A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

was something about the spacious, gleaming kitchen that made her want to cook.
    Later, once the budget had been balanced and she’d placed phone orders to the distributors still open for business on Labor Day, she reviewed Michel’s menu for the upcoming week. Making a note in the margins that her chef needed to add two more vegetarian selections (Michel, like Haviland, loved his meat), Olivia began to go through Saturday’s mail.
    She sorted through two pounds of junk mail, including catalogs from restaurant supply companies, credit card and refinancing offers, form letters from big-name banks and insurance companies entreating Olivia to give them her business, and the weekly flyer from Pizza Bay.
    Olivia examined the flimsy yellow and red paper featuring the graphic of a smiling fisherman holding a slice of pizza with one hand as he manned the helm with the other. “Best in the Bay!” the ad proclaimed and provided a coupon for two free toppings or a free side of garlic bread sticks. “Why send coupons to a five-star restaurant week after week after week? Do they enjoy wasting paper?” she asked Haviland.
    Too full to muster up the strength required to even open an eye, Haviland remained unresponsive. “What would the Pizza Bay delivery boy do if I actually placed an order during business hours? Come right to the hostess podium wearing that hideous electric yellow T-shirt and holding a warming box?” She grinned. “I might have to try that sometime. Teach those Pizza Bay owners a lesson about mass mailing.”
    The local printing and copy center had obviously not produced the last letter in the pile. Olivia’s name and the restaurant’s address had been handwritten in black ink on a plain white envelope. The penmanship was childlike and the letters seemed to have been driven into the paper as though a great deal of force had been applied. There was no return address and the post office stamp showed that the letter had originated in Wilmington, which was roughly one hundred and fifty miles south of Oyster Bay.
    Her curiosity aroused, Olivia ripped open the letter and pulled out a single sheaf of lined three-hole paper. Picturing the sticker-covered binder of a grade school student, she briefly wondered why some child would be communicating with her.
    Then she read the message.
    YOUR FATHER IS NOT DEAD. HE HAS BEEN WITH US FOR THIRTY YEARS, BUT NOW HES REAL SICK. IF YOU WANT TO SEE HIM WHILE HES STILL BREETHING, SEND $1000 CASH TO THIS ADRESS. IF YOU TELL ANYONE THE DEALS OFF.

    Following these astonishing lines was a street address in Wilmington. Apparently, the cash was to be sent in care of a man named RB.
    Olivia hurled the paper onto her desk and shoved her wheeled chair backward so violently that she nearly tipped over. Haviland, jolted out of his full-belly slumber, jumped onto his feet with an alarmed snarl, his brown eyes darting about the room, searching for the source of danger. Anxiously, he sniffed Olivia’s hands, but she made no move to comfort him. Her eyes burned as they stared fixedly at the paper on her desk.
    “It cannot be true,” she whispered. Haviland grew more and more disconcerted by her immobility. He sniffed her again and placed his left front paw on her lap. Absently, she touched the fur on his neck, but her gaze remained on the letter. “It isn’t possible.”
    Olivia never drank alcohol until five thirty in the afternoon, but today she didn’t think twice about breaking this custom. She marched out of her office and straight to the bar. Taking down a clean tumbler from Gabe the bartender’s neat row of polished glasses, she poured out two fingers of Chivas Regal, drank it in a single gulp, and refilled. This time, she added a splash of water and carried the tumbler back to her office.
    Keeping her distance from the letter, she rummaged in a desk drawer until she found a magnifying glass. She then examined every inch of the notebook paper and the envelope from which it came, but found nothing of significance. Next, she turned to the Internet, calling up a map of the North Carolina coast.
    Her father had disappeared on his boat after leaving the mouth of Oyster Bay Harbor and entering Pamlico Sound. He could certainly have motored close enough to Wrightsville Beach or the port area of Wilmington, abandoned the boat, and swum ashore. He could have also hopped aboard another fishing vessel and headed out for a long journey in deep waters, but Olivia had always dismissed