A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

house Harris longed to call his own.
    Inside her SUV, she noted the time on the dashboard clock and cursed. She was supposed to meet April Howard for a business lunch at Grumpy’s Diner to go over paint and carpet colors for the Bayside Crab House, and was now sure to be late. Olivia hated tardiness. She preferred to arrive for any prearranged meeting at least ten minutes ahead of schedule. Now she’d have to rush downtown, search for a parking spot along Main Street, and hope that April had secured Olivia’s favorite window booth before anyone else could.
    With the onset of spring, tourists had begun streaming back to Oyster Bay. The coastal North Carolina town was already thirty degrees warmer than many northern locales, and the pale-faced, sun-starved vacationers had been counting down the days until their children’s schools let out for spring break. Bypassing long flights to Cancun, Caribbean cruises, and the chaos of Disney World, the residents of a dozen snow-covered states opted for the quiet beauty of Oyster Bay instead.
    Ditching heavy parkas in favor of T-shirts and sunglasses the moment they arrived, the vacationers hopped aboard rental bicycles and pedaled merrily through town, passing yards filled with blooming dogwood trees, pink and purple azalea bushes, and oceans of daffodils. The lawns were Ireland-green and the buzzing of industrious bees and hummingbirds blended with the tourists’ contented sighs.
    The locals were equally relieved to see the last of what had been a particularly long and damp winter. Oyster Bay’s economy depended heavily on tourism, and a dry and sunny spring meant replenishment for the town’s depleted coffers.
    Olivia Limoges was landlady to many downtown merchants, but she spent most of her time overseeing the management of her five-star restaurant, The Boot Top Bistro. Today, she drove right by the entrance, searching for a parking spot closer to Grumpy’s Diner, but decided on a space in a loading zone.
    A middle-aged dwarf wearing roller skates and pigtail braids met her at the diner’s door. “As I live and breathe!” Dixie Weaver declared, waving at her flushed face with her order pad. “Miss Punctuality is late !”
    Frowning at her child-sized friend, Olivia stepped aside as Haviland entered the diner. He placed his black nose under Dixie’s palm and gazed up at her in adoration.
    “You sure know how to turn on the charm, Captain.” Dixie ruffled the poodle’s ears and then accepted one of his gentlemanly kisses on the back of her hand. “I know you’re just anglin’ for a juicy steak or some turkey bacon, but I’m the closest thing you’ve got to a godmother so I might as well spoil you silly!”
    It was unlikely that Haviland had heard anything beyond the word ‘bacon’ as he’d turned tail and made for Olivia’s customary window booth before Dixie could finish speaking, but the diner proprietor gave him an indulgent smile nonetheless.
    “You’re certainly in a good mood,” Olivia said, still holding the door. An elderly couple shuffled in and headed for the Evita booth.
    Dixie had a strange fascination for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musicals. As a result she’d plastered Broadway paraphernalia on every inch of available wall space. Each booth had its own unique theme, and while most patrons found the décor charming, Olivia did not share in her friend’s Webber Worship.
    Her eyes gleaming with excitement, Dixie looked over her shoulder and then whispered, “You’d be happy as a cat in tuna factory too, if you knew whose lovely, rich buns were planted on the leather in the Cats booth.”
    Olivia stole a glance at the middle-aged man dining on a chicken salad sandwich and a mountain of fries. He looked vaguely familiar but she couldn’t place him. “He’s handsome in a bookish sort of way. An older version of Brad Pitt in spectacles. I suppose he’s a celebrity since you’re this flustered. Let me guess. He played the lead in Jesus Christ Superstar ?”
    Placing a hand over her heart, Dixie released a dramatic sigh. “You’ve got the wrong field, but he does work in the arts. Keep guessin’. He’s good-lookin’, smart, is in great shape for a man in his fifties, has got the Midas touch, and I just read in People that he sold the film rights to his famous book for a figure with lots and lots of zeros.”
    Now Olivia knew the identity of the diner. “Ah, it’s Nick Plumley, Booker Prize-winning author of the international