A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

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

    “A ll 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