A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

relative had moved in with the family or Alzheimer’s had afflicted one of his grandparents. Perhaps someone close to Rawlings had been consumed by an obsession. Olivia could easily picture him playing the role of confidante, even as a teenage boy. He was a gifted listener, patient and quiet, coaxing the speaker to continue with a soft word of encouragement.
    With her green pen hovering over Rawlings’ pages, Olivia finished her read-through. Rawlings had named his character Easton Craig and had set the story in what was clearly a fictionalized version of Oyster Bay. Choosing his hometown made sense when penning a tale about pirates, for Blackbeard had made his home in the area. In fact, there had been long-standing rumors among the locals that Edward Thatch had hidden plunder along the banks of the Neuse River and hosted wild parties for other notorious buccaneers such as Charles Vane.
    Blackbeard’s other refuge was Okracoke Island. Olivia sat back in her chair, considering the irony.
    The infamous pirate met his death off the shores of Okracoke, run down by a lieutenant from the Royal Navy by order of Queen Anne. Blackbeard’s sloop, the Adventure, was anchored offshore the island. Cutting anchor, he tried to outrun his pursuers, but the wind, which had been his ally for hundreds of raids, betrayed the pirate when he needed it most. Blackbeard’s ship was boarded, and in a sword fight to the death, the pirate’s head was severed from his neck in an act of genuine barbarity.
    Pushing herself away from her desk, Olivia was once again drawn to the map of North Carolina within her coffee table book. She stared at Okracoke, her thoughts fluctuating between a murdered pirate and a missing father.
    In an effort to prevent herself from becoming maudlin, Olivia called Laurel.
    “I did it!” Laurel shouted into the phone. “I submitted my articles this morning and I just got an e-mail from my editor. He’s putting them in tomorrow’s paper! I’m officially hired!”
    “Wonderful news,” Olivia said with a proud smile. “And how did your conversation with Steve go? Do you have his support?”
    Laurel hesitated. “I figured I would show him the articles first. You know, put the Gazette next to his bacon and eggs and let him see that someone is actually going to pay me to write.”
    Olivia could imagine Laurel on the other end of the line, clasping her hands over her heart, her lovely face rosy as she indulged in a fantasy of her husband suddenly seeing her in a new light. Olivia hated to burst her bubble, but she wanted Laurel to be prepared for an unfavorable reaction. “What will you do if Steve’s unimpressed?”
    “I’ll cry, I suppose,” Laurel answered honestly. “But I’m not going to back down. I’ve never felt so sure about myself as I did when I sent in that file. And I don’t think I’ve thanked you for helping me realize my potential. I wish there was some way to express my gratitude.”
    “There is,” Olivia said. “Don’t give up. No matter what anyone says, don’t give this up.”
    The next day, the lead-in to Laurel’s article was featured prominently on a right-hand column on the front page. Olivia read it eagerly and was impressed by how Laurel had managed to infuse the facts with compassion for the victims. There was also a short piece on the robbery in Beaufort County and a quote from Chief Rawlings about the department’s progress in the investigation. Laurel had indeed proved herself a capable reporter.
    Over the course of the week the Gazette ran pieces on the burglaries. Laurel’s name appeared in the byline below each article and Olivia assumed that she hadn’t heard from her friend because she was too busy writing.
    Olivia decided to be industrious as well. She and Michel designed an autumn menu featuring dishes like apple and Brie salad, veal cordon blue, chicken and pears in a gourmandise sauce, pork chops with roasted shallots and carrots, pumpkin bread pudding with candied ginger, and apple crisp with a dulce de leche drizzle. She also finished critiquing Rawlings’ chapter and added five thousand words to her own manuscript.
    On Thursday morning, there was a knock on her door. Peering through the kitchen window, Olivia recognized Will Hamilton’s face from the photograph on his website.
    “I’m sorry to just show up like this, but my cell phone went for a swim in the Pamlico Sound and I knew you’d want this as soon as possible.” He handed her a padded