A Deadly Cliche

and purple azalea bushes, and oceans of daffodils. The lawns were Ireland-green and the buzzing of industrious bees and hummingbirds blended with the tourists’ contented sighs.

The locals were equally relieved to see the last of what had been a particularly long and damp winter. Oyster Bay’s economy depended heavily on tourism, and a dry and sunny spring meant replenishment for the town’s depleted coffers.

Olivia Limoges was landlady to many downtown merchants, but she spent most of her time overseeing the management of her five-star restaurant, The Boot Top Bistro. Today, she drove right by the entrance, searching for a parking spot closer to Grumpy’s Diner, but decided on a space in a loading zone.

A middle-aged dwarf wearing roller skates and pigtail braids met her at the diner’s door. “As I live and breathe!” Dixie Weaver declared, waving at her flushed face with her order pad. “Miss Punctuality is late!”

Frowning at her child-sized friend, Olivia stepped aside as Haviland entered the diner. He placed his black nose under Dixie’s palm and gazed up at her in adoration.

“You sure know how to turn on the charm, Captain.” Dixie ruffled the poodle’s ears and then accepted one of his gentlemanly kisses on the back of her hand. “I know you’re just anglin’ for a juicy steak or some turkey bacon, but I’m the closest thing you’ve got to a godmother so I might as well spoil you silly!”

It was unlikely that Haviland had heard anything beyond the word ‘bacon’ as he’d turned tail and made for Olivia’s customary window booth before Dixie could finish speaking, but the diner proprietor gave him an indulgent smile nonetheless.

“You’re certainly in a good mood,” Olivia said, still holding the door. An elderly couple shuffled in and headed for the Evita booth.

Dixie had a strange fascination for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musicals. As a result she’d plastered Broadway paraphernalia on every inch of available wall space. Each booth had its own unique theme, and while most patrons found the decor charming, Olivia did not share in her friend’s Webber Worship.

Her eyes gleaming with excitement, Dixie looked over her shoulder and then whispered, “You’d be happy as a cat in tuna factory too, if you knew whose lovely, rich buns were planted on the leather in the Cats booth.”

Olivia stole a glance at the middle-aged man dining on a chicken salad sandwich and a mountain of fries. He looked vaguely familiar but she couldn’t place him. “He’s handsome in a bookish sort of way. An older version of Brad Pitt in spectacles. I suppose he’s a celebrity since you’re this flustered. Let me guess. He played the lead in Jesus Christ Superstar?”

Placing a hand over her heart, Dixie released a dramatic sigh. “You’ve got the wrong field, but he does work in the arts. Keep guessin’. He’s good-lookin’, smart, is in great shape for a man in his fifties, has got the Midas touch, and I just read in People that he sold the film rights to his famous book for a figure with lots and lots of zeros.”

Now Olivia knew the identity of the diner. “Ah, it’s Nick Plumley, Booker Prize-winning author of the international bestseller, The Barbed Wire Flower. I wonder if he’s here conducting research. The Internet’s been rife with rumors regarding a sequel, and his groundbreaking novel was set down the road in New Bern.”

“You’ll have plenty of chances to ask him,” Dixie replied enigmatically. When Olivia didn’t rise to the bait by asking her how, the diner proprietor gave an irritated tug to her sequin-covered lavender top. “You’re about as fun as a preacher at a strip joint, but I’ll tell you anyhow. Mr. Plumley’s rented a house down the beach from your place. You two can bump into each other on a lonely stretch of sand.” Her eyes were shining with mischief. “There’ll be an instant spark between you. Passion will ignite! You’ll tear off your clothes and have wild, steamy—”

“Dixie! You’d better go. The lady in the Evita booth is waving her menu at you. I promise to ogle Mr. Plumley during my meeting with April, but we both have far too much work to do for me to stand here staring at him any longer.” Olivia turned away.

“First you dump Oyster Bay’s most eligible bachelor, and now you don’t give a fig that a gorgeous, unattached, and gifted writer is sittin’ ten feet away, ripe and ready for the pluckin’.” Dixie muttered loudly enough for Olivia to hear. “Maybe what folks say is true: you do have ice runnin’ through your veins.”

“A large cup of your excellent coffee should clear that ailment right up. You can decide what I want for lunch too. You always seem to know what’s best,” Olivia said over her shoulder and then greeted April Howard, the woman in charge of interior design for the Bayside Crab House.

Olivia and April spread swatches of fabric, paint palettes, and carpet samples across the booth, barely leaving room for their lunch plates. April had chosen Grumpy’s famous country fried steak, and Olivia was envious of the lightly battered meat smothered in gravy until Dixie appeared with her lunch—a generous wedge of cheese, shrimp, and mushroom quiche, Olivia only had to taste one bite of the golden crust to know that she’d been given the superior dish.

After serving the two women, Dixie lingered at their booth. She gave Haviland a platter of ground sirloin mixed with rice and vegetables and then asked after April’s kids. She voiced her opinion on the array of fabric samples, picking the gaudiest one of the lot and chiding Olivia for being too conservative.

“This place should be lively! Red, white, and blue with a few disco balls here and there!” Dixie exclaimed. “Where’s your sense of adventure? Folks are gonna be crackin’ crab claws with little mallets and tearin’ at the meat with their front teeth. This isn’t fine dinin’, you know.”

“We’ll have checkered tablecloths,” April said with a conciliatory smile. “But we need to keep the wall color relatively neutral because we plan to hang dozens of nautical flags in place of framed photographs or posters. Trust me, it’ll be bright and busy.”

“Bright and busy, huh? Just how I like my men,” Dixie joked and skated away to clear dishes from the countertop.

Olivia concluded her business with April, insisted on paying for lunch, and then remained behind while her employee left to make phone calls to suppliers before meeting her kids’ school bus.

Watching April jog across the street, Olivia recalled how she’d first met the talented designer. Last September, April’s husband had been murdered and Olivia had been involved in the investigation. She’d appeared at the Howard’s home in search of a clue and had found one that helped break the case wide open.

Slowly, April was healing from the devastating loss. She often called in sick and on those days Olivia guessed the mother of three had been assaulted by a wave of grief too potent to overcome. Olivia knew plenty about the grieving process and was fully aware that time wasn’t the consummate healer people claimed it to be. There were stretches of time in which the pain surfaced with such a raw and unexpected power, that it crippled the grief- stricken until it required an immense feat of strength just to get out of bed.

“You did a good thing, takin’ her on.” Dixie had appeared bearing a fresh carafe of coffee.

Olivia waved off the suggestion. “I needed an interior designer and she needed a job. Nothing more to it than that.”

Dixie snorted. “You’re a transparent as a ghost, ’Livia. I know you’re payin’ for her kids to be on that special soccer team. Fixed it up to look like some kind of sports scholarship, but you can’t fool this dwarf.”

Olivia put her fingers to her lips. “Don’t tell anyone about that. April isn’t looking for handouts.”

The bells above the diner door tinkled and a man wearing a pale blue blazer strolled in. Both women recognized the logo on the name tag pinned to the man’s lapel. Engraved with a beach house, a lone wave, and the words Bayside Realty, the tag indicated that Randall McGraw had come to Grumpy’s to meet with a prospective client. He headed straight for Nick Plumley’s booth and, after shaking the author’s hand, pulled a sheet of paper from a yellow folder bearing the realty’s name and placed it reverently on the table.

Dixie and Olivia exchanged curious glances.

“What are you waiting for?” Olivia hissed. “Get those wheels spinning! I’m dying to know which property he’s looking at.”

With a toss of her bleach-blonde pigtail braids, Dixie zipped over to Nick’s table, held out the order pad she only pretended to use as she’d never forgotten an order in her life, and beamed at the real estate agent. She then took her time clearing Nick’s plate and finally skated into the kitchen.

Before Dixie had the chance to report back to Olivia, Nick was pulling bills from his wallet. He collected the