Dead By Midnight (3 page)

Agatha, Death on Demand’s elegant and imperious black cat, shot past, batting at a small plastic ball with a wobbly feather.

“It just goes to show,” Annie called after her, but Agatha was too engrossed to respond and disappeared around the end of a bookcase. Annie wasn’t altogether sure of the cosmic significance of her fondness for mysterious packages and boxes, but she was certain they made life more interesting.

Maybe today there would be a new surprise awaiting her.

“Annie, is that you?” Footsteps sounded in the central aisle. Slender, quick moving, and efficient, Ingrid was, beneath her crusty exterior, kind to the core. Ingrid planted herself in front of Annie. Graying brown hair drawn back in a bun, her sharp- featured face looked harried. “Glad you’re here.” There was just the tiniest hint of rebuke for Annie’s tardy arrival. “A book club from Bluffton is due in half an hour, Henny’s waiting for you in the coffee area, and Laurel put a portfolio on your desk.” Ingrid looked puzzled. “On the outside of the portfolio—I couldn’t help seeing it as I went by—there’s an inscription in straggling pink letters and a funny splotch.”

Annie was well aware of the portfolio’s contents, which Laurel had exhibited to her and Max over dinner one evening. “I’ll deal with Laurel’s portfolio later.” Annie wished her reply didn’t sound as strained as if she’d found a copperhead wrapped around the coffee machine. After all, her mother-in-law’s enthusiasms were nothing new, from Laurel’s flirtation with harmonic convergences when they’d first met to her fascination with saints and now . . . This time Max would have to corral Laurel. There were limits.

An inner voice hooted:
Sez who?

Ingrid looked sympathetic and changed the subject. “Anyway, I’m on the phone with the Harper rep about the Mary Daheim titles. That bed-and-breakfast in Bluffton wants fifty copies by tonight.” She whirled and rushed toward the storeroom.

A distant whir indicated that Henny, no stranger to the store, was making cappuccino. Annie hurried down the central aisle to the coffee bar. Readers sat at several tables, all with mugs and biscotti.

Annie reached the coffee bar. “Thanks for taking care of everyone.” She gestured toward the contented coffee hounds and smiled at Death on Demand’s best customer and her cherished friend. As always, Henny was fashionably dressed, the terra-cotta of her linen top flattering to her silvered dark hair and dark eyes.

Henny pushed a mug toward Annie. “Lots of caramel. Hey, I like your sundress.”

Annie glanced in the mirror at the far end of the coffee bar that added illusory depth to the café area. She hadn’t been sure about the color, a dusty plum. The mirror reflected her honey-blond hair and gray eyes and the loose-fitting A-line dress decorated with appliqués of silvery fern fronds. “I thought maybe the color was too cool.”

“Perfect for you.” Henny spoke with fashion authority.

Annie took a sip of the scrumptious foam. She was glad Henny liked the dress, but still felt a bit unsure of the shade. Though she knew she needed to get to work, she slid onto a stool at the coffee bar. She would take a moment to visit with Henny and admire the collection of coffee mugs behind the coffee bar, each with the name of a mystery author and title. Annie glanced at her mug.
Knocked for a Loop
by Craig Rice.

Henny followed her glance. “I know how you like surprises.”

Annie noted the lively, determined intelligence in Henny’s dark eyes and felt a tingle of alarm. “That depends.”

Henny’s smile was quick. “Nice surprises, like the
Murder, My Sweet
poster.”

Annie, of course, had shared the story of her well-rewarded curiosity far and wide.

Henny finished a latte with an extra dollop of almond slivers and came around the bar to settle on a stool next to Annie. She held up her mug (
Taken at the Flood
by Agatha Christie) in a toast. “As you pointed out after you so wisely persevered despite initial disappointment, treasures can be found in the most unlikely places. Darling, do I ever have a treasure for you!” Henny’s beautifully modulated voice was confident, but her dark eyes held a plea.

Chapter Two

“D
id you read Nancy Drew when you were growing up?” Annie heard the discouragement in her voice. As far as she had been able to determine, Pat Merridew had never read a single Agatha Christie.

Pat pushed back a sprig of graying auburn hair. Her pale blue eyes slid away from Annie, then back. “I always watch
CSI
. I’ll catch up. I’m a quick study.”

Annie saw bravado and embarrassment.

Pat slid her fingers together in a tight grip. “I know it’s important to be knowledgeable for customers. But Henny said you really needed help at the store. If you’ll give me a chance, I’ll do my best. Maybe let me try out for a couple of weeks.” Her mouth twisted in a wry almost-smile. “I’ll go nuts if I sit around the house much longer. I’ve always worked.” She tugged at the collar of her blouse. She’d obviously dressed with care for the interview, a crisp white cotton blouse, a tropical bright skirt with cheerful splashes of indigo and rose, light blue leather loafers.

Annie knew it wasn’t the money that prompted Pat’s plea, certainly not the modest salary Death on Demand offered. It was the sense of worth conferred by holding a job. Jobs on a small island could be few and far between. It was the height of the tourist season, but those jobs had been snapped up before the end of May, primarily by college students. The handful of year-round shops near the marina or the island’s small downtown belonged to people who had owned them for years, and openings were quickly filled by someone who knew someone.

Henny knew Annie. Death on Demand needed a clerk. But Pat obviously didn’t know cozy from noir or thriller from police procedural.

Pat’s gaze fell. She looked resigned and began to turn away.

Annie reached out, touched her arm. “I’m sure you’d like mysteries.”

Pat faced Annie, her eyes brightening with hope. “I know I would. I’ll read as many as I can as soon I can.”

Annie forced a bright smile. “You can be a great help with unpacking and shelving and ordering. Let me show you around.”

By the time they reached the coffee bar, Annie was berating herself internally. She was beginning to suspect that Pat not only didn’t read mysteries, she didn’t read, a state of being Annie equated with abandonment on an ice floe without a Kindle, Sony, or Nook, much less a book.

Annie gestured toward the watercolors hanging above the mantel. “Every month I hang fresh paintings for our mystery contest. Each represents a particular title. The first person to identify the book and author receives a month of coffee and a free book.”

Annie admired the bright splashes of color.

In the first painting, moonlight beamed through tall windows, illuminating a staircase and great hall. Hanging banners appeared shadowy and gray in the cool radiance. A man in a soft bathrobe lay limply on the checkered floor. An awkward figure scrambling unsteadily to his feet reached out, crashing a suit of armor to the floor.

In the second painting, a fresh-faced teenager, eyes bright, held his cell phone up, but three women in a sunroom were oblivious. Seated with one foot on a hassock, a heavily made-up woman in a filmy dress and matching turban gazed in dismay at a small, older woman. The smaller woman also wore a turban. Gray hair poked from beneath purple cloth. Scowling, she held a bent cookie sheet. On the sheet rested a plate of cookies. Observing the turbaned women was a graceful, middle-aged woman whose expressive face reflected breeding, intelligence, and wisdom.

In the third painting, roiling smoke and shooting flames were shocking in the pale moonlight. Smoke darker than the night billowed through the front door of a three-story building as an obviously injured man hobbled across a porch toward the front steps, helped by a stocky figure wearing a bandanna that covered the lower part of his face.

In the fourth painting, a tall young woman with auburn hair stood in a radio studio. Her eyes wide, she stared out the window into the palm-tree-rimmed parking lot at a platinum-haired, voluptuous blonde in a shocking-pink halter dress and Jackie O sunglasses as she navigated forward in stiletto slingbacks.

In the fifth painting, shock was obvious in the moonlight-illuminated faces of two young women lugging a tarp-wrapped body. A Pomeranian, with its mouth open wide to bark, rode on the corpse’s chest. Looking haunted were a tall, olive-skinned brunette and a plus-size Rita Hayworth lookalike with long red hair.

“Oooh.” Pat looked impressed. “Do they get any book they want?” She had exclaimed at the $310 price tag for the three-volume leather-bound set of Sherlock Holmes.

Annie’s reply was swift and firm. “Only a noncollectible.”

“Noncollectible?”

Annie took a deep breath. Maybe Pat would be a whiz at the coffee bar.

A
nnie’s cell rang. She stared at the computer. Online ordering might be easier for the publishers, but the lines to fill in and boxes to click made her feel as if she were negotiating a maze in a deep fog. Let’s see . . . She needed to return the unsold Dan Brown hardcovers, but not the paperbacks. She answered absently, “Death on Demand, the finest mystery—”

“Hey, Annie. Has anybody figured out the paintings yet?” Henny’s resonant voice, which easily reached the last row in island little-theater productions, was just this side of strident.

Annie tossed aside her usual tact. “Nope, but don’t you sometimes feel like it’s shooting fish in a barrel? Where’s your sportsman’s blood? Why don’t you give ordinary readers a chance?”

“When Democrats embrace Sarah Palin or when you bar Emma from the contest.”

Since Annie would rather sunbathe nestled next to an alligator than in any way challenge the island’s rock-visaged queen of crime, she changed the subject. “Can you think of any way I can divert Laurel from hanging that stuff in the bookstore?”

A throaty chuckle was an answer. Of sorts. “I’m taking bets on whether Laurel prevails. And I wouldn’t call those lovely matted photos
stuff
. I thought you loved cats.”

Annie felt her spine stiffen. “I do love cats. And I know the posters are fetching.” It was a grudging admission. “But Death on Demand isn’t the place for Laurel to display them. I don’t care how clever they are.” Annie determinedly ignored the portfolio, only inches from her hand.

“Odds are running eight to one.”

Annie didn’t have to ask in whose favor.

“On a happier note—I hope—how is Pat doing?”

Annie smiled. “A much happier note. She’s a live wire. She’s trying so hard.” Through the open door into the office, she heard Pat’s eager voice. “Certainly if you enjoy Earlene Fowler, you’ll love Diana Killian and Emilie Richards. Over here we have . . .” Of course, Pat was cribbing from the staff recommendations list at the end of the romantic suspense aisle, but she’d taken the time to learn. “I gave her some Christies and, no surprise, she was enchanted. She read those and now she has another batch. She’s started quoting Christie.”

“A quotable lady.” Quick as a rapier thrust, Henny demanded, “Which character said: ‘I had the firm conviction that, if I went about looking for adventure, adventure would meet me halfway. It is a theory of mine that one always gets what one wants
.
’ ”

“Anne Beddingfield in
The Man in the Brown Suit
.”

Again that throaty chuckle. “Of course you know that one. I’ll bet your copy is dog-eared. You have a dash of Anne Beddingfield. I like this game. We’ll play it again.”

Annie was smiling as she clicked off the phone. There were no clouds on her horizon this sunny summer Friday.

Except, of course, Laurel’s latest project. And tomorrow.

Annie glanced at the portfolio, the better not to think about tomorrow. She reached out slowly, then yanked back her hand. No. Double, triple, quadruple no. She would not look and be charmed. Right was right. Death on Demand was a mystery bookstore, not a venue for highly original philosophical . . . She grasped for the proper word. Philosophical treatises? Too weighty. Philosophical exercises? Better. Philosophical nonsense? Too harsh.

As if on cue, Agatha bounded onto the desk. Before Annie could grasp the silky-haired creature, one black paw poked the keyboard.

The book order vanished.

“Did you do that on purpose?” Annie stared into cool green eyes that appeared both amused and questioning.

She suppressed the quivering thought that somehow Laurel had engineered the cat’s action. She mustn’t succumb to hysteria.

Annie grabbed the portfolio. Didn’t self-help gurus counsel confronting fears? She reached in, pulled out the first cardboard-mounted photograph. She looked from the photo to Agatha. “When did you pose for her?” And since when did cats pose? Of course, the cat wasn’t Agatha, although the resemblance was startling. There was no denying that the pictured cat had sleek black fur, glittering green eyes, and an uplifted (to swat) paw. The caption read: “British Black Shorthair.
My way or the highway
.”

Annie shoved the picture back into the portfolio and concentrated on breathing evenly. Was Laurel hoping to win Annie over by including a poster with Agatha’s double? Possibly. Possibly not. Who knew what Laurel was thinking? That question had mystified all who had ever known the woman, especially her daughter-in-law. It was time to go home, relax, forget Laurel and her posters. In any event, Annie couldn’t spare the emotional energy.

She needed every ounce of calm to survive tomorrow, which was a double feature for Death on Demand, Emma Clyde appearing at the Author Luncheon at the library at the same time as the Savannah Captivating Crimes Book Club arrived at Death on Demand for a light lunch and discussion of suspense novels from Eric Ambler to Suzanne Brockman. A recently departed (not from this life, but from the island) employee had blithely approved the date for both events. By the time Annie discovered the conflict, the schedules of the library and book club were set.

Somehow Annie had to sell books at the library while convincing Emma that, of course, the crowd was wonderful and not the least bit smaller because of the meeting at the store or the competition from several other luncheons occurring in various venues that the interim help also had not checked. Ingrid, meanwhile, would host the book club. Normally such an event required Annie’s presence as well as a summer clerk. Henny often helped out but she was presiding at a Red Cross luncheon at the Sea Side Inn. Laurel loved to sub at Death on Demand, but Annie had no intention of calling on her.

Thank heaven for Pat.

Saturday wouldn’t be doable without her.

A
nnie rushed into the kitchen. She’d changed into a short-sleeved knit top that matched a bright orange stripe in flamboyant cropped pants that shouted summer with pink, grape, white, lime, and orange stripes.

Max, muscular and tanned in a T-shirt, khaki shorts, and espadrilles, shredded carrots at the central workstation. Not only was he a gorgeous hunk, he was a super chef. He looked over his shoulder. “Sangria’s made.”

Annie felt bubbly without a sip. She moved toward the refrigerator. “What kind tonight?”

“Max’s Coolest Ever. Chardonnay with fruit, lemonade, and two shots of peach brandy. You can add the ginger ale.”

Annie fixed two glasses, placed one near Max, then perched on a stool to watch as catfish sizzled in the skillet. She cradled the cool glass in her hands. “If I ever needed a pick-me-up, it’s tonight.” She hesitated, then asked obliquely, “Have you talked to your mother?”

Max ladled rice from the cooker. “She looked cheerful when I saw her.” He carried their plates to the table. “If you’ll zap the corn bread in the microwave, everything’s ready.”

Annie put down her glass. “You saw her?”

“Why don’t we eat and then—”

Annie folded her arms. “Where are they?”

Max’s blue eyes shifted away. He moved fast as Dorothy L, his plump white cat, jumped onto the table. “Not when we’re eating, D.L.” He retrieved the fluffy cat and carried her to the kitchen door.

Annie was still waiting when the door clicked shut.

Max studied Annie’s face and placed the plates in the microwave for later reheating. “In the living room.”

Annie stalked from the kitchen and strode to the living room, her sandals clicking on the heart-pine floor. Just inside the wide double doors, she stopped and took a deep breath. She spotted a portfolio, twin to the one in her office, pink letters and black splotch straggling across the stiff plastic over. The inscription was burned into her consciousness:

PAWS THAT REFRESH: Cat Truth

She wanted to snarl that the black splotch following the title, obviously a paw print, was just too cute. Actually, the paw print was cute, even though Annie loathed cuteness. She didn’t turn when Max came up behind her and slipped an arm around her rigid shoulders.

His voice was conciliatory. “Don’t you think they’re clever?”

“Of course they’re clever. But they don’t have anything to do with mysteries. Displaying them at Death on Demand would distract from the books.” Not to mention the watercolor contest. She had no doubt Laurel coveted the expanse above the fireplace as a space to display the cats.