A Deadly Cliche

Again, the dismissive snort. “Come on! What would a woman like that know about weathering a major storm?”

Pausing in the act of drying a mug with his dishtowel, Wheeler gestured at the television. Once again, the channel featured a radar image of the tropical disturbance. “She knows plenty, my friend. A hurricane is gonna form while you’re lyin’ on the beach this weekend. I know of one that started just like this one.” He lowered his voice, but the words seemed to burn their way into Olivia’s ears.

“It came through Oyster Bay when Miss Olivia was a little girl. That storm was a monster.” Wheeler was lost in the memory. “It kicked and screamed and howled and when all was said and done, a child had lost her mama. A few other folks got killed too. Most of ’em died ’cause they didn’t respect the storm.” He finished drying the cup and picked up another. “I s’pect this one’ll claim her share of lives too. That’s the way of things ’round these parts. You either bend to nature’s power or she’ll force you to your knees.”

Mumbling under his breath that the local population was made up of inbred lunatics, the tourist gathered his pastries, his coffees, and his impenetrable arrogance and left.

He walked right past Olivia without realizing she was still standing there, trying to fit the lid on her cup with trembling fingers.

Olivia and Haviland walked three blocks south to the hardware store. The streets were crowded now. Female vacationers in swim suits and sheer cover-ups shopped for sunscreen and folding beach chairs while their husbands hunted for newspapers and ice for their coolers.

Hampton’s Hardware had occupied a prime spot on Main Street since Olivia was a toddler. Back then, when there were no parking meters and a horse-drawn trolley shuttled people from the two downtown churches to a parking and picnic area near the docks, Hampton’s also housed the town’s only post office. With the recent influx of cash into Oyster Bay’s municipal coffers, however, a new post office had been built at the end of the block and Hampton’s began stocking souvenirs instead of stamps. Cheap T-shirts, plastic sand toys, tacky postcards, salt- water taffy, and plaster replicas of the local lighthouse filled the large front window and the area surrounding the checkout.

At first, the townsfolk regarded Hampton’s new wares with a critical eye, but he displayed the brightly colored trinkets so creatively that they’d not only grown used to his Made in Taiwan section, but had even come to anticipate what he’d do next to sell his cornucopia of mass-produced items.

In celebration of the new school year, Hampton had built a trio of giant, wooden apples and had rigged the tops with mechanical pulleys so that they opened like treasure chest lids, revealing the rotund faces of Cabbage Patch dolls. Each doll brandished a souvenir perfect for stuffing a child’s new backpack. From rulers and lunchboxes decorated with beach scenes to pencil cases and hemp purses stamped with the slogan, “I got an A+ in Beach Bumming,” the plump dolls seemed to be daring each shopper to grab a school-related item from an apple.

Hampton’s Labor Day weekend display had certainly caught the interest of a pair of toddler boys. One had a pudgy fist clamped onto the arm of a Cabbage Patch girl with auburn pigtails as he attempted to wrestle an iridescent pencil from her grasp. The second boy, a mirror reflection of the first, was doing his best to climb into the apple already occupied by a Cabbage Patch boy dressed in denim overalls and a red baseball cap. The wooden lid on the apple was just about to clamp down on the toddler’s head of wild brown curls when his mother rescued him.

“Oh, Olivia!” The young woman smiled as she pulled her son out of the apple. “Hi, there!”

Her lovely face flushed with exertion of having to hold one wriggling child while yanking his brother away from the apple filled with thousands of colorful pencils, Laurel Hobbs shot Olivia a look of apology. “Let me just buckle them into the stroller, then I might actually be able to speak in complete sentences to you.”

“By all means, strap away.” Olivia eyed the three-point canvas belt system that seemed similar to a parachute harness. Haviland gave an impatient whine and sniffed the nearest Cabbage Patch Kid. He issued a disdainful grunt.

“They have the look of mutated mushrooms about them, don’t they?” Olivia stroked the poodle’s head. She watched in amazement as her petite friend wrestled her twins into the double stroller, handed them each a snack bag of cheese crackers, and then fastened her long, wheat-blond hair into a perfectly smooth ponytail. Sighing with relief, she put her hands on her narrow hips, looking exactly like the high school cheerleader she once was, and waved for Olivia to follow her down the tool aisle.

“I am so behind in critiquing Harris’s chapter!” she exclaimed and then dropped her voice. “One of my neighbors was robbed and I’ve been a mess ever since! I feel like I need to buy a big knife and keep it under my mattress.” She touched one of the teeth on a shiny handsaw and then hastily withdrew her fingers.

Not so long ago, Olivia wouldn’t have been the slightest bit interested in Laurel’s trials and tribulations, but over the past few months, the oak-barrel heiress and the stay-at-home mom had become friends. In fact, Olivia counted all four of the Bayside Book Writers as friends. She was still trying to get used to the experience.

“Was anyone hurt?” she inquired as they walked deeper into the store.

Laurel pried a hammer out of Dermot’s hand. Or was it Dallas? Olivia couldn’t tell the two boys apart and she’d forgotten which child tended to wear shades of green and which one favored blue. “No, thank heavens, but they took everything of value. Jewelry, silver, art, electronics.”

Olivia placed several battery-powered lanterns in her cart. “Do your neighbors have a burglar alarm?”

Laurel nodded. “Yes. Most of the people in my neighborhood do.” She chewed her lip for a moment. “It might not have been turned on though. I mean, this happened in the middle of the day! I don’t put mine on to run out to the grocery store. And these guys must have been real professionals. There was no sign of a break-in and they didn’t even make a mess. Left some food on the kitchen counter but that’s it.” She glanced at Olivia with admiration. “I bet you never get scared, even though you live out on the Point all by yourself.”

Haviland whined petulantly.

“Oh! I wasn’t even thinking!” Laurel’s hands fluttered over her mouth as she received a withering stare from Olivia’s poodle. “Of course you don’t need to worry with such a magnificent guard dog watching over you!”

Appeased, Haviland resumed his thorough examination of the scents lingering around the battery and flashlight end cap.

“It’s just that Steve goes out of town all the time for dental conferences and seminars and I keep thinking about being alone in the house. The only weapon I know how to wield is a nail file.”

“Do your sons have wooden blocks? I bet they’d make excellent projectiles.” Olivia selected several packages of batteries. “Seriously, though. If you’ll feel better about having company, ask your in-laws to stay over. I’m sure they’d be delighted.”

Laurel rolled her eyes. “I’d rather be attacked by burglars.” Her pale blue eyes gleamed. “Actually, this topic gives me an idea for my next chapter.”

Olivia arched her brows. “Your duchess is going to be ravished by a handsome highwaymen?”

“No. I’m trying to avoid cliches, remember? But what if she’s captured by someone of the wrong class and grows to love him? A rogue with a Robin Hood complex. Things could get very complicated and very steamy.”

It was always a delight to see how animated Laurel became when she spoke of her writing. Olivia smiled. “And what of the poor, cuckolded duke?”

“He shouldn’t have taken his wife for granted!” Laurel declared heatedly and Olivia couldn’t help but wonder if they were still discussing a fictional couple or if the conversation had suddenly entered the realm of autobiography.

One of the twins crushed a cracker in his fist and scattered orange crumbs across the floor. “Now we won’t get lost,” he told his brother, who immediately followed suit.

“Boys!” Laurel balled her fists in frustration. “Mommy has told you not to leave trails when we’re inside.”

Olivia could see how the little boys might view their surroundings as being similar to an enchanted forest. They were in an aisle at the back of the store where the overhead lights failed to successfully illuminate the space. As a result, shadows hid in the crevices between lines of lawn rakes, brooms, shovels, and mops. From the perspective of the small boys, looking up into the steel and plastic rake tines and the bushy mop heads must have been akin to glancing up through the branches of a strange, magical wood.

Grabbing two glow sticks from her cart, Olivia cracked them until they radiated a phosphorescent yellow light