A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

uncanny gift for knowing exactly what I need to eat. My mother used to make bread like this for my first day of school and she always packed an extra slice for my teacher.”
    Dixie twirled a strand of her feathered hair around her finger. “I should do that. Might save me a few trips to the principal’s office. I was there so much last year that I got to know all about his secretary’s love life. Lord, but that woman is a tramp!”
    Olivia laughed. “Thanks, Dixie. I’m going to finish this life-affirming treat and then head to the restaurant. Maybe if I watch over Michel’s shoulder while he cooks I can take my mind off what I saw on the beach.”
    “He’s a chef, ’Livia. You hang over his shoulder and you’re liable to get a cleaver in the face. Go see that man of yours. If those eyes and that bod don’t make you think of somethin’ else besides a dead stranger, then nothin’ will.”
    After placing a twenty on the counter, Olivia stepped out into the sunlight. Instead of walking to her car or in the direction of her lover’s bookstore, she and Haviland headed for the docks. There was a decrepit building on the waterfront she’d had her eye on for some time. It was a mess, requiring months of work at enormous expense, but it was for sale. Only someone with very deep pockets and a love of old buildings would consider purchasing the dilapidated warehouse.
    It was perfect for Olivia
    “I couldn’t do anything to help the man on the beach,” she said to Haviland. She shielded her eyes against the sun’s glare and studied the building. “But I can rescue this place. Restore a piece of Oyster Bay’s history and create some new jobs. I’m in the mood for a new project. Don’t you think The Bayside Crab House has a nice ring to it?”
    The poodle barked his assent.

Chapter 3

    We were put here as witnesses to the miracle of life. We see the stars, and we want them. We are beholden to give back to the universe . . . If we make landfall on another star system, we become immortal.
    —RAY BRADBURY

    O livia wondered if Chief Rawlings would be able to push away the images of the crime scene photos and the scant facts written on the whiteboard in the station’s conference room before knocking on the door of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage. But it took only a glance for her to see that the details of the investigation clung to him like cigarette smoke. His hazel eyes, which were tinged with green and gold in direct sunlight, were murky as shallows in the marshes, and the skin of his face was pinched.
    Rawlings stepped forward to greet the other writers, but Olivia blocked his path and placed a tumbler of scotch whiskey in his hand.
    The chief was surprised by the act. Olivia had generously refurbished the neglected building for the use of their writers’ club and other community organizations, but her charitable gestures did not typically include the sharing of her twenty-five-year-old Chivas Regal. True, the cottage refrigerator was regularly stocked with beer and white wine and Olivia supplied her friends with the same bottles of fine merlot and cabernet blends featured on The Boot Top’s wine list, but everyone knew better than to reach for her scotch.
    “Thank you.” Rawlings took a grateful sip. The night was warm, but the amber liquid felt good sliding down his throat. It settled in the pit of his empty stomach, blended with his blood, and eased the tension from his knotted neck and shoulder muscles. “A few more swallows and I might actually make some intelligent comments this evening.”
    Before Olivia could reply, Laurel took the chief by the arm and pulled him over to the sofa. “Are you having any luck cracking the robbery case? It happened in my neighborhood, you know.”
    Rawlings looked stunned for a moment, as though the loss of a well-to-do suburbanite’s material possessions was the furthest thing from his mind.
    “I know you’re out of uniform during these meetings, but I can’t stop thinking about guys in ski masks creeping around my subdivision. I haven’t slept well since it happened.” Laurel’s anxiety was obvious.
    The chief had only made it to two critique nights thus far. His schedule was unpredictable and demanding and he’d been late on both occasions. At first, the other writers had peppered him with questions concerning his whereabouts until he’d chided them for acting like a suspicious wife. He had insisted upon being allowed to leave his job behind when