A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

Normally, she’d mill about the restaurant greeting diners and offering wine recommendations. Tonight, however, the hostess had called in sick and Olivia didn’t have enough wait staff to spare.
    “I’ll have to be Madeleine for tonight,” she told Haviland apologetically. “And no getting underfoot in the kitchen. Health code violations and all that. You stay in the office if you want to be fed.”
    Haviland seemed to focus on the latter phrase. Licking his lips, he trotted into the office and sat on his haunches, gazing with expectant adoration at Michel.
    “Madeleine isn’t ill,” Gabe, the barkeep, said to Olivia as he stepped out of the walk-in fridge carrying a tray of lemons, limes, and oranges. “But she’s scared. She has family in Wilson and wanted to drive west before the rain got heavier.”
    “It’s a reasonable excuse, but an irritation all the same,” Olivia answered, following Gabe to the bar. “Now I’ll have to man the podium and I don’t possess an ounce of Madeleine’s charm.”
    Gabe slid a tumbler filled with Chivas Regal across the polished wood bar. “This might help.” He smiled and Olivia accepted the glass with gratitude. Gabe, who was in his late twenties and looked every inch the sandy-haired surfer that he was, had attracted a loyal following the moment The Boot Top opened its doors. At first, the area’s well-to-do women filled all the barstools, eager to flirt with the hunky barkeep. But soon enough their husbands came too, enjoying Gabe’s affability as much as their wives.
    Because much of the restaurant’s profits were dependent on the sale of liquor and wine, Olivia paid Gabe well above the going rate. As a result, he took great pride in his job, viewing the bar area with its leather chairs, padded barstools, and tasteful nautical décor as his treasured domain. No one’s snack mix bowl ever stayed empty and no one’s drinks ever ran dry. And though Gabe could have his pick of the majority of The Boot Top’s female staff and clientele, he never allowed the line between his professional and personal life to blur.
    Of all Olivia’s employees, Michel was the most likely to get entangled in an ill-fated romance. He’d been involved with a married woman before, and though it had wreaked havoc on his emotions, it seemed as though he was ready to repeat the agonizing experience.
    “I think I have a serious crush on your Laurel,” he confessed, his face flushed from the heat of the kitchen.
    One of the sous-chefs stopped chopping mushrooms and gestured at Michel with the tip of his knife. “His accent got much thicker when she was here. He actually sounded like a real Frenchman. Très debonair.”
    Michel glowered at his subordinate. His Parisian accent was nearly undetectable and only surfaced when he was angry, drunk, or flirting with a pretty woman.
    Olivia put her hands on her hips. “Do you have amnesia? Your last affair with a married woman was ruinous! You went on a champagne bender and your cooking was way off. You used far too much salt and your meat was overdone. I don’t think any of our customers will stand for that again.”
    Shaking a raw shrimp at her, Michel smiled. “But ah, the passion! It is worth all the pain.”
    “Forget about Laurel.” Olivia’s eyes flashed a darker blue. “She has enough to juggle without adding a crush to the mix. Set your sights on someone else. Join a gym. I’m sure you could cajole someone into committing adultery between spin and yoga classes.”
    Michel tossed the shrimp into a frying pan coated with sizzling butter and browned garlic. “Laurel is special. She has a pure heart and believes that love can overcome all things. She is a rare flower, an orchid in a greenhouse of daffodils.”
    “Spare me.” Olivia crossed her arms. “I don’t see how you arrived at this conclusion after spending thirty minutes with her.”
    “She was here longer than that, chérie . You’re the one who flew from here as though your tail had just been seared.” He tossed half a dozen sautéing shrimp into the air. Once, twice, three times. They landed neatly back into the frying pan. He gave the pan a final shake and then scooped the shrimp onto a small bed of linguine. Handing the plate to a waiter, Michel glanced at Olivia. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were having man trouble. I can’t imagine any friction arising between you and your debonair bookstore owner. Actually, I can imagine friction, but