A Deadly Cliche

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