A Deadly Cliche (20 page)

Olivia finished reading the chapter without pausing to make notes. She needed to know that Tessa had succeeded in vanquishing the sea witch before jotting comments on word choice or passages in which she wanted more detail. At times, Olivia felt that Millay’s writing was too fast paced and wished her friend would learn to ease back on the narrative throttle. Tessa was a fascinating character, but it was difficult to get to know her because she was always on the move.

Let us in,
Olivia wrote at the end of the chapter.
What is Tessa feeling? Even when she defeats the sea witch, she just flies off into the sunset. I know she’s exhausted from the experience, but you’re keeping the reader at a distance by not sharing what’s going on in Tessa’s mind.

The phone rang again, but by this time Olivia was ready for a break. When she saw Will Hamilton’s number on her caller ID box, she snatched the receiver from the cradle.

“I hope you have news for me, Mr. Hamilton,” she said.

The private investigator cleared his throat, which Olivia sensed was a sign that he was about to impart bad news.

“Mr. Burkhart picked up the package in question at quarter past eleven on Thursday morning. While still inside The UPS Store, he examined your return address carefully, and then tossed the envelope on the passenger seat of his truck. It’s been there ever since.”

“That’s it?” Olivia didn’t bother to hide her irritation.

“He made a phone call as soon as he got in the truck but the package has remained unopened.”

This surprised Olivia. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Hamilton paused. “And seeing as that envelope contains a thousand bucks in cash, I’d say Mr. Burkhart isn’t exactly hurting for money. Either that or he’s holding the envelope for a third party.”

Olivia considered the latter theory. “You may be on to something there.” She sighed. “I haven’t been completely forthcoming with you, Mr. Hamilton, but it’s high time I was. When I first hired you, I was afraid that I was being made a fool of, but now I’m so confused that I don’t know what to think. I have no interest in entering into a business arrangement with Rodney Burkhart. That was an untruth.” Having confessed as much, she told the private investigator about the letter she’d received concerning her father.

“I’ve handled dozens of missing persons cases, ma’am,” Will answered solemnly when she was done. “They rarely have happy endings.”

“I want to know who sent me this damned letter! And I want to know
why
! Is this only about money or is there some possibility that my father is alive?” Olivia felt her cheeks flush in indignation. “After all this time, to have this wound reopened . . .” She struggled to steady her voice. “Mr. Hamilton, I need closure. Once and for all. Keep watching Mr. Burkhart. I can wait a little longer to see where that envelope ends up and it’s well worth the cost of your services if you can identify the bastard who’s ruined any chance I have of a sound night’s sleep!”

The private investigator heard her anguish. “I won’t let you down, ma’am. On my honor, I’ll find out who’s behind this.”

Satisfied, Olivia hung up and went upstairs to change into a silver-hued sheath dress and a necklace of large turquoise stones. The Boot Top would soon be packed with tourists in town for the Cardboard Regatta and she wanted to be present to ensure that her restaurant sparkled like Oyster Bay’s crown jewel.

She’d barely had time to settle Haviland in her office before patrons began streaming into the bar. Most of the Cardboard Regatta participants attended the race year after year and had come to know one another on a first-name basis. In general, they were an extremely friendly and funloving group and the locals were glad to have them.

Gabe was hugged and kissed like a long-lost relative and Olivia received her fair share of hearty handshakes and embraces as well. Wine, beer, and cocktails were consumed in hedonistic amounts and the noise in The Boot Top’s dining room escalated beyond its traditional murmurs and soft laughter. As the evening progressed, the competitors exchanged boisterous boasts and taunts while the wait staff scurried about, frantically trying to keep glasses filled and to set course after course of Michel’s exquisite fare in front of the diners.

Saturday promised to be even more hectic. The Bayside Book Writers were planning to watch the races and then gather for a midafternoon critique session. Millay had to be at Fish Nets earlier than usual and Olivia wanted to be at The Boot Top by six, so their time together was limited.

The regatta was Oyster Bay’s last tourist-driven revenue generator until spring returned, and by nine o’clock Saturday morning, there wasn’t a parking space to be found within miles of the harbor.

The downtown merchants had dressed their store windows with the deft touch of Fifth Avenue designers. The flower planters lining the streets were bursting with a vibrant mix of gold lantana and red geranium, and canvas flags celebrating the Cardboard Regatta hung from every signpost. The streets closest to the docks had been closed to automobile traffic and local vendors were selling a variety of wares, from beaded necklaces to handmade ceramics to funnel cakes, at a rapid rate.

Olivia and Haviland strolled among the tourists, enjoying the September sunshine and a strong sense of community pride. One would never know that Ophelia had done her best to cripple the town. Every piece of broken glass or tattered shingle had been replaced. New coats of paint freshened front doors and shutters, and the sidewalks had been swept until they glimmered in the late morning light.

Unable to resist buying roasted corn on a stick, Olivia chewed on the salty, buttery snack until her attention was caught by a display of oil paintings. She recognized Sawyer’s work immediately.

“Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” a woman asked, looking up from a book of crossword puzzles. Her gaze was friendly and warm, but sharpened slightly as she recognized the tall woman with the white blond hair. “Ms. Limoges. I don’t believe we’ve ever met. I’m Jeannie, Sawyer’s sister.”

Olivia reached out to shake Jeannie’s hand. She was a handsome woman closing in on fifty, with a trim figure and soft waves of auburn hair.

“I was hoping you’d stop by,” Jeannie said. “Sawyer put me in charge of giving something to you.” She lifted the skirt of the cobalt tablecloth and peered around. “Now where did I put that thing?”

While she hunted, Olivia examined the paintings. Much smaller than the chief’s usual works, they were all simplistic beach scenes. Though skillfully executed, they lacked the central object or figure Sawyer traditionally placed in his large-scale paintings. However, the tourists thronged around the booth, looking over this work with keen interest. A husband and wife grabbed a painting each and entered into a good-natured debate over whether to purchase a landscape of the beach at sunset or a painting of three children flying kites along the water’s edge.

“What the hell, let’s get them both!” the man declared and was rewarded with a kiss from his spouse.

Meanwhile, Jeannie had found what she’d been looking for. “Give me a sec to take care of these lovebirds first. I don’t want to miss your reaction to this,” she added with a wink.

Turning away to toss out her corncob, Olivia felt an inexplicable impulse to walk away. She could disappear within seconds and simply allow the throng to carry her off like a powerful current. What had Sawyer entrusted to his sister? Olivia doubted he wanted to pass along information regarding the robbery cases and it was unlikely that his chapter had been rewritten and was now ready for her perusal, so what
was
Jeannie about to deliver? Olivia thought of how Sawyer had placed her hand on his chest and her face grew warm. If only she could be alone with him again, to figure out why he possessed the ability to stir her feelings as no one else had before.

“Here we are!” She carefully reached over a group of paintings displayed on wooden easels in order to place a rectangular package in Olivia’s hands. “Go on, open it, honey.”

Olivia obeyed, peeling away the brown butcher paper enveloping a canvas. When she saw the image, she cried out in surprised delight. “Haviland!” She put her fingertips on the layers of dried paint Rawlings had used to form her poodle’s black curls. There were Haviland’s intelligent, smiling eyes, the color of golden caramel, and his toothy grin. His seated posture was somehow as dignified as a king’s and as jaunty as a rogue’s.

“It’s amazing!” Olivia exclaimed, her throat tight with emotion. When she spoke again, her voice was a mere breath, barely audible above the multitude of tourists. “It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen, let alone been given.”

Jeannie’s eyes, which were the same shape as her brother’s but more green than hazel, sparkled with pleasure. “He’ll be glad to hear that.”

Tenderly rewrapping the small painting in its protective layer of butcher paper, Olivia moved closer to Jeannie. “Why didn’t he give this to me himself?”

“Oh, some stuff and nonsense over having to be on duty right up until the start of your writer’s meeting and that wasn’t the time or the place to give it to you anyhow and blah, blah, blah.” Jeannie shook her head in exasperation. “The man cares for you. It’s plain as day, but he’s afraid of having feelings for anyone after what he went through with his wife.”

“If he doesn’t feel, he won’t get hurt.” Olivia understood his rationale.

Jeannie nodded. “I suspect you know a bit about that fool notion.”

She began to tape the corners of the butcher paper together and then slid the painting into a grocery bag. She set the bag gently on the table and smoothed the paper as though she were petting a cat.

“I was a teenager when your daddy went missing. I remember seeing your grandmother’s fancy car motoring through town. I figured she must be a movie star to have her own driver.” Jeannie smiled at the memory. “Do you know what? I was actually jealous of you. You rode off in that big, black car and it seemed so glamorous to me, like you were going to live a real life while the rest of us stayed here and rotted.” She reached out and touched Olivia’s arm. “I was a silly girl then. But after you came back, I wish I’d had the guts to walk up and tell you that I’d wondered about you over the years, that I’d always prayed you were okay.”

Embarrassed by the other woman’s sincerity, Olivia looked away. “I did lead a glamorous existence to some extent. I ate croissants at a sidewalk café near the Eiffel Tower, climbed on the pyramids at Giza, felt the spray of Victoria Falls on my face . . .” She trailed off. “But I would have traded it all for another day with my mother or to have had a brother or sister. Someone to share a bedroom with, to whisper to when we were supposed to be asleep.”

The loneliness of her childhood—all those years spent with only imaginary playmates as she drifted from room to room or wandered the grounds of one of her grandmother’s several mansions—came back in force. Jeannie must have recognized the sadness flit over Olivia’s features and immediately sought to dispel the gloom.

“Well, you’re back where you belong now,” she declared brightly. “And I hear you bought the old cotton mill.” Jeannie gestured vaguely in the direction of Olivia’s new property.

Grateful for the change of subject, Olivia nodded. “Yes. My offer was accepted yesterday. I plan to open a crab house this spring.”

“That’s good. More jobs for the locals and another of the town’s landmarks that won’t slide into the sea.” Jeannie’s attention was caught by a girl dancing to a bluegrass tune coming from the radio at the next booth. “Are you going to have music?”

Olivia smiled. “Oh, yes! Live bands, a cappella groups, jazz ensembles, all kinds of music.”

Jeannie scrawled something on a piece of scrap paper. “You call me when you’re ready to book bands. My son’s been doing church gigs for the past two years and he’s pretty good. His band can play anything from The Rolling Stones to Jimmy Buffet to Dave Matthews. Cody’s a high school sophomore but has been putting away money for college since he was in the third grade.” Her eyes shone with pride. “Me and his father had two years of junior college and that was enough for us, but Cody wants to be like his uncle Sawyer.”

“Not a bad role model,” Olivia answered and then stepped away to allow a new wave of customers to view the chief’s paintings. “It’ll take months to get the place ready, but I promise to put your son’s name on the top of the audition list. What’s his band called?”

“Excelsior,” Jeannie said and then shrugged. “Whatever
that
is.”

A man in overalls seemed frightened to approach the table where Haviland stood so Olivia put a hand on the poodle’s collar, drawing him closer to her side. “Excelsior means ‘ever higher.’ I wonder if Cody’s read the Longfellow poem with that title.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. My brother is always buying that boy books and CDs and sports gear. Spoils him rotten.” Olivia wasn’t fooled by Jeannie’s pretense of disapproval. “Sawyer would have made a fine daddy, but I guess that just wasn’t part of the Lord’s plan.” She met Olivia’s eyes. “But I hope
you
are.” And with that, she turned to assist an eager customer.

Clutching her painting, Olivia wandered toward the harbor and the launching area of the cardboard boats. Her mind was full of thoughts of Sawyer. What did she really know of his private life? Of his childhood? Had he lain in his bed reading Longfellow? Somehow, she could picture him doing just that, for the poem was a tribute to the courage and perseverance of a young man. Did Rawlings see himself as that boy, trudging onward and upward through the frigid night, his throbbing arms refusing to lay down the banner of Excelsior?

Before her grandmother shipped her off to an exclusive all-girl boarding school, Olivia had had to memorize the poem for one of her many tutors. The words tiptoed back into her memory.