by Carolyn Hart
In the third painting, a small African woman, her back twisted, one leg shorter than the other, struggled to mount the steps of a wooden scaffold where a noose hung waiting. A crowd of thousands, black faces and white, watched in frozen silence. Not far from the wooden structure stood a young white woman, her face strained but determined.
In the fourth painting, a young woman with short dark hair, dressed all in black, from her polo sweater to her black leggings, crouched behind the balustrade of the minstrel gallery to peer down into a candlelit village hall at seven figures in black hooded cloaks drinking beer. A black cloth covered a table near the back wall.
In the fifth painting, protective face visor lifted, a woman stared in horror at putrefying human remains scattered on the ground. She was a startling figure in the desert moonlight, her head bristling with electronic wires and probes, her body encased in a lightweight metal contraption of arm and leg braces, a web vest fastening her to a computerized spine.
Each book was utterly original. Annie loved recommending these authors and she was thankful for mysteries, old and new, that made her bookstore a magnet for mystery lovers. Annie was convinced her customers also came for the ambience, a molting raven perched above the children’s section near a photograph of Edgar Allen Poe’s tomb, comfortably cushioned wicker chairs and potted ferns à la the days of Mary Roberts Rinehart, and posters from famous mystery movies, including The Cat and the Canary, Charlie Chan Carries On, The Thin Man, Ellery Queen and the Murder Ring, and Murder by Death. Pride of place went to the vintage poster for The Maltese Falcon, worth a cool $3,500. Humphrey Bogart was the quintessential Sam Spade: wary, suspicious, battered but never broken.
As she made another graceful swoop, the storeroom door banged open.
“Some people get to dance.” Max Darling stood in the doorway, holding a sturdy cardboard box.
As always, Annie’s heart danced, too. Was there a man anywhere as handsome, sexy, and fun as her tall, blond husband?
At the moment, he was trying hard not to smile, attempting, in fact, to appear apprehensive. “Other people steal sand from the beach. I wonder if I broke any laws. At least I didn’t take a sand dollar.”
“Max, you’re here!” Her exclamation indicated sheer delight. “Bring the sand up to the front. I’ve got the books ready.”
Annie walked swiftly down the central corridor, her flats slapping on the heart pine floor. She hurried to the front window, humming “Summertime.” Quickly she removed the books that had celebrated the Fourth of July: Roanoke by Margaret Lawrence, Blood and Thunder by Max Allan Collins, Red, White, and Blue Murder by Jeanne M. Dams, Murder on Lenox Hill by Victoria Thompson, and The Drop Edge of Yonder by Donis Casey. No books were more American than these.
Annie never tired of showcasing mysteries sure to please. Well, they might not please everyone, but they pleased Annie.
A thud sounded behind her. “Damn.” Max’s exclamation was anguished. Perhaps a trifle too anguished?
She turned. “Are you all right?”
Her husband bent to massage a sandaled foot. “Dropped on my big toe.” He gave the sand-filled box a kick, grimaced. “I may never walk again.” He reached out to drape himself against her. “I need solace. Lots of solace.”
Mmm. Trust Max.
But she smiled. It never mattered when she saw him, movie-star handsome in a tux, sleepy-eyed with bristly cheeks in a T-shirt and boxers, muscular and tanned in swim trunks, sweaty in a polo and shorts on a tennis court, every glimpse evoked the same swift, passionate delight. Her husband, her wonderful husband.
His blue eyes gleamed, and his arm slid more firmly around her shoulders.
She wriggled free. “Your toe will be fine. Get some ice from the coffee bar. I need to arrange the sand.” She spread a drop cloth and troweled beach sand from the box.
Agatha suddenly appeared and, with an effortless leap, landed in the display. One swift paw whipped out to bat at the trickle of sand.
“Uh-oh.” Annie put down the trowel and reached for the cat, who eluded her grasp. “Agatha, don’t even think about it.”
Behind her, Max laughed.
It took some effort and a tempting dish of cat salmon to entice Agatha out of the window and down the aisle to the kitchen area. Annie returned, somewhat breathless. “In a little while, maybe you could put up a lattice so she can’t jump into the window.”
“A lattice, the woman says. Presto.” He snapped his fingers. “One lattice coming up. Where’s the lattice store?”
“Try the lumberyard.” There was a plea in her voice. “Maybe you could go get it while I arrange the sand.”
He leaned against the wall. “I buy lattices and you arrange sand. You can’t say we aren’t original.” His tone was musing. “Now, what would anybody say if they heard you announce that you were arranging sand? Doesn’t that have a Laurelesque quality?”
Annie laughed. “I’m not in Laurel’s league.” Was that ever true. Max’s mother, a gorgeous blonde who enchanted men from eight to eighty, was, to put it kindly, a free spirit who was ever and always unpredictable.
“Even Laurel never asked me to carry sand. Do you have any idea how heavy that box was? Why not just put up a beach chair? People who read books can imagine anything. Show them a beach chair and a stack of books and they’ll make the connection: beach books! That would only take a few minutes and then we could go home and make some beach music of our own. As for a lattice, that comes later.”
This time his hand started at the back of her neck and began slipping…
Annie ducked away. “Look how much I’ve taken out. Now you can pick up the box and pour.”
He moved with alacrity. “Then we can go home?” His dark blue eyes told her that she was desirable, that they could be home in their splendidly restored antebellum house in a matter of minutes, that the sun would spill into the master bedroom…
She should finish setting up the new display. There were orders to fill and e-mails to answer. But Max was so near and she ached to tangle her fingers in his thick blond hair and lift her lips—
The front bell jangled as the door opened.
“Max.” Jean Hughes’s strident voice broke a golden spell. She burst into the central corridor, attractive yet with a frowsy look, a bit too much makeup, clothes a little too tight.
Jean rushed toward Max without a glance or murmur to Annie.
Annie folded her arms, determinedly maintaining a pleasant expression.
Max took a deep breath, then managed a quick wry grin and a promissory glance before he turned.
Before he could speak, Jean blurted, “I saw you through the window. I’d been to your office. I don’t want to bother you, but please, can I talk to you?”
Annie considered clearing her throat since she was apparently invisible to Jean.
Jean reached out and gripped Max’s arm, tugging him toward the door. “Please. Oh, please. I need help. You’re a nice man. Everyone says so. Please help me.”
Annie’s resentment was abruptly swept away. The quaver in Jean’s voice was real, and the desperate appeal in her eyes revealed a depth of misery.
Jean held out a trembling hand. “I’ve seen your ad in the paper. Confidential Commissions. Problems solved in a heartbeat.”
That was a new ad, in which Max took great pride. He did not hold himself out to be a private detective, nor was he offering legal counsel. He was a member of the New York bar, but had never taken the South Carolina bar. Max was firm in insisting no special qualification was needed to provide advice to those in travail.
“I’ve got an awful problem.” There was nothing artful in Jean’s language, but her stricken face told a tale of despair. “Please help me. I don’t know what to do.”
Max recognized heartbreak. His resistant look faded. He nodded toward the door. “Sure. Let’s go over to my office. Maybe it will help to talk—”
The door closed behind them.
Annie watched until they were out o
f sight. What had reduced the woman to such a pathetic state? Although Annie was well aware that their South Carolina sea island of Broward’s Rock wasn’t a paradise, even if it often seemed so, the island certainly wasn’t the proper backdrop for an Ibsen drama. Still, she didn’t like the possessive way Jean had clung to Max’s arm as they walked on the boardwalk.
Annie shrugged. She’d know soon enough. She worked briskly on the new display, artfully placing the titles face up on the sand. The books, all superb mysteries, had the added cachet of offering stories set in South Carolina: The Mercy Oak by Kathryn R. Wall, Hush My Mouth by Cathy Pickens, Mama Pursues Murderous Shadows by Nora DeLoach, Too Late for Angels by Mignon F. Ballard, Monet Talks by Tamar Myers, and Murder in the Charleston Manner by Patricia Houck Sprinkle.
Of course, Jean had been a disaster from the first. Hiring her to be the new director at the Haven had been on a par with choosing a chorus girl to head up a nunnery. Max wasn’t on the board at the Haven, though he’d been invited. As a volunteer, he wanted to avoid any conflict of interest, but he’d regretted that decision when Jean Hughes was appointed.
What were the board members thinking?
Annie didn’t need to be a mystery expert to know the answer. Not for the first time in human annals, when money sizzled, good sense fizzled.
Max still volunteered, teaching sailing and tennis, coaching basketball, but he avoided gatherings attended by board members. That wasn’t accurate. When possible, he avoided one particular board member: Booth Wagner. Island bigwigs, including the mayor and heads of charities, had been ecstatic when Wagner retired to the island and turned his considerable energies to island affairs—his energies and his apparently limitless wallet.
Jean as Haven director was a fait accompli when Max came home to tell Annie that the board, responding to Wagner’s offer to fund a new gym, selected her on his recommendation. Max had been wry. “She’s about as qualified to run anything as a panda.”
Annie brushed sand from her fingers. Maybe Max would finish soon and they would close up their respective shops and go home for more fun than even the best mystery provided. After all, Jean Hughes wasn’t their problem.
Chapter 2
Jean’s harsh sobs brought Max’s secretary, whose heart was as big as her beehive hairdo, to his office door. Summer-bright in a yellow tunic and white capris, Barb looked at him questioningly.
As awkward as most men in the face of feminine meltdown, Max cleared his throat. “How about some iced tea, Jean? Hey, Barb, bring us some of your special fruit tea and good lemon pie.”
Since Max’s business was sporadic, Barb took advantage of her spare time to create tantalizing desserts in the back room that also served as an amazing tiny kitchen.
Jean, using a handkerchief provided by Max, wiped her face, leaving purplish smudges atop puffy redness. She looked shyly at Barb when she returned. Barb placed a tray with two big tumblers and two plates on the desk. “Goji berries and guava, my own private blend. Guaranteed to refresh. And lemon pie made this morning.”
Jean managed a smile. “Thank you.” She took a bite of pie. “Hey, that’s good. I haven’t eaten much, I’ve been so upset. Booth texted me yesterday, told me the board was going to fire me. I kept calling and he never answered. I finally talked to him this morning. He laughed and said it’s a done deal. I saw your ad in the paper yesterday afternoon. I cut it out.” She looked at Max with red-rimmed eyes. “I know you think I’m stupid.” There was resignation in her voice instead of indignation. “I don’t know the kind of stuff people are supposed to know to run things. But the kids like me.”
Max felt a rush of embarrassment. He’d been disdainful. He’d chalked Jean up as a bimbo forced on the Haven by Booth Wagner and hoped the board would come to its senses and not renew her contract this summer.
“Yes, the kids like you.” He looked at her with new eyes. She spoke the truth. Most of the kids thought Jean was great. The Haven offered games and classes and after-school snacks to latchkey kids in winter and a full recreational program in the summer that drew kids from both modest and affluent backgrounds. Kids had to feel welcome or they wouldn’t come. Since Jean had become director, attendance had swelled. Was that success enough to counterbalance her lack of understanding of accounting procedures and slapdash record-keeping and the sometimes voluptuous appearance that worried the mostly single moms whose hormonally charged teenage sons clustered in craft classes around Jean, instead of strenuous games designed to siphon off some of their excessive energy?
She leaned forward. “I know what everybody thinks. Some of it’s true.” She looked forlorn. “I met Booth last summer at a jazz bar in Atlanta. I’m a singer. Maybe not a very good one. Good enough. And I didn’t sleep with the customers. Plenty of them tried. I could have picked up a lot of money. I needed money, but I didn’t do it. Then Booth came and he treated me really nice and he acted like he cared for me, really cared. Do you know what he did?” She talked as fast as angry wasps milling from a spilled nest. “When he realized I cared for him, he started talking about my coming to the island. He said he and his wife were separated. I didn’t know that was a lie. He asked me if I liked kids and I told him I did. I loved babysitting when I was growing up.” There was an innocence in her voice that made Max wince. “He said he’d help me get a job at a rec center for the kids. How could I have known that he wanted me hired because it would make this old lady on the board mad? Booth thought it was a scream. He laughed and laughed about the way Miss Prentice acted around me, like I was something dirty a crow had dropped. I talked to Booth this morning. He doesn’t think the joke’s funny anymore, me and the board.” Once again the tears brimmed. “He’s mad and getting back at me because I told him I wasn’t anybody’s other woman and I wasn’t going to sneak around behind his wife’s back. He took my life and used it and now he’s stopped laughing. He told the board members my résumé’s phony. He’s the one who put the résumé together. I didn’t even know what was in it until after I was hired and then I couldn’t say anything, could I? When I asked him why he did it, he laughed and laughed and said he’d really pulled the wool over the board’s eyes and it served them right because they were so stuffy. Can you help me?” She used the back of one hand to wipe away the tears. “Will you help me?” Her voice broke.
ANNIE’S EYES FLASHED. “He’s despicable.” She paced in front of Max’s desk.
Barb stood with her hands on her hips. “What can we do?” She looked as affronted as a mother cat defending her kittens against a barking dog.
Max held up a cautioning hand. “As they say in the newspaper business—”
Annie knew the nearest Max had been to a newsroom was a role in The Front Page for the local little theater.
“—‘Your mother says she loves you. Check it out.’” He flicked on the speakerphone and dialed a number.
“Yo, Darling.” Booth Wagner’s voice was ebullient. “How’s the world treating you?”
“No complaints, Booth.” Max’s tone was easy. “I understand you fabricated Jean Hughes’s résumé without her consent.”
There was a pause. Then a whoop of laughter. “Prove it, good buddy. Her word against mine. Anybody can take one look at Jean and know she’s a dame on the make. Anyway, she’s a little late complaining, isn’t she? Don’t worry yourself about all of this, boy.”
Max’s jaw ridged.
“The board agrees with me,” Wagner boomed. “We vote at the annual meeting next week. I got my votes lined up. She’s out as of July fifteenth. Tomorrow night’s shindig will be her going-out party. Be sure and come. I’ll do a little roast of Jean, give everybody a laugh, Jean confronting her first spreadsheet, Jean encountering Robert’s Rules of Order and asking who Robert was.” Another whoop.
SO MUCH FOR afternoon delight, Annie thought ruefully. Or evening, for that matter. Instead of dancing cheek-to-cheek at the country club to celebrate the evening they first met, Max hunched at the computer in their upstairs his-
and-her study, a half-eaten salad pushed aside. Dorothy L., delighted to have her favorite human at hand, draped herself comfortably in his lap and purred.
Not one to ignore meals, Annie took her last bite of a scrumptious cheeseburger from Parotti’s Bar and Grill, wiped her fingers on a red-checked napkin, and punched a telephone number with pleasure.
Henny Brawley, tipped off by Caller ID, answered cheerfully. “I’ve already heard Booth Wagner’s version. Between me and thee, Jean has some challenges running anything, but she has a good heart so tell Max he’s got my vote. Max may be able to swing it. I’m sure he’s already talked to Frank Saulter. Larry Gilbert’s a possibility. Larry and Booth used to be big buds, but at the last board meeting it didn’t take a swami to figure out the boys were crossways. Nothing overt, but there was no clap-on-the-back bonhomie between them. Whatever Booth suggested, Larry was against it. In fact, this was actually funny though it didn’t get a laugh from Larry. Booth proposed cutting five hundred dollars from the summer rec programs. Larry immediately proposed increasing the budget by a thousand. Frank Saulter and Pauline Prentice were all over an increase as was I. After votes placing the motion on the agenda, et cetera, the increase was approved. Booth guffawed and managed between bouts of hilarity to explain the increase had been his plan all along. Anyway, the vote may have to be delayed unless Booth has a proxy for Pauline. She spends July in Italy. Now for a matter of greater interest to me, has someone beaten me to it with the paintings?”
Annie felt a quiver of delight. Maybe this time, Henny would be stumped. Annie was careful not to let her voice reflect her hope. “Gee, Henny, I don’t think so. I had a customer from the mainland this morning,” fiction was not reserved exclusively for authors, “who had all but two.”
Henny was gruff. “Which two?”
“She wasn’t sure about the fourth painting. She said she was sure she knew the book and pretty soon she’d remember the title. And she wasn’t positive about the fifth.”
