A Deadly Cliche bbtbm-2

by Ellery Adams

  His mouth curved into the ghost of a grin. “I’d have thought it was a joke coming from another man, but Dad wasn’t much for telling jokes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me when I first got here?”

  He shrugged. “He wanted to be the one to do it. I almost told you when you first came in, but it seemed real important to him.”

  Olivia nodded. She liked that Hudson could hold things close to his chest.

  “Have you ever thought of living elsewhere?” she asked him after finishing a delicious dinner of grilled grouper and homemade hush puppies.

  He nodded as he plated steamed muscles and handed them off to Kim. “All the time. I want my kids to have more than I had growing up here.”

  Olivia watched Kim pass through the swing door, a heavy platter in each hand. “And your wife?”

  “She doesn’t have it easy, but it’s all we’ve got.”

  Olivia poured Hudson a shot of whiskey and handed him a glass. Raising her own she said, “Perhaps we can change that. Together. I’m turning an old warehouse into the Bayside Crab House. My problem is that I don’t have anyone to run the place. Do you think you’d be interested?”

  Hudson stared at her and then he grinned. “Hell, yeah, I’d be interested.”

  “Then let’s toast to our father with his favorite drink and after this shot, we don’t have to look back ever again. We can start over. All of us.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  “To the future,” Olivia said.

  The siblings clinked their glasses and drank.

  With the whiskey still warming her belly, Olivia stood at the end of the Salter’s dock waiting to board the boat she’d hired to take her back to Oyster Bay.

  She’d called Rawlings and asked him to meet her at the lighthouse keeper’s cottage.

  “I really need to see you,” was all she’d given him by way of explanation. To her immense relief and gratitude, he’d asked no questions but promised to be there, waiting for her.

  All traces of daylight were nearly gone when the small craft motored past Oyster Bay’s lighthouse. Olivia had removed her watch and shoes and had her pant legs rolled up, fully prepared to hoist her overnight bag onto her shoulder and disembark near the sandbar. Haviland was quivering with anticipation, eager to get wet and to return to the gourmet fare he knew was stocked inside his house on the bluff.

  A figure appeared on the beach and Olivia waved as she recognized Rawlings. He shielded his eyes against the setting sun, mimicking the pose of the carving Olivia’s father had made for his little girl.

  The man at the helm cut the motor. They drifted gently toward the sandbar.

  In the twilight, the only sound was the lapping of the water against the hull. Olivia handed the captain some cash, put her purse in her overnight bag, and slung it over her good shoulder. Accepting the captain’s hand, she prepared to put one leg over the side, but Haviland sprang forward, splashing them both as he leapt into the water.

  “It’s all right, boy, a little salt water never hurt nobody!” the man called out with a chuckle. For some reason, his words caused Olivia to recall the photograph Laurel had taken of Mr. and Mrs. Donald in their hospital beds. More specifically, her mind’s eye focused on the word written on their signs.

  “Forgive,” Olivia whispered.

  She fixed her eyes on the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, seeking out the window of her girlhood room. The restless spirits had been laid to rest. It was time to forgive and to move on.

  Olivia glanced at Rawlings and then at the lighthouse towering above him.

  The beacon flashed, forming a luminous path on the surface of the water, welcoming her to the shore.

  Turn the page for a preview of Ellery Adams’s next Books by the Bay Mystery . . .

  The Last Word

  Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!

  Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.

  —CHARLES DICKENS

  “All houses have secrets.”

  Olivia Limoges was surprised to hear such an enigmatic statement from her contractor, but there wasn’t a hint of humor on Clyde Butler’s weathered face. Perhaps the seasoned builder was merely trying to make a point to the eager first-time home buyer who stood nearby, one arm wrapped possessively around the porch post.

  Harris Williams gazed toward the front door of the aged bungalow with a look of pure devotion, and Olivia could tell he was already visualizing himself living there.

  “Regardless of what you’ve discovered, Clyde, I don’t think you can talk Harris out of purchasing this place,” Olivia stated with amusement. “He’s clearly fallen in love.”

  Captain Haviland, Olivia’s standard poodle, sniffed around the foundation of the 1930s home and then trotted around the corner, conducting a canine version of a house inspection.

  Wearing a hopeful grin, Harris watched the poodle until Haviland disappeared from view, and then picked at a flake of peeling paint with his fingernail. “Everyone thinks I’m crazy, but I can feel that this place has history. That’s important to me. There’s more character in this rusty nail than in all the other places I’ve seen put together.”

  Olivia surveyed the façade of the two-bedroom bungalow. It had whitewashed brick walls and rows of large windows with black shutters. Olivia’s favorite feature was the wide and welcoming front porch. Leaves had gathered in between the railings and there were rents and holes in the screen door, but the slate steps felt solid under her feet. She’d been inside with Harris a few days ago and had liked the house. Harris was right. The place had a warm personality. Its modest design spoke of simpler times, of family traditions, of hard work and perseverance. She believed Harris was making a good choice.

  Harris continued to defend the bungalow even though no one had argued with him. “I’ve seen a dozen new houses in my price range and yeah, sure, they all had pristine white walls and stainless steel appliances and shiny light fixtures to go along with the flat lawns and four little bushes and a pair of ornamental trees, but they had zero personality.” He puffed up his cheeks. “They were all like the straw house from The Three Little Pigs, but the wolf doesn’t stand a chance against this place. It’s a rock.”

  Clyde nodded. On this, he and Harris agreed. He gestured toward the front door. “If you want strong bones and a solid foundation, you’ll find them here. Houses are like women. The new ones might seem attractive because no one’s touched them and you feel like they’ll treat you well without giving you an ounce of trouble.” A snort. “But they’re built out of cheap materials and will start falling down the second you move in. This old girl is sagging in places and, yes, she’s a bit wrinkled, but she can be made over until she looks like a June bride. She’ll be faithful to the end, but it’ll take lots of labor and expense on your part, my boy.”

  Harris’s grin expanded. “Did you know that all the houses on this street were moved during the late sixties to make way for the highway’s expansion? Twelve houses were trucked right down Main Street and brought back to this stretch of empty land like horses being set free on an open pasture.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes. “This is one of those times I’m thankful you write science fiction, Harris. If you had put a metaphor like that in your recent chapter, I would have sliced it out with a box cutter.”

  Harris pushed a strand of unruly, ginger-colored hair away from his eyes. His looks were often compared to those of Peter Pan, and Harris was constantly striving to prove that he was a man, not a boy. Olivia knew her friend believed that being a homeowner would make him appear more of a bona fide adult, and he certainly behaved like he wanted to acquire this house without delay.

  As though sensing her thoughts, Harris eased back the sleeves of his shirt and flexed his left bicep. “This property has half an acre bordering on three more acres of woodland. Think of all the manly man activities I can do here. I can chop wood, refinish furn
iture, spackle walls, grout tile!” He held out his arms, encompassing the house. “I’ll be like Ty Pennington. A bachelor handyman with mad computer skills to boot! Before you know it, I’ll have my own reality show.”

  Clyde shook his head. “Before you start rewiring ceiling fans and installing AC units, we’d better go over my inspection list.”

  The two men moved into the house, which Harris’s real estate agent had unlocked a few minutes earlier before retreating to the comfort of her Cadillac. Her daughter, who happened to be nine months pregnant, had phoned shortly after the Realtor had turned the key in the front door. Gesturing for the threesome to enter without her, she’d hurriedly rushed off to take the call in the privacy of her car.

  Inside the bungalow, Harris listened carefully as Clyde pointed out flaw after flaw, from the presence of mold behind the wallpaper to wood rot on the stair treads. Pulling back a corner of the stained and faded blue carpet running down the stairs and into the living room, Clyde showed Harris a series of water stains and areas of damage permeating the subfloor. From there, the contractor reviewed every item in his report, explaining how to address each problem and offering an estimate as to what it would cost to fix.

  When they were finished, Olivia joined them on the back patio. Haviland reappeared from a copse of trees and settled on his haunches, his warm, caramel-colored eyes darting from one face to another, his mouth hanging open in a toothy smile.

  Harris rubbed the black curls on the poodle’s neck and then walked over to the brick retaining wall and sat down. He gazed first at the house and then toward the woods, which bordered the scraggly patch of lawn.

  Winter’s chill had abated for good and the sun lit the pines, dappling the soft needles on the forest floor with a ruddy light. Squirrels raced up and down the rough bark and birds twittered from the branches.

  Olivia sat beside Harris on the wall, relishing the peacefulness of the moment. Her life had had little quiet of late, and this patio of cracked flagstones surrounded by a garden of weeds was an oasis of blissful calm.

  Clyde’s focus remained on the house. He glanced from his notes to the structure and back at Harris. “I know I took some of the wind out of your sails, boy, but I don’t want you to think this is going to easy. She’s going to make demands of you, but all houses do. In the end, she’ll be worth the work you’re going to have to put in.”

  Harris smiled, his cheeks dimpling with pleasure. “And you’ll help me find the right guys to do the jobs I can’t figure out how to do?”

  After a solemn nod, Clyde jerked his thumb at Olivia. “I’d get in here with my own toolbox if my taskmaster would let up on me for just a day or two, but she’s hellbent on opening her Bayside Crab House by Memorial Day weekend.”

  “So that’s why you’ve been so interested in real estate lately,” Harris said. “You must be scoping out houses for your brother and his family.”

  “Half brother,” Olivia corrected tersely. “And it’s not for me to decide where they’re going to live. I just thought I’d rule out the duds to save time. I need Hudson to review the final kitchen layout for the restaurant, and if he’s running all over Oyster Bay comparing three-bedroom properties we’re sure to fall behind deadline.”

  Clyde gave Harris a meaningful look. “See what I mean? We should send her to Washington. She’d have the deficit licked and both our jobs and our soldiers back from overseas before the lawmakers knew what hit ’em.”

  Olivia grimaced. “I could never subsist on such a paltry salary. Let’s go, gentlemen. I believe Harris has an offer to submit before this day is done.”

  Millicent Banks, Harris’s real estate agent, was parked alongside the curb in front of the picturesque bungalow, still chatting on her cell phone as her prospective buyer walked through the house for the third time.

  Olivia was pleased to have been left alone with Harris and Clyde. Millicent was a shrewd saleswoman, and Olivia didn’t want the Realtor to talk their ears off the whole time. One could only glean the true sense of a house in absolute silence. It was a feeling really. A hunch.

  Having stood side by side with Harris inside the sturdy bungalow, Olivia saw no reason to dissuade her friend from submitting a bid, and as the amicable young software designer waved good-bye to Clyde and approached Millicent’s Caddy, the look on his face made it clear that his Realtor was about to make a sale.

  Olivia smiled as Millicent hastily completed her phone call and sat back against the supple leather of her seat with an nearly inaudible sigh of satisfaction. Millicent was also the listing agent on this house and stood to make a tidy commission on the property, and while Olivia admired the older woman’s drive, she didn’t want her friend to pay a single cent over what she deemed to be a fair price for the house.

  “Can we go back to your office and draw up the papers?” Harris asked as he jumped in the car.

  Millicent was about to answer when Olivia leaned against the open passenger door. She gestured for Harris to come close and then whispered a figure into his ear.

  “In this market, that’s a solid offer,” she said firmly and then acknowledged Millicent’s presence with a polite nod. “Fixing this place up will put a strain on his savings account as it is,” she fixed her sea-blue gaze on Millicent. “The Bayside Book Writers need him to have enough money left over to buy coffee and printer paper, so I’ve given him my recommendation on what I consider to be a fair price. I’m sure there’s wiggle room to be had, seeing as you represent the sellers as well. Am I right?”

  “Of course!” Millicent readily agreed and plastered on her best saleswoman grin. “Any friend of yours is a friend of mine.”

  “That’s good to know.” Olivia tapped on the Caddy’s hood as though giving Millicent permission to drive away. She then whistled for her poodle and strode to her Range Rover, casting one last glance at the house Harris longed to call his own.

  Inside her SUV, she noted the time on the dashboard clock and cursed. She was supposed to meet April Howard for a business lunch at Grumpy’s Diner to go over paint and carpet colors for the Bayside Crab House, and was now sure to be late. Olivia hated tardiness. She preferred to arrive for any prearranged meeting at least ten minutes ahead of schedule. Now she’d have to rush downtown, search for a parking spot along Main Street, and hope that April had secured Olivia’s favorite window booth before anyone else could.

  With the onset of spring, tourists had begun streaming back to Oyster Bay. The coastal North Carolina town was already thirty degrees warmer than many northern locales, and the pale-faced, sun-starved vacationers had been counting down the days until their children’s schools let out for spring break. Bypassing long flights to Cancun, Caribbean cruises, and the chaos of Disney World, the residents of a dozen snow-covered states opted for the quiet beauty of Oyster Bay instead.

  Ditching heavy parkas in favor of T-shirts and sunglasses the moment they arrived, the vacationers hopped aboard rental bicycles and pedaled merrily through town, passing yards filled with blooming dogwood trees, pink 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 Havil
and 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 décor 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.”