A Deadly Cliche

Olivia had to admire the forethought of the burglars. “They could carry stuff from the garage to their truck without anyone batting an eyelash. What a clever scam.”

Rawlings grunted. “They should have stuck with pilfering TVs. Killing Felix Howard has made them number one on the department’s hit list. We’re going to interview every existing lawn-care company in the county. Anyone who’s registered a trailer within fifty miles of Oyster Bay will be visited by a man or woman in blue.”

“I know you will. At least Laurel’s husband is in the clear. What was he like during questioning?”

“Um,” Rawlings stalled. “Let’s say that he was rather indignant over having to provide us with details about his comings and goings and leave it at that. I wish he’d never been on our radar in the first place. We’re going to get these guys, Olivia, I promise you that.”

“Make sure to give Laurel an exclusive on the story. She’s going to be a hell of a reporter.” Olivia removed the casserole dish from the microwave and gave its contents a stir while Haviland danced back and forth in anticipation. Waving a potholder over the steaming casserole made of lean ground lamb, brown rice, and cheese, Olivia shook her head at Haviland, indicating that he’d have to wait a minute for it to cool.

“And I hear you make a superb photographer. Perhaps you’ll have your own booth at the next Cardboard Regatta,” Rawlings quipped.

Horrified, Olivia realized that she had yet to thank the chief for the painting he’d made for her. She hurried to do so and then told him that it hung in a prominent place in her kitchen. “It’s on the wall behind the coffeemaker and is one of the first things I see every morning. Now I can actually crack a smile before I’ve had a single sip of coffee.”

“That is a compliment.” Rawlings paused. “Olivia, when this case is over, you and I . . .”

A silence followed and Olivia knew he was searching for the words to acknowledge the attraction between them. She too wanted to address the feelings he’d awakened in her, but not over the phone. She wanted to be alone with Rawlings, perhaps on a blanket on the beach with only the stars and the sea bearing witness as she made herself vulnerable to him. Most of all, she wanted Rawlings to be near enough to touch, and at the moment, he felt very far away.

Olivia broke the charged silence, changing the subject by telling the chief about Will Hamilton’s call.

“Don’t make a move until I wrap up this case,” Rawlings directed. “I don’t want to appear at our next writer’s meeting to find that you’ve driven off to catch the ferry to Okracoke. You shouldn’t go there alone, Olivia.”

“And miss the chance to finally critique your chapter?” she said. “Never. I’m switching to my red pen just for you.”

She heard the voice of another police officer in the background. Olivia caught the words “victims” and “Pampticoe High” and then Rawlings told her he had to go.

Olivia glanced at her watch. The chief was at work and probably had been for hours, but he had thieves and murderers to catch and it was probably too early to call Laurel. She wondered if Laurel had managed to turn in her articles to the Gazette editor before having to attend to the needs of her family.

“I’ll call her later,” Olivia told Haviland as she served him breakfast.

Feeling restless, Olivia waited for Haviland to finish eating and then the pair set off for a walk. On this occasion, the metal detector was left at home and Olivia carried nothing in her arms. She walked to the end of the Point where a narrow and irregular spit of sand jutted out into the ocean like an arthritic finger. While the sea stirring on both sides and the wind whipped her hair off her face, Olivia stared east across the water. East toward Okracoke.

It wouldn’t take me long to get there, she thought, still a little surprised that she hadn’t jumped in the car the moment Will Hamilton had finished speaking. Yet there was something preventing her from acting, an irrational fear that she would once again become the frightened, reclusive girl of her childhood should she come face-toface with her father.

The morning sun soon gained in strength until Olivia had to turn away from its powerful rays. Back inside her cool house, she peeled a tangerine and sat at her desk, Rawlings’ chapter before her. She took a bite of the ripe fruit and closed her eyes, reveling in its sweetness. Uncapping a pen, she hesitated. What would the chief’s writing lay bare? Would his chapter reveal a flaw Olivia would be unable to accept or be filled with intimate memories of his late wife? Would there be a darkness she hadn’t sensed before or, even worse, a lack of substance?

Casting aside such ridiculous thoughts, she began to read.

Grandfather spoke of treasure until his dying day. It was what I remembered most about him. No matter how much he was told he was a foolish old man by his wife and, later, by his daughter and son-in-law, he believed in its existence. “Pirates!” my mother scoffed in exaggerated disgust the day they moved my grandfather into a nursing home. “He’s wasted half of his life on these damned pirates. He’s studied hundreds of books and letters and maps, and what’s he got to show for it? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!” I knew my mother wasn’t really angry about my grandfather’s obsession. She was upset because he’d taken early retirement to conduct research on two of North Carolina’s most infamous buccaneers and in doing so had squandered every cent of his savings buying rare books and documents from auction houses across the country. My parents were thus forced into inviting him to move into our small house. At first, they thought having Grandfather around could prove useful. He would be readily available to watch us kids while my folks worked extra shifts or went out on a rare dinner date, but after a few months it became clear that the old man couldn’t look after himself, let alone three hellions. Grandfather was eventually diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and my parents’ anger turned bitter. My father paid for my grandfather’s nursing home, complaining about the cost each and every time the bill was pushed through our brass mail slot. My mother stopped visiting him altogether. I was seventeen when he died. I was alone with him in his sad room with its gray carpeting and faded butterfly wallpaper. The smell of mold and rot clung to every surface. But I was there—the only one to hear his final words. I was seventeen and didn’t pay much attention to what he said. I was heading off to college in a few weeks where I’d study a little, party a lot, and decide that I didn’t want to be a doctor or a lawyer or any of the other respectable professions my parents hoped I’d pursue. I wanted to be a cop. And after that, I wanted to figure out what my grandfather had been talking about when he muttered, “Look in . . . Ruth’s . . . log . . .” and shuddered as though he felt a sudden chill. After that final quiver, he died. I sat there for a while, staring not at his slack face or the line of spittle near the corner of his mouth but at the hundreds of tiny butterflies on the wallpaper, forever trapped in a field of dirty white.

Olivia hadn’t expected to encounter Rawlings as a young man. She knew she was reading fiction, of course, but wondered which elements might have been pulled from the chief’s actual childhood. Perhaps an aging relative had moved in with the family or Alzheimer’s had afflicted one of his grandparents. Perhaps someone close to Rawlings had been consumed by an obsession. Olivia could easily picture him playing the role of confidante, even as a teenage boy. He was a gifted listener, patient and quiet, coaxing the speaker to continue with a soft word of encouragement.

With her green pen hovering over Rawlings’ pages, Olivia finished her read-through. Rawlings had named his character Easton Craig and had set the story in what was clearly a fictionalized version of Oyster Bay. Choosing his hometown made sense when penning a tale about pirates, for Blackbeard had made his home in the area. In fact, there had been long-standing rumors among the locals that Edward Thatch had hidden plunder along the banks of the Neuse River and hosted wild parties for other notorious buccaneers such as Charles Vane.

Blackbeard’s other refuge was Okracoke Island. Olivia sat back in her chair, considering the irony.

The infamous pirate met his death off the shores of Okracoke, run down by a lieutenant from the Royal Navy by order of Queen Anne. Blackbeard’s sloop, the Adventure, was anchored offshore the island. Cutting anchor, he tried to outrun his pursuers, but the wind, which had been his ally for hundreds of raids, betrayed the pirate when he needed it most. Blackbeard’s ship was boarded, and in a sword fight to the death, the pirate’s head was severed from his neck in an act of genuine barbarity.

Pushing herself away from her desk, Olivia was once again drawn to the map of North Carolina within her coffee table book. She stared at Okracoke, her thoughts fluctuating between a murdered pirate and a missing father.

In an effort to prevent herself from becoming maudlin, Olivia called Laurel.

“I did it!” Laurel shouted into the phone. “I submitted my articles this morning and I just got an e-mail from my editor. He’s putting them in tomorrow’s paper! I’m officially hired!”