A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

and Olivia gave her a suspicious glance. She hated it when Laurel got overly physical. “You are a treasure! I really mean that!” Laurel cried. “Your joining the Bayside Book Writers has changed my life.”
    Embarrassed by the compliment, Olivia slid out of the car. “You haven’t achieved job security yet, remember? Let’s save the toasts of gratitude for that moment.”
    “I’m not talking about some silly job, Olivia. I’m talking about our friendship.” Laurel followed Olivia, smiling warmly. “It’s not easy to become friends with another woman who honestly wants the best for you. Usually, we women can’t escape our need to compete with each other. To fight about who’s prettier, richer, smarter. Who has cuter kids, a more devoted husband, the lower golf score . . .”
    Olivia chuckled. “I’m disqualified from most of those categories, so don’t give me too much credit.”
    Laurel put her hand on Olivia’s arm. “No, you’re not. You’re the smartest, most beautiful, most interesting woman I’ve ever met and yet, you see something in me. Me. Stay-at-home mom, former cheerleader, and romance reader. You believe that I can be whatever I choose to be.”
    “I do,” Olivia answered and then tugged her friend forward. “Now that we’ve exchanged vows, let’s pick up a few apple sausage pies for you to take home. They heat up nicely and your husband will be delighted with the results of your first cooking class.”
    Looking doubtful, Laurel paused to scratch Haviland’s neck. The poodle gave her a toothy grin in gratitude. “Apples and meat together? In a pie ?”
    Olivia sighed. “Oh dear, you do have lots to learn about food. Come into the kitchen. I think Michel will enjoy giving you a tutorial.”
    Leaving Laurel in her chef’s capable hands, Olivia went through to her office and immediately checked her e-mail. There were no messages from Chief Rawlings. Her voice mail was also empty.
    “Where the hell are you?” Olivia paced back and forth, trying to suppress her urge to call the station. Finally, she grabbed her cell phone and punched in the main number. When the switchboard operator told Olivia that the chief was off duty, Olivia pressed her for his whereabouts. “It’s important. I have information about one of his open robbery cases,” she said, stretching the truth.
    The operator offered to take her number. “This is Olivia Limoges. I’m actually a friend of the chief’s. He’s got my number, but he’s not returning my calls.”
    Hesitating, the woman lowered her voice. “Honey, he won’t be talkin’ to anybody today ’cause it’s the anniversary of his wife’s death. He’ll visit her grave and then sit for a long spell in the church. Oyster Bay could be attacked by aliens and the chief isn’t gonna notice. He’s in his own world right now.”
    Olivia thanked her and hung up, her mood sour. She tried to tell herself that she was cross because the evening writer’s meeting would now be purely social because they were without Rawlings’ chapter and that it was rude of him not to at least call to say that he wouldn’t attend, but an inner voice said something different. You’re jealous of his dead wife . Sawyer Rawlings may drive a station wagon, wear tacky shirts, and be thick around the middle, but you feel something for him. You feel something and yet he still grieves the loss of his wife—enough to spend an entire day lost in the memories he shared with her.
    “No,” she said aloud. “It would be too complicated. I can’t . . .”
    Rushing from the office, she strode through the kitchen, told one of the sous-chefs to drive Laurel home, and left through the back door, a befuddled poodle on her heels.
    She sped home, stopped the Range Rover in a cloud of sand and dust, and rushed down to the beach. Kicking off her shoes, she ran to the water and waded in to her shins. The wind whipped her short hair and sprayed her limbs with sharp droplets of saltwater.
    Olivia had successfully returned to a place of complete solitude, but neither the increasing wind, nor the darkening sky, nor the swelling of an ocean stirred by an offshore hurricane could silence the voice in her head.
    You feel something for Sawyer Rawlings.
    As the first raindrops began to fall, she lifted her face skyward and surrendered to the truth.

Chapter 7

    Why, now blow wind, swell billow, and swim bark! The storm is up, and all is on the hazard.
    —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE’S Julius