A Deadly Cliche (12 page)

Olivia thanked her and hung up, her mood sour. She tried to tell herself that she was cross because the evening writer’s meeting would now be purely social because they were without Rawlings’ chapter and that it was rude of him not to at least call to say that he wouldn’t attend, but an inner voice said something different.
You’re jealous of his dead wife
.
Sawyer Rawlings may drive a station wagon, wear tacky shirts, and be thick around the middle, but you feel something for him. You feel something and yet he still grieves the loss of his wife—enough to spend an entire day lost in the memories he shared with her.

“No,” she said aloud. “It would be too complicated. I can’t . . .”

Rushing from the office, she strode through the kitchen, told one of the sous-chefs to drive Laurel home, and left through the back door, a befuddled poodle on her heels.

She sped home, stopped the Range Rover in a cloud of sand and dust, and rushed down to the beach. Kicking off her shoes, she ran to the water and waded in to her shins. The wind whipped her short hair and sprayed her limbs with sharp droplets of saltwater.

Olivia had successfully returned to a place of complete solitude, but neither the increasing wind, nor the darkening sky, nor the swelling of an ocean stirred by an offshore hurricane could silence the voice in her head.

As the first raindrops began to fall, she lifted her face skyward and surrendered to the truth.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE’S
Julius Caesar

 

 

 

 

 

T
he meeting of the Bayside Book Writers never occurred. Laurel was the first to telephone and give her excuses. With the storm making its presence known in the form of rain and a persistent wind, the young mother felt she’d better say at home and tend to her children and nervous in-laws.

“I’ll be honest with you,” she said in a hushed tone. “Steve also gave me a major guilt-trip over leaving the twins with him and his folks twice in one day.”

Olivia couldn’t suppress a harrumph. “Oh,
please
. You brought home a gourmet meal, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but I haven’t served it yet.” Laurel sounded much meeker than she had during the interview with Christina Quimby. “Maybe after they taste Michel’s food they’ll start pushing me out the door in the future.”

“Don’t count on it,” Olivia grumbled. “And what about your interview with the other robbery victim? Are you still going to pursue that or are you going to wait for your husband’s permission?”

Stung, Laurel became defensive. “Actually, I’m going next Thursday, once Ophelia’s moved through. It isn’t easy, you know. Lying to my husband.” She paused. “Or trying to keep everyone happy. It’s really very hard.”

Olivia was in no mood to enter into a conversation concerning the problems faced by today’s mothers, so she promised to join her friend on Thursday’s interview and then got off the phone. She knew she had treated Laurel callously, but couldn’t help feeling annoyed by her friend’s vacillating will. Now thoroughly out of sorts, Olivia was relieved when Millay was the next to call and cancel.

“I need to make some money before the bar blows away, so I’m not going to waste time eating mini quiches and sipping vino with you all,” she stated with her usual frankness. “I’d come if there was work to be done, but the chief dropped the ball big-time this week.”

For a moment, Olivia almost explained why the chief had failed to send the group his chapter, but then thought better of it. Let Rawlings keep the anniversary of his wife’s death to himself. He would have to explain his involuntary sabotage of tonight’s meeting to the writer’s group in person. “May your tip jar overflow,” Olivia told Millay.

It didn’t take long for Harris to call and bow out too.

“You don’t need to explain,” Olivia said as soon as she heard his voice. “Everyone else is jumping ship. Honestly, I doubt Rawlings will be ready for next week’s meeting either. With the storm’s arrival and the clean up afterward, he won’t have a second to catch a breath, so we’re going to skip his turn and let Millay go next. She assured me her chapter was almost ready and she’d e-mail an attachment to the group late Sunday evening.”

Harris grunted. “She’d better send it in the morning. I’ve got a Facebook friend who works for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration and he says that Ophelia’s going to double in width over the next twenty-four hours. We’ll lose power by dinnertime.” Pleased to share the insider information, Harris went on to tell Olivia the other natural disasters his cyber-friend had accurately predicted. “I’m glad I live in an apartment away from the water. No need to worry about flooding or downed trees. The power outages will be a drag, but I’m charging two laptops in preparation. After they die, it’ll just be me, a case of Slim Jims, some not-so-cold brewskies, and a fierce game of Risk between me and the guys in 4C.”

It was impossible to be gruff in the face of Harris’s boyish enthusiasm. “Good luck in your pursuit of world domination,” Olivia said. “And don’t underestimate the value of Australia.”

“Never!” Harris agreed. “I will capture the continent in your honor, fair maiden.” He paused. “On a serious note, be careful. If the road from the Point to town floods, you could be stranded for days.”

Touched by his concern, Olivia resisted the urge to lecture him on her high level of self-sufficiency. “Never fear, my friend. I have food, a generator, excellent company, and a five-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle of the Sistine Chapel to work. If Michelangelo hid any codes on that ceiling,” she joked, “I’ll have plenty of time to find them.”

“Man, you are so cool,” Harris declared before hanging up.

Olivia wasn’t ready to hunker down until conditions notably worsened, so she and Haviland drove to The Boot Top. Normally, she’d mill about the restaurant greeting diners and offering wine recommendations. Tonight, however, the hostess had called in sick and Olivia didn’t have enough wait staff to spare.

“I’ll have to be Madeleine for tonight,” she told Haviland apologetically. “And no getting underfoot in the kitchen. Health code violations and all that. You stay in the office if you want to be fed.”

Haviland seemed to focus on the latter phrase. Licking his lips, he trotted into the office and sat on his haunches, gazing with expectant adoration at Michel.

“Madeleine isn’t ill,” Gabe, the barkeep, said to Olivia as he stepped out of the walk-in fridge carrying a tray of lemons, limes, and oranges. “But she’s scared. She has family in Wilson and wanted to drive west before the rain got heavier.”

“It’s a reasonable excuse, but an irritation all the same,” Olivia answered, following Gabe to the bar. “Now I’ll have to man the podium and I don’t possess an ounce of Madeleine’s charm.”

Gabe slid a tumbler filled with Chivas Regal across the polished wood bar. “This might help.” He smiled and Olivia accepted the glass with gratitude. Gabe, who was in his late twenties and looked every inch the sandy-haired surfer that he was, had attracted a loyal following the moment The Boot Top opened its doors. At first, the area’s well-to-do women filled all the barstools, eager to flirt with the hunky barkeep. But soon enough their husbands came too, enjoying Gabe’s affability as much as their wives.

Because much of the restaurant’s profits were dependent on the sale of liquor and wine, Olivia paid Gabe well above the going rate. As a result, he took great pride in his job, viewing the bar area with its leather chairs, padded barstools, and tasteful nautical décor as his treasured domain. No one’s snack mix bowl ever stayed empty and no one’s drinks ever ran dry. And though Gabe could have his pick of the majority of The Boot Top’s female staff and clientele, he never allowed the line between his professional and personal life to blur.

Of all Olivia’s employees, Michel was the most likely to get entangled in an ill-fated romance. He’d been involved with a married woman before, and though it had wreaked havoc on his emotions, it seemed as though he was ready to repeat the agonizing experience.

“I think I have a serious crush on your Laurel,” he confessed, his face flushed from the heat of the kitchen.

One of the sous-chefs stopped chopping mushrooms and gestured at Michel with the tip of his knife. “His accent got much thicker when she was here. He actually sounded like a real Frenchman.
Très
debonair.”

Michel glowered at his subordinate. His Parisian accent was nearly undetectable and only surfaced when he was angry, drunk, or flirting with a pretty woman.

Olivia put her hands on her hips. “Do you have amnesia? Your last affair with a married woman was ruinous! You went on a champagne bender and your cooking was way off. You used far too much salt and your meat was overdone. I don’t think any of our customers will stand for that again.”

Shaking a raw shrimp at her, Michel smiled. “But ah, the passion! It is worth all the pain.”

“Forget about Laurel.” Olivia’s eyes flashed a darker blue. “She has enough to juggle without adding a crush to the mix. Set your sights on someone else. Join a gym. I’m sure you could cajole someone into committing adultery between spin and yoga classes.”

Michel tossed the shrimp into a frying pan coated with sizzling butter and browned garlic. “Laurel is special. She has a pure heart and believes that love can overcome all things. She is a rare flower, an orchid in a greenhouse of daffodils.”

“Spare me.” Olivia crossed her arms. “I don’t see how you arrived at this conclusion after spending thirty minutes with her.”

“She was here longer than that,
chérie
.
You’re
the one who flew from here as though your tail had just been seared.” He tossed half a dozen sautéing shrimp into the air. Once, twice, three times. They landed neatly back into the frying pan. He gave the pan a final shake and then scooped the shrimp onto a small bed of linguine. Handing the plate to a waiter, Michel glanced at Olivia. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were having man trouble. I can’t imagine any friction arising between you and your debonair bookstore owner. Actually, I
can
imagine friction, but the good kind. The kind two people produce on a summer night when they—”

“That’s enough, Michel,” Olivia retorted. “Why don’t you focus your energy on cooking? I believe that is what I hired you to do.”

Michel gave her a dreamy smile. “Tonight, my food will taste like nectar and ambrosia. Every drop will be filled with visions of Laurel, my muse. Beware, those who are brave enough to order my chocolate torte. It will be such exquisite torture!”

Olivia shook her head. “You’re hopeless. I’m going out to seat our patrons. Try not to burn the place down while you wallow in inappropriate fantasies.”

A party of four awaited her at the hostess podium and Olivia smiled at the mayor, his wife, and two children. “Sorry to keep you,” she said and led them back to the mayor’s favorite table.

The mayor glanced around the nearly empty dining room and frowned. “Do you think the out-of-towners are all gone?”

Olivia nodded. “They’ll be back for the Cardboard Regatta. I’m booked for three nights from five until eleven at night.” She swept an arm around the dining room. The flickering candlelight, the bud vases filled with sprays of wild chrysanthemum, and the pumpkin-colored napkin fans created an atmosphere of sophistication and warmth. “Your family and the couple enjoying the shrimp scampi linguini won’t be dining alone this evening. We’re expecting a decent crowd tonight, though some may cancel due to the inclement weather.”

The mayor’s wife laughed. “You’re the only person in Oyster Bay who’d call a category three hurricane ‘inclement weather.’ ”

“Ophelia’s been upgraded?” Olivia tried to recall the wind gusts of a category three. She didn’t need to tax her brain, however, as the mayor’s son looked up from his menu, rubbed at his glasses with his napkin, and spoke in the fluctuating voice of one on the cusp of puberty.

“Wind gusts of one hundred eleven to one hundred thirty miles per hour,” he recited with a distant look on his young face. “Likelihood of structural damage to wooden structures, loss of immature trees and a few big ones too, flooding to structures along the coast, and damage from floating debris to structures near storm surge or flooded rivers. Power outages are definite, lasting from three to nine days depending on level of isolation. Estimated total cost is four hundred million. Expect a tax hike this year.” Upon finishing, he returned his gaze to the menu.

“You are
such
a dork,” his sister said with a sneer. “Can I order my Coke now?”

While his wife argued with their daughter over the perils of caffeinated beverages on the developing teenage body, the mayor begged Olivia to get him a dirty martini. Relieved to escape the argument brewing between the females at the table, Olivia sent a waitress to collect the rest of the family’s orders.

At the bar, Olivia asked Gabe for the mayor’s drink. “He’ll be wanting several of those by this time Monday night,” a familiar voice said. Olivia turned and smiled at Flynn, remarkably pleased to see him. She knew that Flynn’s charm could help her set aside all thoughts of Rawlings and the man’s continued silence.

Flynn regularly stopped by The Boot Top for a drink after work and managed to visit Olivia’s restaurant without ever behaving as though his presence bore the slightest connection to her. Olivia liked that about him. He could sit and chat with Gabe and the other patrons and then casually ask her to join him for a round. When she was too busy or not in the mood to comply, he was neither offended nor ruffled by the rejection. Yet he never failed to request her company and Olivia was flattered by his persistence.

Flynn took in her form-fitting black sheath dress and necklace made of amber and turquoise and toasted her with a frosted beer mug. “You’re looking lovely this evening.”