A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

gas station coffee?”
    “Yeah, and I might eat a pink hot dog and a bag of pork rinds too,” Millay taunted.
    “Cover your ears with your paws, Captain,” Olivia suggested. “This girl speaks of food whose existence is best forgotten.”
    Haviland spent most of the ride to Beaufort County sniffing the air in the Range Rover’s cabin. True to her word, Millay had bought a large coffee at the Exxon station, but in lieu of a chemically enhanced hot dog, she’d purchased a custard-filled donut. She polished off the pastry before Haviland could even beg for a bite.
    “No sugar for you, Captain,” Olivia remonstrated. “You can have a nice organic Buffalo knuckle bone while we’re inside the . . .” She gestured for Millay to read the paper resting on the dash. “What’s Sue’s last name?”
    Licking the fingers of her right hand, Millay examined the sheet. “Ridgemont.” She read the address aloud. “Sandpiper Shores. Jesus, who names these developments? The same people who write Hallmark cards and listen to Christmas music all year long?”
    Olivia laughed. “Everything has to have a theme. Her house is on Blue Heron Circle, right? So, in this case, we have a shorebird theme. How original.”
    “Hey, not everyone has our vivid imaginations,” Millay replied. “Personally, I’d like to see a bunch of streets named after food. I could live on Steak Street, you’d be on Pickle Place, and all the people we didn’t get along with would be stuck on Cauliflower Court.”
    “I take it you don’t enjoy the nutty flavor of the cruciferous vegetable,” Olivia remarked. “Do you like other members of the cabbage family? Broccoli or Brussels sprouts.”
    “Ick, ick, and ick,” was Millay’s only response as they pulled into the driveway of a Dutch colonial.
    “You’re missing out,” Olivia said, turning off the engine. “Michel makes the most unbelievable broccoli dish. He tosses market-fresh broccoli with olive oil, garlic, and pine nuts. Adds a little salt and viola! Perfection.”
    Millay frowned. “I get my fiber by eating edamame. Enough about food. I can only stand this preppy girl outfit for so long.”
    The Ridgemonts obviously had children, for their pricey SUVs were plastered with gold bear paw-print decals, the mascot of one of the area’s prestigious and very expensive private schools. In addition, decals in support of various sports’ teams, from lacrosse to swimming to tennis, declared that athletics played a major role in the Ridgemonts’ lives.
    Unlike Christina Quimby’s house, this home lacked curb appeal. The lawn had been mowed and the bushes trimmed, but there wasn’t a flower in sight and the potted ferns on the stoop were brown and wilted. Several newspapers littered the welcome mat, and the door’s brass kick plate and knocker were being eaten away by rust.
    Sue Ridgemont answered the bell wearing paint-splattered jeans and an equally colorful T-shirt.
    “Oh, dear! I forgot you all were coming today. Sorry! Come on in.” She gestured at her clothes. “I’m in the middle of a do-it-yourself project in the guest room.” Leading them into the kitchen, she pushed a pile of books, newspapers, unread mail, two pairs of balled-up socks, and a Nerf football to the other end of the table.
    “Thank you for agreeing to see us,” Olivia said, trying not to frown at the dirty dishes in the sink or the brown bananas on the countertop. “I’m sure you’re busy.”
    Sue blinked. “You mean because of the hurricane?” She laughed merrily. “I have two teenage boys. My whole life is a hurricane!”
    Olivia smiled, quickly warming to Sue Ridgemont.
    “So tell us about the robbery. Just start at the beginning and try to give us as much detail as possible.” Olivia waved a hand at Millay. “My assistant will take notes as we talk.”
    Millay did better than that. She produced a mini recorder from her bag, pressed a few buttons, and placed it on the table near the pile of unopened mail. She then settled a notebook on her lap and grinned at Sue. “Just pretend the recorder’s not there. I only brought it to ensure accuracy on our part.” She then uncapped a pen and looked at Sue expectantly.
    Sue’s story was remarkably similar to Christina’s except the Ridgemont family hadn’t gone out of town. They’d spent the better part of a Saturday at a Little League All-Star game in Fayetteville.
    “When we got home, we didn’t think anything was wrong.” She gestured at