A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

Nothing worked. I thought they were goners.”
    “Did you call the vet?”
    Flynn nodded. “In the middle of the damned night! I told myself that these little guys were just worn out and would eat when they felt like it, but they became listless as the hours passed. I didn’t want to wake you, so I called the emergency number and Diane got right back to me.”
    “She’s an excellent veterinarian,” Olivia said, feeling a pang of guilt that she hadn’t responded to Flynn’s call.
    “I have no experience with animals and I had no idea vets made house calls. Diane came to my place after midnight, examined the kittens, and took them to her office. She said they were severely dehydrated.” He rubbed his brow, his anxiety over the tiny animals evident in his eyes. “I picked them up the next day. I checked on them every five minutes like some crazed new mother and even fed them organic baby food. Do you have any idea how foul lamb is when rendered into a gray, pudding-like substance?”
    Olivia laughed. “No, thank God. So now two cats own you. And what are their names?”
    “They have none as of this point. I thought I’d run a contest for my younger customers. Let them come up with a pair of creative names.”
    “Just don’t pick something too cutesy. Eventually these two will grow into dignified felines and their names need to mature along with them,” Olivia stated seriously.
    Flynn feigned offense. “I wasn’t going to call them Mopsy and Wubzy. Give me a little credit, lady.” He placed a proprietary hand on the gray kitten’s back. “I invited Diane to dinner as a apology for dragging her out of bed. I wanted to tell you, just in case you read it in the Oyster Bay gossip column and became wildly jealous.”
    Olivia touched the orange kitten on the fur above his pink nose. “You don’t belong to me, Flynn. And Diane is a lovely woman.” She glanced at him quizzically. “Did you want me to be jealous?”
    After a pause, Flynn answered. “I guess I did. If only a tiny bit.”
    It’s time, Olivia thought. Tell him that it’s not working out between the two of you .
    “Flynn—” The voice of Flynn’s assistant came through the intercom mounted on the wall. “I need a hand out here. I can’t leave the register and some folks are having trouble locating the books they want.”
    “In other words, get my ass out on the floor?” Flynn asked after pressing the reply button.
    Jenna giggled but obviously didn’t have time to engage in further conversation.
    “Your public awaits,” Olivia said and pushed open the stock room door. Flynn put a hand on her arm as she held the door for him. “That’s supposed to be my job,” he scolded. “And don’t think you’ve escaped so easily. You’ve been as slippery as a piece of seaweed since the storm.” When Olivia didn’t respond, he dropped his hand and smiled. “All I’m saying is don’t be a stranger.”
    Olivia watched him walk past the puppet theater, where he paused to pick up a Cat in the Hat puppet and return it to a young girl with pigtails. Her final thought before leaving Through the Wardrobe was that even though she and Flynn had been physically intimate, they were still strangers to one another. And now she no longer desired for them to become anything else.

    The next day, Olivia parked the Range Rover in front of a spacious transitional brick home located in a subdivision called The Marshes. Laurel was waiting for her, pacing in the driveway with a cell phone pressed to her ear.
    “I can’t come home just yet,” she said and rolled her eyes for Olivia’s benefit. “Just put Dallas on his bed and tell him he has to stay there until he apologizes to his brother. Oh, you’ll forgive me when I bring you something incredible for dinner. Bye!” She sighed and gave Olivia a plaintive look. “Do you have something incredible for me to take home?”
    Olivia indicated they should proceed up the flagstone walk. “I’m sure Michel can produce something to satisfy your husband. Pastry-wrapped tenderloin in red wine sauce is always a crowd-pleaser.” She noticed that Laurel’s fingers were shaking as her friend pressed lightly on the doorbell.
    A haggard-faced woman with a small boy clinging to her thigh answered the door. “Laurel? Come in. Excuse the mess. I just . . .” She touched her child on the head, easing him away from her and giving him a gentle shove toward the stairs. As he began to climb, she finished her