A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

what we found last Saturday?”
    Clearly unconcerned by recollections of the fetid odor, Haviland rushed to the sliding glass door leading to the back deck and to the path through the dunes. Olivia let him out and then collected her Bounty Hunter and knapsack from an unlocked outdoor storage closet. She examined her metal detector absently for a moment, recalling how relieved she was when one of Rawlings’ officers returned it to her. The tool provided her with a mindless hobby, allowing her to collect many years’ worth of interesting trinkets. Very few were valuable, but every one was precious to Olivia.
    “I wonder what new treasures the storm will unearth?” she asked the poodle.
    Olivia’s home was built on a bluff and had been designed to withstand the variety of tempests pushed onshore by the Atlantic Ocean. The raised deck jutted out over a lawn of sharp grass and sand and was supported by reinforced wooden pylons. From roof to floor, the entire structure was anchored into the foundation and the mammoth windows were made of impact glass. The best builders in the region had fitted it with hurricane shutters, exterior doors that opened outward, and a detached garage.
    “The only thing that’s going to bother us will be cabin fever,” Olivia predicted as she and Haviland set out on their stroll.
    The morning air felt oddly still. There were no gulls or sandpipers haunting the shore, and the crabs had scuttled back to their burrows hours ago. By this time on a September morning, Olivia was usually in town or working on her novel, but on this Saturday, she meandered up the beach, barely paying attention to the metal detector’s chirps and bleeps. Eventually, she discarded the machine altogether, leaving it and her backpack in the lee of a dune.
    Haviland spent a great deal of time sniffing the air and Olivia knew he sensed a shift in the weather. Even the waves were strangely subdued, curling gently onto the shore, as though to apologize for the relentless aggressors they were soon to become.
    Olivia’s cell phone rang from the pocket of her sweatpants. It wasn’t her habit to bring it along on walks, but after the discovery of the buried corpse last week, she decided to keep it close.
    “Ms. Limoges? Will Hamilton here. I’ve got some preliminary information for you.”
    Olivia was impressed. The private investigator worked fast. “My reception isn’t great, but please go on.”
    “The mailbox in question belongs to a Mr. Rodney Burkhart. He has a home T-shirt printing business called Big Rod’s Tees and uses The UPS Store mailbox as his company address. I’ve seen his shirts around town. They all feature fishermen surrounded by busty girls and make a play on the phrase ‘big rod.’ Word is they’re selling like hot cakes all over the country. Burkhart’s had to hire a pair of students from UNC Wilmington just to keep up with the orders.”
    “So it would appear that he’s financially secure?” Olivia asked, befuddled. Rodney Burkhart didn’t seem like a man in desperate need of cash.
    Hamilton said, “I need to do some more digging, ma’am. I haven’t gotten a look at our guy’s personal life yet, but I’m heading over to his place now. I should have more for you by Monday. I’ll do as much recon as I can before Ophelia shuts us down. I’ll be in touch.”
    “Thank you.” Olivia put the phone back into her pocket and continued to amble, her mind churning. What connection could a T-shirt printer have to her father? Perhaps Rodney’s wife worked in a nursing home or hospital. Maybe she was the mastermind behind the blackmail and her husband was merely the messenger.
    Her languid mood spoiled by unanswered questions, Olivia abruptly stopped, turned around, and whistled for Haviland to follow her back to where she’d left the Bounty Hunter.
    By the time she reached the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, she was ready for a midmorning snack but decided to delay satisfying her hunger in order to assess what kind of storm damage the older building might incur when Ophelia got closer.
    Unlike Olivia’s house, the cottage was built on a rise much closer to the ocean and faced potential flooding if the wind pushed the waves far enough up the beach. Olivia’s girlhood home had been completely overhauled last summer and the four-room, shotgun-style structure was now a community meeting place. From Alcoholics Anonymous to the Girl Scouts, all sorts of groups made use of the comfortable