A Deadly Cliche

him to follow her. “The guy was buried buck-ass naked!”

Olivia was met at the front door of Grumpy’s Diner by a roller-skating dwarf. Dixie Weaver was the manager, bookkeeper, hostess, and head waitress of the eatery bearing the same name as her husband. Grumpy, the gifted fry cook, was actually quite pleasant, but he was a man of so few words that people assumed he was unfriendly. He’d earned the moniker early in life, and when it came time to choose a name for the diner, Dixie assured him that “Grumpy’s” would soon become a household word in Oyster Bay. As usual, she was right.

“You’re late this mornin’!” The diminutive proprietor put her hands on her hips and glared at Olivia. “I can’t hold your table on a Labor Day weekend,”

“Believe me, I hadn’t expected to be delayed by the police . . .” Olivia trailed off. Rawlings wouldn’t be pleased if the news that a body was found on the Point traveled around town before he even made it back to the station.

Unfortunately, Olivia could see that she had said too much. Dixie’s eyes lit up and she practically forced the customer seated at the end of counter to topple from his stool. Scooping up his check and his money without a thought to providing change, she pushed him toward the front door and called out, “Have a nice day now, ya hear!”

Flying back to the counter to wipe the area clean, Dixie stood as tall as she could on her white roller skates and patted the stool. “I’m gonna get you some fresh coffee, but if you expect to taste a single drop, you’d best be prepared to finish that sentence.”

She returned with a bowl of water for Haviland and a clean coffee cup for Olivia. Dangling a steaming carafe from her free hand, Dixie batted her false eyelashes. “Come on, lady. I don’t have all day. Those folks in the Evita booth want a refill.”

“Blackmailing me with java.” Olivia scowled in disapproval. “That is low, even for you.”

Dixie dumped the coffeepot on the counter and tugged at a pair of Hello Kitty arm warmers. “Is that a height joke?”

“Of course not.” Olivia wiggled her index finger so that Dixie would skate closer. “You have to swear on all twelve of your children not to breathe a word of this until it’s become a matter of public record.”

Dixie smirked. “My kids ain’t eggs. I don’t have a dozen. Last count it was five. Six at the most.” She poured the coffee. “But you have my word.”

“I found a body on the beach this morning. About a mile and a half north of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage,” Olivia whispered. She watched Dixie absorb the startling information.

Oddly, Dixie’s expression was not of curiosity, but of concern. “Are you okay?”

“I am, thank you. I didn’t know the man, but I pity him. His death was no accident.” Olivia clammed up. “Have you heard of any locals that have gone missing? A wife complaining about a wayward husband for example?”

Ignoring the waving hands coming from the Evita booth, Dixie thought about the question. “I haven’t, but I’ll keep my ears open and my mouth shut. Can I at least tell Grumpy? I’ll explode like an overstuffed turkey if I can’t share this with somebody!”

Olivia nodded. She knew Grumpy was no gossip. “Ask him the same question. He might hear talk among his friends about someone not turning up at home or at work. Maybe we can help the police identify the dead man.”

“We aren’t gonna be able to help unless he’s in the damned restaurant business.” Dixie plastered on her best waitress smile and signaled to the man holding his coffee cup in the air. “Most folks have three whole days off,’Livia. The dead guy probably didn’t have to be anywhere’til Tuesday, the lucky bastard.”

Recalling the grotesque visage and foul odor of the corpse, Olivia frowned. “Trust me, he was not lucky.” She reached into her purse for the chapter she needed to critique by that evening. “And if ever he was, then every ounce of that ran out.” She uncapped her pen to signal that the subject was now closed.

While Dixie skated from the kitchen to tables with platters of three-egg omelets, cinnamon French toast, or double bacon cheeseburgers for those ordering an early lunch, the hum of conversation brought Olivia a sense of calm. She didn’t come to Grumpy’s for the atmosphere, nor did she share Dixie’s deep admiration for Andrew Lloyd Webber. Every booth paid homage to one of his musicals, and though Olivia was amused by the displays showcasing Starlight Express, Cats, or Phantom of the Opera, she preferred to sit at the sole window booth and work on her writing projects.

Olivia ate at the diner at least once a week. Upon returning to Oyster Bay, Dixie had become her first true friend. Olivia was fond of the smaller woman’s feisty personality and sharp wit. Dixie also adored Haviland and had Grumpy prepare special meals for the coddled poodle while requesting items not found on the regular menu for Olivia. This morning, she skated to the counter with a frittata made of fresh spinach and shredded provolone and a bowl of honeydew melon squares.

“Those folks at the Jesus Christ Superstar table are drivin’ me hog wild!” Dixie said through gritted teeth. “They wanna know if our bacon is local. Shoot, I told them we’ve got more pig farms in this state than gas stations.” She whipped a compact from her apron pocket and applied a fresh coat of pink frosted lip gloss. “Don’t think they cared for that answer, but I reckon they’re lousy tippers anyhow. All those yoga-twistin’, garbage-recyclin’ tree huggers are tightwads.”

“It’s the booth decor, Dixie,” Olivia said after swallowing a bite of frittata. “It makes some people uncomfortable. Maybe you should replace Jesus with a poster of Glenn Close from Sunset Boulevard.”

“That right there is blasphemy!” Dixie presented Haviland with a plate of gently cooked ground beef mixed with rice and greens. He gave her his most sincere canine smile and then turned his attention to his second meal of the morning. “Maybe Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat would make people more at ease. I’ll have a look-see on eBay tonight.”

Using the green pen Harris had given to his fellow writers, Olivia circled a typo in the first line of the second chapter of his work in progress, a science fiction novel entitled, The Chosen One.

Having critiqued the first chapter, Olivia knew that the story’s heroine, Zenobia, had been safely evacuated from her dying planet, Zulton. However, upon arriving at her new home on the Planet Remus, Zenobia discovered that the ship carrying her parents and most of the other government officials was destroyed in an inexplicable collision with a floating prison colony.

Olivia didn’t care for science fiction as a rule, but she was interested in Zenobia’s fate, proving that Harris knew how to create a strong, complicated female character. However, his writing was often bogged down by too many details concerning space travel or the complicated names and nuances of alien races. His minor characters also spoke in dialogue riddled with cliches.

“Let’s see what will happen to Zenobia now,” Olivia murmured, took a sip of coffee, and began to read.

Zenobia stepped out of the healing bath, her aching muscles and sore joints restored to normal. If only she could dip her feelings in the warm, medicinal waters and resurface without the knife twists of grief. Practicing her fighting technique in the simulation room allowed her to concentrate on something else for a little while, but when it was over and her score flashed on the wall screen, she was still filled with rage. She’d punched the bare wall with her fists until her knuckles were shredded and dripping blood. Now, looking down at them, they were merely a little redder than the rest of her skin. She turned her hand over and touched the tattoo on her palm. It was only a few pinpricks of blue, creating a constellation known as the Hunter. The very first Chosen Ones hailed from a galaxy where the Hunter was one of the most prominent constellations in the sky. For the past one thousand years, all Chosen Ones were tattooed with this star formation at birth as a sign of their superior physical and mental prowess. The children of Chosen Ones entered into marriage contracts by the time they were five years old, but Zenobia’s betrothed, a man named Halydyn, was dead, killed in a devastating space collision with a drifting prison colony. “Everyone’s dead!” Her words echoed like a rushing river in the close chamber. She put her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the strangeness of her own voice. A message appeared on the wall screen by the door. The Regent was summoning her. There were decisions to be made, a memorial service to plan, judicial cases to be heard. He expected her to sit beside him in one of the crystal thrones beneath the Sky Dome within the hour. “I didn’t ask for this,” Zenobia muttered at the silent screen as she dressed in loose pants and a blue tunic. She fastened her weapon belt, holstered her photon pistol, and twisted her fiery red hair into a Samurai’s knot. “Damn it all! Why did this have to happen?” She traced the stars of her tattoo again, as if they could somehow take her through a wormhole, to another time before the tragedy. She was