From the Queen (3 page)

“… can affirm the existence of the item, an empty quilted book cover is no proof that it contained a valuable volume, and, finally, from what you say about a box from a nursing home, you have no bill of sale, no,” Hyla thought for a moment, “no record that this particular book belonged to you.”

Hope faded from Ellen's face. She seemed to shrink. She stared at Hyla in despair. “Is there anything you can do?”

Hyla closed her notebook. Her voice was brisk, though there was sadness in her eyes. “I will file a report.”

Annie opted for a Dr. Pepper from the vending machine in the station break room. As the can slid to the opening, she glanced to her left at a detailed map of the island, the northern end with rural roads, the center with the harbor and small downtown, the southern end with golf courses and winding streets in high end enclaves and the marina and its curve of shops, including Death on Demand and Ellen's Keepsakes. She carried the cold can to a long Formica-topped table, slid into a chair opposite Hyla.

Hyla stirred two teaspoons of sugar into turgid black coffee, shook her head. “Annie, honestly, there's no hope. I caught Billy on a break from that trial in Beaufort. He said it wouldn't hurt to wait a day or so. When he gets back, he thought he would approach the people informally, like, ask if they'd mentioned the book to anyone, that we were looking for leads to someone who might have broken in. He can't go around accusing people just because they came to a shop.”

Annie felt a hot flicker of anger. Not at Hyla. She was doing her job as best she could. But at the unknown intruder who struggled to open a warped window and clambered inside and took the book that could have transformed Ellen's life, the book that for a few minutes made her face young again and her faded blue eyes eager and bright. Killing joy was the meanest theft of all.

Hyla was still talking, “… kind of breaks your heart, looking at me like I was a genius because I'd figured out the thief was one of her customers. When she said I could tell them—whichever one it was— that we knew one of them had it and so it would just be easiest and the nice thing to do to give it back.” Hyla was torn between incredulity and pity. In her ordinary crisp, non-nonsense tone, she was rueful. “She's like a kid, but I know fiveyear- olds with more street smarts.”

Annie was lifting the can of Dr. Pepper. Her arm stopped in mid-motion. … just be easiest …

In the sudden silence, Hyla's gaze locked on Annie. “Oh, come on, Annie.”

Annie quickly raised the can, drank, sputtered as the tart love-it-or-hate-it soda hit her throat.

Hyla sat stiff and straight, shoulders braced. “Don't even think about it. For starters, that ploy went out a long time ago.”

Annie looked at her in surprise. As she well knew, Hyla was late to come to an appreciation of mysteries, yet she spoke with great certainty about a much-ridiculed means of confounding an adversary.

Hyla's gaze was steady. “At the library detection club last month, the speaker debunked the story that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle sent a note to a highly respected man, saying, ‘Flee. All is discovered,' and the man disappeared the next day. Henny said the story had also been ascribed to Mark Twain and that if it ever happened, Twain was the likelier candidate because he had a devilish sense of humor. She said the story had been around for a long time and who knew where it originated. But don't think you can distract me.”

Annie wished she excelled at guile. According to her husband and his mother, Annie's face was a road map a near-sighted cotton rat could easily follow. She lifted the can of Dr. Pepper in a salute. “I'll admit the thought crossed my mind.”

Hyla continued to stare with suspicious green eyes.

“But you're right.” Annie made her tone hearty. Once Hyla fastened on an idea, she clung tighter than a barnacle to a dock piling. “That would never work.” She smiled.

Hyla didn't smile in return. “Don't ever back anyone into a corner, Annie. So what could happen? You set up a meeting, maybe with Ellen lurking in the bushes. Your idea is you'll see who takes the bait, maybe get a photo, have something to bring to Billy. But any one of those three has plenty to lose if they're ever caught with stolen property. Plus, people will do a lot for a hundred grand. Plus, maybe one of them's a nut, wants to have this book to get it out and look at Agatha Christie's handwriting and gloat that they have a book no one else in the world has. So, don't even think about it.”

Annie reached down and stroked Agatha's back. “How dumb does Hyla think I am?” Flames danced from the logs in the fireplace. Death on Demand was at its winter best, warm, lights blazing, a wreath of steam rising from a mug of hot chocolate on the coffee bar.

Agatha twisted her head and nipped.

Annie yanked back her hand. “
Et tu
, my imperious feline?”

Mercurial as always, Agatha purred and pressed against Annie's leg.

Annie leaned against the coffee bar, sipped hot chocolate. Sure, the old all-is-known ploy was trite, but triteness reflected a hard nugget of truth. Anyone with a secret was hypersensitive to exposure. Hyla had warned her off. But Hyla's response underscored the fact that each customer in Ellen's shop yesterday afternoon had a great deal to lose. That was real. That was a lever. Yes, it would be stupid to actually meet a respectable thief. Annie had no interest in arranging an I'll-be-waiting-by-the-mausoleum-at-midnight moment.

Annie was too smart for that. She gave a decisive nod, carried the mug with her to the storeroom, settled behind the computer. She searched several sites, found what she sought, placed the order, delivery guaranteed tomorrow.

She pushed away from the computer. There was much to do between now and tomorrow. She pulled her jacket from the coat tree, turned off lights as she walked toward the front door.

Agatha followed, her gaze curious. This wasn't Annie's customary pattern on a winter afternoon. Annie paused at the main cash desk, picked up a brown catnip mouse from a dish holding Agatha's favorite toys, turned and tossed it down the aisle.

Agatha leapt in pursuit.

Annie stepped outside. She locked the door, strode swiftly on the boardwalk, clattered down the steps. She didn't stop to look at the marina. Vagrant thoughts jostled in her mind all the way to her car. She needed a spot easy to access. But her quarry would be alert to a trap. Where could the thief come and feel comfortable that no one was lying in wait?

Annie slid behind the wheel. “Oh, hey,” she spoke aloud, pleased with her cleverness. “I've got it.” She pushed the ignition, backed and turned, drove toward the beach.

Annie was waiting on the delivery dock behind Death on Demand when the UPS truck pulled up late Thursday afternoon. She took the package, hurried inside, put the ten-byten inch cardboard box on the worktable. Slitting the top, she lifted the lid, pulled out the bubble-wrapped contents. In a moment, she looked down at a small battery-powered camera. It took only a minute to set the timer for tomorrow morning. Once turned on, the camera would continue to run.

Annie loved the beach at dusk in winter, the sea oats with a last glimmer of gold from pale sunlight. She drew her plaid wool coat tighter as she neared the end of the boardwalk. Not even a solitary dog walker broke the solitude. The gentle waves curled, their foam gray in the fading sunlight. She slogged across the sand to the lifeguard tower. She chose a spot below one of the crossbars, applied a patch of adhesive. She pressed the snail-shaped plastic gray camera hard until it adhered to the sticky surface. When she stepped back, she nodded in satisfaction. Only someone aware of the camera's presence would be likely to note it.

Annie felt clever as she drove on the main parkway toward town. It wasn't dark yet. She had an hour before night fell, plenty of time for supper at Parotti's Bar and Grill. Then she would walk to the old-fashioned phone booth, place three calls. But there was also time enough to take a stroll around town before businesses closed at five.

She succumbed to temptation.

Morrison's Pharmacy was tucked in a narrow shop between the Mermaid Hotel, the island's oldest hostelry—simple, inexpensive, and beloved by several generations of guests— and a beach shop closed for the winter. Annie stepped inside the pharmacy, paused to look at the display of chocolates in a cardboard stand. She appeared to take her time in choosing as she waited for a customer—Hazel Carey—to pay for her purchases.

Hazel turned away from the cash desk, yelped, “Annie Darling, I haven't see you in forever!”

Annie liked Hazel, but usually felt as if she'd survived a typhoon after an encounter. After a loud exchange and promises of lunch and maybe a shopping dash into Savannah, Hazel hefted her bundle and departed.

Carrying three Godiva bars with raspberry filling, Annie stepped to the cash desk. “Nancy, how are you?” She put the chocolate bars on the counter. “I thought I saw you on the boardwalk the other day. You aren't usually down on our end of the island.” The marina was on the southern tip of the island. Main Street and the harbor with the ferry dock were on the west coast, midway up the island.

Nancy's cool blue eyes studied her unblinkingly. Her oval face, framed by silvery gold hair, appeared placid. “The boardwalk?”

“I think it was Tuesday.”

“Perhaps.” Her voice was deep for a woman. Those blue eyes continued to stare. “Will this be all?”

“Yes, thanks.”

Nancy rang up the sale, put the candy in a small plastic bag. Her features remained impassive. She handed the bag to Annie.

Annie tried for a chummy smile. “Next time drop in and see me. We have a lot of new books in. Who's your favorite author?”

Nancy looked vaguely surprised, then said slowly. “I like Lee Smith.”

“She's one of our bestsellers.”

Nancy said nothing.

There was an awkward pause. Annie tried for a smile, then turned away.

Calvin Pickett's expression was dreamy, abstracted. He held a fountain pen in one plump hand, gazed toward a corner with a bust of Pocahontas.

“Professor Pickett?”

He looked up from behind a mound of books on a worn wooden table in the middle of the Island Historical Society. Slowly he focused. “Yes, yes, I know you. Darling. Annie Darling. The store on the boardwalk. Love those reprints of the Lily Wu books. Do you know the ones I mean?” He didn't give her time to answer. “Quite striking. The first Chinese- American sleuth, much more than a sidekick to Janice Cameron. Lily was the brains of the outfit. And several of the books have provide a snapshot in time of Hawaii at mid-century. The author was an intriguing woman, rather sad life, but that's so often true of greatly talented people. You have an impressive array of books. Much more interesting that the old tomes here.” He patted the stack of books. “Now,” he beamed at her, “what brings you to my dusty kingdom?” As if on cue he sneezed, managing to smother the eruption behind the arm of a floppy shirt sleeve. “That's what we find with history. Lots of dust. I've just delved into a fascinating pamphlet about
Queen Anne's Revenge
. Much more is known now that they've found Blackbeard's ship. Edward Teach, of course, as we should call him. Quite a rogue. He and Stede Bonnet terrorized the area. Such a contrast from William Penn, both active in the same era, and Penn a man of great morality and character. But it was ever so in the annals of history.” He abruptly popped to his feet, his full stature of five feet and possibly four inches, and beamed. “How can I help you this winter afternoon?”

Annie said the first thing that came to mind. “I wondered if I missed you at the store?”

His faded brown eyes blinked rapidly. “Missed me? Have I been there recently? Dear me, sometimes I forget where I'm going but I don't think I was going there. Though I will visit soon. I like to browse the used book section. You never know when you'll find an old book that a collector might want. Not that I'd expect you to miss a copy of Poe's
Tales
, but it never hurts to look.”

A current of cool air eddied. Annie felt a slight chill. Calvin Pickett looked like an academic, distinguished by a thatch of white hair and a trim white mustache, a rumpled tweed jacket, and a generally cherubic expression. Was he toying with her, enjoying dismissive inner laughter?

She gave him a steady look. “Since you like old mysteries,” she was scrabbling though titles in her mind, “I wondered if you'd be interested in a first edition of Constance and Gwenyth Little's
The Great Black Kanba
? It's in nice condition. I'll let you have it for twenty dollars.”

He pursed his lips, looked judicious. “That's a good price. Very good indeed. Why yes, I'll drop by tomorrow and pick it up.”

Wisdom Investments occupied what had once been a stately dining room on the bottom floor of Walt Wisdom's antebellum frame house a block back from Main Street. Walt had inherited the house from his grandmother. Set high on a tabby foundation, steps led to a front door protected from weather by a gallery. The formal living room served as a waiting area for clients. Walt lived in the upper story.

Annie hurried up the steps. It was a quarter to five, rather late for a prospective client to arrive, but Annie had no doubt Walt would welcome her. Although she enjoyed only a modest income from Death on Demand, Walt would be well aware that both Max and his mother, Laurel Roethke, were, as aficionados of wealth liked to say, seriously rich.

She stepped into a lovely hallway with an ormolu mirror over a small Georgian marbletopped side table. The heart pine flooring was original to the house. A graceful stairway led to the upper floor.

Walt loomed in the doorway to her left. Six feet tall with thick chestnut hair, sideburns a la the Tarleton twins, strong features and full lips, he fancied himself as irresistible to women. Annie was aware of the appraisal in his swift gaze and the invitation.