physical relationship with Flynn, as she hadn’t managed to break it off.
Flynn was watching her curiously. “What’s going on in that beautiful mind of yours? World domination, complex mathematical problems, physics formulas, the plot of a future bestseller?
Olivia put her fork down. “I asked about you and Diane because I wanted you to know you are free to pursue a relationship with her. Not that you needed my permission, because you and I never set parameters as to what we were to one another, but I think she’s lovely.”
“Why do I have a hunch that parameters are about to be firmly put into place,” Flynn murmured unhappily.
“I find in these situations that it’s best to be completely honest,” Olivia said matter-of-factly. “What we have isn’t working for me anymore. Let’s part amicably and continue our book discussions fully clothed in the future.”
In the heavy silence, Dixie arrived with Flynn’s pancakes. She prattled away as he spread several pats of butter across the surface of the stack and then poured liberal amounts of warm, pecan-flavored syrup on top of the butter. When he failed to laugh at Dixie’s joke or take a single bite of his breakfast, she put her hands on her hips and gave him a frank stare. “What’s wrong with your food?”
“There could
Dixie shot Olivia an accusing look. “Did you put this man off his breakfast?”
Ignoring her, Olivia took some money from her wallet, slapped it on the table, and rose. “Have a nice day. Both of you.”
She patted her thigh to stir Haviland, who was dozing contentedly against the diner’s wall, oblivious of the mixed emotions filling the air above his head.
Neither Flynn nor Dixie interfered with Olivia’s leaving. She reached the Range Rover and felt an immediate and powerful sense of relief. Rolling down all four windows, she turned on the radio and pulled away from her unlawful parking space in front of a fire hydrant and headed for Laurel’s subdivision. The combination of Aretha Franklin and the autumn air sweeping into the car’s cabin tasted sweetly of freedom.
Laurel welcomed Olivia by promising that the coffee she was in the midst of brewing would be fresh and strong.
“I bought myself a new machine with the money from my first paycheck.” She proudly stroked the appliance’s stainless steel facade and Olivia agreed that it was most impressive. After pouring two cups, Laurel offered Haviland a bowl of water and several dog biscuits she’d purchased especially for his visit. The two women then settled at the kitchen table where Laurel had laid out three yearbooks on the sticky tabletop.
“That’s just some jam leftover from breakfast. The boys get more on their clothes and the furniture than in their sweet little tummies,” Laurel said with a laugh, swiping at the surface with a sponge. “Here. You take my sophomore year. I’ll go over my wonderful days as a junior. When I was—”
“Why are there only three books?” Olivia immediately cut short her friend’s high school reminiscences.
Laurel frowned. “I think my parents have my freshman yearbook. I must have left it behind after marrying Steve and they just packed it with the rest of their stuff when they moved to Florida. I could easily picture my mom looking through it every now and then.” Laurel seemed pleased by the thought. “Anyway, I rooted around in the attic as soon as I got back from dropping off the twins this morning but could only locate these three. If we don’t find any suspicious photos in here, we’ll have to pay a visit to Ms. Glenda at the school library.”
Olivia opened the first book and carefully scanned page after page of young faces. The photos revealed evidence of acne, thick glasses, gawkiness, mouthfuls of metal braces, minor facial scars, and one wheelchair- bound student, but nothing struck Olivia as out of the ordinary. Like any group of photographs representing a large population, there were attractive faces, unappealing faces, and altogether unremarkable faces.
Laurel was turning the pages with agonizing slowness, chuckling over the comments written or waxing nostalgic over memories of homecoming or prom. She held one-sided conversations with the smiling visages on almost every page and even giggled a time or two, sounding very much like a teenage girl.
“Slide over your senior year,” Olivia commanded impatiently. “I have no doubt it was unforgettable, but we’ve got a job to do. Stop reliving the glory days as a pompom shaker and search for deformities, would you?”
“Spoilsport,” Laurel retorted and pretended to sulk, but by the time she’d reached a spread featuring the junior class candid shots, she was laughing again.
Olivia finished scrutinizing the second book but found nothing. She insisted on paging through the one Laurel finally set aside. Finding no clues in the third yearbook, she carried her cup to the sink and rinsed a splotch of grape jelly from her wrist. “Let’s head over to Pampticoe High. I’ll drive.”
On the way to the school, Laurel chatted about how much she was enjoying her new career and how comfortable she felt interviewing members of the Oyster Bay Police Department. “Chief Rawlings has been so kind to me. I really hope he can make it to our Bayside Book Writers meeting on Saturday. I loved his chapter! I wrote down so few criticisms that he’s going to think I’m buttering him up in order to get information for my articles.”
The two women discussed Rawlings’ chapter and what progress they hoped to make on their own manuscripts. Olivia didn’t tell Laurel that she’d reached a writing roadblock since receiving the vial of blood from Will Hamilton. It was now impossible to dream up plot lines focusing on Kamila, her fictitious Egyptian concubine, in the face of such poignant real-life drama. Luckily, Laurel was brimming with ideas for a contemporary romance novel and discussed these for the remainder of the ride.
Pampticoe High was bustling with activity when Olivia and Laurel stopped by the front office to collect visitor badges. Students were in the middle of changing classes and poured through the dingy hallways, talking, laughing, shouting, and slamming lockers. Half of the teens wore ear buds and listened to music as they moved while another large percentage was talking or texting on cell phones.
Olivia thought back to the boarding school she’d attended—the strict dress code, the rule of silence when in public areas, the insistence on politeness and proper etiquette at all times. Had these students attended Olivia’s school, most of them would have been immediately hauled off to detention for inappropriate dress and the use of foul language, their electronic devices confiscated and all privileges revoked.
“This is a different world,” she commented under her breath after an oblivious young man barreled into her and then shuffled off without so much as an apology.
Ms. Glenda’s domain was refreshingly quiet and orderly. Olivia only had to watch the woman interact with a single student to see that she ruled the library with a blend of softness and steel. She was also remarkably unsurprised by Laurel’s request that she recall the names of former students with notable physical deformities.
“A nice young police officer asked me the very same thing yesterday afternoon,” Ms. Glenda whispered, removing her reading glasses to clean off a smudge on the left lens. “It was no small feat to consider the unusual birthmarks, burns, scars, missing limbs, additional fingers or toes, and excessive overbites of two decades worth of students!” Having finished with her glasses, she put them back on and gazed at Laurel with interest. “I see your experience with the school paper eventually blossomed into a career. Journalism suits you, my dear. I’ve followed your recent articles with pride, knowing I once taught you how to conduct research.”
Laurel blushed prettily. “You certainly did, Ms. Glenda. Believe me, your coaching has come in handy more than once over the last few weeks.”
Ms. Glenda preened and Olivia suspected the woman deserved every accolade she received. It couldn’t be easy to instruct the group of unruly miscreants Olivia had seen in the school’s hallway. “I don’t know why the police were interested in my memories of days gone by, but I suspect it has something to do with the Cliche Killers. Didn’t you come up with that nickname? Quite catchy.”
Nodding modestly, Laurel held her blank notebook page in the air. “I think we’re chasing down the same lead. Were you able to assist the police?”
“Not at first.” Ms. Glenda indicated they should follow her into the stacks. She pulled a yearbook from the shelf, found the page she was looking for, and then held it open against her chest with the blue cover facing outward. “I thought I’d be of no help until the officers used the words ‘cliche’ and ‘tease’ in the same sentence. Two faces quickly surfaced in my mind.” She studied Laurel. “Surely you remember a student being teased for the
