A Deadly Cliche, page 2
“They have the look of mutated mushrooms about them, don’t they?” Olivia stroked the poodle’s head. She watched in amazement as her petite friend wrestled her twins into the double stroller, handed them each a snack bag of cheese crackers, and then fastened her long, wheat-blond hair into a perfectly smooth ponytail. Sighing with relief, she put her hands on her narrow hips, looking exactly like the high school cheerleader she once was, and waved for Olivia to follow her down the tool aisle.
“I am so behind in critiquing Harris’s chapter!” she exclaimed and then dropped her voice. “One of my neighbors was robbed and I’ve been a mess ever since! I feel like I need to buy a big knife and keep it under my mattress.” She touched one of the teeth on a shiny handsaw and then hastily withdrew her fingers.
Not so long ago, Olivia wouldn’t have been the slightest bit interested in Laurel’s trials and tribulations, but over the past few months, the oak-barrel heiress and the stay-at-home mom had become friends. In fact, Olivia counted all four of the Bayside Book Writers as friends. She was still trying to get used to the experience.
“Was anyone hurt?” she inquired as they walked deeper into the store.
Laurel pried a hammer out of Dermot’s hand. Or was it Dallas? Olivia couldn’t tell the two boys apart and she’d forgotten which child tended to wear shades of green and which one favored blue. “No, thank heavens, but they took everything of value. Jewelry, silver, art, electronics.”
Olivia placed several battery-powered lanterns in her cart. “Do your neighbors have a burglar alarm?”
Laurel nodded. “Yes. Most of the people in my neighborhood do.” She chewed her lip for a moment. “It might not have been turned on though. I mean, this happened in the middle of the day! I don’t put mine on to run out to the grocery store. And these guys must have been real professionals. There was no sign of a break-in and they didn’t even make a mess. Left some food on the kitchen counter but that’s it.” She glanced at Olivia with admiration. “I bet you never get scared, even though you live out on the Point all by yourself.”
Haviland whined petulantly.
“Oh! I wasn’t even thinking!” Laurel’s hands fluttered over her mouth as she received a withering stare from Olivia’s poodle. “Of course you don’t need to worry with such a magnificent guard dog watching over you!”
Appeased, Haviland resumed his thorough examination of the scents lingering around the battery and flashlight end cap.
“It’s just that Steve goes out of town all the time for dental conferences and seminars and I keep thinking about being alone in the house. The only weapon I know how to wield is a nail file.”
“Do your sons have wooden blocks? I bet they’d make excellent projectiles.” Olivia selected several packages of batteries. “Seriously, though. If you’ll feel better about having company, ask your in-laws to stay over. I’m sure they’d be delighted.”
Laurel rolled her eyes. “I’d rather be attacked by burglars.” Her pale blue eyes gleamed. “Actually, this topic gives me an idea for my next chapter.”
Olivia arched her brows. “Your duchess is going to be ravished by a handsome highwaymen?”
“No. I’m trying to avoid clichés, remember? But what if she’s captured by someone of the wrong class and grows to love him? A rogue with a Robin Hood complex. Things could get very complicated and very steamy.”
It was always a delight to see how animated Laurel became when she spoke of her writing. Olivia smiled. “And what of the poor, cuckolded duke?”
“He shouldn’t have taken his wife for granted!” Laurel declared heatedly and Olivia couldn’t help but wonder if they were still discussing a fictional couple or if the conversation had suddenly entered the realm of autobiography.
One of the twins crushed a cracker in his fist and scattered orange crumbs across the floor. “Now we won’t get lost,” he told his brother, who immediately followed suit.
“Boys!” Laurel balled her fists in frustration. “Mommy has told you not to leave trails when we’re inside.”
Olivia could see how the little boys might view their surroundings as being similar to an enchanted forest. They were in an aisle at the back of the store where the overhead lights failed to successfully illuminate the space. As a result, shadows hid in the crevices between lines of lawn rakes, brooms, shovels, and mops. From the perspective of the small boys, looking up into the steel and plastic rake tines and the bushy mop heads must have been akin to glancing up through the branches of a strange, magical wood.
Grabbing two glow sticks from her cart, Olivia cracked them until they radiated a phosphorescent yellow light and handed one to each twin. “These work better than breadcrumbs,” she whispered conspiratorially. The boys accepted the gift and stared at her in awe.
“You are so good with children,” Laurel gushed. “I can’t see why you don’t want any of your own.”
Olivia laughed, a sound rich and deep as the tolling of a bell in the distant sea. “I’m good with yours for about thirty seconds, but that’s only because they’re yours. Besides, one doesn’t have to know much about children to recognize intelligence. Your boys are smart and imaginative and I must admit, I enjoy the glint of mischief in their eyes.”
“It’s more than a glint,” Laurel murmured, but she was clearly pleased by the compliment. “Why are you filling your cart with emergency supplies?” she asked as they headed toward the checkout.
“I like to be prepared,” Olivia answered cryptically. Laurel had enough on her mind without having to worry about an impending storm. As Laurel tried to maneuver her stroller through the narrow checkout space, she looked very young and vulnerable to Olivia.
Unaware of their mother’s struggle, the twins giggled, sticking their glow sticks under their shirts and watching in scientific delight as the material in the center of their chests changed hue. It was as if their hearts had turned into little moons. Olivia reached out toward their firefly glow and tickled their chubby legs.
“Laurel,” she said, ignoring the cashier who waited for her to sign her credit card receipt. “When you get home, call a locksmith and find out if there’s anything you can do to make your home safer. Don’t take any chances.”
Clearly surprised by Olivia’s serious tone, Laurel hesitated, but she must have recognized the concern on her friend’s face, because she nodded and then pushed the stroller out the door.
“She’d be better off buyin’ a gun,” the man in line behind Olivia remarked. “Doesn’t her man have one?” he queried, making it apparent that any man who did not possess a firearm wasn’t a genuine male.
“Her husband’s a dentist. I believe he prefers other weapons.” Olivia accepted her bags from the cashier and flashed a wry grin at the man behind her. “But don’t worry. I could always loan her my rifle. I’ve got a Browning and she’s a beauty.”
As Olivia stepped outside, she heard the man murmur, “Damn, now that’s my kind of lady.”
As the sun hit her face, Olivia gave a slight smile. Some men loved a woman with her own weapon.
Chapter 2
If you must speak ill of another, do not speak it, write it in the sand near the water’s edge.
—NAPOLEON HILL
The Saturday before Labor Day promised to be sultry with a scattering of feathery clouds in a denim blue sky. The beaches of Oyster Bay would be packed with children and sun-worshippers, the harbor would be crammed with boats heading out for fishing trips or pleasure cruises, and every space in The Boot Top’s reservation log would be full.
Olivia was grateful to have the beach to herself this morning. She lived north of town and there was nothing but the lighthouse to capture the interest of vacationers. Even then, they had to be willing to traverse the gravel road leading to the landmark and pay a small fee for the privilege of being able to climb up the winding stairs to the main gallery.
From here, the view was spectacular. The ocean stretched endlessly into the distance until it blurred into a thin, blue line where it kissed the horizon. Ships of all sizes passed slowly across the water, and dark shadows indicative of large schools of fish provided contrast to the glittering surface waves.
This was the beauty of the lighthouse in the daytime, but only a select number of locals knew that its true magnificence was revealed when a storm front moved in or when the sun set and night fell over the ocean.
As a child, Olivia had often nicked the key from the absentminded keeper and had climbed the stairs to the watch. She would bring a book and an old towel to sit on and read as a million stars were born in the inky blackness overhead. When the sea had turned as dark as the sky, the water seemed to be pushing stars in Olivia’s direction and she felt cherished by the offering.
On other days, she’d crouch on the balcony, her blue eyes wide as heavy thunderclouds bore down upon the Point. She had traveled across the world, but never had she seen a sight more electrifying than forks of lightning bursting across the sky, endeavoring, or so it seemed, to pierce the very heart of the ocean.
Now, at a quarter past eight in the morning, the beach was deserted. The lighthouse didn’t open until ten and Olivia’s closest neighbors lived two miles up the beach and rarely ventured outside.
“What do you think we’ll find today, Captain?” she asked Haviland and lowered the Bounty Hunter Discovery 3300 metal detector to the ground.
The poodle shook his black ears and shot forward, unwilling to wait as his mistress fiddled with her noisy machine. There were gulls and sandpipers to chase and crabs that needed to be sent scuttling back into their sandy burrows.
Olivia adjusted the metal detector’s volume and began to walk, sweeping the disc in a slow and constant arc as she moved forward. After years of hunting for assorted treasures deposited onto the shore by generous waves, Olivia knew how to differentiate between the high bleeps signaling useless items like nails or bottle caps and the higher-pitched sounds indicating the presence of jewelry or coins.
She paused after half a mile and removed a bottle of water and a folding trench shovel from her backpack. After taking several swallows of water, she dug through the moist sand and uncovered two tokens for a children’s arcade located several towns away.
“Nothing exciting,” she told Haviland as he trotted over to examine her find. Still, she pocketed the tokens. Later, she would clean them with the same precision she’d apply to a priceless coin.
Olivia kept all her finds in jumbo pickle jars. Each one was labeled with the season and the year. During the winter months, she liked to sit on the floor of her cavernous living room and spill the contents onto her Aubusson rug. In front of a crackling fire in the wide stone hearth, Olivia would run her fingers over shotgun shells, rings, coins, and belt buckles, wondering about the lives of the owners as the salty smell of the sea drifted over the carpet.
Since childhood, Olivia had received gifts from the ocean. These days she had to search for them, but the long, quiet walks gave Olivia’s restless soul a measure of peace, and the steady whisper of the waves kept her company. The sea had taken her father from her, but that was the only time it had claimed anything belonging to her. Last summer, the currents had even delivered several clues that allowed her to assist the local police in solving a murder case.
As Olivia thought back on the violent death of her friend and fellow writer, she rounded a bend at the tip of the Point and hesitated. Normally, she’d turn back after this distance, driven by hunger and a desire for a second cup of coffee, but something urged her onward. The waves near her feet abruptly retreated, as though the tide had yanked them backward in order to let her pass. Up ahead, Olivia saw the glint of sunlight on metal.
“Haviland!” Olivia called and the poodle raced toward the twinkle, barking happily. “That dog loves a mystery,” she muttered to herself with a smile.
Her expression changed as Haviland’s bark became agitated. The poodle darted toward what appeared to be a child’s plastic bucket and then rapidly jumped away again. The large green bucket was planted in the sand as though someone was preparing to build the first of several castle turrets but had suddenly been called away.
“What is it, Captain?” Olivia watched her dog carefully. He was clearly repelled by the scent emanating from beneath the bucket, and as Olivia drew closer, the breeze shifted and she was nearly flattened by the stench.
“Holy Hell!” she covered her mouth and nose with her hand and winced. “What’s in there?”
Setting the metal detector on the ground, she approached the bucket warily.
“Did some kid trap a horseshoe crab?” She looked at Haviland, but he answered with an urgent bark. It was not a horseshoe crab.
Olivia searched for a stick. There were none by the water’s edge, so she climbed up the dunes and came back with a dried reed stalk. She paused to tie a bandana around the bottom half of her face, her breathing becoming shallower out of trepidation. The smell spoke of death and rot and things not meant to be exposed to the harsh light of the morning sun.
As she eased the reed under the lip of the bucket, it snapped in two. Olivia cursed, wanting to jump away from the odor and the scent of her own fear. Haviland was barking frantically now, driving Olivia to react quickly and decisively. She put a hand on each side of the bucket and whipped it off, releasing a fresh burst of putrid air.
Gagging, she stumbled backward, losing her footing and falling onto the sand with a soft thud. Haviland whined and rushed to her, his snout exploring her partially hidden face.
“I’m not hurt, Captain,” she said, turning away from the horrible thing on the beach. She lowered her mouth to the sand and breathed deeply. Once she had a lungful of air, she had to look back, to try to comprehend the atrocity she’d uncovered.
For surely that’s what it was. No other word could adequately describe the loose, waxy flesh, the torn pieces of skin, the drooping eyes, or the presence of half a dozen crabs, creeping over what was once a nose, a mouth, a cheek.
Fighting back the nausea rising in her throat, Olivia fixed her gaze at the ocean. It was there, pulsing and swelling, a symbol of constancy and saneness. The gurgle of the waves eventually gave her the strength to take a step closer.
The sight was just as gruesome as it had been at first glance. It was not a Halloween prop or a practical joke. It was a human head. Male, from what Olivia could tell, and it was rapidly decomposing in the heat and with assistance from the crabs.
“We need to get help,” Olivia told Haviland in a hoarse croak, her eyes flicking toward the incoming tide.
After a moment’s pause, she put the bucket back where she’d found it. There, in the middle of the pristine beach, it was almost possible to believe she’d imagined the horror it disguised. Yet the odor was not, could not, be concealed.
Death saturated the air, tainting the salt-laden wind. The decay was incongruent with the cloudless blue sky and sparkling sea and yet it was almost possible to imagine tendrils of stench, gray and puckered as octopus tentacles, creeping out from beneath the bucket.
Knowing time was against her, Olivia left her metal detector and backpack on the baking sand and began to run.
Chief Rawlings stared down at the distorted head with pity.
Olivia was certain that the sight and the smell of the thing repulsed him, but she knew that he was able to look beyond the horror and recall that what had been revealed after the removal of the green bucket was a human being. Was he thinking of the people who cared about this person, this misshapen memory of a man? A mother, a sister, a wife, or even a child. She wondered if Rawlings prayed that the victim was not anyone’s father. She could picture the chief walking slowly up a front path and stepping gingerly over a skateboard or a jump rope to knock on the door, his fist heavy on the wood. How much must it hurt him each time he was forced to crush a family under the weight of his news.
From her vantage point in the lee of a dune, Olivia noticed Rawlings stood back a ways from the team assisting the medical examiner, watching as they painstakingly removed the sand from the head, exposing a neck and finally, a set of shoulders.
“We got a whole body in here, Chief!” one of his officers shouted in excitement, as though Rawlings hadn’t reached the same conclusion. But the chief nodded in encouragement. He ruled the Oyster Bay Police Department with a mixture of gentleness and an unyielding demand for excellence. The men and women working under him stood up a fraction straighter and vowed to work a little harder whenever they were in his presence. In his late forties, Rawlings had a pleasant face and a bit of a paunch, which he tried to disguise under Hawaiian shirts when he wasn’t on the job.
Rawlings put his hand on his hips as his officers continued to scoop sand away from the body and then he turned and walked toward the dunes where Olivia and her black poodle sat waiting and watching.
“I’m sorry you had to be the one to find him,” Rawlings said.
Olivia put a hand on Haviland’s back. “Better me than some tourist,” she answered, her eyes searching the chief’s face. “Are there any clues as to why he was buried here?”
“We haven’t found anything around the body yet,” Rawlings admitted. “Why don’t you go on home? You’ve seen enough.”
He smiled warmly at her, but Olivia knew she was being given an order. “I’ll be at Grumpy’s critiquing Harris’s chapter in case you need me.” She stood, her body throwing a long, lean shadow over the hot sand.
Rawlings nodded. “I hope I have the opportunity to read his chapter before our meeting. Enjoy your late breakfast.” He paused and then added, “One of these days, I’d like to share a meal with you, Miss Limoges.” He looked at Haviland and dipped his chin. “And you too, Haviland. But for now, I’ll wish you both good morning.”
As the chief walked back to his men, Olivia saw him pull a handkerchief from his pocket and dab the perspiration from his forehead. She liked that Sawyer Rawlings was the type of man who would carry a handkerchief. He was old fashioned and believed strongly in traditions, but he was also a man of contradictions. He created beautiful paintings and read poetry, yet wore those dreadful Hawaiian shirts and ate junk food, letting his middle-aged body turn soft about the waist and hips. Olivia studied him for another minute, wondering exactly what it was about the man she found so intriguing.
