Dead By Midnight

by Carolyn Hart

  “Hey, Annie. Has anybody figured out the paintings yet?” Henny’s resonant voice, which easily reached the last row in island little-theater productions, was just this side of strident.

  Annie tossed aside her usual tact. “Nope, but don’t you sometimes feel like it’s shooting fish in a barrel? Where’s your sportsman’s blood? Why don’t you give ordinary readers a chance?”

  “When Democrats embrace Sarah Palin or when you bar Emma from the contest.”

  Since Annie would rather sunbathe nestled next to an alligator than in any way challenge the island’s rock-visaged queen of crime, she changed the subject. “Can you think of any way I can divert Laurel from hanging that stuff in the bookstore?”

  A throaty chuckle was an answer. Of sorts. “I’m taking bets on whether Laurel prevails. And I wouldn’t call those lovely matted photos stuff. I thought you loved cats.”

  Annie felt her spine stiffen. “I do love cats. And I know the posters are fetching.” It was a grudging admission. “But Death on Demand isn’t the place for Laurel to display them. I don’t care how clever they are.” Annie determinedly ignored the portfolio, only inches from her hand.

  “Odds are running eight to one.”

  Annie didn’t have to ask in whose favor.

  “On a happier note—I hope—how is Pat doing?”

  Annie smiled. “A much happier note. She’s a live wire. She’s trying so hard.” Through the open door into the office, she heard Pat’s eager voice. “Certainly if you enjoy Earlene Fowler, you’ll love Diana Killian and Emilie Richards. Over here we have . . .” Of course, Pat was cribbing from the staff recommendations list at the end of the romantic suspense aisle, but she’d taken the time to learn. “I gave her some Christies and, no surprise, she was enchanted. She read those and now she has another batch. She’s started quoting Christie.”

  “A quotable lady.” Quick as a rapier thrust, Henny demanded, “Which character said: ‘I had the firm conviction that, if I went about looking for adventure, adventure would meet me halfway. It is a theory of mine that one always gets what one wants.’ ”

  “Anne Beddingfield in The Man in the Brown Suit.”

  Again that throaty chuckle. “Of course you know that one. I’ll bet your copy is dog-eared. You have a dash of Anne Beddingfield. I like this game. We’ll play it again.”

  Annie was smiling as she clicked off the phone. There were no clouds on her horizon this sunny summer Friday.

  Except, of course, Laurel’s latest project. And tomorrow.

  Annie glanced at the portfolio, the better not to think about tomorrow. She reached out slowly, then yanked back her hand. No. Double, triple, quadruple no. She would not look and be charmed. Right was right. Death on Demand was a mystery bookstore, not a venue for highly original philosophical . . . She grasped for the proper word. Philosophical treatises? Too weighty. Philosophical exercises? Better. Philosophical nonsense? Too harsh.

  As if on cue, Agatha bounded onto the desk. Before Annie could grasp the silky-haired creature, one black paw poked the keyboard.

  The book order vanished.

  “Did you do that on purpose?” Annie stared into cool green eyes that appeared both amused and questioning.

  She suppressed the quivering thought that somehow Laurel had engineered the cat’s action. She mustn’t succumb to hysteria.

  Annie grabbed the portfolio. Didn’t self-help gurus counsel confronting fears? She reached in, pulled out the first cardboard-mounted photograph. She looked from the photo to Agatha. “When did you pose for her?” And since when did cats pose? Of course, the cat wasn’t Agatha, although the resemblance was startling. There was no denying that the pictured cat had sleek black fur, glittering green eyes, and an uplifted (to swat) paw. The caption read: “British Black Shorthair. My way or the highway.”

  Annie shoved the picture back into the portfolio and concentrated on breathing evenly. Was Laurel hoping to win Annie over by including a poster with Agatha’s double? Possibly. Possibly not. Who knew what Laurel was thinking? That question had mystified all who had ever known the woman, especially her daughter-in-law. It was time to go home, relax, forget Laurel and her posters. In any event, Annie couldn’t spare the emotional energy.

  She needed every ounce of calm to survive tomorrow, which was a double feature for Death on Demand, Emma Clyde appearing at the Author Luncheon at the library at the same time as the Savannah Captivating Crimes Book Club arrived at Death on Demand for a light lunch and discussion of suspense novels from Eric Ambler to Suzanne Brockman. A recently departed (not from this life, but from the island) employee had blithely approved the date for both events. By the time Annie discovered the conflict, the schedules of the library and book club were set.

  Somehow Annie had to sell books at the library while convincing Emma that, of course, the crowd was wonderful and not the least bit smaller because of the meeting at the store or the competition from several other luncheons occurring in various venues that the interim help also had not checked. Ingrid, meanwhile, would host the book club. Normally such an event required Annie’s presence as well as a summer clerk. Henny often helped out but she was presiding at a Red Cross luncheon at the Sea Side Inn. Laurel loved to sub at Death on Demand, but Annie had no intention of calling on her.

  Thank heaven for Pat.

  Saturday wouldn’t be doable without her.

  Annie rushed into the kitchen. She’d changed into a short-sleeved knit top that matched a bright orange stripe in flamboyant cropped pants that shouted summer with pink, grape, white, lime, and orange stripes.

  Max, muscular and tanned in a T-shirt, khaki shorts, and espadrilles, shredded carrots at the central workstation. Not only was he a gorgeous hunk, he was a super chef. He looked over his shoulder. “Sangria’s made.”

  Annie felt bubbly without a sip. She moved toward the refrigerator. “What kind tonight?”

  “Max’s Coolest Ever. Chardonnay with fruit, lemonade, and two shots of peach brandy. You can add the ginger ale.”

  Annie fixed two glasses, placed one near Max, then perched on a stool to watch as catfish sizzled in the skillet. She cradled the cool glass in her hands. “If I ever needed a pick-me-up, it’s tonight.” She hesitated, then asked obliquely, “Have you talked to your mother?”

  Max ladled rice from the cooker. “She looked cheerful when I saw her.” He carried their plates to the table. “If you’ll zap the corn bread in the microwave, everything’s ready.”

  Annie put down her glass. “You saw her?”

  “Why don’t we eat and then—”

  Annie folded her arms. “Where are they?”

  Max’s blue eyes shifted away. He moved fast as Dorothy L, his plump white cat, jumped onto the table. “Not when we’re eating, D.L.” He retrieved the fluffy cat and carried her to the kitchen door.

  Annie was still waiting when the door clicked shut.

  Max studied Annie’s face and placed the plates in the microwave for later reheating. “In the living room.”

  Annie stalked from the kitchen and strode to the living room, her sandals clicking on the heart-pine floor. Just inside the wide double doors, she stopped and took a deep breath. She spotted a portfolio, twin to the one in her office, pink letters and black splotch straggling across the stiff plastic over. The inscription was burned into her consciousness:

  PAWS THAT REFRESH: Cat Truth

  She wanted to snarl that the black splotch following the title, obviously a paw print, was just too cute. Actually, the paw print was cute, even though Annie loathed cuteness. She didn’t turn when Max came up behind her and slipped an arm around her rigid shoulders.

  His voice was conciliatory. “Don’t you think they’re clever?”

  “Of course they’re clever. But they don’t have anything to do with mysteries. Displaying them at Death on Demand would distract from the books.” Not to mention the watercolor contest. She had no doubt Laurel coveted the expanse above the fireplace as a space to disp
lay the cats.

  Laurel had discovered free online pictures of exotic cat breeds and never looked back. She printed photos on glossy paper and mounted them on acid-free mat board. In printed letters beneath the photos, each cat was identified by breed, and a caption expressed a “Cat Truth.” The classy, high-end posters were everywhere, propped against the sofa and several chairs, ranged along the mantel, and spread across the coffee table.

  A smile tugged at Annie’s lips. She honestly couldn’t look at pictures of cats, all kinds of cats, Maltese, Abyssinian, Siamese, Scottish Fold, domestic short hair, tabbies, and not be enchanted by their beauty. The coup de grâce was the legend beneath each picture. A Sphynx, its hairless gray skin wrinkled, stared with obvious reproof. Uneven pink letters inquired: Who you lookin’ at, dude? A multicolored Manx, mostly white with a black half mask and black back with a dash of orange, stood with his head twisted staring over raised haunches: Nobody sneaks up on me!

  Annie counted twenty admittedly fetching photographs of gorgeous cats, each mounted on poster board with the announcement of breed and an inscription. “Cat Truth,” she mused. “Okay, the pix are great, the comments priceless.” If Max quoted her to Laurel, maybe this sop to TV ads would soften the blow. “However”—she was emphatic—“a Philosophy of Life according to cats has no place in a mystery bookstore.” She turned and realized she was in Max’s embrace, a very nice place to be. She smiled up at him. “I have a great idea.” She wriggled one arm free and made an inclusive gesture. “We’ll leave the posters just the way they are and have a cocktail party here to celebrate Laurel’s”—she paused for inspiration—“trenchant philosophical triumph.”

  Annie’s cell rang. She glanced at the clock. A quarter to eleven. She felt beleaguered, irritated, pressed, and ill-treated. She needed to get to the library and set up the book table. Emma Clyde wanted books on sale both before and after an event. What Emma wanted, Emma got, Annie having long ago decided the better part of valor was never to rouse a quiescent literary lioness. She checked her caller ID and frowned. “Hi, Henny.” She tried to sound pleasant, but if she hadn’t listened to Henny, she’d probably have found someone other than Pat to hire and today would not be a disaster waiting to happen.

  “You sound stressed.”

  “That sums everything up nicely. I have the library Author Luncheon for Emma and”—she heard the high twitter of feminine voices through the open door of her office—“the Savannah book club’s here and Pat’s a no-show, which puts Ingrid in a deep, deep pit. I need to get to the library. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Annie put more copies of Emma’s new paperback, The Case of the Curious Cat, into a box. She moved too quickly and a stack of the books tilted from the worktable and slapped to the floor. As she scrambled to pick them up, she glanced at the cover art and glared into the almond-shaped blue eyes of a white, long-haired Siamese with an inscrutable expression. “Cats,” she muttered. “Everywhere I go, cats.”

  A black paw snaked through the air, leaving a mark on the back of her right hand.

  “Agatha, I’m not playing now. I don’t have time.” When the books were safely in the box and Agatha distracted with a moist treat, Annie pressed a Kleenex against the scratch and poked her head out of the storeroom.

  “Has Pat shown up?”

  Ingrid slid her hand over the portable phone’s mouthpiece. “No. I called Laurel and she’s going to help out.”

  Annie opened her mouth, closed it. Pat Merridew had picked a lousy day to be late for work. Obviously, Ingrid couldn’t handle the book club by herself. Henny was committed for a luncheon. Emma would be wearing her author hat. That left Laurel.

  “What did she say?”

  Ingrid blinked uncertainly. “Kind of a funny answer. She said: ‘He who asks shall be rewarded.’ ”

  Annie whirled back into the office and snatched up Laurel’s portfolio, thumbed through the contents. She found the proper poster, a large, sleek, muscular Bengal cat with a dense marbled coat—and a hugely satisfied expression: He who asks shall be rewarded. So Laurel was quite willing to help out. No doubt, radiating charm, she would expect Annie to hang cat posters in Death on Demand as a reward.

  Annie gripped the portfolio. Could she hide the thick manila folder?

  Her cell rang again. She fumbled in her pocket, lifted the phone, saw the caller ID, tried not to squeak when she answered. “I’m on my way, Emma.” She tossed the portfolio on the worktable. Que sera, sera. She grabbed the box of books. “I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

  Annie whistled a jaunty tune as she toted a single box with no more than a half-dozen unsold titles up the steps to the back door of Death on Demand. Even Emma had been pleased by the sales and it took a lot of ka-chings to bring a smile to her redoubtable square face. She had even offered a grudging compliment. “Better than I expected. Of course, everyone loves Marigold.”

  Annie loathed Emma’s sleuth, Marigold Rembrandt. Annie considered her a carping harpy with all the charm of a molting mongoose, but since she enjoyed ka-chings, too, she had warbled happily to Emma, “Marigold knocked ’em dead.” A flash in Emma’s frosty blue eyes reminded Annie that the author’s insatiable hunger for praise must be fed. “You were wonderful, Emma. Splendid. Brilliant.” Annie paused.

  Emma had nodded, looking expectant.

  Annie had almost rebelled. How much attention did the old warhorse need? She knew the answer. She took a deep breath. “Cogent. Compelling. Charismatic.” When they’d parted in the library parking lot, Emma had been at her most congenial.

  Annie laughed as she opened the back door, the box on one hip. All’s well that ends well. Now, if only Ingrid had weathered the book club. Annie put aside any thoughts about Laurel and Cat Truth. Time would, unfortunately, tell.

  She stepped into the storeroom. The door to the coffee area was ajar.

  “ . . . and what am I bid for the Chestnut Oriental Shorthair?”

  Annie would know that husky voice anywhere. Adrift on a space station. In a Deadwood saloon. Behind a Venetian mask. From the depths of a cavern. Riding in an alpine cable car.

  Annie stopped in the doorway.

  Her slender blond mother-in law, her patrician features quite lovely and perfect, her pale blue linen dress elegantly styled, stood in stocking feet on the coffee bar. She held up a poster. A rectangular-muzzled, green-eyed, chocolate-colored cat appeared as brooding as a gothic hero. The legend read: Always say yes to adventure.

  A lantern-jawed woman in the front row thundered, “Two hundred dollars.”

  A plump matron with untidy brown curls jumped to her feet. “Three hundred.”

  “Three hundred dollars.” Laurel repeated the sum twice. “Do I hear three-fifty?”

  After a beat, she clapped her hands together. “Sold for three hundred dollars. That completes my offering of Paws That Refresh: Cat Truth. I thank you for your wonderful support today for our animal rescue center. The sum raised by the auction—”

  Annie took a step into the coffee area.

  Laurel continued smoothly, “—will help provide shelter and treatment for abandoned and abused dogs and cats. We would also like to thank Death on Demand for offering to host the auction. And here is the wonderful proprietor of Death on Demand, eager to welcome you lovely ladies from the Captivating Crimes Book Club. Perhaps Annie would like to share a tribute to Mississippi Delta author Carolyn Haines, who writes wonderful books and helps rescue abused and abandoned horses, dogs, and cats, and to Mary Kennedy of Dead Air and Reel Murder fame, who rescues cats and supports all efforts to protect animals.”

  Annie remembered one of the posters now residing in her and Max’s living room, a silky-furred, mitted, and bicolored Ragdoll stretched out on a red silk cushion, looking as comfy as Eva Longoria in a Hanes ad: Go with the flow.

  Annie’s smile was genuine. “Thank you, Laurel, for your support for animals and for sharing news of Carolyn Haines’s Sarah Booth Delaney series and Mary Kennedy’s talk-radio series.
Animal lovers”—she swept her arm in an all-inclusive gesture—“will enjoy visiting Carolyn Haines’s online animal rescue page, www.goodfortunefarmrefuge.org.”

  Immediately, several ladies lifted their iPhones and fingers flew as they typed in the link.

  Annie beamed at Laurel. The best outcome, in addition to sales, was that the dreaded posters were no longer on her worktable, though Annie well knew there were more where these came from. However, there was no point in borrowing trouble. Moreover, a worthy cause had profited.

  Annie mingled and was charming. But if Pat Merridew dared enter Death on Demand, it would be the shortest stay in history.

  As soon as Henny reached her car at the Sea Side Inn parking lot, she flipped open her cell.

  “Death on Demand, the finest—”

  Henny interrupted. “Hey, Ingrid, did Pat show up?”

  “No. Laurel helped out. We made it through.” Ingrid described the auction.

  Henny grinned. “If you can’t beat ’em, maybe you need to join ’em.”

  “I don’t think that’s what Annie wants to hear. Oh, got to go. Some tourists . . .”

  Henny sat behind her wheel, tapped Pat’s number. No answer. She had called twice before going to the luncheon. Pat wasn’t at the store. She wasn’t home. Where was she? Maybe she had a call from a friend who needed to go to a doctor’s appointment in Savannah. Maybe she forgot to call the bookshop. Maybe a lot of things.

  Henny tried to maintain a positive outlook, but she felt both irritated and disappointed. She had helped Pat find a job and now Pat had let Annie down. Henny pressed her lips together. Her words might be sharp when she found Pat. With a decided nod, she turned on the motor and headed for Pat’s house instead of home.

  Henny drove with her windows down, enjoying the pleasant June heat. In July the island would swelter and cooling the car with air-conditioning would be automatic. She turned on a dusty narrow road north of downtown. Palmettos, live oaks, red cedars, and yellow pines crowded the road. The burgeoning woods were interrupted by occasional houses. She enjoyed the variety: shacks perched on pilings; late-nineteenth-century, two-story frame or tabby homes; and new multistoried mansions of stucco or stone.