A Deadly Cliche (10 page)

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Laurel squealed. “I’ll call my friend and set it up.” Another pause. “Um, do you have a decent digital camera?”

Olivia let loose a wry chuckle before agreeing to bring a camera with her as well. Laurel obviously recognized she’d pushed her friend far enough and quickly hung up.

Whistling for Haviland, Olivia led him back to the car. “Change of plan, Captain. We’re driving to New Bern to buy a congratulations-on-maybe-getting-a-job gift for Laurel, that sweet nitwit.”

Haviland panted and rolled his eyes.

Olivia removed a water jug from the back of the Range Rover and filled the poodle’s travel dish while Haviland cast a longing glance in the direction of the park. “The squirrels will still be there when we return, Captain. They have an uncanny ability to make it through the worst weather conditions.” She gazed at the mothers pushing strollers, the elderly couples reading newspapers on the wooden benches, and the occasional jogger sailing beneath the green canopy of the park’s mature trees, and frowned in concern. “I can only hope the people of Oyster Bay are as fortunate.”

—OSCAR WILDE

 

 

 

 

 

N
o one heard back from Rawlings that Friday, but Olivia and the Bayside Book Writers nearly forgot about their next meeting in light of new concerns regarding the impending storm. Over the course of the night, Ophelia shrugged off her title of tropical storm. Now a category two hurricane, she gained the undivided attention of the residents living on the coasts of North Carolina and Virginia.

Upon waking Saturday morning, Olivia switched on the television and listened to three different updates on Ophelia. She ate breakfast during the hurricane expert’s report, fed Haviland while glancing at the amateur footage taken by a resident of the Bahamas, and sank back down in the chair to listen to the Air Force Reserve pilot’s exciting narrative as he steered a Lockheed Martin WC-130J into the hurricane’s eye.

By nine, Olivia was still unable to tear her gaze away from the slow, spinning wheel of green on the television screen. She sipped her coffee and watched the meteorologist point to the projected path, which was highlighted in red. The crimson hue reminded Olivia of a biblical plague. It seemed that every inch of the state’s coastline had been marked by the ominous dye.

The local meteorologists predicted landfall would occur in Oyster Bay late Monday night, depending on whether the hurricane maintained its current velocity. With wind gusts already measuring close to one hundred miles per hour, any nonresidents would soon evacuate and many of the locals would flee too, relocating to the homes of family and friends farther inland.

“We’re staying right here,” Olivia told Haviland. After all, her girlhood had been punctuated by season after season of tropical storms, hurricanes, and nor’easters. She’d clear out if the hurricane increased to a category four or five, but she wouldn’t budge for anything less. Her decision would come across as strange or downright foolish to some, seeing as her own mother was killed in the midst of a hurricane, but Olivia believed hers was a tragedy resulting from a lack of judgment. Her mother had taken an unnecessary risk by driving into town to fetch the puppy she’d gotten her daughter for her birthday and had paid the ultimate price. Olivia would never disrespect the destructive power of a storm by leaving the shelter of her home. Then again, Olivia had no one for whom she would demonstrate such an enormous act of devotion, except perhaps Haviland.

As though summoned by her thoughts, the poodle came to Olivia’s side and nudged her leg. He was ready for their morning walk.

She leaned over to kiss him on the bridge of his nose. “Have you forgotten what we found last Saturday?”

Clearly unconcerned by recollections of the fetid odor, Haviland rushed to the sliding glass door leading to the back deck and to the path through the dunes. Olivia let him out and then collected her Bounty Hunter and knapsack from an unlocked outdoor storage closet. She examined her metal detector absently for a moment, recalling how relieved she was when one of Rawlings’ officers returned it to her. The tool provided her with a mindless hobby, allowing her to collect many years’ worth of interesting trinkets. Very few were valuable, but every one was precious to Olivia.

“I wonder what new treasures the storm will unearth?” she asked the poodle.

Olivia’s home was built on a bluff and had been designed to withstand the variety of tempests pushed onshore by the Atlantic Ocean. The raised deck jutted out over a lawn of sharp grass and sand and was supported by reinforced wooden pylons. From roof to floor, the entire structure was anchored into the foundation and the mammoth windows were made of impact glass. The best builders in the region had fitted it with hurricane shutters, exterior doors that opened outward, and a detached garage.

“The only thing that’s going to bother us will be cabin fever,” Olivia predicted as she and Haviland set out on their stroll.

The morning air felt oddly still. There were no gulls or sandpipers haunting the shore, and the crabs had scuttled back to their burrows hours ago. By this time on a September morning, Olivia was usually in town or working on her novel, but on this Saturday, she meandered up the beach, barely paying attention to the metal detector’s chirps and bleeps. Eventually, she discarded the machine altogether, leaving it and her backpack in the lee of a dune.

Haviland spent a great deal of time sniffing the air and Olivia knew he sensed a shift in the weather. Even the waves were strangely subdued, curling gently onto the shore, as though to apologize for the relentless aggressors they were soon to become.

Olivia’s cell phone rang from the pocket of her sweatpants. It wasn’t her habit to bring it along on walks, but after the discovery of the buried corpse last week, she decided to keep it close.

“Ms. Limoges? Will Hamilton here. I’ve got some preliminary information for you.”

Olivia was impressed. The private investigator worked fast. “My reception isn’t great, but please go on.”

“The mailbox in question belongs to a Mr. Rodney Burkhart. He has a home T-shirt printing business called Big Rod’s Tees and uses The UPS Store mailbox as his company address. I’ve seen his shirts around town. They all feature fishermen surrounded by busty girls and make a play on the phrase ‘big rod.’ Word is they’re selling like hot cakes all over the country. Burkhart’s had to hire a pair of students from UNC Wilmington just to keep up with the orders.”

“So it would appear that he’s financially secure?” Olivia asked, befuddled. Rodney Burkhart didn’t seem like a man in desperate need of cash.

Hamilton said, “I need to do some more digging, ma’am. I haven’t gotten a look at our guy’s personal life yet, but I’m heading over to his place now. I should have more for you by Monday. I’ll do as much recon as I can before Ophelia shuts us down. I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you.” Olivia put the phone back into her pocket and continued to amble, her mind churning. What connection could a T-shirt printer have to her father? Perhaps Rodney’s wife worked in a nursing home or hospital. Maybe
she
was the mastermind behind the blackmail and her husband was merely the messenger.

Her languid mood spoiled by unanswered questions, Olivia abruptly stopped, turned around, and whistled for Haviland to follow her back to where she’d left the Bounty Hunter.

By the time she reached the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, she was ready for a midmorning snack but decided to delay satisfying her hunger in order to assess what kind of storm damage the older building might incur when Ophelia got closer.

Unlike Olivia’s house, the cottage was built on a rise much closer to the ocean and faced potential flooding if the wind pushed the waves far enough up the beach. Olivia’s girlhood home had been completely overhauled last summer and the four-room, shotgun-style structure was now a community meeting place. From Alcoholics Anonymous to the Girl Scouts, all sorts of groups made use of the comfortable living room, kitchen, and conference room. Once a member signed up for a time slot on the town’s website, they were told that the key to the front door was kept in the mouth of a ceramic frog near the welcome mat. Truthfully, the place could have remained unlocked. There was nothing to steal except for some kitchenware and a few small appliances, but Olivia didn’t want to run the risk of having it vandalized by inebriated teenagers.

Still, she was surprised to find the front door wide open. Someone had raised the living room windows and the sound of muffled music drifted through the holes in the screens. Olivia assumed a member of the Bayside Book Writers was in the cottage, for Saturdays were reserved exclusively for their use. Though their group didn’t meet until late afternoon or evening, Olivia found that the cottage provided the perfect blend of industry and tranquility and had therefore opened the space for her writer friends’ use.

“Howdy,” Millay murmured from the nearest sofa. She had a laptop resting on her knees and a thermos and package of Twinkies on the coffee table. The music abruptly ceased. “Figured I’d try to get my chapter done a week early and e-mail it to everyone, but it isn’t happening. My characters are being totally rebellious today and their dialogue sounds like crap. Too bad our master crime fighter couldn’t bother to send us the rest of his pages.”

“There’s been no word from Rawlings?” Olivia was surprised.

Millay unwrapped a Twinkie and studied it as though wondering what its ingredients were. “Maybe another body washed up on the beach,” she said. “Or someone got whacked in the grocery store. Jesus, you should see the old women scrambling over each other to buy bread and milk.”

Olivia opened the Yellow Pages and looked up the number for Neuse River Storage. “Senior citizens enjoy getting worked up over the weather. Besides, most of them have witnessed the damage these kinds of storms can produce. It can be pretty scary. Preparation helps dull the fear.” She glanced away from the phone book’s tiny print. “Is this your first hurricane?”

Millay snorted, ignoring the question. “All I know is that Fish Nets is going to be closed and that means I won’t be making any tips.” She sighed. “Guess I’ll be sitting around with Harris, tossing around ideas for the boat he’s going to build for the Cardboard Regatta. At least he’ll feed me. My pantry has one package of ramen noodles and ajar of mustard.”

Olivia found the business listing and circled it in pencil. “Harris really likes you.”

“I know.” Millay’s voice grew small. “I wish I felt the same. I’ve gone out with dozens of guys who aren’t half as cool as Harris, but I don’t want to get serious with anyone. I don’t think I’m wired to stick with just one guy.” She took a big bite of Twinkie and chewed. “I go out with some dude, we have fun for a while, and then I get out. I can’t stick with anyone, you know?”

Phone in hand, Olivia thought of Flynn and the many other men before him. “
I
understand, but Harris wouldn’t. You should be careful with him.”

Millay’s eyes fixed on her laptop, her face bathed by the screen’s soft glow. “There must be something wrong with me, something missing . . .” she mused almost inaudibly, but Olivia heard the words and glanced over at the lovely young woman. Millay came across as steely and unfeeling, but her characters were bursting with powerful emotion, revealing the true depth and complexity of their creator.

Olivia knew all too well about denying one’s own vulnerability. It had led her to a life of solitude. She sensed Millay wouldn’t flourish in a home of empty rooms, but her fellow writer hadn’t been looking for advice, so she turned her attention to the voice answering her call to Neuse River Storage.

“I’d like two rooms worth of furniture to be collected and stored until Ophelia is gone. Can you send men out by the end of the day?” Olivia waited while the manager coughed and spluttered a series of excuses. “I’ll double your regular fee,” she stated flatly and in a flash, arrangements were made.

Millay was watching her curiously. “You really think we’re going to get slammed by this thing, don’t you?”

“Yes. And since we don’t have any work to review tonight, we might as well make this a social occasion. A pre-storm party,” Olivia suggested.

“A drink-’em-while-you-got-’em theme?” Millay grinned.

Olivia smiled in return. “Exactly.”

 

 

After a lunch of turkey, brie, and apple slices on pumpernickel, Olivia dressed in tan slacks and a crisp white blouse. She tucked a notebook and Laurel’s new camera into a leather tote bag and headed to her friend’s house. Laurel’s subdivision, like so many of the new housing developments, had been given a ridiculous name. Olivia frowned as she passed the gold lettered sign for Blueberry Hill Estates.

“There may have been wild blueberry bushes here at one point, but there was
never
a hill,” she informed Haviland. Despite the silly name, the neighborhood was comprised of tasteful homes of brick or clapboard. Most were Georgian or American colonial, interspersed with a few Spanish villas and colorful Victorians.

Laurel’s house was situated on a small cul-de-sac off Elderberry Drive. It was a spacious, butter yellow Cape, with black shutters and a cheerful red door. Potted ferns flanked the entranceway, the flowerbeds were bursting with drought-resistant annuals, and an American flag flying from a bracket to the left of the door frame completed the charming picture. As Olivia pulled into the driveway, she could see that the family spent most of their time in the back of the house. With a fenced-in yard, the entire expanse of lawn was littered with toy trucks, a sandbox, a plastic swimming pool, playhouses, and a mammoth swing set.

Olivia left Haviland in the car, strode up a flagstone path, and reached out for the doorbell. Before her finger had the chance to make contact with the illuminated button, however, Laurel cracked opened the door, slipped outside, and hastily shut it behind her. She was wearing a pink short-sleeved sweater set, an apron covered with designs of cupcakes, and a look of panic.