by Carolyn Hart
“Jamison, Jamison, and Brewster.” The unfamiliar feminine voice was obviously young. The new receptionist, no doubt.
Henny raised an eyebrow. Kirk Brewster’s name was still included in the firm name. But not for long. Glen should be ashamed. Of course, everyone had been struggling with hard times. “This is Henny Brawley calling for Mr. Jamison.” She and Glen had worked together on fund-raising for the island youth center.
“May I ask the subject of your call?” The voice was chirpy.
Henny felt as if a door had slammed in her face. If Pat had answered, the call would have been put through without question if Glen was in the office and available. It would take the new receptionist time to learn the ropes. “I’m calling in regard to a recommendation for Pat Merridew.”
“How is that spelled, please?”
Henny responded politely, though she was annoyed. Pat had worked at the firm for more than twenty years. Was she already completely forgotten?
“Thank you. One moment, please.”
Henny understood that Kirk had started looking for a job on the mainland, but law firms had cut back on hiring in the face of the economic downturn. Kirk’s record was amazing. He’d been number one in his law class and made junior partner in a mainline Atlanta firm in four years, instead of the usual seven. He would likely still be on the fast track to an equity partnership except for his sister’s serious illness. Both parents were dead and he was the only family she had. Henny felt sure Kirk would eventually receive an offer, but that didn’t change the fact that his single-mom sister had leukemia and depended upon Kirk to help with her two little boys. The grim news had come only a few months after he made partner at the Atlanta law firm, but he’d immediately resigned and returned to the island. If he had to leave Broward’s Rock, his nephews would suffer.
The chirrupy voice returned. “Mr. Jamison is in conference, but Mrs. Jamison is available.”
Henny hesitated. She could call Glen at home tonight. But she’d promised Rachel she’d check this morning. Before she could answer, Cleo came on the line. “Cleo Jamison.”
Henny raised a disdainful eyebrow. Cleo dismissed niceties such as hello. Implicit in her tone was the conviction that she, Cleo, was due homage. Cleo had succeeded in conveying her sense of self-worth to the community of Broward’s Rock. Since her arrival on the island a few years ago, she’d excelled as a rising young lawyer, married the widowed senior partner, and now she dominated the island’s social scene, young, beautiful, and joyously self-confident.
Henny spoke pleasantly. “Hi, Cleo. Henny Brawley. I need a rec for Pat. She’s applied to work at Helping Hands. Of course, the job isn’t on a level with her work at the firm. She’ll be overqualified but we’ll be glad to have someone to sort and arrange the clothes and household goods.” And you screwed her royally, so now’s the time to pony up some help, lady.
“Pat?” A sigh of regret. “I wish I could be helpful, but as I told Rachel this morning—”
Henny’s eyes narrowed. Rachel was humorless, didactic, pompous, and perhaps the wealthiest member of the Helping Hands board. Rachel was pleased to provide support, but only if people and proposals met with her approval. Had she called Cleo?
“—I’m afraid Pat’s become a bit unbalanced. She wasn’t the right face for the firm now. The firm wants to project an up-to-the-minute image, youthful, forward-looking. Glen explained it to her as kindly as possible—”
“Pat doesn’t need a youthful image at Helping Hands.” Henny’s tone was sharp, but she knew it was a stiletto flick at an opponent who wore emotional chain mail.
“Of course not.” Cleo sounded amused. “But Rachel agreed that it wouldn’t do to hire someone who is emotionally unstable.” Now Cleo’s voice was metallic. “Last weekend she slipped into the house and accused Glen of ruining her life. There was a dreadful scene. She refused to leave until I threatened to call the police. Of course, she’s old—”
Henny was icy. “Not quite fifty.” Cleo knew full well that Henny was a septuagenarian. Cleo was arrogantly on the sunny side of thirty.
“Oh, perhaps it’s hot flashes.” Cleo was dismissive. “In any event, you’d better check with Rachel. I gave her a ring when I heard Pat had applied to Helping Hands. I thought she should know the truth. But I suggested a charming young woman who’s working on her certification for home health. Ciao.”
Henny listened to the buzzing line, clicked off the handset. Was Cleo’s tale of Pat’s behavior true? Whether it was or not, Pat wouldn’t get the job. It was too late to try to talk to Glen.
Henny sipped coffee. She watched a majestic blue heron poised to capture a fish. The heron’s beak darted into the murky green water, lofted its prey. The great bird swallowed and the fish was gone, plucked from its summer moment in the warm water just as Pat had been ousted from her once secure job.
Annie Darling looked out at the teeming marina as she hurried toward the boardwalk that fronted the shops. She took a deep breath of the sea-scented onshore breeze. It was a perfect June day, the sky a soft blue without a trace of clouds. Herring gulls bobbed in pea-green water. Fishermen dotted the pier that jutted into the sound. Boaters hosed down decks or maneuvered their crafts, everything from sunfish to sloops to catamarans to yachts. She shaded her eyes to search the marina. She felt, as always, a quick thrill when she saw Max, blond hair glinting in the sunlight. He was on his way out into the sound to take a run in his new fiberglass powerboat. He’d excused his absence from his office on the grounds that having a new powerboat and not taking it out the first day qualified as cruel and unusual punishment. It would have been fun to join him, but the bookstore needed all hands at the ready on a sunny summer day.
In fact, she needed extra help. She and Ingrid, her loyal clerk, were working long hours. Too long, according to Max. This morning when she attempted to slip from bed an hour early, the better to take care of needed orders, he’d caught her hand and tugged her back to his side, murmuring that early birds surely deserved a playful launch.
A smile touched her lips. How could she resist Max, his blond hair tousled, his stubbled cheeks bristly, his lips seeking. So she not only wasn’t early, she was a few minutes late. She walked faster, passing his office with a smile. Jaunty letters announced: CONFIDENTIAL COMMISSIONS. Max specialized in solving problems. He always made his status clear to prospective employers. He was not a private detective. The state of South Carolina had particular and specific requirements for the licensing of private detectives. There was no law that a man couldn’t offer advice and assistance to those in a spot of trouble.
Annie reached Death on Demand. As always, she was pleased and proud to see her storefront. A new cream-colored wooden sign hung above the front door. DEATH ON DEMAND gleamed in gold letters. A dagger dripping bright red drops pointed to the legend: The Lowcountry’s Finest Mystery Bookstore.
Annie took an instant to glance in approval at the display behind the plate glass of the front window. Ranged on a beach chair were brightly jacketed books sure to please summer sun worshippers: Our Lady of Immaculate Deception by Nancy Martin, Cemetery Road by Gar Anthony Haywood, The Puzzle Lady vs. The Sudoku Lady by Parnell Hall, A Night Too Dark by Dana Stabenow, The Bone Chamber by Robin Burcell, and Revenge for Old Times’ Sake by Kris Neri.
The bell jangled as she pushed open the door. She eyed the recently hung poster at the end of the thriller section. She loved to tell the story of its discovery. Last month she and Max had wandered around a flea market in Savannah. Next to a particularly eclectic booth sat a worn old trunk adorned with this sign:
MYSTERY CONTENTS, YOURS FOR TEN BUCKS
She’d grabbed Max’s arm. “Mystery contents!”
“To you and me, maybe. Not to the shopkeeper.”
“Cynicism does not become you.” Annie had always loved mystery packages with unknown contents. She remembered with delight The Iron Clew by Phoebe Atwood Taylor writing as Alice Tilton in which three brown packages powered the plot. Thrill
er writer Robert L. Duncan advised authors when they were stuck to have a package of unknown provenance left at a hotel desk for the hero.
All the way home Max speculated about what she would find, possibly old National Geographics (the trunk was heavy), maybe discarded cowboy boots, or Kewpie dolls from a carnival. At Death on Demand, Max had hefted the trunk on a table. He found a chisel in the back room. As he pried open the lid, his suggestions continued, “ . . . stuffed moose heads . . . old Pittsburgh phone books . . . hand-knitted purple tea cozies . . .”
The lid popped up, as if snapped by an invisible hand.
“Oh.” Annie’s spirits had drooped at the sight of a dun-colored worn army-issue blanket, likely 1940s vintage. She’d lifted out one and a second and a third.
Max had taken pity at seeing her crestfallen expression. “Hey, they’ll make a great gift for animal rescue. Put those back and I’ll take the trunk over.”
But maybe . . . just maybe . . . She kept on pulling out blankets. At the very bottom of the trunk, there was a rectangle covered by brown butcher paper. Annie lifted out the thin, stiff package and eased open the sealed wrapping. She had turned to Max and held up a poster and her smile was at a thousand watts.
Now customers shared her joy with the vintage movie poster for Murder, My Sweet, starring Dick Powell and Claire Trevor in the 1944 film version of Raymond Chandler’s Farewell, My Lovely. The yellow letters of the title were as bright as the day the poster was created. Annie could almost smell buttered popcorn.
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
“Did 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 mys
tery 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.
