Engaged to Die

by Carolyn Hart

  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:

  CONFIDENTIAL COMMISSIONS

  17 Harbor Walk

  Curious, Troubled, Problems?

  Ask Max

  Call Today—321-HELP

  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 sh
e 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.”

  Chloe darted behind the coffee bar. “I’ll fix us cappuccino. With caramel.” She measured and poured, words spurting. “Anyway, I still don’t know his name—”

  Annie looked at her sharply.

  “—but maybe that’s even better. I mean, he doesn’t know who I am either. We just met that night on the pier in the fog. I was out at the end and I heard footsteps and I couldn’t see anyone, and then he was there. He and his dog, this gorgeous red setter. I knew it was all right because of his dog.” She looked deep into Annie’s eyes. “You can tell when people have dogs.”

  “Tell what?” Annie moved her wrist just in time to avoid Agatha’s fangs. She moved to the end of the coffee bar, opened a cupboard, and got out a bag of cat food.

  Agatha’s expression didn’t change. Her tail flicked.

  Annie understood. In Agatha’s view, dietary dry food sucked. Annie poured out the pellets, keeping well out of range of Agatha’s swift paw. “The better for your slim body.”

  Agatha ignored the pleasantry, jumped down, ate, growled, ate.

  “…Well, he’s a dog person. His dog’s named Alexandre. After—”

  Annie had seen the latest remake of The Three Musketeers. “Dumas?”

  “Yes. Annie, you’re so clever.” The machine rumbled and fizzed. Chloe filled two mugs from the collection on glass shelves opposite the coffee bar, added a mound of whipped cream, and shook out chocolate shavings. She handed a mug to Annie.

  “Thanks.” Annie welcomed the warmth of the pottery. Each mug was emblazoned with the name of a famous mystery. Her title was Grey Mask by Patricia Wentworth, and Chloe’s was Run Jane Run by Maureen Tan.

  Chloe planted her elbows on the shiny wood and beamed at Annie. “Isn’t that terrific?”

  “The Three Musketeers?” Annie sipped, then happily licked away her whipped-cream mustache, avoiding Agatha’s gaze.

  “Oh, Annie. Just think. He named his dog after Alexandre Dumas. What does that tell you about him?” Chloe’s green eyes were as brilliant as emeralds.

  “That he’s a good sight more free,” Annie said dryly,

  “with his dog’s name than with his own.”

  Chloe puffed out her thin cheeks. “Oh, Annie—”

  Annie held up a hand. “Wait a minute, Chloe. Open your ears and shake the stardust out of your eyes. You met this guy when? Last week?”

  “Thursday night. Just before midnight. A week ago tonight.” Chloe’s voice was dreamy. “It had to be fate. I couldn’t sleep and I decided to take a walk. My aunt and uncle keep their house hotter than the Equator. And it’s just about as boring.” She paused, shook her head. “That’s mean. Oh, Annie, I wish I liked them better. Frances was my mother’s stepsister, and sometimes I don’t even think she liked Mom, and I sure don’t think she likes me. They always ask me for holidays, and I come because I don’t have anywhere else to go, but it isn’t any fun.” Her face was forlorn.

  Annie understood the tremor in Chloe’s voice. Annie’s mom had died when Annie was in college, and her uncle, who lived on the island, had welcomed her for every holiday. But nothing ever takes the place of home. Annie had a sudden quick memory of their plain wooden house in Amarillo and how she felt when she walked in that door. There would never—not even here on Broward’s Rock in the house she and Max had built and loved—be the same sense of belonging.

  “Anyway”—Chloe took a deep, quick breath—“they live close to the harbor. It was foggy as could be. I walked along the boardwalk to the pier and out to the end. I could hear the water and it was like being in a cool gray cocoon. And then”—her face glowed—“I heard footsteps. I was scared for a minute. It was almost midnight. A dog barked—a kind of cheerful woof—and this really nice voice shushed him and there they were, coming out of the fog, this guy with his dog. We started talking. About everything. Fog. And loving nighttime. And travel. Neither of us has been much of anywhere. He wants to go to the Galápagos Islands, and I want to drink a gin and tonic at Raffles Hotel in Singapore. He thinks The X-Files are cool and he never misses Buffy. He says Britney Spears gets better and better. He likes jazz, real jazz, George Schering and Gerry Mulligan. He thinks the TV people have made the Olympics sappy. And he saw Tiger Woods at the Masters.”

  “But he didn’t tell you his name? Or where he’s from? Or anything?” Annie knew she sounded like a maiden aunt. But Chloe had no one to care for her, perhaps to warn her. Annie had a gut-deep sense that a guy who had no name probably had something to hide. Why else be so secretive?

  “Someday he’ll tell me.” Chloe’s tone was utterly confident. “I go to the pier at midnight every night and he comes. That’s all I need to know—”

  The sleigh bells jangled.

  Chloe abruptly sank out of sight behind the coffee bar. “If it’s for me, please get rid of him,” she hissed.

  Annie raised an eyebrow. Shades of a Shakespearean comedy. Was there a first lover and a second lover? She gave a little shrug and turned toward the front of the store. Certainly life hadn’t been boring since Chloe had come to Death on Demand over the holiday. Not that Annie ever found life boring. There were so many books to read, so many people to know, so much life to live, so much love to give. She moved quickly, ready to call out Max’s name. He should be arriving any minute with the paintings.

  But it wasn’t Max. She looked up. And up. A basketball player? No, he was too thin and unfinished looking, his shoulders rounded from a habitual stoop, his long arms dangling. Water glistened on a khaki jacket that wasn’t quite large enough, showing his wrists. He looked Annie over, his eyes behind thick glasses scanning the store. He had a nice face, though his long nose was crooked, most likely from a long-ago break.

  Annie smiled. “May I help you?” Any customer on a rainy January morning was to be cosseted.

  “Is Chloe here?” His voice was deep but diffident.

  Annie restrained herself from asking brightly if he was Lover Two. Hmm, Chloe obviously had a talent. But she had asked Annie to get rid of this caller. “I’ll be glad to help you.” Annie half turned, waved her hand. “Classics are on the south wall, used books on the north. Mysteries are shelved by category, Christies, thrillers, and romantic suspense to my right, true crime, caper/comedy and—”

  He took a step forward, his long face flushing. “I’m sorry. I just want to see Chloe.”

  “I wish I could help you.” Annie reached to the cash desk, picked up a pad and pen. “May I give her your name?”

  “Oh. I thought she’d be here.” He sounded forlorn.

  “Her aunt said—well,
anyway, tell her Bob came by.”