Carolyn G. Hart (9 page)

Uncertain which argument to pursue first, Annie opted for anti-detection.

“Max, listen carefully, because I am only going to say this once. I am not a detective. I am not even a mystery writer. I just happen to run a bookstore where a man got murdered. I intend to scrub that floor and rearrange the coffee area and forget it ever happened. Mysteries are a business for me, not a vacation. This is not a game. There is no way I am going to get involved in this investigation—and I mean it, absolutely, positively, and without any shadow of doubt. Period.”

Max grinned.

T
he argument continued on the stairs of the tree house. “I’m going to work just as usual. I do not want to talk about murder.”

“Murders.”

“It has to be a coincidence,” she said mulishly. “Jill and Elliot didn’t even know each other. He didn’t have any pets.”

“How do you know?” Max barred her way down the steps.

Since she didn’t want to go into that, she ducked under his arm. “Look, I’ve got to hurry, or I’m going to be late.” She’d already informed him in no uncertain terms that he
was not coming to the store with her. To divert him, she offered, “I’ll have lunch with you. Come to the shop about one, and we’ll go have a mango sundae.”

Max took a childish delight in new tastes, and Annie was pleased at her skill in deflecting him. This was not the time to admit that she’d dated Elliot a couple of times and had once been invited to dinner at his house. That evening was enough to frost any interest on her part. Elliot collected West Indian art and artifacts, including voodoo dolls from Haiti. Her appetite had been seriously damaged by his long-winded and ghoulish description of the walking dead.

Ugh.

Annie ran on down the steps, then realized her car was still in the crushed oyster-shell lot near the plaza, the closest parking place to her store. Of course, Max had brought her home last night.

Since he drove this morning in the old mode, fast and hard, there was no time for conversation.

Annie’s home was on the fringes of the developed part of the resort area. The tree houses had been a builder’s short-lived fancy. She loved living in a remote area, and delighted in the daily surprises of marsh life. Her tree house overlooked the high marsh, and from her sun porch she could watch the never-ending play of light and wind on the thick cordgrass. Salt myrtle, marsh elder, and southern bayberry flourished. A single narrow road snaked inland through palmetto palms and sea pines toward the populated area. Spanish moss shrouded the glossily green live oak trees. Alligators sunned on the banks of shallow green ponds, and turtles, frogs, and snakes slipped silently through the water. The soft air shimmered a paler shade of green beneath the tree limbs.

When Max’s red Porsche plunged out onto the blacktop that circled the island and ran past the luxuriant green of a sleekly mowed golf course, he commented, “From the boondocks to the country club.”

“Part of the charm.”

The blacktop served the access roads to the islands’ mansions, which overlooked the fairways of the Island Hills Golf Club. The three-story Tudor-style Club House glistened in the morning sunlight. Ornate, twelve-foot-tall
bronze gates were already open to admit early morning foursomes.

She pointed toward an imposing home on a gentle rise near the fourteenth green. “That’s Emma’s house.”

Max grinned. “Her little place in the country.”

Annie nodded. “Right. I saw a feature on it in
American Country Homes
. That little cottage is valued at just under two million.”

“Crime does pay.”

“For her.”

Max squinted against the sunlight and upped his speed to sixty.

They flashed by more magnificent homes, some barely glimpsed through the spreading live oak trees.

Max decreased his speed almost immediately because they were already upon the harbor area. Red-tiled roofs marked the beginning of the condos, Swallows’ Retreat. The stores and cafés bordering the basin gleamed a soft gray, the natural wood exteriors weathered by the sun. Max pulled into the crushed-shell parking area.

“She could have done it.”

Looking ahead to Death On Demand, Annie didn’t make the connection.

“Who could have done what?”

“Emma could have murdered Elliot. She’s smart enough.”

“Max.”

“Somebody did it,” he said virtuously.

“Somebody did,” she agreed. “And that charming Chief Saulter can figure it out.”

To Annie’s surprise, Max didn’t even attempt to come into the shop with her. In fact, he dropped her off at the edge of the plaza, promised to meet her for lunch, and waved goodbye with an annoyingly cherubic smile.

Curving around the natural harbor that served as the marina, the plaza was the social hub of Broward’s Rock. Since it was well past the summer season, some of the sailboats were battened down for winter, but most were moored by the wooden docks, ready for island owners to enjoy on idyllic October days. On the far side of the harbor were yacht slips. There were only three big yachts
left now, and one of these was Emma Clyde’s,
Marigold’s Pleasure
.

Annie loved the little harbor. It was as elegant as a Fabergé egg. From her front windows, she could watch sailboats scud into the sound and sea gulls swoop and hover near pier’s end in hopes of free fish. All of the shops built on the curve of the plaza were open, but now that the tourist season was over, the atmosphere relaxed perceptibly. The occasional shoppers were more likely to be year-rounders. It was a good time of the year to inventory, to decide on new stocks for next summer, to savor the relaxed hush.

As she crossed the plaza, she was thoughtful. Why was Max so easily dissuaded from accompanying her? And what was happening in the investigation into Elliot’s death? A
dart?
That still seemed impossible—and contrived. The more she thought about it, the crazier it seemed.

She walked up on the verandah that fronted the shops and stopped at her own storefront.
Death On Demand
marched in square gilt letters in the center of the south window. The north window carried the information painted in bold scarlet: Mysteries, Suspense, Horror, Adventure, New and Old.

She looked appraisingly at the display behind the north window. The
Murder Ink
mystery companions took pride of place. Hard to imagine a true mystery aficionado without them. Her latest and most prized old books, first editions all, lay enticingly in front of the trade paperbacks:
Dog in the Manger
by Ursula Curtiss, the eight volumes of complete Sherlock Holmes published by Collier, and a rare $110 copy of Elizabeth Lemarchand’s first book,
Death of an Old Girl
. New hardcovers, with splashily bright covers, filled the south window. Annie nodded approvingly. It was always a plus when she could offer a new Martha Grimes or Ken Follett. Readers flocked. All right. She couldn’t stand there forever and put off going inside. No matter what had happened last night, she was determined to erase the memory of Elliot’s murder. She had work to do.

Annie was fishing her key ring from her purse when woodpecker-quick steps tapped up behind her. Ingrid Jones, her springy gray head bobbing, swooped up, waggling
the key. “Decided it would be a good morning to shelve those books from that Texas estate.”

Ingrid usually worked only on Saturdays and during lunch hours in the off-season. Annie wasn’t sure what prompted her early arrival, but she knew darn well it signaled support, and she felt a rush of affection. How nice it was to have friends! Then, insidiously, she wondered what made Ingrid decide it was time to rally round the flag.

Ingrid unlocked the door, and led the way inside, flicking on the lights and chattering nonstop about the snowy egret she’d spotted that morning over near McAlister’s Point. Annie followed slowly, not really listening, but very grateful for human—and animal—sound. Agatha streaked inside, meowing imperiously. Annie stopped by the cash desk and looked down the main corridor toward the dark coffee area.

No one was there.

She had almost expected to find that corner cordoned off and a policeman in residence. But that was ridiculous. With a police force of three, and two murders taking place in less than twenty-four hours, Chief Saulter could hardly spare the manpower.

She tucked her purse in its accustomed place beneath the cash register, then walked down the central corridor, flicking on lights. Agatha loped silently ahead. At the coffee bar, Annie stopped.

A wobbly chalked outline marked the long oblong where Elliot had fallen. She looked quickly away and went around the bar to open the refrigerator and get out Agatha’s milk. When it was poured, she shook some cat food into the blue ceramic bowl that was inscribed in white script,
The Grande Dame
.

The bell jingled. Annie jumped up to peer down the central aisle, then struggled to look normal as Ingrid welcomed Sam Mickle, the postman.

“Good morning, Sam.”

“Morning, Ingrid. Miss Laurance.”

Annie murmured for a moment to Agatha, who expected salutations along with provender, then moved unhurriedly up the aisle to glance through the pile of mail Ingrid had stacked on the cash desk. Despite everything that had
happened, Annie was beginning to relax. It was a marvelously normal Monday. She thumbed through the material, dropping junk into the wastebasket, bills into a pile to her left,
Publishers Weekly
to the right. She would read
PW
, then … She held a small square package between thumb and forefinger and stared at the bold, slanted writing of the address.

There was no doubt in her mind who had written her name in thick, dark strokes.

But why would Elliot Morgan have mailed a small, square package to her? Shades of
The List of Adrian Messenger
, she thought miserably.

It didn’t take Max long to figure the layout of Broward’s Rock. Of course, it wasn’t very big, seven miles long and five miles at its widest. One blacktop road circled the island, beginning and ending at Heron Point where the ferry landed, and funneling into the resort area through the checkpoint. The guard on duty nodded respectfully at the Porsche as it scooted by. The ferry office was part of a tin-roofed beer joint and bait shop owned by Ben Parotti, who could chew tobacco and guzzle Schlitz concurrently. When Halcyon Development Company decided to create a rich man’s refuge, it bought the skillet end of the island, intending to leave the narrow handle with its old, weathered homes, some of them shacks, for “support personnel,” as the developers delicately phrased it. However, Halcyon Development found the smelly bait shop and dank beer joint by the ferry landing unappetizing. Since rich prospective residents would arrive by ferry, Halcyon decided to buy the ferry service and its accompanying office/baitshop/beer joint, planning to build a tasteful cottage by the terminal. Square, stumpy Ben Parotti, who also captained the ferry, intended to continue his life as it had always been, and no sum could budge him. It was a singular experience for the young Halcyon lawyer from Atlanta, whose credo until that moment had been that enough money could buy anyone.

Max took the three wooden steps in one stride and pushed open a creaky door. Inside, he paused, his eyes adjusting to the rank dimness, his nose crinkling at the
mixture of smells, chunks of bait, stale beer, sawdust. A bottle-scarred wooden bar ran along the wall to his left. The mirror behind it might last have been polished just before Pearl Harbor. Two round wooden tables with kegs for seats completed the hospitality area. Straight to the back were the cash register and coolers holding chunks of black bass, grouper, snapper, squid, and chicken necks. To Max’s right, a worn, golden oak desk that might once have stood in a country school provided office space for the Parotti Ferry Service.

Max tried to look genial while not inhaling too deeply. “Bud Light.”

Parotti squinted at him with interest.

“Summer folk don’t drink beer this early. And you ain’t no boozer.” He frowned at Max’s crisp blue-and-white seersucker suit. “You another damn lawyer?”

“God forbid,” Max said piously.

Parotti chuckled. “That’s good. But you want somethin’ besides beer.”

“Information.”

Parotti fastidiously pulled the tab off a can of Schlitz. “Funny. You’re the first rich dude to ever pay me the time of day.”

Max looked at the bent but still recognizable sign of a Flying Red Horse, which hung crookedly on the wall back of the cash register. “You’ve been here a long time. I figure you probably see everything that happens on this island.”

“Maybe.”

“The cops ask you how many people came on the ferry yesterday—and Saturday?”

“Sure. Told ’em four. You’re one of them. You were the only stranger.”

Max drank the cold Bud Light with relish. “That’s what I figured.” He nodded companionably at Parotti. “That means I need to know about some people who live here.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“The hell of it.” Max drank more of the beer, then smiled his most winning smile.

Parotti chuckled, looking like an amused but slightly sinister and very tatty leprechaun. “I like you, young fella. Who do you want to know about?”