A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

drink-’em-while-you-got-’em theme?” Millay grinned.
    Olivia smiled in return. “Exactly.”

    After a lunch of turkey, brie, and apple slices on pumpernickel, Olivia dressed in tan slacks and a crisp white blouse. She tucked a notebook and Laurel’s new camera into a leather tote bag and headed to her friend’s house. Laurel’s subdivision, like so many of the new housing developments, had been given a ridiculous name. Olivia frowned as she passed the gold lettered sign for Blueberry Hill Estates.
    “There may have been wild blueberry bushes here at one point, but there was never a hill,” she informed Haviland. Despite the silly name, the neighborhood was comprised of tasteful homes of brick or clapboard. Most were Georgian or American colonial, interspersed with a few Spanish villas and colorful Victorians.
    Laurel’s house was situated on a small cul-de-sac off Elderberry Drive. It was a spacious, butter yellow Cape, with black shutters and a cheerful red door. Potted ferns flanked the entranceway, the flowerbeds were bursting with drought-resistant annuals, and an American flag flying from a bracket to the left of the door frame completed the charming picture. As Olivia pulled into the driveway, she could see that the family spent most of their time in the back of the house. With a fenced-in yard, the entire expanse of lawn was littered with toy trucks, a sandbox, a plastic swimming pool, playhouses, and a mammoth swing set.
    Olivia left Haviland in the car, strode up a flagstone path, and reached out for the doorbell. Before her finger had the chance to make contact with the illuminated button, however, Laurel cracked opened the door, slipped outside, and hastily shut it behind her. She was wearing a pink short-sleeved sweater set, an apron covered with designs of cupcakes, and a look of panic.
    “My in-laws came over to watch the twins,” she whispered in warning. Grabbing Olivia’s hand, she pulled her toward the Range Rover. “Just get us out of here as quickly as you can. I’ll give you directions once we’re clear.”
    Obeying Laurel’s request with amusement, Olivia reversed the SUV. As she glanced in the rearview mirror, she noted that her friend was busy removing her apron. “You’re even wearing a disguise,” she teased. “Does this mean you need to be dropped off later on bearing a soufflé or beef Wellington?”
    “Oh, I don’t think it needs to be anything that fancy,” Laurel answered seriously. “Maybe something left over from your lunch menu? I told them this was a course focusing on fundamentals. No one in the world will believe that I made a soufflé on my first day of cooking class. They’ll be impressed if I figure out how to cook scrambled eggs without adding little bits of shell!”
    Olivia laughed. “I’ll see what I can do. Where to?”
    Laurel fastened her honey blond hair into a neat French twist. “Turn right onto Mulberry Way.”
    “Is every street named after a berry?” Olivia quickly made a mental list of how many berry plants she knew.
    “Yes. Isn’t it quaint?” Laurel smiled with pride. “But I am so glad we don’t live on Gooseberry Way. Doesn’t that sound kind of goofy?”
    Olivia declined to point out that Laurel’s street, Cranberry Court, was equally inane. Instead, she asked to be given a bit of background on the neighbor they were about to interview.
    “Christina Quimby is a stay-at-home mom, president of the Oyster Bay Elementary PTA, and treasurer of our homeowner’s association. She plays tennis in a year-round league and always has perfect nails and makeup.” Laurel paused to consider what else she should add. “Her husband, Robert, is in sales and goes out of town all the time. They have two kids, Bobby Junior and Zoe. Bobby is ten and Zoe is eight.”
    “Where was the family when the burglary occurred?”
    “I asked her that question when we set up this interview.” Laurel consulted a notebook. “Let’s see. They went to a football game in Chapel Hill over the weekend and discovered they’d been robbed after returning home. That was the last Sunday in August.” She tapped on her window. “That’s their house up ahead on the right.”
    Olivia parked in front of a spacious brick Georgian and told Haviland he’d have to wait in the Range Rover. The poodle began to whimper but perked up when his mistress poured a small pile of treats into the cup holder in the center console.
    “Your water dish is in the back,”