by Carolyn Hart
She jammed the hand tool into the earth. Again and again.
A laughing voice spoke behind her. “You’re ferocious this morning, Liz. Did the weed make you mad? You don’t have to kill it.”
A reddish haze of anger slowly lifted. She stared at the ruptured ground and the minced remnants of the dandelion.
ANNIE DARLING RESTED ON HER ELBOW AND GAZED DOWN at Max, his face burrowed into the pillow. His thick blond hair was tangled, the portion of visible cheek stubbled. Night was lifting. She looked toward the window. Tendrils of rose streaked the milky sky. The view was unfamiliar. The last place she had expected to be this April morning was in a rental cabin facing the marsh. The travel clock’s red numerals glowed 5:15. The last of their furniture was going into temporary storage today. The move into the Franklin house had been delayed until damage from a water leak was repaired. Max had worked hard to restore the antebellum home, but last week a newly installed toilet overflowed on the second floor. They’d gone to Charleston to attend an auction and hadn’t been by the house for several days. By then, the upper floor was flooded and part of the ceiling had fallen in the dining room. With their previous house promised to new owners, Ingrid Webb had been quick to offer them sanctuary at Nightingale Courts.
The marsh was dark beneath the sky, now tinged with pink and gold. Annie felt content and at peace. Sure, their move to the Franklin house was on hold, but how lucky she and Max were to have friends like Ingrid and Duane Webb, to live on the loveliest sea island (she had her prejudices) to grace the South Carolina coast, to be happy. Soon another day in paradise would unfold. There was much to do, books to unpack at Death on Demand, a dental appointment next Monday, the worrisome concern about Emma Clyde, the disappointment of moving their planned party at the Franklin house to the harbor pavilion. Still, friends would gather and there would be time enough for many parties in their refurbished home. Nothing onerous marred her horizon.
Most of all, how lucky they were to be together.
Her fingers lightly caressed her husband’s stubbled cheek.
Max murmured, shifted, turned his face toward her. His eyes flickered open. The haze of sleep disappeared. His eyes told her she was beautiful.
Annie brushed back a tangle of blond hair.
“Good morning, Mrs. Darling.” He reached out and pulled her close, nuzzled her throat, then his lips sought hers.
Any day that started with love was certain to be stellar from start to finish.
Chapter 2
That cat’s done it again.” Ingrid’s shout from the front of the store wasn’t amused.
In the storeroom, Annie hit the wrong key and the list of thirteen-digit ISBN numbers on her computer screen disappeared, a list that had required forty-five minutes of intense concentration to input. As she zoomed the cursor toward undo, she inadvertently flicked c. A single letter appeared, c for…The answer was clear. Her computer was at the mercy of a cosmic force enjoying a joke. Clearly, c was for cat. Or maybe chump.
“She’s hissing at me.” Ingrid was outraged.
Annie rushed up the central aisle, her loafers (a soft pink to match her blouse) slapping against the heart-pine floor. Even in the midst of a minor crisis, she delighted in her bookstore, the pleasing tan of the gum shelves, the vivid ranks of bright book covers, the cozy enclave devoted to traditional mysteries with a full case of Christies. (Two billion sold worldwide and counting.) Whitmani ferns glistened green and luxuriant, reminders of the Mary Roberts Rinehart days when potted greenery was the epitome of Victorian taste. The latest addition to the comfortable furniture was a heavily upholstered walnut armchair with curly feet, a tribute to Patricia Wentworth’s indomitable Miss Silver who took quiet pleasure in her Victorian furnished flat.
Annie knew that pride puffeth up. She had a quick vision of a bulbous (and likely poisonous) mushroom. However, wasn’t that false pride? She would have to ask Father Patton. Surely she could be excused for her delight in Death on Demand, the finest mystery bookstore north of Miami. The depth and breadth of Death on Demand’s stock included everything from the latest in thrillers (Alex Kava, Martin Cruz Smith, and Lee Child) to the most poignant tales of ordinary people and their passions (Nancy Pickard, Jodi Picoult, and Phillip DePoy). Death on Demand, in Annie’s view (hopefully she wasn’t smug), rivaled Murder by the Book in Houston, The Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale, Mystery Lovers Bookshop in Oakmont, Mystery Bookstore in Los Angeles, “M” Is for Mystery in San Mateo, and Mysteries To Die For in Thousand Oaks.
Annie skidded to a stop near a Charleston-made Queen Anne table. On the heart-pine floor, books lay askew atop a green silk throw with orange tassels.
Agatha stood on the table, green eyes narrowed, back arched, tail flicking like an adder’s tongue.
Annie moved swiftly, interposing herself between Ingrid, standing with her hands on her hips, and the bookstore’s resident black cat.
“It’s my fault.” Annie pointed at the remains of the exhibit she’d completed only this morning. She loved to celebrate mysteries in particular times or places. The Penguin Pool Murder by Stuart Palmer, A Coffin for Dimitrios by Eric Ambler, The Listening House by Mabel Seeley, Ming Yellow by John P. Marquand, and The Case Is Closed by Patricia Wentworth afforded a fly-on-the-wall, you-are-there immersion in the nineteen-thirties.
Keeping a careful eye on Agatha, Annie reached down. “I couldn’t resist the throw. I saw it in the window of Yesterday’s Treasures.” Annie always found it hard to pass by Fran Carlisle’s window displays. The shop was a half-block from the ferry. Annie fought temptation every time she arrived or left the island. “It’s the fault of the tassels. The tassels move when we have the ceiling fans on.” Annie pointed up at the softly whirring fan. “We can’t blame Agatha.”
Ingrid might have been an ice carving. Her silvered brown hair was now cut short with a hint of curl. Ingrid looked spring-like in a white cardigan with appliqués of pelicans, but her bony face was set in irritation. Obviously, in her view, the fault lay not in the stars, but in the attitude of a green-eyed cat.
Annie flapped the throw. Agatha crouched. Annie hurried down the center aisle. Agatha loped after her. Annie tossed the throw over a wicker chair in the cozy enclave. Agatha flew through the air. She snagged the throw, pulled it to the floor, and batted at a tassel.
At the table, Ingrid rearranged the books. “There’s a split in the Seeley spine. It was an unblemished first.” She wasn’t pleased.
Annie came up behind her and slipped an arm around rigid shoulders. “Nobody’s perfect. Especially not cats. Come on, let’s have a mocha. Double whipped cream.”
Annie led the way to the coffee bar, another point of pride in Death on Demand. She carefully measured today’s special coffee from Ethiopia. The oily beans smelled heavenly. As the superautomatic machine, a birthday gift from Max, produced four shots of espresso, Annie looked over the shelves of white coffee mugs.
Each mug bore the name of a famous mystery in crimson script. She picked Don’t Go Away Mad by Joseph Hayes for Ingrid and Black Sheep by Georgette Heyer for herself. In a flash, she mixed double shots of espresso and milk steamed with Mexican cacao, cinnamon, and a dash of almond.
She handed Ingrid her mug, lifted her own in salute. “Pax?”
A lopsided smile softened Ingrid’s face. She raised her mug. “You spoil that beast.”
“We all have weaknesses. One of mine is Agatha. Anyway, she’s a great attraction. People love cats.”
Ingrid raised an eyebrow, her narrow face skeptical.
“Okay, some people don’t love cats, but most mystery readers do. Besides, Agatha never scratches anyone but me.”
Ingrid’s expression was wry. “Certainly that proves Agatha’s devotion to you.”
To Annie’s relief, the front doorbell gave its tinkling peal. Glad to evade further consideration of Agatha and her foibles, Annie turned toward the front of the store.
A drooping figure shuffled toward them.
Annie l
ooked toward Ingrid, gave a tiny nod toward the coffee bar.
Annie smiled brightly. “Hey, Emma.” Annie wished she could start over. The false heartiness in her tone was sure to elicit a snarl from Emma Clyde. The island’s famous mystery author, revered creator of the bestselling world-famous Marigold Rembrandt series, never suffered fools or phoniness.
A subdued clatter at the coffee bar indicated Ingrid was concocting a special treat for Emma.
Emma never looked up. Instead of her customary brisk swagger, she moved at a snail’s pace, head down, spiky hair drooping. Silver roots gleamed beneath a half-inch of faded purple. Usually her brightly striped or patterned caftans swirled. Emma enjoyed relaxed-fitting clothing with an attitude. Today’s caftan hung limp and looked muted, the colors obviously faded. Possibly she’d dragged it from a castaway pile. The ruby ring on her right hand was the only remnant of her usual vivid appearance.
Annie was determined to dispel the aura of hopelessness. “Emma, we’ve sold out of The Case of the Cadaver’s Coupe.” Of course, a new shipment was due in this afternoon in preparation for next week’s book signing. “I don’t have a single copy.” That admission should have guaranteed a vitriolic outburst. Emma had been known to threaten a bookseller foolish enough not to stock a plenitude of her new title with banishment to the Arctic accompanied only by a Game Boy for entertainment.
Today Emma’s craggy face continued to droop. Her response was a shrug. “It will go OP soon enough. Books always go out of print if there isn’t a new one in the chute.”
“Have you seen this month’s watercolors?” Annie loved all of these books which were guaranteed to lift readers’ spirits. “Let me show you. Ingrid’s fixing espresso topped with whipped cream for you.”
Emma let Annie lead her to the coffee bar. She settled on the high stool with her arms on the counter, her blue eyes dull. She ignored the paintings. “I’m through.” She lifted the mug—Ingrid had selected Murder as a Fine Art by Carol Carnac—and drank automatically. She was oblivious to a puffy mustache of whipped cream. She looked at the mug, morose as a nineteen-forties’ gumshoe nursing a double shot of bourbon. “OP. R.I.P. Two months and no plot. It won’t come. Every time I have an idea, do you know what happens?” Her tone was mournful.
Annie and Ingrid bent nearer. “What?” Annie breathed.
Emma’s square face sagged. “Nothing.”
Ingrid looked puzzled. “Nothing?”
“Nothing.” Emma’s voice was as doom laden as the creak of a dungeon door in Poe. “The idea lies there like a dead fish. I never understood about inert elements until now.” She looked at them with desperate eyes. “I should have everything I need: my sleuth, a victim, suspects who knew the victim, a title. That’s all I’ve ever needed.” Her voice quivered. “This time, I can’t start.”
Ingrid patted Emma’s arm. “There, there. You can do it, Emma. You’ve always done it.”
“Not this time.” The words dropped with the finality of a guillotine. Absently she licked away the remnants of whipping cream.
“Sudoku?” Ingrid offered.
Emma didn’t bother to answer.
“To get your brain started.” Ingrid was eager.
Emma clutched her head. “Brain dead.”
“I have an idea.” Annie was emphatic.
Emma sighed. “I have ideas. D.O.A.”
Annie felt impatient. Emma’s ingenious mind had devised plots that turned on the color of a bird’s feather or the muted sound of a faraway bell tolling. Surely she could pull up her socks….
A tear rolled down Emma’s cheek.
Annie slapped the countertop. “The solution is obvious.”
Emma looked toward Annie, her gaze beseeching.
Annie was no authority on true crime, but there were classic cases. “You know Dorothy L. Sayers’s brilliant analysis of the William Herbert Wallace affair?”
Hope warred with despair in Emma’s blue eyes.
Annie beamed. “We’ll find a crime for you, Emma. There’s the Hall-Mills murders, Lizzie Borden, Sir Harry Oakes, the Mullendore shooting, none of them solved. You pick a crime and once you’ve solved it, starting a new book will be easy as pie.”
Emma drooped again on the counter. “Pie in the sky. I’m finish—”
The front door opened.
“Ingrid?” Duane Webb’s call was hurried and strained.
Ingrid’s eyes flared in alarm. She moved swiftly to the center aisle. “What’s wrong?”
Annie too recognized trouble when she heard it. She squeezed Emma’s arm and hurried after Ingrid.
Duane, his rounded face drawn and worried, rushed to Ingrid. His bow tie was askew. Despite the fine mist outside, he was in his shirtsleeves. He held open his arms and Ingrid came into her husband’s damp embrace. He spoke quickly as he always did, but his tone was grave. “Sissy’s in the hospital. They think it’s a heart attack.”
Annie had met Ingrid’s older sister from Tallahassee on a recent holiday on the island.
“Her neighbor got an ambulance and called us. I don’t know what the prognosis is.” Duane sounded angry as well as worried. “Nobody at the hospital will give out information. That damn privacy law again. For God’s sake, nothing works right in this country anymore. One damn roadblock after another because of some damn bureaucratic idiot. I told the hospital they actually can give out information. It’s their prerogative. I might as well have talked to a stone monolith. Everybody at a hospital is scared they’re going to be sued. I told the neighbor you’d come. I’ve got the car packed. You can drop me off on your way to the ferry. I’ll call around, find somebody who’ll watch over Nightingale Courts and get there as soon as I can.”
Annie took two quick steps. “Max and I will take care of everything. We’re already there, for heaven’s sake.” She touched Duane’s arm. “Ingrid needs you. You go with her.”
Duane’s staccato words peppered her. “I left folks waiting to check in. Told ’em I had an emergency. The units aren’t cleaned yet. Our housekeeper’s in Mobile. Her daughter’s having a baby. We thought we could manage until she got back. I’d cleaned one cabin, but everything else needs to be done. Ingrid will have to go on without me.”
Annie gave him a gentle nudge. “Grab your toothbrush and catch the ferry. Tell the guests your clerk is on the way. Give them free Cokes and they can relax on the deck and watch the marsh hawks. I’ll be out there as soon as I make a couple of phone calls. I’ll check them in and clean the cabins.”
Ingrid fought back tears. “Sissy will be all right.” Her voice was thin. “I know she will. Annie, bless you. All the keys are tagged. The extras hang on a hook in the office. The cleaning supplies are in the cement block building with the ice maker and washing machines.” She gave Annie a quick hug, swung away.
Duane was right behind her. He was halfway out the door when he stopped and looked back. Duane was a hard-bitten former newspaper editor, unsentimental and brusque. He’d fought the dragon of alcohol, his past sorrows eased by Ingrid. He knew people. Worry puckered his face. “That girl in Six. I think she’s got trouble. Maybe nothing anyone can do to help, but keep an eye out. She rented a cabin yesterday evening. She came in the rain. Alone. On a bicycle.”
MAX’S CELL PHONE DIDN’T ANSWER. ANNIE PICTURED IT lying in the front seat of his new Jeep Cherokee. Sports cars, he’d told her solemnly, were part of his past. He cherished his black Corvette, but he had officially deemed it Annie’s run-about, insisting her Volvo was creaking with age. Annie still drove the Volvo so Max drove the Corvette on sunny days to keep it in running shape. The Jeep was his choice for hauling. Today he would be here, there, and everywhere, putting things in place for the Friday night oyster roast. He’d insisted on handling everything. She was not to worry. Annie was sure he planned a surprise. She loved Max’s surprises, but at this moment she wished he wasn’t determined to avoid entrapment by technology. True, life was freer before electronic tethers made solitude an elusive quest. Howev
er, all wasn’t lost. She left a message. “…call me as soon as you can.”
Emma came up beside her. “In the rain. Alone. On a bicycle.” Emma’s face squinted in thought. “I can see her. Young. Dark curls tangled, drenched clothes plastered to her. Duane didn’t say anything about a raincoat. Who wears a raincoat on a bicycle? Why a bicycle?”
Annie turned back to the phone. Emma’s singlemindedness never came as a surprise, but it would have been helpful if she’d offered to take over the store for a while.
Annie dialed Henny Brawley’s number. Again she left a message. “…and if you could give me a hand at the store, it would be great. I’ll be at Nightingale Courts.”
Emma began to pace, eyes glittering. “Alone. Did she come to the island to see someone?”
Annie grinned. Maybe all Emma needed was a good hard puzzle. Annie punched familiar numbers. Dulcet tones answered. “Breathe deeply, dear child.” Laurel’s husky voice was as soothing as a tai chi moment.
Oh no. Annie wasn’t going to go there. Tai chi was her mother-in-law’s new enthusiasm. She kept urging Annie to attend a class she was teaching. Not in this lifetime. Annie felt a moment of suffocation. She wasn’t stressed. Absolutely she wasn’t.
All right. She was.
How did her mother-in-law know?
Annie envisioned Laurel’s patrician face framed by spun gold hair. Laurel’s Nordic blue eyes would be shining with empathy, her perfect lips curved in a caring smile, the mother-in-law from…Annie squelched the thought. Laurel, after all, always meant well. Didn’t she?
