Engaged to Die (2 page)

He reached up, touched his cap. Even Gail had loved his cap. Gail, so slim and golden, so perfect. He'd always been the one to love, then leave. Until Gail. When she'd dropped him for that doctor, he'd been shocked. She'd picked that pudgy, balding ass-
hole over him? That's when he understood that money made all the difference. Painters didn't earn much, not unless they were big shots connected to a major gallery. That's what he'd hoped for in Atlanta. But when Gail dumped him, he'd piled everything in his car, driven to the coast with his big red setter in the passenger seat, and got on the ferry. He hadn't much of anything in mind, but it was summertime and he'd found a job at the island gallery. It was only six months ago, but what a difference the time had made. When he met Virginia Neville, he'd made an effort to charm her. She owned the gallery. But he'd never expected it to turn out the way it had. He'd known she was falling in love with him. And he'd thought, why not? He'd sworn that he would never open his heart again, be vulnerable to the pain he'd suffered because of Gail. Virginia wasn't really old. In her forties. She didn't want to say how old she was. She'd looked at him one night with a question in her eyes. So he told her that she was a woman and he was tired of girls. That pleased her. She was pretty and passionate, and she treated him like a god.

Now he wasn't sure. There was the girl he'd met on the pier in the fog. Last night when they stood at the end of the pier, she'd laughed and plucked the cap from him and perched it on her auburn curls. “Hey,” he'd warned, his voice soft, “anyone who wears my cap has to give me a kiss.” He bent and kissed her, a tender, lingering kiss. For an instant time stopped. He knew he'd never forget the taste of her lips, sweet and clean and warm. Before that moment everything had been clear and simple. If everything went as planned, he'd be on easy street. He could paint anything he wanted to and be certain of exhibitions. But now…

 

Virginia Neville's hands trembled. She clasped them tightly together. She hated being unhappy. After all she'd done for them, why couldn't they be nice to her? Virginia hadn't realized until after Nathaniel's death that the gallery and all the land belonged to her, everything but the huge house that had been home for all of them, Nathaniel's children and their families. Nathaniel was as generous as a man could be. But everything belonged to him—the gallery, the house, the boat. Of course Virginia expected them to stay in the house. It was their home. Anyone would think they would have been appreciative. She'd left Carl in charge of the gallery even though she owned it and she could do what she pleased. But Carl's wife still looked at Virginia as though she were a servant who didn't quite know how to behave. Virginia had paid for their daughter's wedding because Mandy was Nathaniel's favorite grandchild. Who would believe a wedding could cost almost fifty thousand dollars! Fifty thousand dollars. That was more, much more, than Virginia had ever earned as a nurse/companion. It was funny, though. She'd liked Nathaniel. He'd appreciated her. And he'd married her and left her everything but the house! She'd not believed how much money there was, though now nothing was worth as much as it had been. She'd been so surprised. All she'd hoped for was enough money so that she didn't have to keep going into houses where death waited. It had never occurred to her that Nathaniel had left everything to her. He'd made a new will after they married and he'd not told anyone of the change. She understood why. When they planned to marry, everyone was clearly angry, though they'd been polite. Nathaniel was offended. He'd changed his will, but he'd never expected to die, not
until those last few moments when he'd asked her to promise to take care of Carl and Susan and their families. Of course she'd agreed. At the time, she hadn't felt it meant much. She hadn't known she would inherit everything. That lawyer, the one with the metallic gray eyes and a mouth all twisted as though he tasted something bitter, had been mad as hops. He thought she was a fortune hunter and taking away what rightfully belonged to Nathaniel's children and grandchildren.

Virginia looked across the elegant library, past the Hepplewhite table and chairs, at the portraits in their heavy gold leaf ormolu frames above the Adam mantel. Nathaniel stared boldly into a future now done. He'd been very handsome, really. A craggy kind of face, piercing eyes, dark hair touched with silver.

She still felt an instant of shock when she looked at her own image, pale brown hair in coronet braids, her mild blue eyes wide with surprise and shyness, her thin face softened by a faint flush on her cheeks. What a difference from her years in a uniform, slipping quietly to a bedside. In her portrait, she looked like a lady. Now she didn't have to work. Never again.

She smiled at the painting. She'd known it would shock Nathaniel's children when she moved his painting enough to make room for hers above the mantel, too. She'd known and not cared. The shock of Nathaniel's death was fading, and she was beginning to take pleasure in her role as his widow. She'd thought it fitting to put her portrait there when the new young painter had asked to paint her. He'd asked! That was when her happiness began.

Jake had entitled the painting
The Chatelaine.
She'd not known the word, but she didn't tell Jake. After he'd left, the day he hung the painting, she'd gone to the
dictionary. Chatelaine: the mistress of a household. That's how Jake saw her.

But not Nathaniel's children. A few days ago, she'd stood near the doorway to the library and heard Irene's light, cool, sardonic voice as she glanced up at the painting.
“The Chatelaine,”
Irene had drawled. “How about
The Usurper.
Or perhaps
The Bitch.
” Each word was light and uninflected, even the last.

Virginia felt uplifted by the portrait.
Authenticated,
that was the word. That's what Nathaniel would say about a painting that was proved to be genuine. She looked as though she belonged in the room. The pale blue slubbed silk dress was exquisite. She'd never been able to afford beautiful dresses until now. She felt a surge of pleasure when she thought of the new dress hanging in her closet, a soft silver georgette with a flutter hem. Her sandals were silver, too. Jake said she looked like winter moonlight, clear and clean and cool, impossible to grasp. She'd felt enchanted when she slipped into the dress. There had been a sense of wonder ever since she met Jake. Jake had helped her pick out diamond earrings and a necklace with diamonds speckling the wings of a silver butterfly. Jake told her she always reminded him of a butterfly, quiet and gentle and beautiful.

Jake…Her lips curved in a triumphant smile. Tomorrow night at the gallery, they would announce their engagement. She wanted to use the gallery because that's where she'd met Jake. If Carl and Susan didn't like it, that was just too bad. Boston had been sweet as could be when she'd asked if he minded. He had given that great booming laugh of his and told her the bigger the party, the better, and it was time for her to have some fun.

Fun. Yes, it would be fun. She'd never had a party for herself before. Never. The wedding would be simple, of course. Virginia stared at the painting. Chatelaine. That's who she was now. Whether They liked it or not. She wasn't going to let Them (that's how she lumped them together now, Carl and Irene and Susan and Rusty) ruin the party. They were cruel and selfish and didn't want her to be happy, even though she'd always made it clear that everything would come to them. She felt a moment's unease. There was less and less money, and Carl kept telling her the gallery was in trouble. But she had quite a bit of cash, and she could do with it what she wished. Of course, eventually everything would go to Nathaniel's children. They had every right.

She had rights, too.

The thought pierced her like a shaft of sunlight spearing into a dungeon.

She had a right to be happy. And happiness was so near. For the first time in her life, she knew about love. She'd never thought it could be this way, her heart pounding when he came near, taking pleasure in the way his hair curled, in the touch of his hand, in his smell. The phone rang. She whirled to run toward it. Jake always called in the morning….

 

Annie Darling wished she hadn't forgotten her muffler. Maybe she was getting soft. The high would be in the forties this afternoon, and that surely wasn't bad for January. To her it seemed as cold as the Arctic because of the drizzle and the cutting wind that swept across the water and the fact that the temperature had hit seventy only a week ago. However, in comparison with the biting cold and sleet-encrusted streets of Amarillo
in January, the South Carolina sea island of Broward's Rock was almost balmy. Thinking about winter in her hometown should have helped, but the foggy dampness still made her shiver.

Annie glanced toward the dark window of Confidential Commissions. When Max had opened his business, he'd insisted he wasn't running a private inquiry agency. However, anyone who read the advertisement in
The Island Gazette
might think differently:

He'd solved some interesting problems. But no one had so much as rung the phone since the week before Christmas. He'd given his secretary a couple of weeks off and announced that he would be at Annie's disposal. Honestly, did anyone ever have a more fun husband? Of course, his idea of fun was to stay home and make love. But she couldn't just close up shop, as she'd pointed out this morning, slithering free of his admittedly tantalizing embrace and murmuring, “Later, honey.” She prided herself on keeping Death on Demand open unless there was an evacuation order for a hurricane. The category-3 storm in October had been a big scare. They'd boarded over the windows, moved the books on bottom shelves to tall stacks on the coffee bar. At the last minute, the eye of the storm veered north and east. A near escape. She was determined to keep her regular hours at the store today despite Max's
gleaming eyes. She needed to check with Chloe on the progress of the inventory. January was always a slow month, so it was a good time to be sure of her stock. And she'd drop by the hospital to see Ingrid, who was recovering from hip surgery after a nasty fall on the slick boardwalk last week. Thank heaven for Chloe. She'd been a fixture at the store during the Christmas season for the past few years, and this holiday she'd been a huge help. Chloe and her mother had spent Christmas on the island with her mother's stepsister until her mother's death last December. Annie had missed seeing Chloe then. But this year, she came on her own over her college break and once again was a willing clerk during the last-minute rush. Chloe was terrific with customers. She really knew her mysteries—her favorite authors were Janet Evanovich and Sarah Strohmeyer—and she was as bubbly as vintage champagne.

Annie was smiling as she reached for the doorknob. She admired the gilt lettering—
DEATH ON DEMAND
—on the front window. What a clever name. There was, of course, some competition for the best-named mystery bookstore: Remember the Alibi in San Antonio, Texas; Mystery Lovers Bookshop in Oakmont, Pennsylvania; Foul Play in Westerville, Ohio; Coffee, Tea and Mystery in Westminster, California; Book 'em in South Pasadena, California; The Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale, Arizona; The Black Orchid in New York City, and Something Wicked in Evanston, Illinois.

As she turned the knob, Annie took an instant to admire the front window display. These five books were guaranteed to transport readers to warmer, if not necessarily more hospitable, climes:
The House Without a Key,
the first Earl Derr Biggers's Charlie Chan novel
set in lovely, long-ago Honolulu;
Death Comes as the End,
Agatha Christie's brilliant evocation of unbridled family passions in ancient Egypt;
The Key to Rebecca,
Ken Follett's absorbing World War II novel set in Africa, which opens with this compelling sentence: “The last camel died at noon”; Elspeth Huxley's
The African Poison Murders,
which was made memorable by the stunning denouement deep in the jungle; and current author Kate Grilley's compulsively readable
Death Dances to a Reggae Beat,
the first in a Caribbean island setting.

The sleigh bells dangling from the door merrily jangled. Annie gave a little skip—her own version of Sammy Sosa's home run leap—as she stepped inside, welcoming the wonderful, familiar smell of books, the bright lights that illuminated the dark feathers of Edgar, the stuffed raven who watched over the glass encased collectibles, and the cheerful pop and crackle of the fire in the fireplace near the coffee bar.

“Chloe?” Annie slipped off her raincoat, hung it on the coat tree, and popped the umbrella into a jade green stand decorated with gargoyles. Glancing in the mirror near the children's books, she smoothed her thick, wavy blond hair, straightened her crimson sweater, and brushed raindrops from her black slacks.

“Annie”—Chloe erupted up the central aisle—“oh, Annie, you won't believe it!” She skittered to a stop only a foot away, her gamin face alight with delight. Her thin, irregular features were punctuated by sparkling green eyes and a wide, generous mouth. Dark red hair, spangled by the mist, bunched in irregular curls. “Annie, I'm in love.” She reached out, grabbed Annie's hands, and pulled her into a rollicking schottische, caroling, “I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in
love,” all the way to the coffee area. They careened to a stop by the coffee bar. “Annie, he was there again last night. Can you believe it!”

“I can believe it. But I don't think Agatha's convinced.” Annie pointed at the sleek black cat crouched atop the coffee bar, eyeing them balefully. Laughing, Annie reached out to smooth Agatha's cashmere soft fur. “Relax, Agatha. Chloe's just a little enthusiastic.”