A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

reluctant to face a Saturday evening at home.
    Casting a gaze at the clock, she suspected that her lover, Flynn McNulty, would be closing his bookstore right about now. She could picture him counting the cash from the till, switching off the coffeepot, and turning out lights. He’d flip over the hand-painted sign on Through the Wardrobe’s front door from “Open” to “Closed” and, jiggling his keys as he hummed or whistled or gave some other evidence of how content he was with life, he would ride his mountain bike home.
    Olivia was attracted to Flynn because he was everything she was not. A textbook extrovert, he relished the exchange of small talk and gossip with his customers. He played with their children in the store’s puppet theater and bantered with them in area bars and restaurants. He was lively and friendly and fun. Everyone liked him. Men wanted to befriend him, women of all ages flirted with him, and children idolized him.
    Olivia rarely saw him in the act of charming members of the general public, as she preferred to call on him once darkness had fallen. They often shared a late meal together or, if it was past dinnertime, had a nightcap on Flynn’s patio. Sometimes, they’d dance on the flagstones and Flynn would croon silly songs in her ear.
    Afterward, they’d have sex. Their bodies would intertwine as one day gave way to another and then, despite Flynn’s protests, Olivia would leave. She couldn’t wake up in his bed, the sun streaming through the slats of his blinds. She couldn’t begin a new day in his house. Somehow, that would mean too much of her belonged to him. And Olivia Limoges belonged to no man.
    For months, Flynn had accepted what Olivia was willing to offer. He let her initiate contact, was always available when she called, and never pried into her past. They lived completely in the present, and even though Flynn was familiar with every curve of Olivia’s body, he knew very little about her as a person. In keeping with the parameters of their relationship, he limited communication to the sharing of amusing work anecdotes or the discussion of books. Literature provided the cement for their tenuous connection. They exchanged books, argued about books, and read books aloud to one another.
    Without books, without the words penned by others, their relationship would have crumbled almost immediately. Instead, fictional narratives knit them together, loosely, like a mitten that could easily be unwound by tugging on a loose string.
    Turning away from the window, the dark sea, and the missing moon, Olivia caught Flynn on his cell phone. He was heading out to pick up a small pizza for dinner and offered to share the pepperoni, sausage, and ham pie.
    “I’ve already eaten,” she told him. “But I can bring an excellent Chianti to accompany your gourmet meal.”
    Flynn loved to be teased. “You think that’s fancy? You should have seen what I had for lunch. I could have sailed a paper boat in the river of grease streaming from my hamburger.”
    “At least you’ll give a local cardiologist business in the near future.”
    Laughing, Flynn said, “I burn it all off when I run. For a middle-aged man-about-town, I’m the picture of health.”
    Olivia couldn’t argue with that statement. “I hope you haven’t run too far today. You’ll need your strength for later tonight.”
    “Why do you think I ordered all that extra protein on my pie?” Flynn answered huskily and hung up.

Chapter 4

    When a man sends you an impudent letter, sit right down and give it back to him with interest ten times compounded, and then throw both letters in the wastebasket.
    —ELBERT HUBBARD

    T he Boot Top Bistro was closed on Mondays, but Olivia often went in to catch up on paperwork. She loved to sit in her small office, which was located off the kitchen near the dry goods pantry, and complete a list of mundane tasks while listening to the radio. When Michel and his team were on the job, the kitchen was filled with noise. Raised voices, the gurgle of boiling water, a knife slapping against a carving board, and the hiss of the door leading to the walk-in refrigerator blended to form the melody of industry. Today, the kitchen was silent, its stainless steel surfaces, pots, and utensils gleaming under the overhead lights.
    Olivia inhaled the odors still clinging to the air from last night’s meal. She detected cilantro and garlic, rosemary and butter, ground mustard, fresh scallions, and a faint