A Deadly Cliche

agency’s owner. Coming right to the point, Olivia explained that she wanted eyes on a particular mailbox housed in The UPS Store.

“I want photographs of this RB person. I want a background check. I want to know where he lives, the details of his family life, his profession, and what he does in his spare time. I want a week’s worth of information on this man so that by the time you’ve cashed my sizable check, I’ll feel like I’ve known him my whole life,” Olivia directed.

When the investigator probed her for more explanation, the only response Olivia gave was, “Let’s just say that he’s invited me to make an investment, and before I send him money, I need to learn what kind of man I’d be dealing with.”

Olivia could tell the PI wasn’t convinced, but he was wise enough not to push the matter. It was an easy, low-risk assignment and would bring in much-needed revenue.

“I’ll pay you half of your fee up front,” Olivia offered quickly. “But I want your promise that you’ll handle this job yourself. I read about the profiling classes you took and I want your take on this man. No one else’s will suffice.”

Assurances were given and she was transferred to a secretary who took her credit card number and billing information. Olivia hung up the phone in higher spirits. Hiring the detective had allowed her to regain a sense of control. She folded the letter, tucked it back into its envelope, and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves flanking the stone fireplace.

After studying the books for several moments, she took down a hardcover called Snow Flower and the Secret Fan and slipped the letter between its pages. Since the novel centered on a series of secret letters written in code on a Japanese fan, Olivia found the book an appropriate hiding place for her troublesome missive.

She then replenished her empty coffee cup and gave Haviland a kiss on his cool black nose, feeling ready to devote her complete attention to her character’s dilemma. Kamila’s sycophantic aunt had given the young concubine to the pharaoh’s sandal bearer as though she were chattel, when in truth she was an intelligent young woman and a skilled dancer. Told by the other concubines that her only chance to secure a future in the palace was to bear Pharaoh a child, Kamila waited to be called to the king’s bed.

Olivia had written to the scene where the Living God finally requested Kamila’s presence. She now needed to describe the young woman’s failure to seduce mighty Ramses.

Kamila had been meticulously prepared for a night of lovemaking with the king. Servants had washed and waxed her, rubbed and oiled her, perfumed her wig, and clothed her in a linen shift so fine that it appeared to have been spun out of filaments of mist. One of Pharaoh’s eunuchs came to collect Kamila. The other concubines and lesser wives tittered excitedly as she was led away, but Kamila trembled behind the giant mute as he led her through the cool passageways. Their shadows rippled on the walls and a thousand fears coursed through Kamila’s mind. Would the Living God be gentle or would he pin her down on the sleeping couch, his regal hands encircling her wrists and squeezing, tighter and tighter, as his desire grew? Would her inexperience repulse or delight him? The other girls spoke boldly of Ramses’ skill as an adept lover. Surely the act could not be painful if they wanted to repeat it even after bearing the king a son. Ramses was seated on a gilded stool examining a papyrus drawing when Kamila entered the chamber. She prostrated herself before the Lord of the Two Lands but he quickly bade her rise, dismissed the eunuch, and gestured for her to approach his royal person. He was tall and muscular with a firm jaw and a strong nose. His eyes were dark as night in the dim chamber, but he smiled at her kindly and she was finally able to breathe. “I have been anxiously awaiting these plans. This is how I shall improve upon the temple of Amun-Re,” he told her, gesturing at the scroll. “Would you like to see?” Kamila crept closer to the man, curiosity overwhelming her unease. She forced her gaze from his noble profile to the drawing laid out before him. “It is magnificent! The gods will be very pleased!” she declared a trifle too loudly, but Ramses laughed. “I have lost much sleep over this project.” He stared at the plans again. “And because of other cares as well.” His eyes slid to her face. “Tell me. How do you find sleep when you are troubled?” Kamila flushed. She hadn’t expected the king to ask her such an intimate question, but she answered truthfully. “I sing to myself, Great One. Always the same tune. It was my mother’s favorite song. My voice is not as lovely as hers, but as I grow older I sound more and more like her.” Ramses turned from her and stretched out on the sleeping couch. Folding his arms over his chest, he closed his eyes and commanded, “Sing it for me.” For a moment, Kamila didn’t move. This was not what she had expected, but a command was a command. Softly, she began to sing. “The lotus petals come floating past/ carried in the river’s arms/ the reeds whisper a tale to me/ and the ibis flies where I cannot go/ but I have fields to tend and oxen to lead/ the soil is more precious than lapis stones . . .” Kamila trailed off, her mind skipping to the next stanza in which the farmer touches the freshly turned earth and knows he is blessed to be an Egyptian. Omitting the words, she softly hummed the melody instead, seeing that the king had fallen asleep. She hummed until the candle burned low. Silently, the eunuch reappeared and beckoned for her to exit the chamber. He led her to her own pallet in a room filled with the sighs and stirrings of sleeping women and then left, noiseless as a breath of air. Kamila’s friend, Mery, was a very light sleeper. The moment Kamila curled up on her pallet, Mery sat up on an elbow and whispered, “Well? Did you please him?” Kamila closed her heavy eyes. “I do not know.” Mery reached over and touched Kamila’s hand. “There will be another time. You’re one of the most beautiful women in the entire palace.” “I need to be more than that. The king is surrounded by beauty. I must offer him something he does not have in excess, but what do I give that would please one who owns everything?” Kamila asked miserably and then, hearing no reply from her perplexed friend, fell into a troubled sleep.

Olivia’s fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard. Ramses sent for Kamila twice more and each night she sang him to sleep, acting the part of nursemaid instead of lover. One day, the king and his retinue abruptly left the palace to meet with a team of architects and stonemasons at Karnak. Unsure of what Kamila would do in the pharaoh’s absence, Olivia saved what she’d written and closed the file.

Stretching her arms over her head, she wondered if there was enough time to read the chief’s chapter before heading out to her lunch date. She had requested a meeting with an agent from Coastal Realty. The Realtor, a polished, seventy-year-old matron named Millicent Banks, promised to bring Olivia a file folder stuffed with documents pertaining to the crumbling warehouse on the waterfront.

“I could probably critique two pages before I have to go,” Olivia said, removing the stapled packet Rawlings had distributed to the Bayside Book Writers last Saturday. The chief had already confessed that his book was yet untitled so she searched for the beginning of chapter one. However, the first two pages were stuck together and as Olivia peeled them apart, she realized they were identical. Flipping through the packet, she noted that every page was a copy of page one.

Pulling up her online address book, she called Harris at work.

“You got fifteen copies of the same page too, huh?” Harris laughed. “I guess we’re all busted for putting off our critique homework ’til this late in the week. Millay called me at two in the morning to tell me about the duplicate pages. I figured she’d get a hold of Rawlings and set him straight. Personally, I don’t have the guts to dial the chief of police’s number just to point out that he screwed up.”

“Not phoning a policeman in the middle of the night sounds less like courage and more like self-preservation to me,” Olivia remarked.

“I think Millay likes to talk a big game, but I bet she’d do it if someone dared her.” Harris was quick to defend the attractive bartender.

Olivia decided to change the subject. “Did Millay happen to mention whether she’d heard about any missing persons? The chief still hasn’t been able to identify the body I found on the Point.”

Harris yawned loudly. “Sorry. I’m trying to remember what else she said. I was in the middle of this crazy dream where trolls were tearing apart my high school when she called. That’s what happens when you create fantasy settings all day long. You start seeing the images in your sleep.” He paused. “But no, she hasn’t had word from her regulars about anyone having gone AWOL. There’s been plenty of talk about the murder though. Even here at work, where most of us are total ostriches and have no idea what’s going on in the outside world, people are coming up with all kinds of crazy theories.”

“At least the story didn’t break until Monday. Most of the tourists were packing up by the time they saw the headlines in the Gazette,” Olivia said, recalling the media coverage of the past week. The