A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

tapped on her skin a few inches below the tourniquet to make the vein swell.
    Already feeling a bit clammy, Olivia looked away and tried to find an interesting focal point in the room but could only comfortably see a poster of the human circulatory system. She imagined the red and blue veins as highways on a road map. No matter which road one followed, the end would always be the metropolis of the heart.
    Olivia did her best to study the body’s most significant muscle as the phlebotomist stuck her twice before finally hitting the vein. “There we go!” The blood must have filled a vial quickly, for after a brief moment of silence, the woman placed a cotton pad over the needle hole and then applied pressure over the small wound for several seconds. She then slapped a Hello Kitty bandage over the cotton and straightened.
    “You just stay still for a bit,” the woman directed. “You’ve gone a bit pale.”
    Grunting once in assent, Olivia closed her eyes. That was a mistake. She immediately felt a wave of nausea wash over her. Jerking her eyes open, she searched out the red and blue heart on the poster again, taking in deep breaths through her mouth. By the time the phlebotomist returned, Olivia was able to sit up.
    “When will I get my results?”
    The woman tidied up her work area, dropping the spent syringe into a biohazard box and putting the bandage wrappings in the trashcan. “They’ll probably take two days.”
    Olivia didn’t care for this answer. “I thought results were completed within twenty-four hours. You’re talking about twice the expected wait time.”
    Unperturbed, the woman opened the door and indicated that Olivia was free to leave. “We’re pretty backed up right now. Seems like everybody in the county has come down with shingles. You’ll just have to be patient.”
    Pausing in the doorway, Olivia made it clear that she wasn’t going to follow the woman to the checkout area. “I need these results immediately. If those blood results are positive, it means that my father, whom I believed drowned thirty years ago, is alive. But he’s barely alive. He’s got pancreatic cancer and is almost out of time. Do you think it’s acceptable to ask me to be patient, to possibly miss the chance to see him before he dies, because this lab is backed up identifying cases of shingles !”
    The woman didn’t so much as flinch in the face of Olivia’s indignation. “We’ll do our best, ma’am,” was all she would say before walking up the hall to the waiting room. “Ms. Limoges is ready to check out,” she told the sourfaced receptionist, wished Olivia a good day, and called for the next patient.
    Olivia received an instruction sheet on obtaining her lab results and marched out of the office, eager to vent her frustration. Seeing no nearby outlet, she returned Haviland’s boisterous greeting by hugging him around the neck. She then drove to a nearby sandwich shop to pick up lunch for herself and several slices of roast chicken breast for Haviland.
    Keeping her promise to Haviland, she returned to the leash-free park. After serving him the chicken, Olivia stuffed salt and vinegar potato chips into her mouth without the slightest regard for ladylike delicacy. While Haviland frolicked under the afternoon sun, she consumed the entire bag, a tuna fish sandwich on whole wheat, and a dill pickle spear. With her hunger satiated and her frustration marginally relieved, Olivia looked at her watch and wondered what diversions could prevent her from obsessing over the lab results.
    She called Laurel’s house but no one picked up. After leaving a brief message requesting that her friend get back to her as soon as possible, she threw out the empty potato chip bag and paper sandwich wrapper and dialed April Howard’s number.
    “Are you and your portfolio free this afternoon?” she asked when April answered. “Can you meet me at Bagels’n’ Beans in an hour?”
    “Yes. I don’t know if my appearance will look entirely professional, but I’ll be there. I need at least an hour to find my one decent suit and iron three years of wrinkles out of it.”
    Listening to the fatigue in April’s voice, Olivia sought to ease the widow’s mind. “You’re only meeting with me, and frankly, I don’t care if you show up wearing pajamas. I’m serious, April. I’m your potential client and I don’t give a damn whether you’re in a suit and heels or sweats and sneakers. I just want to see your work and