A Deadly Cliche (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

from you or the Gazette .”
    Ignoring her, Laurel told Haviland he was free to take care of business in the strip of woods separating her property from her neighbor’s. “Their dog does it on our front lawn all the time and they never pick up after her.” Laurel glared at the Georgian house next door. “Go wild, Haviland!”
    Cocking his head at the sound of his name, Haviland trotted off to the specified area. The women waited until he’d complied with Laurel’s wishes and then Olivia called him back into the house, promising to take him to the park immediately after lunch.
    Laurel asked Olivia to boot up her laptop while she placed a call to Chief Rawlings, hoping to prime him for information before he made what was sure to become a celebrated arrest.
    “No luck,” she told Olivia. “He’s not answering his office or cell numbers and I can’t reach Officer Cook either. He’s kind of been my go-to guy. That man loves the idea of having his name in the paper.”
    As Olivia began a search for the Donald family, the doorbell rang. Haviland, who had stretched out on the tiles under the kitchen table, raised his head and lifted his ears in curiosity. Then, seeing that his mistress hadn’t reacted to the sound, he flopped back onto the cool floor and closed his eyes.
    Upon hearing more than one set of footsteps in Laurel’s hallway, Olivia stopped typing. It seemed odd to her that there were at least two people in the house, perhaps more, and yet no one spoke. The feeling intensified. Sensing something was wrong; she swiveled in her chair and gasped.
    There was Laurel—trembling hands held above her head in surrender, face ashen with terror.
    She stood shakily between the rigid bodies of a man and a woman. They both had tanned skin and brown hair streaked gold by the sun. They were both armed and their deep-set dark eyes were cold with rage.
    The woman held a knife with a sinister black blade and the man held a length of steel wire. They wore identical work gloves with red rubber palms.
    Olivia’s eyes moved from the bloodred hue to the clenched jaws and icy calm stares of the Cliché Killers. Rutherford and Ellen Donald had clearly not fled town.
    The siblings had another agenda. They’d come to exact their revenge on one more Pampticoe High alumnus.
    They’d come for Laurel.

Chapter 16

    So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their ending.
    —J. R. R. TOLKIEN

    “I ’m sorry, Ellen!” Laurel cried, turning to face the woman on her left. “I was an idiot to tease you like I did! I was more than an idiot! I was cruel but I am so, so sorry!”
    Ellen shrugged, indicating that Laurel’s apology hadn’t moved her one bit. “You were a stupid sheep. You were all sheep, doing what the cool kids told you to.” Her words were flawlessly clear and laced with bitterness. The woman who had grown up with a major speech impediment now spoke with the elocution of a Juilliard actress. “Rutherford and me were little bugs for you to step on. You didn’t think about anything but your clothes and your boyfriends. Now you’re all grown up and you’re still the same.” She gestured in a wide circle with her knife. “Perfect house. Perfect little family. Sheep.”
    “And a perfect job where you get to judge other people in print. Do you think you’ve earned the right to influence people?” Rutherford growled. “We’ve read what you’ve written about us, little lamb. Let me ask you, what do you really know about us?”
    Laurel’s face crumpled. “I know you’re not wicked! People were mean to you and you both suffered. I played a part in that, but I have two precious boys—”
    “Shut up!” Ellen shouted angrily, spittle flying from her mouth. “ My brother and I never got a chance to have families of our own. Not only did our folks force us to live at home until we were nearly thirty , but people screwed with us for too many years before that for us to come out normal. We’ve waited a long time to punish everyone who hurt us. You need to understand”—she brought the tip of her black blade within centimeters of Laurel’s eye—“we have nothing to lose.”
    “You were one of them, Laurel,” Rutherford hissed and then, in a frightening singsong, he whispered, “Cat got your tongue, cat got your tongue, cat go your tongue,” until Laurel put her hands over her ears, her fingers shaking like branches in a hurricane wind.
    Olivia had sat through this charged scene as though made