A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

if the surgery is a success, that couple is going to talk funny for the rest of their lives.” She hesitated. “We can mull over the irony of that little detail later. First, I want to e-mail you the photo Laurel took at the hospital. You will not believe what it shows.”
    Olivia imagined Laurel using her new camera, fearful of being alone in the room with the wounded couple, yet determined to complete her assignment and pursue a career in journalism despite the many obstacles she faced.
    “File’s been sent,” Millay said. After a hesitation, she asked, “Did you skip town because of that blood test?”
    “Yes, but I did not test positive for a disease nor am I pregnant,” Olivia answered tersely. “I will tell you everything during our next meeting.”
    Millay grunted in disbelief. “Just call Laurel. She was freaking out over having to see the Donalds without you.”
    Smiling, Olivia promised to phone her friend. “Laurel needs to discover that she’s perfectly capable of doing this job without me or Steve or her in-laws giving her their blessing. Are you doing okay?”
    “Yeah. Harris is dragging me to look at the house he wants to buy. He wants me there to see if my BS meter goes off while the Realtor gives him a tour. And before you lecture me on being careful with him, you don’t need to worry. He’s dating that bimbo we met at the Regatta.”
    Olivia detected a note of jealously in Millay’s voice. “Let’s not forget that he built a giant gryphon boat in your honor. And he’s looking to you, not Estelle, to help him choose his first house. Just make sure to tell Harris not to sign any papers until I can have one of my contractors inspect every inch of that place.”
    After giving her promise, Millay rang off.
    It took a moment for Olivia to open the e-mail attachment on her phone, and when she saw Laurel’s photograph, her eyes widened. “I shouldn’t have jested about her winning the Pulitzer.”
    Laurel had captured Mr. and Mrs. Donald lying in twin hospital beds. Their room held no flowers, no balloons, or any other tokens from well-wishers. The couple looked alike. Short, gray hair, lined faces, pale skin, and gauze bandages protruding from their mouths.
    They stared at the camera with fierce conviction, their dark eyes daring the viewer to hold their gaze.
    Olivia couldn’t look away.
    Each of them held out a piece of white paper. On hers Mrs. Donald had written, LOVE IS FORGIVENESS in bold, block letters.
    Mr. Donald’s was shorter. It simply read, Forgive .
    The photograph was alive with the emotions of the injured parents. Despite their wounds, what radiated from the Donalds’ faces was not anger or regret, but a blend of sorrow and defiance. Despite everything that had happened, it was clear by their expressions that they would not be changed by what they’d gone through. No matter what their children had done, Mr. and Mrs. Donald would stand by their parenting decisions. In a sense, they were almost as creepy as Ellen and Rutherford.
    It was a powerfully disconcerting image.
    Olivia was grateful when Haviland brought her a tennis ball that he’d unearthed beneath a nearby bush. She put her phone in her pocket and tossed the ball away from the docks onto a stretch of grass.
    Summer had bleached the color from most of the island’s vegetation, but the local shopkeepers had filled wooden boxes and ceramic planters with an abundance of fall annuals so that the subdued colors of the village were punctuated with bright gold and crimson hues.
    Olivia had just thrown the ball for Haviland again when Caitlyn came running toward her. “He’s trying to talk!” she cried urgently.
    The child didn’t need to say anything else. Olivia raced back into the house and up the stairs.
    In the sick room, Hudson was leaning over the bed. Her father’s eyes were blinking rapidly and his mouth opened and closed like a fish on a boat deck. He twisted his head to the left and right, searching.
    “Dad!” Olivia cried and grabbed his hand, heedless of the IV wires or the presence of the other people in the room.
    Her voice seemed to puncture the film over his eyes and he found her face, seeing her clearly for the first time in thirty years.
    “Livie.” It was a whisper, the faintest breath of air.
    She’d never expected her name to pass over his lips again and to hear it spoken so softly, so unlike her memories of his constant angry shouting, that she smiled down on him.
    His tongue