Dead By Midnight (4 page)

Laurel had discovered free online pictures of exotic cat breeds and never looked back. She printed photos on glossy paper and mounted them on acid-free mat board. In printed letters beneath the photos, each cat was identified by breed, and a caption expressed a “Cat Truth.” The classy, high-end posters were everywhere, propped against the sofa and several chairs, ranged along the mantel, and spread across the coffee table.

A smile tugged at Annie’s lips. She honestly couldn’t look at pictures of cats, all kinds of cats, Maltese, Abyssinian, Siamese, Scottish Fold, domestic short hair, tabbies, and not be enchanted by their beauty. The coup de grâce was the legend beneath each picture. A Sphynx, its hairless gray skin wrinkled, stared with obvious reproof. Uneven pink letters inquired:
Who you lookin’ at, dude?
A multicolored Manx, mostly white with a black half mask and black back with a dash of orange, stood with his head twisted staring over raised haunches:
Nobody sneaks up on me!

Annie counted twenty admittedly fetching photographs of gorgeous cats, each mounted on poster board with the announcement of breed and an inscription. “Cat Truth,” she mused. “Okay, the pix are great, the comments priceless.” If Max quoted her to Laurel, maybe this sop to TV ads would soften the blow. “However”—she was emphatic—“a Philosophy of Life according to cats has no place in a mystery bookstore.” She turned and realized she was in Max’s embrace, a very nice place to be. She smiled up at him. “I have a great idea.” She wriggled one arm free and made an inclusive gesture. “We’ll leave the posters just the way they are and have a cocktail party here to celebrate Laurel’s”—she paused for inspiration—“trenchant philosophical triumph.”

A
nnie’s cell rang. She glanced at the clock. A quarter to eleven. She felt beleaguered, irritated, pressed, and ill-treated. She needed to get to the library and set up the book table. Emma Clyde wanted books on sale both before and after an event. What Emma wanted, Emma got, Annie having long ago decided the better part of valor was never to rouse a quiescent literary lioness. She checked her caller ID and frowned. “Hi, Henny.” She tried to sound pleasant, but if she hadn’t listened to Henny, she’d probably have found someone other than Pat to hire and today would not be a disaster waiting to happen.

“You sound stressed.”

“That sums everything up nicely. I have the library Author Luncheon for Emma and”—she heard the high twitter of feminine voices through the open door of her office—“the Savannah book club’s here and Pat’s a no-show, which puts Ingrid in a deep, deep pit. I need to get to the library. I’ll talk to you later.”

Annie put more copies of Emma’s new paperback,
The Case of the Curious Cat
, into a box. She moved too quickly and a stack of the books tilted from the worktable and slapped to the floor. As she scrambled to pick them up, she glanced at the cover art and glared into the almond-shaped blue eyes of a white, long-haired Siamese with an inscrutable expression. “Cats,” she muttered. “Everywhere I go, cats.”

A black paw snaked through the air, leaving a mark on the back of her right hand.

“Agatha, I’m not playing now. I don’t have time.” When the books were safely in the box and Agatha distracted with a moist treat, Annie pressed a Kleenex against the scratch and poked her head out of the storeroom.

“Has Pat shown up?”

Ingrid slid her hand over the portable phone’s mouthpiece. “No. I called Laurel and she’s going to help out.”

Annie opened her mouth, closed it. Pat Merridew had picked a lousy day to be late for work. Obviously, Ingrid couldn’t handle the book club by herself. Henny was committed for a luncheon. Emma would be wearing her author hat. That left Laurel.

“What did she say?”

Ingrid blinked uncertainly. “Kind of a funny answer. She said: ‘He who asks shall be rewarded.’ ”

Annie whirled back into the office and snatched up Laurel’s portfolio, thumbed through the contents. She found the proper poster, a large, sleek, muscular Bengal cat with a dense marbled coat—and a hugely satisfied expression:
He who asks shall be rewarded
. So Laurel was quite willing to help out. No doubt, radiating charm, she would expect Annie to hang cat posters in Death on Demand as a reward.

Annie gripped the portfolio. Could she hide the thick manila folder?

Her cell rang again. She fumbled in her pocket, lifted the phone, saw the caller ID, tried not to squeak when she answered. “I’m on my way, Emma.” She tossed the portfolio on the worktable.
Que sera, sera.
She grabbed the box of books. “I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

A
nnie whistled a jaunty tune as she toted a single box with no more than a half-dozen unsold titles up the steps to the back door of Death on Demand. Even Emma had been pleased by the sales and it took a lot of
ka-ching
s to bring a smile to her redoubtable square face. She had even offered a grudging compliment. “Better than I expected. Of course, everyone loves Marigold.”

Annie loathed Emma’s sleuth, Marigold Rembrandt. Annie considered her a carping harpy with all the charm of a molting mongoose, but since she enjoyed
ka-ching
s, too, she had warbled happily to Emma, “Marigold knocked ’em dead.” A flash in Emma’s frosty blue eyes reminded Annie that the author’s insatiable hunger for praise must be fed. “You were wonderful, Emma. Splendid. Brilliant.” Annie paused.

Emma had nodded, looking expectant.

Annie had almost rebelled. How much attention did the old warhorse need? She knew the answer. She took a deep breath. “Cogent. Compelling. Charismatic.” When they’d parted in the library parking lot, Emma had been at her most congenial.

Annie laughed as she opened the back door, the box on one hip. All’s well that ends well. Now, if only Ingrid had weathered the book club. Annie put aside any thoughts about Laurel and Cat Truth. Time would, unfortunately, tell.

She stepped into the storeroom. The door to the coffee area was ajar.

“ . . . and what am I bid for the Chestnut Oriental Shorthair?”

Annie would know that husky voice anywhere. Adrift on a space station. In a Deadwood saloon. Behind a Venetian mask. From the depths of a cavern. Riding in an alpine cable car.

Annie stopped in the doorway.

Her slender blond mother-in law, her patrician features quite lovely and perfect, her pale blue linen dress elegantly styled, stood in stocking feet on the coffee bar. She held up a poster. A rectangular-muzzled, green-eyed, chocolate-colored cat appeared as brooding as a gothic hero. The legend read:
Always say yes to adventure.

A lantern-jawed woman in the front row thundered, “Two hundred dollars.”

A plump matron with untidy brown curls jumped to her feet. “Three hundred.”

“Three hundred dollars.” Laurel repeated the sum twice. “Do I hear three-fifty?”

After a beat, she clapped her hands together. “Sold for three hundred dollars. That completes my offering of
Paws That Refresh: Cat Truth
. I thank you for your wonderful support today for our animal rescue center. The sum raised by the auction—”

Annie took a step into the coffee area.

Laurel continued smoothly, “—will help provide shelter and treatment for abandoned and abused dogs and cats. We would also like to thank Death on Demand for offering to host the auction. And here is the wonderful proprietor of Death on Demand, eager to welcome you lovely ladies from the Captivating Crimes Book Club. Perhaps Annie would like to share a tribute to Mississippi Delta author Carolyn Haines, who writes wonderful books and helps rescue abused and abandoned horses, dogs, and cats, and to Mary Kennedy of
Dead Air
and
Reel Murder
fame, who rescues cats and supports all efforts to protect animals.”

Annie remembered one of the posters now residing in her and Max’s living room, a silky-furred, mitted, and bicolored Ragdoll stretched out on a red silk cushion, looking as comfy as Eva Longoria in a Hanes ad:
Go with the flow.

Annie’s smile was genuine. “Thank you, Laurel, for your support for animals and for sharing news of Carolyn Haines’s Sarah Booth Delaney series and Mary Kennedy’s talk-radio series. Animal lovers”—she swept her arm in an all-inclusive gesture—“will enjoy visiting Carolyn Haines’s online animal rescue page, www.goodfortunefarmrefuge.org.”

Immediately, several ladies lifted their iPhones and fingers flew as they typed in the link.

Annie beamed at Laurel. The best outcome, in addition to sales, was that the dreaded posters were no longer on her worktable, though Annie well knew there were more where these came from. However, there was no point in borrowing trouble. Moreover, a worthy cause had profited.

Annie mingled and was charming. But if Pat Merridew dared enter Death on Demand, it would be the shortest stay in history.

A
s soon as Henny reached her car at the Sea Side Inn parking lot, she flipped open her cell.

“Death on Demand, the finest—”

Henny interrupted. “Hey, Ingrid, did Pat show up?”

“No. Laurel helped out. We made it through.” Ingrid described the auction.

Henny grinned. “If you can’t beat ’em, maybe you need to join ’em.”

“I don’t think that’s what Annie wants to hear. Oh, got to go. Some tourists . . .”

Henny sat behind her wheel, tapped Pat’s number. No answer. She had called twice before going to the luncheon. Pat wasn’t at the store. She wasn’t home. Where was she? Maybe she had a call from a friend who needed to go to a doctor’s appointment in Savannah. Maybe she forgot to call the bookshop. Maybe a lot of things.

Henny tried to maintain a positive outlook, but she felt both irritated and disappointed. She had helped Pat find a job and now Pat had let Annie down. Henny pressed her lips together. Her words might be sharp when she found Pat. With a decided nod, she turned on the motor and headed for Pat’s house instead of home.

Henny drove with her windows down, enjoying the pleasant June heat. In July the island would swelter and cooling the car with air-conditioning would be automatic. She turned on a dusty narrow road north of downtown. Palmettos, live oaks, red cedars, and yellow pines crowded the road. The burgeoning woods were interrupted by occasional houses. She enjoyed the variety: shacks perched on pilings; late-nineteenth-century, two-story frame or tabby homes; and new multistoried mansions of stucco or stone.

The road swung around a lagoon. On the wooded side of the road, Henny turned into a driveway. Pat’s modest home was an early Colonial clapboard cottage. It was well maintained, the white paint fresh. Henny pulled up behind Pat’s blue Chevy. Had she returned home shortly before Henny’s arrival? Henny’s eyes glinted. Had she chosen not to answer the phone?

On the porch, Henny admired some crimson begonias in a glazed blue vase. A light cotton sweater lay on the green swing. Letters and magazines protruded from the mailbox. Before she could ring, frenzied barking erupted beyond the front door. Gertrude sounded frantic. That was unusual. She was a good-natured dog.

A frown touched Henny’s narrow face. There had been enough time for Pat to answer the door. The dachshund’s yelps continued, faster and faster.

Henny glanced out at the drive. That was Pat’s car. Of course, someone might have picked her up . . .

Dog claws scrabbled on the other side of the door.

Henny pulled open the screen. She turned the front knob and pushed. She wasn’t surprised to find the door open. Many islanders only locked up at bedtime. “Pat?” The door swung slowly inward. Henny stepped into the small foyer. A grandfather clock ticked to her left.

Gertrude twisted in a circle, her claws clicking on the wooden floor, then bolted to the living room. She skidded to a stop, lifted her sleek head, and howled, the pitiable cry high and mournful.

Henny felt a tightness in her chest. She crossed the hall, stopped in the doorway.

Sun spilled across the room, illuminating the rose sofa and the cream chintz easy chair and the pinewood coffee table. A crystal mug with dark sludge in its bottom sat on the table. Pat slumped to one side of the easy chair, her auburn-gray head resting against the upholstered side, her face slack. One arm dangled over the side of the chair.

A
nnie loved the long sweep of the garden behind their house, azaleas bright in spring afternoons, dusky roses damp with dew in summer, billowy white blossoms of sea myrtle in late fall. Tall pines and Spanish-moss-draped live oaks framed the view down to the pond with its resident alligator. Tonight the beauty was dimmed.

“I feel awful. I was so mad at Pat. And she was dead.” Annie’s voice was shaky.

Max lounged against the railing, his back to the garden. “Hey, you didn’t know.” He looked at Henny in the red wooden rocking chair next to Annie. “Do they have any idea what caused her death?”

Henny shook her head. “So far as I know she didn’t have heart trouble, but that’s always possible. They’re doing an autopsy.” She stroked the fluffy white fur of Dorothy L, who snuggled in her lap.

Annie nodded. That was the law when cause of death could not be certified by an attending physician.