A Deadly Cliche, page 23
They remained like this for a full minute. Olivia had the absurd thought that they sounded like an expectant couple practicing Lamaze breathing techniques. She carefully straightened and looked at Rawlings. His face was inches from hers and his eyes had softened, returning to their muddy, pond green hue. “Thank you,” she murmured. “You came just in time.”
Rawlings glowered. “Yes, we did. That’s our job, remember? When you talked Laurel into investigating the Donald siblings, you put both of your lives in danger. All I asked you to do was to think about the meaning of the clichés! I didn’t ask you to lure the killers here!”
“They would have come for her anyway!” Olivia protested but silently felt the chief had spoken the truth. After all, the robbery victims were old enough to have attended Pampticoe High with both Ellen and Rutherford. Laurel was two years younger than the others and had only ridiculed Ellen. Her articles about the siblings may have drawn their attention to her. If she hadn’t started writing about them, it was likely they would never have remembered her at all. “Where is Laurel?” Olivia asked, needing to know that her friend was safe.
“Sitting in my car. She’s both shaken and plenty mad over having to stay behind while we charged in, but she’ll get over it.”
Olivia gave Rawlings a grateful smile. “I’m relieved she didn’t witness how this played out. By the time she comes back into the house, the Donalds will be gone and I’ll have this mess cleaned up.” She briefly gestured at the bloodsplattered floor and countertop.
She and Rawlings watched as one of Rawlings’ brawny officers fastened Ellen’s limp wrists together in front of her body using a plastic restraint and then the officer sat down beside her to wait for the paramedics to arrive.
“I like Ellen much better when she’s unconscious.” Olivia stood and wrestled with the child lock of the cabinet beneath the sink, searching for cleaning supplies.
“Get back in that chair. The only thing you’re doing is going to the hospital,” Rawlings commanded and waited until she was seated again. “This place is about to be invaded by EMTs and an army of cops. The scene must be thoroughly documented.”
“Then let Laurel take me to get stitched up,” Olivia said. “You know how slow emergency rooms are. By the time I’m finished, your team should be done here.”
Rawlings got down on his knees and put his hands on her shoulders. “Only if you promise to go straight there. No stopping to purchase a pound of raw liver for Haviland, though God knows the dog deserves it.” He glanced over at the poodle. “Well done, sir. You could show our K-9 unit a thing or two. Our department might need to look into those advanced canine training classes you took.”
Olivia was overwhelmed by the urge to kiss Sawyer Rawlings. She raised her good arm and put her palm flat against his rough cheek. “Haviland’s not my only hero,” she whispered and pulled his head toward hers. Closing her eyes, she pressed her lips against his lips and felt his hand slide up the skin of her neck. It came to rest at the nape but his fingertips stretched a bit higher, gently grabbing her hair and sending a ripple of heat through her body. She responded by opening her mouth more fully, inviting him to kiss her more deeply and with more urgency.
The tread of heavy footsteps reentering the house ruined the moment. They hastily broke apart, flushed and glassy-eyed with desire.
“Put your arm around my waist,” Rawlings directed huskily.
“I am perfectly capable of walking outside without assistance, thank you,” she answered stiffly, noting that the officers were watching their chief with interest.
Rawlings frowned. “Do as I say or I will carry you out.”
Feigning reluctance, Olivia allowed Rawlings to support her, but in truth she wanted to feel his touch, no matter what the circumstances were. She leaned into him, smelling coffee and soap and the sandalwood of his aftershave, and Haviland brought up the rear, looking as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
Outside, Laurel was pacing back and forth on the lawn. The cruisers bearing the Donald siblings were already gone.
“Oh, Olivia! Thank God!” Laurel ran to them, her eyes puffy from crying. She stared at the bloody dishtowels Rawlings held against Olivia’s upper arm. “What happened?”
“She has a deep laceration and needs to be taken to the hospital,” Rawlings said with perfect calm. “Can you drive her? I need to stay on site until the other officers arrive.”
Laurel nodded vigorously. “Of course!” Taking Olivia’s purse from the chief, she sprinted to the Range Rover and hopped into the driver’s seat.
As Rawlings opened the passenger door, Olivia leaned toward him and whispered, “Please make sure everything looks normal before she comes home. I know that’s not exactly your job, but I’m asking as a favor to me.”
With Laurel busy digging through Olivia’s purse for her keys, Rawlings felt free to brush Olivia’s neck with his lips. “Since you asked so nicely …” He then eased her into the car and opened the back door for Haviland.
“No stopping,” he told Laurel firmly. “No matter what she says.”
Laurel squared her shoulders. “Yes, Chief. I promise.”
Olivia had no intention of avoiding the hospital, but she asked Laurel to drop her off at the emergency room and take Haviland to the park.
“He’s not allowed inside anyway,” she reminded Laurel when her friend began to argue. She insisted on waiting until Olivia had registered and moved back to the triage area before driving off with Haviland.
The entire ordeal took over two hours. Olivia’s cut was deep enough to merit a layer of dissolvable stitches to help the rent tissue mend, followed by fifty-some sutures to knit her layers of skin back together. She received a tetanus shot, instructions on how to clean her wound, and an appointment for suture removal in ten days’ time.
During the ride back to Laurel’s house, Olivia’s arm throbbed mercilessly. She’d been given plenty of shots to kill the pain while the doctor cleaned and repaired her wound, but now there was a steady ache and her entire arm felt heavy and swollen. The nurse had given Olivia a sling, and though she hated to wear it, she couldn’t imagine letting her limb hang on its own.
Not only had Laurel let Haviland dash after the park’s squirrels to his heart’s content, but per Olivia’s request she’d taken him to the vet to ensure he had no injuries. As soon as Diane declared the poodle healthy as usual, Laurel called The Boot Top and asked Michel to prepare something special for the canine champion.
“My mother-in-law is picking up the twins so we can go straight to the restaurant,” Laurel said. “I’m in no rush to go home.”
Olivia leaned back against the headrest. “Good. I could use a drink.”
Being that it was past lunchtime, The Boot Top’s bar was empty and the lights were set to their daytime setting. Olivia immediately adjusted the dimmer slide until the room was plunged into semidarkness.
Taking up Gabe’s position behind the bar, she checked the ice supply and reached for a tumbler. “What’s your pleasure?” she asked Laurel.
“Normally, I’d say it’s way too early to be drinking, but I could easily slurp down a sea breeze or two.”
“Purely medicinal,” Olivia said, beginning to mix Laurel’s cocktail. “You’ve had a rather extraordinary morning after all.” She glanced at her friend in concern. “What does Steve have to say about all this?”
Laurel shrugged. “He doesn’t know yet. His whole office takes a long lunch hour, and when I called his cell, he didn’t answer. I told his folks that I was taking you to the hospital, but that’s as much information as I wanted to arm them with. They’ll be chewing me out soon enough.” She took a grateful sip of the fruity cocktail Olivia set on the bar.
“I’ll have what she’s having!” Millay called out as she strolled into the bar, Harris close on her heels.
Olivia paused in the middle of pouring out a generous measure of Chivas Regal. “This is a pleasant surprise. Have you both called in sick?”
Millay glanced at her watch. “I’ve got two hours before my shift starts and Harris snuck out of a meeting. We had to show up after Laurel called and told us what went down today.”
“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 cliché ‘the cat got your tongue’ was to be punished. They had an entire list of enemies to terrorize and a dozen more cliché 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 Cliché 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, so unless the chief wants to clog an artery before he starts giving Laurel here a bunch of stellar quotes, you’d better grab some from the kitchen.”
Olivia was about to walk away when Millay called her name again. “And some lab called. I pretended I was you and they told me that your blood test was positive.” She grinned. “You’re a little old to be getting knocked up, aren’t you?” She paused, seeing the stricken look on Olivia’s face.” Hey, I’m just messing with you. You’d have the smartest, best-looking, richest kid in town. You’d be single mother of the year! Olivia?”
It was all Olivia could do to wave off Millay’s ridiculous assumption and continue on toward the kitchen. She could feel every eye upon her as she walked away, yet the simple act of putting one foot in front of another was remarkably difficult.
The entire kitchen staff had arrived and had begun preparations for a busy Friday night. Olivia moved through the activity and chatter like a zombie. The milk was forgotten. Rawlings was forgotten. The throbbing in her arm came at her from a great distance.
