olivia instantly hungry for his touch. “The moment the Donald siblings were out from under their parents’ thumbs, they began to plan their revenge against their classmates. Anyone who repeatedly taunted them with the cliché ‘the cat got your tongue’ was to be punished. They had an entire list of enemies to terrorize and a dozen more cliché tableaus to create.”

  “I’ll certainly think twice about using one in my writing,” Olivia joked softly.

  Rawlings continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “And when the paperwork involving the Donald siblings has been filed and all the press interviews are done and Oyster Bay falls quiet again, I will want one thing and only one thing.” His gaze was electric. “I’m here to see whether you will grant me this one thing.”

  Olivia took his wide, strong hand in her own. “What would that be?”

  “An evening. A bottle of wine. Some time to see what this is. In short . . .” His eyes met hers, green and golden brown in the light. “You.”

  Pushing aside thoughts of the dramatic morning, her blood test, and the fact that she needed to tell Rawlings that she was no longer involved with Flynn, Olivia smiled. “I think we can work something out.”

  Behind Rawlings, a delivery truck pulled into the parking lot and Olivia dropped the chief’s hand. “Come inside. I believe there’s a chocolate milk with your name on it.”

  Millay looked up when the pair reentered the bar. “Gabe’s got a nice setup back here. I could get used to not standing on beer-covered concrete all night long. Chief? What’ll it be?”

  Rawlings placed his order and then informed the Bayside Book Writers that the case of the Cliché Killers was closed. “I’ll grant you the first interview if you’re interested,” he told Laurel.

  “Of course she is!” Harris shouted. “Having one of us being published on a regular basis gives this group some weight. You’re our pathfinder, Laurel. You can’t stop now!”

  Laurel laughed. “When you put it that way . . .”

  Millay put both palms on the bar. “Olivia. I need some whole milk. Gabe only has half-and-half in this fridge, so unless the chief wants to clog an artery before he starts giving Laurel here a bunch of stellar quotes, you’d better grab some from the kitchen.”

  Olivia was about to walk away when Millay called her name again. “And some lab called. I pretended I was you and they told me that your blood test was positive.” She grinned. “You’re a little old to be getting knocked up, aren’t you?” She paused, seeing the stricken look on Olivia’s face.” Hey, I’m just messing with you. You’d have the smartest, best-looking, richest kid in town. You’d be single mother of the year! Olivia?”

  It was all Olivia could do to wave off Millay’s ridiculous assumption and continue on toward the kitchen. She could feel every eye upon her as she walked away, yet the simple act of putting one foot in front of another was remarkably difficult.

  The entire kitchen staff had arrived and had begun preparations for a busy Friday night. Olivia moved through the activity and chatter like a zombie. The milk was forgotten. Rawlings was forgotten. The throbbing in her arm came at her from a great distance.

  In her office, she sank into her chair and struggled to breathe normally.

  “My father is alive,” she told the room. She looked from the desk to the telephone to the computer. “My father is alive.”

  The objects remained blissfully mute. There was no living thing to bear witness to the mixture of hope and agony surging through Olivia’s heart. For that, she was grateful.

  She didn’t know when Haviland trotted into the office, but his presence allowed Olivia to function again. She looked up the Okracoke Ferry schedule and calculated how much time it would take to reach the port of departure. The last ferry left from Cedar Island at five. It was already after three and the drive would take over two hours. She couldn’t make it.

  Olivia signaled for Haviland to follow her. She would go home, pack a bag, and make a few calls. Okracoke was less than fifty miles from Oyster Bay by boat. Confident that she could hire a vessel if she offered its captain enough cash, Olivia planned to be on the island before nightfall.

  Someone in the kitchen spoke to her as she pushed open the door leading outside, but the words never reached her.

  “My father’s alive,” she told the September afternoon and wondered how she could possibly process this momentous truth.

  As it hit her full force, she did the only thing that made sense. She got inside the Range Rover and sobbed.

  Chapter 17

  The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

  The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,

  The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

  And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

  —THOMAS GRAY

  Olivia sat in front of the instrument panel next to the owner of the JoFaye, a sleek, hardtop super-yacht that cut through the waters east of Oyster Bay at thirty-seven knots. The man at the helm was accustomed to taking inlanders out on pleasure cruises up and down the Carolina coast. He’d had a good season and had managed to put away enough money to see his family through the winter, but when Olivia Limoges called and offered him enough cash to cover his monthly mortgage payment, he couldn’t refuse. One of her stipulations was that he ask no questions and tell no one of her visit to Okracoke.

  “I value my privacy,” she’d said firmly. “If you illustrate discretion tonight, I will do my best to send business your way when the tourists return in the spring.”

  JoFaye’s owner knew of Olivia’s influence and had no doubt that pleasing her would result in increased bookings. The yacht’s captain attempted small talk at the beginning of the short trip, but he was astute enough to see that she wasn’t interested in conversation. With a grim face, she kept her eyes on the horizon, holding her injured arm so that it didn’t bounce around too much whenever the boat crossed another vessel’s wake. The poodle also struggled to maintain his balance as the JoFaye’s powerful dual engines ran full throttle.

  Olivia was too busy focusing on the pain in her arm to speculate on her upcoming reunion, but as the island became visible to starboard, she began to feel an increased sense of panic. The urge to tell the captain to turn his boat around was strong. After all, Olivia’s father had abandoned her. It would serve him right if she did the same to him as he lay dying. Perhaps he wasn’t even aware that his caretakers had contacted her and would be upset to suddenly find the woman his little girl had become standing at his bedside.

  Olivia had fled from hardship before, but she wouldn’t now. Instead, she swallowed her anxiety and stood tall in the prow of the boat as the shore grew closer and the shapes of houses and trees became visible.

  The captain headed for Silver Lake, an inlet south of Mary Ann’s Pond. He eased back on the throttle, motoring slowly past the ferry dock.

  The sun had moved lower in the sky and part of the island had been cast in shadow. Only the white walls of the lighthouse seemed undiminished by the encroachment of evening and Olivia drew comfort at the sight of the old structure.

  Earlier, Olivia had told the yacht’s captain that she needed to be dropped off at the dock closest to Hudson’s Raw Bar, being that she’d made no arrangements for transportation once she reached the island.

  “Hudson’s is right in the village,” he’d told her. “They’ve got their own dock. I’ll just let you hold the wheel steady while I throw a line over and get us secured. My wife has a rug on hold over at The Island Ragpicker and they’re staying open late so I can pick it up. Think you can man the helm with your arm in a sling?”

  Olivia had nodded.

  Now, as the yacht’s motor decelerated from a deafening roar to a steady drone, the captain deftly maneuvered the JoFaye into an open slip, gave Olivia a few instructions, and leapt from the boat to the dock with feline agility. Securing the bowline, he told her to cut the engines as he lassoed the stern line to the dock’s iron cleat. He then set out a pair o
f disembarkation steps and offered his hand to assist Olivia down. She accepted reluctantly, but Haviland disregarded the steps altogether and jumped onto the dock with an anticipatory bark.

  “Yes, Captain,” Olivia whispered to him. “Another adventure awaits us.”

  Shouldering her overnight bag, Olivia hastily thanked the yacht’s captain, eager to be alone for a moment to gather courage. He said good-bye and hurried off, eager to complete his wife’s errand.

  From her vantage point on the dock, Olivia could see the brown clapboard walls of the eatery and the second-story windows of the house that the Salters had converted into guest rooms.

  Olivia stared at the windows, watching the waning light dance upon the panes. On the other side of one of those sheets of glass, behind the glimmering farewell of daylight, was her father. Her throat tightened and she looked away, taking in the tranquility of the village and the sleepy inlet. She stood like this for several minutes, drawing courage from the clang of mooring lines and the gentle rocking of sailboats at anchor.

  Finally, she walked forward, her eyes returning again and again to the lighthouse. It was incredibly strange that her father had taken up residence so close to another lighthouse. He had deserted his home, his daughter, and the memories of his wife. And yet here he was, still tied to the ocean, working in a town interdependent on the sea, living in the lee of another lighthouse.

  “Did you really escape?” Olivia wondered aloud. “Or did our voices float to you across the water? Mother’s and mine. Did you see our faces in the tidal pools? In the glassy water before you pulled the shrimp nets in?”

  Olivia fell silent, knowing that she was describing how she’d been haunted by the ghosts of her past.

  She gave Haviland a brave smile and then stepped into the restaurant.

  The décor was casual to the point of neglect. There were scarred wooden picnic tables and chairs, mismatched barstools, old fishing nets slung across the rafters. A few customers were at the bar, getting an early start on a long night of drinking. A television set was tuned to ESPN, and a woman stood at the end of the bar, refilling catsup bottles and saltshakers.