A Deadly Cliche

“Besides, my meeting was crap anyway and they’ll never notice I’m gone,” Harris remarked idly. “The whole staff is there and everyone just sits around and plays games on their phones while the boss yaps about the bottom line. During our last warm and fuzzy get-together, I achieved a new high score on Cannon Challenge. It was awesome!” He examined the beer taps and pointed at the one bearing the logo of an area microbrewery. “Amber ale. Perfect. Good thing you can work the tap with one arm, eh?” His voice abruptly lost its levity. “Seriously, Olivia. Are you okay?”

Olivia distributed drinks before answering. “I’m fine, thank you. The Donalds are in police custody and I’m confident that Rawlings will get a confession from Ellen. She wants everyone to know exactly how she and Rutherford turned into monsters. Her anger hasn’t been assuaged and I believe she’ll enjoy having an audience.”

“I hope they both confess,” Laurel said with a shiver. “I’d rather not have any more knives pointed at my eye.”

Millay slapped Laurel on the back. “Just think of the article you can write now! A first-person account to totally wrap up all the groundwork you laid in your earlier pieces. This is Pulitzer material, girlfriend!”

For a moment, Laurel’s blue eyes shimmered at the thought, but the light quickly died. “Steve will never let me continue my work after what’s happened. He’ll tell me that my actions might have endangered the lives of our boys. If they’d been home, that would have been true.” She hung her head in shame. “My selfishness could have led to the end of my family. And they’re my whole world.”

Harris pushed his beer aside and jumped onto the barstool next to Laurel’s. He slung a lanky arm around her shoulders. “You’re a writer. It’s who you are. Whether you write for the paper or stay up all night working on a novel, you can’t just stop. It’s not selfishness, Laurel, it’s how you’re wired. You couldn’t turn that off even if you wanted to.”

Olivia gave Harris a nod of approval. The simple truth of his words alleviated some of the guilt she felt for pushing Laurel into a career in journalism. She took a deep swallow from her tumbler, knowing full well that it was unwise to mix whiskey and narcotics. It was her hope that the alcohol would help numb the pain in her arm enough for her to abstain from taking another dose of medicine before bed.

Laurel put a cocktail napkin to her face and cried silently. Her friends let her be, sensing that she needed the release. They drank and reflected on the Donald siblings, wondering whether the police had collected enough evidence to ensure that the twisted siblings would be in prison for a long time.

Eventually, Laurel’s tears ceased and she managed a wobbly smile. “I don’t know what I’d do without such amazing friends. Thanks, everybody.”

Millay rolled her eyes in disgust, but Olivia knew the gesture was all show. “I’m way bummed I missed the action. Here I am, my finely honed kung fu skills going to waste while Olivia’s getting sliced up by some crazy slasher bi—”

Harris cut her off. “Do you really know kung fu?”

“I promise to phone you before the next knife incident,” Olivia said and then shot Laurel a questioning look. “Ellen and Rutherford spoke quite clearly, didn’t they? They must have gotten the operation they’d always wanted as soon as they were out of the family home.”

Laurel twisted her napkin into a white, wrinkled snake. “I called the police station while I was at the park with Haviland and asked Officer Cook to check on Mr. and Mrs. Donald. He said they already had but he sounded funny and got off the phone in a flash. I really hope they’re unharmed!”

“They might be okay,” Harris tried to assure her. “Ellen and Rutherford’s first act of violence was killing that Alan guy and burying him in the sand.”

Millay looked doubtful. “As far as we know. There could be a trail of dead bodies from here to Arkansas. We don’t know that Felix’s death was an accident. The Donalds might have been aware that he was at home all along. They could have been gunning for him like they were gunning for Laurel, here.”

Fear flickered through Laurel’s eyes and Harris scowled at Millay. “How about showing a little sensitivity? The lady’s had a scary morning.”

Returning his frown, Millay mumbled an apology to Laurel and then focused her energy on consuming the rest of her drink.

Haviland appeared behind the bar, having been fed a selection of gourmet goodies by Michel. The chef fussed and cooed over the poodle even after Laurel explained how Olivia had ended up with her arm in a sling.

“I’d give you oodles of sympathy,” he told his employer briskly, “but I know how you’d react, so I’ll just skip it and say that I’m overwhelmingly relieved that the person who signs my paychecks isn’t left-handed.” Michel then tried to be extremely solicitous to Laurel, but she only smiled weakly and thanked him.

Soon, Gabe would arrive to put the bar in order and the kitchen would be filled with steam, noise, and delectable scents. Olivia was on the verge of breaking up their impromptu party when Rawlings stepped through the front door. He nodded at the ensemble and then crooked a finger at her.

“Could you step outside for a moment?” he asked and then turned, giving Olivia no choice but to comply.

Millay shook her head in sympathy and jumped down from her barstool. “Oh, man. You must be in major t-r- o-u-b-l-e. I’ll do the pouring until you come back.”

“That’s fine as long as you answer my cell phone if it rings. I’m waiting for an important call.”

“Secretarial services will cost you extra,” Millay replied with a saucy curtsy.

Outside, it took Olivia’s eyes several seconds to adjust to the afternoon light. Rawlings was waiting for her at the end of the path leading to the parking lot, his cell phone pressed to his ear. Upon seeing her, he quickly ended his conversation and watched her approach with close scrutiny.

Olivia’s heart beat faster beneath the intensity of his stare. “Why are you looking at me like that? Am I about to be frisked?”

The chief ignored her attempt at playfulness. “How’s your arm?”

“Stitched, sore, and ugly. I won’t be wearing sleeveless tops over the next few weeks,” she stated airily while her insides churned. Why did the very sight of this man leave her feeling so unsettled?

Rawlings drew so near that Olivia thought he’d kiss her. He didn’t. He reached an arm around her back and gently eased her forward so that her sling barely touched his chest. He put his cheek against hers and used his free hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingertips then moved under the lobe, tracing a slow line down the skin of her neck to her collarbone. He breathed into her ear. “We got them. Full confessions. It’s done.”

He pulled back so that he could look into her eyes, leaving Olivia instantly hungry for his touch. “The moment the Donald siblings were out from under their parents’ thumbs, they began to plan their revenge against their classmates. Anyone who repeatedly taunted them with the cliche ‘the cat got your tongue’ was to be punished. They had an entire list of enemies to terrorize and a dozen more cliche tableaus to create.”

“I’ll certainly think twice about using one in my writing,” Olivia joked softly.

Rawlings continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “And when the paperwork involving the Donald siblings has been filed and all the press interviews are done and Oyster Bay falls quiet again, I will want one thing and only one thing.” His gaze was electric. “I’m here to see whether you will grant me this one thing.”

Olivia took his wide, strong hand in her own. “What would that be?”

“An evening. A bottle of wine. Some time to see what this is. In short . . .” His eyes met hers, green and golden brown in the light. “You.”

Pushing aside thoughts of the dramatic morning, her blood test, and the fact that she needed to tell Rawlings that she was no longer involved with Flynn, Olivia smiled. “I think we can work something out.”

Behind Rawlings, a delivery truck pulled into the parking lot and Olivia dropped the chief’s hand. “Come inside. I believe there’s a chocolate milk with your name on it.”

Millay looked up when the pair reentered the bar. “Gabe’s got a nice setup back here. I could get used to not standing on beer-covered concrete all night long. Chief? What’ll it be?”

Rawlings placed his order and then informed the Bayside Book Writers that the case of the Cliche Killers was closed. “I’ll grant you the first interview if you’re interested,” he told Laurel.

“Of course she is!” Harris shouted. “Having one of us being published on a regular basis gives this group some weight. You’re our pathfinder, Laurel. You can’t stop now!”

Laurel laughed. “When you put it that way . . .”

Millay put both palms on the bar. “Olivia. I need some whole milk. Gabe only has half-and-half in this fridge,