A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

Now was no different. She sought to escape from focusing on another woman’s terrible sorrow by training every thought on times and dates, school names and sports teams.
    The chief’s chocolate milk was delivered and he drank it pensively, his eyes locked on the dessert platter, unseeing. Finally, Olivia raised her hand and the waiter materialized as silently as a specter and removed their dishes. The noise from the bar area increased as more patrons arrived well ahead of their reservations in order to socialize before enjoying a delicious meal.
    Olivia and Rawlings remained wrapped in their cocoon of silence. As always, they were able to enjoy one another’s company without filling the space between them with unnecessary prattle.
    When Rawlings spoke, his eyes reflecting the light from the votive on their table, it was apparent that he’d decided to put aside the topic of burglaries for the moment. “I like being here with you, Olivia. It seems like a contradiction, but you are the only person who can infuriate me beyond rational thought and yet are also able to bring me the deepest sense of calm. You are much like the ocean.” He indicated the harbor beyond the window, which was just a dark smudge beneath an indigo sky. “It must be why your eyes remind me of the open sea.”
    Olivia smiled at him. The smile was so wide and warm that it felt unfamiliar to the muscles of her mouth. “Sawyer—” she began.
    “Hello!” The chipper visage of Flynn McNulty abruptly appeared before them. “Is this a meeting of future Hemingways and Dickensons, or might a simple shopkeeper pull up a chair?”
    Rawlings stood and shook Flynn’s hand. “I think you’re giving us too much credit. At least in regards to my writing. Ms. Limoges possesses the only genuine talent at this table.”
    Flynn set his tumbler of whiskey down and settled into a chair, crossing an ankle over the opposite knee in a posture of utter relaxation. For the first time, Olivia was irritated by Flynn’s easy confidence. Rawlings queried the bookstore owner about new fiction arrivals and the two men began to toss about author names as though they were playing a game of catch. Olivia heard Michael Connelly, Nick Hornby, Stieg Larsson, and Daniel Silva before she tuned out.
    Eventually, Flynn needed a refill and, wanting to chat with Gabe, went up to the bar instead of signaling a waiter. Rawlings had drained his drink and had a speck of chocolate milk on his chin. Olivia reached over with her napkin to wipe it away, but Rawlings caught her by the wrist before she had the chance and placed her palm flat against his chest. She could feel his heart beating as though she held it in her hand.
    “I’d better be going,” he said, his voice heavy with regret. He gently released her and swiped at his chin with his napkin. “I have two unsolved murder cases now, and though I doubt they’re related—” He stopped abruptly and his mouth went slack. His gaze was fixed on the framed reproduction of Vincent Van Gogh’s Beach at Scheveningen in Stormy Weather , that hung on the wood-paneled wall behind their table. “But they are related,” he breathed into Van Gogh’s muted browns and grays and the small splotches of black that formed the villagers waiting at the water’s edge as a lone fishing boat returned to shore.
    Olivia rose and moved to the chief’s side, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him.
    Rawlings raised one of his large hands, uncurled a finger, and pointed it at a solitary male figure on the right side of the painting. With a few simple brushstrokes, Van Gogh had managed to convey a sense of urgency as the man hurried across the sand. His featureless face betrayed no emotion, but his body pressed forward, legs bent, shoulders lurching forward, hands raised above the waist. Even the wind seemed to be against him, blowing the grass growing over the dunes nearly flat.
    “John Doe’s death scene is a cliché,” Rawlings whispered and then gathered his satchel. “Thank you, Olivia. For the meal, the company, and your ability to help me see clearly. I—”
    Again, they were interrupted by Flynn who had returned to the table with two tumblers of whiskey. He gave Rawlings a look of apology. “I didn’t know whether you’d be interested in chasing your milk with whiskey.”
    Mumbling a hasty good-bye, Rawlings departed.
    Olivia took the whiskey from Flynn’s hand with a brief thank-you and drank it down, her eyes never leaving the