A Deadly Cliche bbtbm-2

by Ellery Adams

  “You’ll have plenty of chances to ask him,” Dixie replied enigmatically. When Olivia didn’t rise to the bait by asking her how, the diner proprietor gave an irritated tug to her sequin-covered lavender top. “You’re about as fun as a preacher at a strip joint, but I’ll tell you anyhow. Mr. Plumley’s rented a house down the beach from your place. You two can bump into each other on a lonely stretch of sand.” Her eyes were shining with mischief. “There’ll be an instant spark between you. Passion will ignite! You’ll tear off your clothes and have wild, steamy—”

  “Dixie! You’d better go. The lady in the Evita booth is waving her menu at you. I promise to ogle Mr. Plumley during my meeting with April, but we both have far too much work to do for me to stand here staring at him any longer.” Olivia turned away.

  “First you dump Oyster Bay’s most eligible bachelor, and now you don’t give a fig that a gorgeous, unattached, and gifted writer is sittin’ ten feet away, ripe and ready for the pluckin’.” Dixie muttered loudly enough for Olivia to hear. “Maybe what folks say is true: you do have ice runnin’ through your veins.”

  “A large cup of your excellent coffee should clear that ailment right up. You can decide what I want for lunch too. You always seem to know what’s best,” Olivia said over her shoulder and then greeted April Howard, the woman in charge of interior design for the Bayside Crab House.

  Olivia and April spread swatches of fabric, paint palettes, and carpet samples across the booth, barely leaving room for their lunch plates. April had chosen Grumpy’s famous country fried steak, and Olivia was envious of the lightly battered meat smothered in gravy until Dixie appeared with her lunch—a generous wedge of cheese, shrimp, and mushroom quiche, Olivia only had to taste one bite of the golden crust to know that she’d been given the superior dish.

  After serving the two women, Dixie lingered at their booth. She gave Haviland a platter of ground sirloin mixed with rice and vegetables and then asked after April’s kids. She voiced her opinion on the array of fabric samples, picking the gaudiest one of the lot and chiding Olivia for being too conservative.

  “This place should be lively! Red, white, and blue with a few disco balls here and there!” Dixie exclaimed. “Where’s your sense of adventure? Folks are gonna be crackin’ crab claws with little mallets and tearin’ at the meat with their front teeth. This isn’t fine dinin’, you know.”

  “We’ll have checkered tablecloths,” April said with a conciliatory smile. “But we need to keep the wall color relatively neutral because we plan to hang dozens of nautical flags in place of framed photographs or posters. Trust me, it’ll be bright and busy.”

  “Bright and busy, huh? Just how I like my men,” Dixie joked and skated away to clear dishes from the countertop.

  Olivia concluded her business with April, insisted on paying for lunch, and then remained behind while her employee left to make phone calls to suppliers before meeting her kids’ school bus.

  Watching April jog across the street, Olivia recalled how she’d first met the talented designer. Last September, April’s husband had been murdered and Olivia had been involved in the investigation. She’d appeared at the Howard’s home in search of a clue and had found one that helped break the case wide open.

  Slowly, April was healing from the devastating loss. She often called in sick and on those days Olivia guessed the mother of three had been assaulted by a wave of grief too potent to overcome. Olivia knew plenty about the grieving process and was fully aware that time wasn’t the consummate healer people claimed it to be. There were stretches of time in which the pain surfaced with such a raw and unexpected power, that it crippled the grief-stricken until it required an immense feat of strength just to get out of bed.

  “You did a good thing, takin’ her on.” Dixie had appeared bearing a fresh carafe of coffee.

  Olivia waved off the suggestion. “I needed an interior designer and she needed a job. Nothing more to it than that.”

  Dixie snorted. “You’re a transparent as a ghost, ’Livia. I know you’re payin’ for her kids to be on that special soccer team. Fixed it up to look like some kind of sports scholarship, but you can’t fool this dwarf.”

  Olivia put her fingers to her lips. “Don’t tell anyone about that. April isn’t looking for handouts.”

  The bells above the diner door tinkled and a man wearing a pale blue blazer strolled in. Both women recognized the logo on the name tag pinned to the man’s lapel. Engraved with a beach house, a lone wave, and the words Bayside Realty, the tag indicated that Randall McGraw had come to Grumpy’s to meet with a prospective client. He headed straight for Nick Plumley’s booth and, after shaking the author’s hand, pulled a sheet of paper from a yellow folder bearing the realty’s name and placed it reverently on the table.

  Dixie and Olivia exchanged curious glances.

  “What are you waiting for?” Olivia hissed. “Get those wheels spinning! I’m dying to know which property he’s looking at.”

  With a toss of her bleach-blonde pigtail braids, Dixie zipped over to Nick’s table, held out the order pad she only pretended to use as she’d never forgotten an order in her life, and beamed at the real estate agent. She then took her time clearing Nick’s plate and finally skated into the kitchen.

  Before Dixie had the chance to report back to Olivia, Nick was pulling bills from his wallet. He collected the sheaf of paper from the Realtor, folded it in half, and left the booth. Instead of exiting the diner, however, he walked right up to Haviland and stopped.

  “Your companion is beautiful. Male or female?” he asked Olivia, his eyes on the poodle.

  “His name is Captain Haviland,” Olivia answered. “No need to be shy. He’s extremely friendly.”

  The author extended his hand, palm up, and Haviland immediately offered him his right paw in return.

  “I miss having a dog,” Nick said wistfully. “But I travel so much and it wouldn’t be fair to leave a pet in someone else’s care all the time.”

  Olivia grinned, for Nick had given her just the opening she needed to satisfy her curiosity. She gestured at the man in the blazer who was pouring sugar into a glass of iced tea. “It appears as though you might be thinking about staying in one place for a while.”

  The writer adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. “I’m renting a place at the moment, but I’d like to put down roots here. I have ties to Oyster Bay and I feel like I can achieve a level of anonymity in this town that I’ve yet to find in other places.”

  Playing dumb, Olivia cocked her head. “Should I recognize you?”

  Nick laughed and attractive crinkles formed at the corners mouth and eyes. “That’ll bring me down a peg.” He extended his hand. “I’m Nick Plumley, author and dog lover at your service.”

  Olivia was pleased that his handshake was firm and that his eyes held a smile as he asked for her name.

  “I knew who you were,” Olivia confessed after introducing herself. “Still, I couldn’t resist giving you a hard time. Consider it one of our new resident initiation rites.”

  “As long as you don’t shave my eyebrows while I sleep,” Nick replied smoothly and took a seat across from Olivia. “It’s taken me years to perfect this arch.”

  The pair had begun exchanging ideas for other pranks when one of the local school librarians entered the diner. She stopped just inside the door and scanned the room. When she saw Nick, her eyes widened and she scurried over to the window booth, clutching a hardcover against her chest.

  “I am so sorry to interrupt, Mr. Plumley.” Her voice was an animated whisper. “But when I heard you were here, in our little diner, I had to rush right over. I am such a big fan. This book—!” She gently eased the novel away from her body and touched the cover with reverence. “I thought of those German soldiers as my own brothers. Now that is skillful character development, to make me empathize with Nazis when I lost two uncles to that war.”

  My, but Dixie got the word out fast. What’s she doing? Sending
out tweets about the diner’s guest? Olivia wondered, watching the author’s reaction to failing to avoid his celebrity status.

  Nick Plumley opened his mouth to thank the elderly librarian, but she didn’t give him the opportunity. “And the murder scene! Utterly chilling. I researched the actual events, of course. We even had the nephew of one of the Nazi prison camp guards speak at the school’s annual fundraiser.” She glanced behind her as though the rest of the diners were hanging on her every word. “If you’re working on the sequel, you should interview him. He says he remembers all kinds of stories from those days. I could introduce you.”

  Something altered in Nick’s expression. The change was subtle. The laugh lines became shallower and a shadow darkened his eyes until he blinked it away. His smile, which had been sincere when the librarian first approached the booth, became stiff.

  He recovered quickly, however, and offered to sign the woman’s book. She prattled on about area book clubs, wringing her hands in delight as she spelled her last name with deliberate slowness.

  “I have quite a collection of signed books,” she informed Nick. “And this one will be given a place of pride among the John Updikes and the Dan Browns.”

  Olivia was growing bored with the librarian’s fawning and wondered how the man seated opposite her had survived hundreds of events in which he was subjected to an endless horde of such sycophants.

  Without regard for the librarian’s feelings, Olivia cleared her throat and made a show of examining her watch. Luckily, the older woman took the hint and scuttled off, the book once again pressed against her chest.

  “Sorry about that,” Nick said, looking strangely weary from the encounter. He sat back, withdrawing into himself, and all traces of the amiable camaraderie that had begun to bloom between them evaporated.

  Her curiosity aroused, Olivia tried to draw Nick into revealing more about his personal life, but he politely deflected all of her questions and began to shift in his seat. In a moment, she knew, he’d be gone.

  “At least let me see the house listing you’ve got there. I know the best contractor in town should you need an inspection or repairs.” She gave Nick her warmest smile, opening her deep sea-blue eyes wide.

  It worked. “Showing you where I hope to live doesn’t say much for my ability to guard my privacy, but for some reason I trust you.” He slid the paper across the table to her.

  Olivia unfolded the sheet and drew in a sharp breath. Of all the houses in Oyster Bay, the wealthy writer wanted to purchase the one Harris was dead set on buying.

  As Olivia stared at the familiar bungalow, Nick excused himself and headed toward the restroom. Within seconds, Dixie was leaning over Olivia’s shoulder, studying the black-and-white photo.

  “I’d have thought he’d go for somethin’ fancier.” Dixie frowned. “What’s the point of bein’ loaded if you don’t toss your money around? It’s not like you can take it with you.”

  Olivia jabbed at the paper with her index finger. “Never fear, Dixie. Nick Plumley won’t be living here. He’ll have to choose something more suitable.”

  Dixie shook her head. “I don’t think so. I heard him tell the real estate broker that he had to have this house, so I reckon it’s as good as sold.”

  Handing Dixie some cash, Olivia stood up and signaled to Haviland to follow suit. “You tell Nick Plumley that this house is unavailable. Tell him it has ghosts or asbestos or that it’s been condemned. Tell him it’s built on sacred Indian burial ground. I don’t care what you say, but tell him it’s off the market.”

  Dixie put her hands on her hips. “What on earth has gotten into you, ’Livia? Whether you like it or not, Oyster Bay’s newest celebrity is gonna leave that gorgeous place he’s renting and set out a welcome mat at this little house by Memorial Day. You just mark my words.”

  Olivia snatched the paper from the table and opened the front door. As soon as Haviland had trotted outside, Olivia turned to Dixie and calmly declared, “The only way he gets this house is over my dead body.”

  Without waiting for a response, she left, shutting the door so firmly that the bells were still ringing when Nick Plumley returned from the restroom to find that the woman, the poodle, and his house listing were gone.

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  Document creation date: 6.6.2012

  Created using: calibre 0.8.54, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software

  Document authors :

  Ellery Adams

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