Death of the Party

by Carolyn Hart

  “No.” It was a simple declaration. And final. “If someone—a detective—came to see them, they’d be warned. Oh, I’ve thought it all over. And here’s what I want to do…” She leaned forward, her green eyes intent.

  Annie Laurance Darling had the bookstore to herself. Well, she and Agatha and hundreds of her friends. That’s how she thought of mystery authors. Her friends. After all, friends give to each other, and the wonderful writers had given her a lifetime of pleasure. Thanks to them, she’d detected from Atlanta to Zanzibar, all from the comfort of her easy chair.

  Annie bent down, picked up the sleek black cat, draped her over one shoulder, sauntered down the central corridor toward the coffee bar. A fire crackled in the fireplace. The South Carolina sea island of Broward’s Rock, home to the best mystery bookstore east of Atlanta, was never truly cold enough to need a wood fire. But there were nippy days in January when a fire was welcome and always cheerful.

  Annie hesitated near the coffee bar. She should march straight back to the storeroom and open that latest box of Sister Carol Anne O’Marie titles. She had some returns to pack, orders to place…. She veered behind the coffee bar.

  Agatha wriggled free, landing lightly atop the counter. The elegant black cat lifted a paw, licked, swiped at her cheek.

  Annie smiled in contentment. Yes, Agatha should be removed at once from the countertop. But hey, she and her cat were alone in the store. So far as she knew, all health department officials were busy elsewhere. “Why not?” she demanded of Agatha.

  Inscrutable golden eyes seemed to blink assent.

  “Besides,” Annie valued truth, “you’d bite me if I tried to move you.”

  Annie studied the mirrored wall behind the coffee bar, which held almost a hundred white pottery mugs, each inscribed in red script with the name of a famous mystery and the author. Annie started the cappuccino machine, took her time selecting a mug. She wanted the perfect one—the bon mot of titles. After all, this was a special day. There were no To Do lists in regard to the wedding because, of course, the wedding was over and a grand and happy success. Her father and his new bride were en route to Tahiti for several weeks. Pudge and Sylvia were now Mr. and Mrs. Laurance.

  The wedding—last Saturday—had been blessed with a sparkling day, white clouds scudding in a robin’s-egg-blue sky, the temperature a mild sixty. That was a bonus in the South. Even in January there were blessed days of warmth. After the reception, the assembled guests cheered and clapped as the bride threw her bouquet of pink and white carnations to the very surprised but pleased bachelor minister. The smiling faces included both Rachel Van Meer and Cole Crandall, who were now stepsister and stepbrother. At one time, the two teenagers had been anything but friendly…. But that was another story and well in the past. In fact, the two of them were now in Hawaii visiting Rachel’s aunt. Pudge had insisted they too have a grand trip even if it meant missing a week of school. Last night Rachel and Cole had sent Annie and Max an e-mail detailing the excitement of their visit. Mmmm, Kauai.

  The cappuccino machine bubbled. She yanked down a mug inscribed Too Good to Be True, shoved it beneath the spigot, admired the frothy milk. She carried the mug around the counter, perched on a tall stool. Oh, to be in Tahiti…That sounded especially glorious now because, of course, the capricious coastal weather had decided to remind everyone that, after all, it was January. Three days of rain had left the island sodden and the air colder than a wet sock. Golly, it would be nice to be on a fun trip.

  “Where would you like to go?” she asked Agatha.

  Agatha’s green eyes slitted.

  “We don’t have anything planned,” Annie said hastily. Agatha never approved of their travels.

  Agatha rolled over onto her back, stretched.

  “My goodness, even you are charming today. Not,” Annie added hastily, “that I ever find you deficient in charm.” It was Max who called Agatha the Lethal Lady, insisting the coal black feline must surely have been Lucretia Borgia in another incarnation. “You know what, Agatha,” Annie confided, sipping the delicious coffee and milk, “things simply couldn’t be better. Except for the weather.” She smoothed a finger over the ridged red letters of the title. “Although it’s kind of lonely with everybody gone.” Everybody on the island wasn’t gone, of course, though it almost seemed like it with Pudge and Sylvia in Tahiti, Rachel and Cole on Kauai, and Max’s mother, Laurel, visiting Max’s sister Jen in Monterey. Henny Brawley, who was by far the bookstore’s best customer, was traveling with an old friend in England; Emma Clyde, redoubtable island author, was on a book tour in the Far West; and Ingrid Webb, Death on Demand’s fine clerk, was in Chicago with her husband, Duane. “It’s you and me, kid,” Annie told Agatha. It was the slow time of the year. Damp January days weren’t a tourist draw, so the occasional customers, almost sure to be locals, would receive a royal welcome.

  Annie lifted the mug, turned a little to view the paintings above the fireplace. Every month she hung five watercolors. Each represented a scene from a superb mystery. The first person to identify all five books and authors received free coffee for a month.

  In the first watercolor, two young men wearing dark wedding suits slashed with the long pig-butchering knives. Their strong wrists poked and thrust the knives into their victim, who was young and slim with curly dark hair. Blood spattered his white linen shirt and trousers. The dying man struggled to open the ornate front door. In the square behind him the almond trees were snowy in the light of dawn, colored wedding decorations hanging in their branches.

  In the second watercolor, the body lay face up on the icy cold floor of a freezer, eyes wide in final surprise, his thin mustache frozen stiff, a dishcloth tucked into the string of his apron, a scrap of paper in one hand. Only the fingernails, which were crooked in a desperate scratching at the door, betrayed the panic of his final moments.

  In the third watercolor, the light of the flashlight revealed a large crocodile edging through the night toward the cowering yellow dog tied to a stake near the river’s edge. A plump black woman was calmly bracing a rifle against her shoulder and firing.

  In the fourth watercolor, the blue of the sea looked far distant across the squelchy brown sand of the exposed tidal flat. Seaweed was strewn across the muck and dangled from spiky rocks. The man and woman near a particularly big rock were barefoot and muddy to their knees. The woman was in the midst of gesturing as she spoke. Her interesting, squashed-in face looked worried. The young man, dark haired and with a distinct pallor, was frowning as he listened.

  In the fifth watercolor, a slender young woman with improbably red hair balanced on a window ledge. Light streaming from the window revealed the sharp-edged rocks in the gully below. She held desperately to the wooden window frame while stretching to search a gutter hidden beneath a mass of bougainvillea.

  Annie sighed. Sometimes reading adventures set in faraway places seemed pretty tame. It would be fun to take a trip. Go somewhere exciting. She was already bored with the prospect of quiet days and little to do, though being with Max was always exciting. Still, here they were on the island, the wedding done, their family and friends away, the weather damp and chilly. She glared at the mug. Too Good to Be True… She needed a mug that predicted excitement. How about Rainbow’s End by Ellis Peters? That had a cheerful ring to it. Maybe if she wished on a star…She glanced at the mugs. Yes, there it was: Star Light, Star Bright by Stanley Ellin. There was a star for wishing, if not the kind envisioned by the rhyme. “Star light, star bright,” she murmured, “let me have this wish tonight.” Of course, it was three o’clock in the afternoon but surely wishing afforded a little poetic license. “May adventure come through my door and lead me to a foreign shore.”

  She’d no more than finished her cappuccino and dropped from the tall stool, briskly heading for the shipping room and work, when the bell sang and the front door opened.

  Two

  “MAX!” ANNIE BEAMED WITH DELIGHT. Here he came, the man of her dreams, wiry
blond hair, eyes blue as a northern sea. Tall and lithe, he strode toward her with easy grace, light tan corduroy sport coat unbuttoned over a navy turtleneck, khaki trousers crisp, cordovan loafers highly polished. She was thrilled to see him. Being by herself was fine. Certainly it was. But on a misty January day how wonderful for Max to come to the bookstore, though, of course, he should be at work. She glanced up at the clock.

  Max stopped before her, shook his head. “Watched pots never boil. But, believe it or not, Confidential Commissions has a case.” He didn’t sound happy. “I guess I’ll do it.” He shoved a hand through his hair. His eyes glinted with irritation. He frowned. “Dammit, why are women so unreasonable?”

  A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Agatha and I assume that’s a rhetorical question, rather on the order of ‘Why can’t a man ask for directions?’” She moved behind the coffee bar to the cappuccino machine.

  He didn’t smile in return. His tone dour, his body language bristly as a porcupine’s, he described Britt Barlow and the death of Jeremiah Addison on his private island—

  Annie’s eyes widened. She remembered the news stories about Addison’s death on Golden Silk. His accidental death.

  —and the guests arriving on Friday. “One of them’s a murderer, according to Britt Barlow. Her idea is to get them all together, challenge them to help her figure out who killed him. She spun a bunch of stories to entice them back, and they swallowed them hook, line, and sinker. But now that the stage is set, she’s had second thoughts, started worrying. I should think so.” His tone was disparaging. “Talk about a half-baked idea—I told her she was nuts.”

  The machine hissed and bubbled. Annie picked out a mug for Max, Unfinished Crime by Helen McCloy, filled it.

  Max’s blue eyes were disdainful. “She might as well invite a tiger to the island and throw out raw meat.” He slapped a hand on the countertop. “I told her she was toying with someone who’d already killed once and wouldn’t hesitate to kill again and if she strolled too close the tiger would take her head off. I told her to get on the phone, cancel those invitations, call the cops. I couldn’t have made it plainer.”

  Max settled on the stool, absently sprinkled chocolate flakes on the mound of frothed milk. But he didn’t pick up the mug. “I told her I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. We were glaring at each other by that point. She stood up and said she was going through with it, one way or another. She said she should have called the cops when she found Addison, but she hadn’t, and she had to make up for that. If I didn’t want to help, fine, she’d do it by herself.”

  Annie slipped her arm around his tight shoulders. “She was walking out, wasn’t she?” Annie leaned her head against his, smelled the January mist in his hair and a faint hint of aftershave.

  “Yeah.” An exasperated sigh. “I went after her. Told her I’d come, do what I could.” His voice was heavy with resentment. And resignation. “Hell, you can’t just stand there and watch an express train bear down on some fool who’s spread-eagled on the tracks.”

  Annie understood. Max knew murder was the province of the proper authorities. He saw the dangers Britt Barlow refused to face. Or perhaps she was determined to face them.

  Golden Silk…Annie’s eyes shone. It wasn’t the foreign shore she’d desired. But it was a shore and foreign to her.

  “I’ll come too.”

  The wood fire crackled. It was a domestic scene, Annie in a pink flannel gown and white terrycloth scuffies, Max in navy flannel pajamas and soft brown leather slippers. Dorothy L., the fluffy white cat, curled atop her green tartan cushion in front of the fireplace, a furred mound of contented somnolence. Cheerful yellow ceramic mugs held hot chocolate topped by a toasted marshmallow. As Annie was wont to insist, What is night without a mug of good cheer? Max’s version of nightly good cheer varied somewhat.

  It might have been any winter evening in the Darling household except for Annie’s intense study of a legal pad. She finished reading, looked up. “Is that everyone?”

  Max turned away from the fire, joined her on the couch. He slipped his arm around her shoulders, bent close to check the list and nuzzle his chin against the side of her face. After all, a man couldn’t work all the time. “Yes. Let’s see. One, two…”

  Annie skimmed the names. Each was written in Max’s bold back-slanting script with a brief statement:

  Britt Barlow, 28. Owner of Heron House, now a B&B on the private sea island of Golden Silk. Heiress of her late sister, Cecilia Barlow Addison, widow of Jeremiah Addison.

  Jay (Jeremiah Thomas) Addison, 32, younger son of the late Jeremiah and his first wife, Lorraine. High school history teacher.

  Dana Addison, 29, wife of Jay. Former fourth-grade teacher, now a stay-at-home mom.

  Craig Addison, 36. Jeremiah’s elder son. President of Addison Media.

  Isabel Addison, 34. Wife of Craig. Former news reporter, now working as a temp in a public relations firm. Living separately from Craig.

  Gerald Gamble, 53. Longtime Addison Media employee. Former executive assistant to Jeremiah. Now executive assistant to Craig.

  Rep. Millicent McRae, 52. Well known in state politics. Currently in Congress. Expected to announce candidacy for governor.

  Nicholas McRae, 70. Retired lawyer. Wealthy. Millicent’s husband.

  Kim Kennedy, 23. When an intern at Addison Media, she charmed Jeremiah. Within six months, she was on the news desk despite the producer’s objections. Now employed in a small-market television station downstate, quite a comedown from Atlanta.

  Everett Crenshaw, 40. Top investigative reporter for Addison Media. Host of a news feature patterned after The O’Reilly Factor on Fox News.

  Lucinda Phillips, 54. Chief housekeeper at Heron House. Employed for 12 years.

  Harry Lyle, 49. Caretaker, handyman. Employed for 9 years.

  “…Twelve. That’s the lot.”

  Annie pointed at two more names.

  Serena Gonzalez, I.

  Juanita Garcia, I.

  “What does ‘I’ mean?” Annie circled the letter.

  “Irrelevant.” He was brisk. “There’s no invidious meaning, but the point is that Britt Barlow says the girls were the next thing to transients, didn’t speak English, didn’t know Jeremiah personally, had nothing to gain from his death, plus they are long gone from the island. She said there have been around nine maids between the time of his death and the present. Apparently she has a real struggle to keep the place staffed. You can imagine. Stuck out there on an island, no place to go, nothing to do. And those girls were definitely not trying to escape from the world, simply trying to survive. So, she invited everyone who was there at the time of his death excepting those two maids.”

  “Fair enough.” Annie shook her head. “You’d think Britt Barlow could have been a little more forthcoming. She claims one of these people is a murderer, but she doesn’t give any flavor of them. Who’s bad tempered? Who’s jealous? Who’s greedy? That’s a good question. I’ll bet the family divvied up bundles of bucks. Who needed money? Why was there a politico on hand for what looked like a family gathering? And the intern on the make…” Annie ran her finger down the list. “Here she is, Kim Kennedy. She sticks out like a flamingo at an owl party. What’s an intern doing there? Want to bet she’s a knockout? Come on, Britt needs to tell us what’s what. Who are these people and how did they feel about Jeremiah?”

  “That’s what I asked her. She said”—Max leaned back against the cushion, his face thoughtful—“she didn’t want to prejudice me. She said she had pretty strong feelings about several of them, but she wanted me to see them fresh. Tabula rasa. I thought that was decent of her.”

  Annie raised an eyebrow. “Decent, maybe. Dumb, certainly. We need all the help we can get. We’re going to meet them for the first time. Once they understand they’re on a list of suspects, you can bet butter won’t melt. And there’s not time enough to investigate them.” She glanced at the clock over the mantel. A quarter to el
even. They were scheduled to be picked up by a motor launch at the pier at eight in the morning.

  Max stretched out his legs, yawned. “Not to worry. Never underestimate Confidential Commissions.” A less charitable observer might have described him as smug. “When I left the office, my trusty secretary—Barb murmured something about typing faster than Della Street—was finishing up dossiers of the twelve. We’ll pick them up on our way to the harbor in the morning.”

  “Max,” Annie said, her voice warm with admiration, “you are simply swell.”

  He twined a finger in a golden curl, tugged her face close to his. “Kudos welcome.” His lips sought hers.

  Who cared about tomorrow?

  Sea legs. If they were for sale, she’d buy them even though the words evoked a mental image of a centipede clinging to a log. Logs. Logs—immovable and stationary—are found in the woods. Except, of course, when they bob as driftwood in the ocean. She wouldn’t think of that. Instead she pictured a forest and scattered logs, evoking a serene vision of dry land. She thought longingly of dry land, preferably desert, and clung to the railing. In the front seat of the good-sized motorboat, the skipper—he’d introduced himself briefly as Joe and said, “You the folks for Golden Silk?”—hulked over the wheel, a formless mass in a yellow slicker damp from cold sea spray. He’d quickly settled them in the back after outfitting them with slickers.

  Annie stared grimly and fixedly at the horizon as the boat plunged up and down over whitecaps and troughs. Keeping your gaze fastened on a stable point was supposed to help a queasy stomach. She ignored the tap on her arm.

  “Hey, Annie?” Max lifted his voice above the thrumming of the motor and the rush of the wind.