A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

as glance up in acknowledgment.
    Inside the lab’s office, it was obvious that she wasn’t going to be breezing in and out of the lab quickly. A dozen names were listed on the receptionist’s clipboard. Once she’d added hers, Olivia asked the receptionist for an estimate on the wait time.
    The woman shrugged. “’Bout thirty minutes.” She handed Olivia another clipboard. “Please complete these forms and make sure to sign and date them at the bottom.”
    Retreating to an empty corner of the waiting room, Olivia raced through the paperwork and handed the pile back to the receptionist. The woman scooped up the forms, asked Olivia for payment in advance, and then called an elderly man forward and began to chide him for not having an updated insurance card. He searched through his wallet with trembling, age-spotted fingers but could not find anything to satisfy the receptionist.
    Everyone in the room looked bored and miserable. A television mounted on the wall nearest the exit was turned to CNN, and an anchorman droned on about the state of the nation’s economy. Rumpled magazines sat untouched on veneered end tables, and a plastic display case filled with health pamphlets covered a coffee table in the center of the gray- and mauve-speckled carpet. The patients waiting to be taken into the back looked like zombies. No one met anyone else’s gaze, but each person took regular turns glancing at the large clock above the receptionist’s desk.
    Olivia had paid in cash, slipping two extra twenties into the receptionist’s plump hand in hopes of being able to cajole the woman into seeing that Olivia was seen quickly. The attempt was unsuccessful. The woman counted out the bills and then called Olivia up to her window. Raising her pencil-drawn brows, she said, “You gave me too much money.”
    She spoke loud enough for the rest of the room to hear and her tone was replete with disapproval. Olivia had no choice but to apologize, take back her cash, and return to her seat. She could feel the receptionist’s accusatory eyes on her back, but felt no shame. Haviland was waiting outside, so she had a valid reason to try to expedite her stay at the lab.
    The minutes dragged on as one person after another passed into the next set of rooms. These patients moved deeper into the lab with slow and heavy steps. Olivia shared their feelings of reticence. She was not fond of having blood drawn and tended to become dizzy and nauseated during the experience.
    Finally, a woman wearing purple scrubs encasing wide shoulders and a solid bulk resembling that of a NFL linebacker called Olivia’s name. “Olivia . . .” She frowned over her clipboard. “Limodges?”
    “Limoges,” Olivia corrected. And then, because this woman was about to stick a needle into her, tried to amend her answer so that it sounded more conversational. “It’s the same name as the French porcelain.”
    The woman blinked at her and then smiled. “Oh, I’ve seen that stuff on Antiques Roadshow . Pitchers and cups and the like painted with flowers. That’s not my style. Too fancy. Me? I collect unicorns. All sorts of unicorns. I just think they are so magical.” She gestured for Olivia to enter an empty exam room to the left and continued to list the types of figurines or plush toys she’d bought or been given over the years even though Olivia was paying her little heed. She was too busy wondering whether to sit in the reclining chair or lie flat on the cushioned exam table to focus on crystal unicorns.
    She opted for the table and sat on its edge. Pushing her sleeve up her arm, she waited for the woman to get to work, but she continued her recitation of her unique collection.
    In order to stop the phlebotomist’s prattle, Olivia abruptly thrust the envelope containing her father’s blood into the woman’s free hand. “You need this more than I do,” she said and eased back against the cushioned headrest of the exam table.
    Temporarily derailed, the woman checked her clipboard. “Paternity test, huh? You can sit in the chair, you know. The table’s for folks who don’t do well when they see the needle coming.”
    “It’s not the needle, but I have a track record of wooziness when my blood is drawn,” Olivia admitted reluctantly. “I’d feel more comfortable on this contemporary fainting couch.”
    “The what?” The woman asked but didn’t pursue the subject. Humming softly, she tied a rubber tourniquet around Olivia’s bicep and