Engaged to Die (31 page)

“You okay?” Bob asked Annie. “Here.” He dragged out a handkerchief, handed it to her.

Max gently held it against the blood welling from the back of her scalp.

Annie blinked. “Hurts.” She peered up at Bob. “What happened?”

Bob's eyes were huge. “I was watching out the door of Chloe's room. After what you told us, I wanted to see what happened. I saw a nurse go into Annie's room, and then in a minute she and Annie came out, but she had a gun to the back of Annie's head. A nurse! I waited until they got to the exit and then I came after them. I got here just as that nurse”—his voice rose in astonishment—“hit Annie over the head. She had the gun by the barrel. She was getting ready to hit Annie again when I grabbed her arm. We struggled and the gun went off and she”—he looked toward the stairwell—“got away from me.” His young narrow face looked stricken. “She flung herself—I don't know if she knew what she was doing—over the railing.”

W
HAT A DIFFERENCE
a few weeks made. January began with heavy
fog and days of drizzle and occasional heavy downpours. Now the sunny sea isle once again lived up to its balmy reputation with innocent blue skies and highs in the seventies. Golfers swung, tennis players served, and booksellers (actually Annie was the only one on the island) sold. Of course, winter might reassert its chilly dominance any day in a final February fling, but for now all was well, hey diddle diddle, and the party at Death on Demand eddied through the open front door, the overhead fans whirled, and the vigorous chatter of the guests rivaled the squawks of a migratory flock heading north.

Henny was perhaps pushing the season in her white-and-blue striped blazer and white cotton skirt. She looked the epitome of spring with a scarlet hibiscus bloom in her silver-streaked black hair. She held high the tray with the fluted glasses of champagne, caroling, “Libations for the literati,” and flashing Annie a quirky, perhaps wine-induced, certainly ebullient grin. She paused, swerved toward Annie, bent close to her ear, hissed, “Who finally charmed Sergeant Ernest Heath?” Her eyes glistened and there was a distinct scent of champagne.

Annie's eyes narrowed, she gave a quick nod, hissed in return, “Philo Vance, of course.” S. S. Van Dine's clever detective had eventually gained the respect of the honest but inept New York homicide officer.

Henny said, “I'm miffed. Squiffed? No, miffed. Hmm, maybe I'd better not have any more. You know, champagne is deceptive. Dyspeptic? Possibly. But definitely not déclassé. Oh, hey, as long as I can say
literati
and not lisp, I'm still the cat's meow.” Her smile was beatific. “Isn't that the cat's pajamas? To be the cat's meow.” She grinned, uttered a piercing and very creditable meow, then gaily swung back into the crowd, the tray at a slight tilt.

Atop the Agatha Christie stacks, the elegant black cat named in her honor lifted a sleek head and stared unwinkingly at Henny, green eyes glowing.

Annie was laughing, though she wondered if perhaps she should send Max to rescue the tray and tactfully offer Henny a comfortable chair and a cup of coffee. She almost called out to him—he was listening pleasantly to the imposing president of the Garden Club—but there was too much hubbub. Guests surged back and forth, most trying to get a glimpse of the Boston Mackey watercolors soon to be auctioned for the island literacy project.

Boston Mackey boomed, “Make way. Make way.” And, of course, everyone did.

Annie grinned and climbed on a stool, the better to see. As she surveyed her kingdom, she felt a sudden rush of delight. Coming through the door, just a little hesitantly, Bob Winslow's big hand firmly on her elbow, was Chloe Martin. Though she was still pale, her glossy dark red hair shone, her narrow face looked eager. She saw Annie, gave a whoop, and held up her
left hand to display a golden ring with a lovely diamond in a filigree setting.

Annie clapped her hands above her head, hopped down from the footstool, and wormed toward the front door. Behind her she heard Boston exclaim, “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight's event to benefit…”

Annie reached the doorway and flung her arms around Chloe. “I'm so happy for you.” She turned, looked up and up and up, at Bob Winslow's long face, now a vivid cherry red. “Congratulations! I'm so happy for both of you.”

Bob's big hands settled on her shoulders, gripped them tightly. “Thanks to you. And that woman almost got you….”

Annie pushed away the memory of the pressure of the gun against her skin, Virginia Neville's desperate face, and her fatal plunge into the hospital stairwell.

“But she didn't.” Annie was brisk.

Boston began to clap. “Let's give a cheer for our hostess, the bookseller with the mostest.”

“Annie, Annie, Annie…” came the chant.

Startled, Annie turned.

“That's right. Bring her down here.” His big face glowing, Boston stamped a foot. “No false modesty permitted. She's the lady who can tell everyone about my watercolors. You've heard about the fastest gun in the west? Well, Annie Darling's the quickest mouth in the mystery world.”

Annie stopped, her face—as they used to say in Louisa May Alcott thrillers—a study. Surely Boston wasn't going to ask her to identify the paintings….

“Hey there, young man,” Boston shouted at Bob,

“you're big enough to escort Annie. You and your girl—oh, yes, the pretty redhead. Folks, I met this
young lady when I brought my watercolors to the store, and she's a delight. Any young man who has her in tow is a dandy fellow. That's right, you two, bring Annie right up here.”

Laughing, Bob and Chloe each took an elbow and began to propel Annie up the central aisle.

“Annie, Annie, Annie…”

In an instant, Annie stood beside Boston and he was pointing at the watercolors, his face glistening with excitement. He was cheerfully and unashamedly as puffed up with pride and expectation as a papa hawk awaiting the flight of his offspring. “All right, Annie, tell the folks about my selections. These mysteries are as important as any that have ever been written. You know them.”

Annie stared at the watercolors. She knew these books. Of course she did. At least the first and the second and—

Chloe's eyes widened. She exclaimed, “Boston, wait! That's not fair. Annie knows the books, but she always lets a customer identify the paintings. And I know Bob can do it.” Proudly, she looked up and up and up at her fiancé.

Bob Winslow awkwardly cracked the knuckles of one hand, glanced quickly at each painting in turn. He looked diffidently at Annie. “Are you sure I'm not butting in?”

“Oh, Bob, be my guest.” Annie's hands clenched. Did he know them? Would he save her from public humiliation? Even now, she could see Henny leaning forward, her gaze questioning.

“Oh, well.” Bob grinned. “Sure. They are”—and he pointed them out—“
A Study in Scarlet
by Arthur Conan Doyle,
The Mysterious Affair at Styles
by
Agatha Christie,
The Tower Treasure
by Franklin W. Dixon,
Red Harvest
by Dashiell Hammett, and
The Secret of the Old Clock
by Carolyn Keene.”

Boston's loud voice announced, “Milestones in the mystery genre and in order of their publication, as any fool would know…”

Annie flung herself at Bob, hugged him, pulled Chloe into their circle, and a cheer rose on the night air.

An accomplished master of mystery, CAROLYN HART is the author of thirteen previous Death on Demand novels and has won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Awards.
Sugarplum Dead
, a previous excursion to Broward's Rock, won the 2000 Oklahoma Book Award for Fiction. She is also the creator of the highly praised mystery series featuring retired journalist-turned-sleuth Henrietta “Henrie O” O'Dwyer Collins. Ms. Hart lives in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, and is one of the founders of Sisters in Crime. Her web address is
ww.carolynhart.com
.

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