A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

Hamilton, the private investigator.
    “Did Ophelia put you folks through the wringer?” he inquired. “We barely had a twig down in these parts, but the news footage has shown pictures of your area since daybreak and things look messy.”
    “We don’t have power, but Oyster Bay will be up and running in no time,” Olivia replied breezily. “What do you have for me?”
    Hamilton cleared his throat. “Ms. Limoges, I have been watching Rod Burkhart ’round the clock. From what I’ve seen, he lives a pretty straightforward life. He works, tosses around a football with his two sons, mows the lawn, goes to church, and runs errands.”
    “And he seems financially secure?”
    “Yes, ma’am. He drives a late-model truck, and his wife’s minivan is only a year old. The house is tidy and well maintained. The Burkharts aren’t rich, but they’re solid. An average, upper-middle-class family. The guy’s got a nice-looking wife and kids, a yellow Lab, and a dozen fishing poles. He went lake fishing Monday afternoon with another buddy. They drank a few beers and picked up Chinese takeout on the way home.” He paused. “I could keep on him and you could go on paying me to look for dirt on Burkhart, but I don’t feel right taking more of your money. This guy is a regular Joe. He’s got no record and the worst he’s done is get a moving violation for a case of lead foot a few months back. No bodies in the basement or mistresses on the side. That’s my professional opinion, ma’am.”
    Olivia let Haviland out so he could sniff the bushes lining the parking lot. “Okay, drop the tail for now, but we’re not done yet. I’m going to send Mr. Burkhart one thousand dollars in cash. It will be in a neon pink mailer and will go to his box at The UPS Store. If I mail it today, it should be there on Thursday. I want you to follow that mailer. See what Burkhart does with it.”
    “Will do,” Hamilton said.
    “You don’t need to contact me until Burkhart opens that envelope. When he does, I want to know everything that follows. Who he talks to, if he goes to the bank, if he buys a big-ticket item, et cetera. Every detail.”
    The investigator promised to be on alert for the arrival of the colorful package. Olivia got out of the Range Rover and looked around for Haviland. She found him sitting on the grass next to a wooden bench. A broad, masculine hand stroked the fur on the poodle’s head and neck, and Haviland winked his caramel brown eyes in happiness.
    “Hello.” Olivia approached the pair with stealth. She didn’t want to disturb Rawlings’ train of thought, knowing that he often searched for a quiet place in order to reflect on the details of a case while they were still fresh.
    The chief removed his cap and rose to his feet. “Hello, Ms. Limoges. I’m relieved to see you in one piece.”
    “We’re fine, but the lighthouse keeper’s cottage has suffered some flood damage,” she said, feeling oddly shy. “We’ll have to relocate for our next Bayside Book Writers meeting. Do you think you can make this one?”
    He studied her face and, finding no judgment there, shook his head. “I don’t know. The department will be tied up with the town’s cleanup detail for weeks and now we’ve got another robbery case to run down.” He looked away. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have approached you about joining the group in the first place. My work isn’t ready and my time is rarely my own.”
    Panic welled in Olivia. She didn’t want Rawlings to quit the Bayside Book Writers. She wanted the chance to read his work in hopes of discovering more about him. Most importantly, she wanted to be able to respond differently should he ever cross a room and pull her to him again.
    “We would have understood why you didn’t send us your chapter if you’d explained your reasons,” she said softly and sat down on the bench alongside him. “We’re a fairly easygoing group. Well, most of us are anyway.” She tried to smile, but her mouth wouldn’t respond. “And I’d like to believe even I have enough sensitivity to give you a pass because it was the anniversary of your wife’s death.”
    Rawlings gave her a sharp glance. “That would be a handy excuse, but it wouldn’t be the truth. What would you think if I told you that I brought my laptop to the cemetery? That I’d been trying to fix the damned chapter since Friday night, but every time I’d read it over, I knew what I’d written was crap. It’s still