A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

head. “Oh, she danced all right. If you can imagine a fisherman in foul weather gear with his shoelaces tied together, then you can picture this lady’s moves.” He pushed his hand through his wavy hair. “I think she did at least two hundred bucks of damage.”
    “Not to books, I hope.” Olivia hated the thought of broken leather spines or rent pages.
    Etching designs into the icy film on his glass, Flynn said, “Luckily, no. But I have some furniture to replace. I’m heading into Raleigh tomorrow to visit with an old friend, so I’ll wait out the storm for a couple of days, pick up some new children’s chairs, and hang my ‘Open’ sign again first thing Wednesday morning.”
    “She broke wooden chairs?” Olivia visualized a madwoman slamming pint-sized rockers against the floor like some frenzied heavy-metal rocker destroying his guitar.
    Flynn nodded. “Yeah, she tried to mimic that Flashdance move in which the dancer drapes herself over the chair, pulls a chain, and is drenched with water. In this case, the chair broke with her imaginary chain pull and instead of water, she squirted herself with a sports bottle filled with I believe to be lemon-lime Gatorade.” He grimaced. “At least, I’m really hoping it was Gatorade.”
    He chuckled and Olivia joined in.
    The murmur in the dining room had increased, indicating that another party or two had been seated by a member of Olivia’s selfless waitstaff while she lingered at the bar. “Duty calls,” she told Flynn and then, while Gabe was occupied recommending cocktails to a pair of stylish young women at the other end of the bar, she added, “Maybe we could get together before Ophelia chases you out of town.”
    Grinning, Flynn saluted her with his glass. “You know where I live, darling. I’ll leave the light on for you.”
    Olivia collected the mayor’s drink and walked away.
    The Boot Top stayed open late that night. The locals tarried at the bar until Gabe submitted to peer pressure and turned on the small television hung above a row of liquor bottles.
    Men and women loitered over their whiskey and recalled other storms such as Donna, Hugo, Fran, Hazel, and Floyd. Olivia’s customers were reluctant to go home, knowing that after tomorrow morning’s church services, the town would shut down. Oyster Bay still honored the traditional blue laws and only a few eateries remained open on Sunday. The Boot Top served a weekly brunch, Grumpy’s provided breakfast and lunch, and Bagels ’n’ Beans operated until noon, at which time Wheeler promptly turned off the lights, locked the door, and spent the remainder of the day fishing.
    The hurricane specialist on The Weather Channel was in his element, gesticulating at the blue screen as he pointed at rain bands, the enlarged eye, and the overall width of the circulating mass. The other reporters shared his ecstasy, their faces gleaming like polished apples as they reviewed Ophelia’s wind gusts, path, and predicted landfall.
    Olivia and her Oyster Bay neighbors were hypnotized by the graphics and the commentary, but when the program switched gears and began to display footage from Floyd, Olivia told Gabe to lock up. Gathering Haviland from her office, she prepared to exit through the kitchen door.
    “Do you think there’s any point in coming in Tuesday?” Michel asked. Over steaming pots, cutting boards, and sinks of dirty dishes, the kitchen staff looked at Olivia expectantly.
    “No,” she answered without hesitation. “We won’t reopen until the power is restored. When the lights come on in town, The Boot Top needs to be ready to serve dinner the same night. Tomorrow we’ll offer brunch to the soggy church goers and then lock up until Ophelia’s gone.” Shouldering her purse, she gazed around the kitchen. “Be careful everyone. I don’t want the inconvenience of having to hire a new staff because you surfer types were lost to a riptide or those of you with jacked-up pickups trucks decided it would be fun to drive through flooded streets.”
    One of the sous-chefs sniggered, but Michel silenced him with a glare.
    “We will take care, Ms. Limoges,” he said, issuing a formal bow. “Remember, if the waves get too high, you should climb to the top of the lighthouse.”
    More sniggering. “The generator will keep the freezer and walk-in fridge running, but if there’s any perishable food beyond what’s needed for tomorrow’s brunch, feel free to take it home to your