A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

the food on their table. “None of this would be possible without Michel. He could work anywhere, but he chose to be here.”
    Rawlings tasted a crab cake and moaned. “Mother of God! There are so many flavors in this one bite! Sweet and salty, creamy and crispy—all going off like a perfectly timed fireworks display. Michel is a maestro.”
    Pleased, Olivia enjoyed some of her meal before Gabe appeared with two glasses of pinot noir. “While the food has you in such an agreeable state, would you tell me whether any unusual objects were left in the kitchen of the Howard household after the robbery?”
    The chief finished chewing and took a swallow of wine. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and then slowly sipped from his wineglass a second time, obviously appreciating the Pinot’s cherry bouquet. “How on earth did you know that?”
    She took the deck of playing cards out of her purse. “These were left on the Ridgemonts’ kitchen table, set up as though two people had been playing poker.” After describing the butter dish and knife found on the Quimby’s countertop, she explained how she and Harris had both recognized that the tableaus represented well-known clichés.
    Rawlings didn’t need to check the Howard file. He leaned forward, the sumptuous fare on his plate forgotten. “The culprits set out three wooden blocks—taken from a old set that Mrs. Howard’s had since childhood. She kept them in a box in her bedroom closet. The thieves picked out three blocks and turned them so that the numbers faced outward. The numbers were one, two, and three.”
    Olivia ran her fingertip along the base of her wineglass. “As easy as one, two, three?”
    “That’d be my guess.” Rawlings agreed. “But why? What are they trying to say? Who is their audience? The victims? Law enforcement?”
    “It implies a level of intelligence.” Olivia said, knowing Rawlings wasn’t directing his questions at her. “I doubt your average thief could define ‘cliché,’ let alone create scenes using such a specific literary device.”
    The pair fell silent. Olivia leaned back in her chair, listening to the familiar sounds of subdued laughter from the patrons at the bar and the rise and fall of quiet conversation from the diners in the next room. The noises floated around her and she found comfort in the blend of murmurs, of cutlery being laid against an empty plate, of the tinkle of crystal as a couple toasted one another with flutes of champagne.
    “Perhaps there are only two of them,” she said after a few minutes. “That’s why two hands were dealt in their mock poker game.”
    Rawlings nodded. “It would certainly take two strong individuals to tote some of those flat-screen televisions. I know they’re not as heavy as they once were, but they’re still unwieldy. And it would be extremely time consuming to maneuver the goods without a partner, so yes, I believe we’re talking about a pair or a team working together.”
    A waiter materialized behind Olivia’s shoulder. Seeing that his boss and her guest were no longer eating, he asked for permission and then, after receiving an absent nod from Olivia, removed their plates. He returned shortly to serve them a platter of bite-sized pastries and then poured steaming cups of coffee for the pair. When he started to walk off, Rawlings reached out a hand to stop him.
    “Excuse me, good sir,” the chief halted his retreat. “Could you rustle up a glass of chocolate milk for me?”
    If the waiter was surprised by the request, he didn’t show it. “Certainly. I’ll be back in a moment.”
    Olivia waved at the selection of éclairs, Napoleons, cappuccino mousse, and hazelnut dacquoise cakes. “Not enough sugar for you here?”
    “It’s how I get my daily supply of dairy,” Rawlings answered, unruffled by Olivia’s teasing.
    Lacking a taste for sweets, Olivia sat back and enjoyed her coffee. She was eager for the waiter to clear away the food so she could input the information from Rawlings’ file onto her spreadsheet. She knew he wouldn’t reveal the entirety of its contents and she didn’t want to see the medical examiner’s report or catch a glimpse of the crime scene photos in any case. What she hungered for were the facts. Indisputable, concise, comprehensible data. She didn’t want to think about the grief-stricken, shell-shocked family or wonder how April Howard would survive without her husband’s income.
    Olivia Limoges had always run from loss.