Mint Julep Murder (3 page)

The storeroom door closed.

Annie didn’t retrieve the piece of paper.

Not now.

Maybe never.

As for tomorrow …

Tomorrow was the opening day of the Dixie Book Festival on the South’s premier holiday island, Hilton Head. There would be more than seventy Southern authors to be wined and dined and showcased at breakfasts, luncheons, and dinners. Everybody from Carl Hiaasen to Celestine Sibley.

Booksellers from throughout the South. Publishers and editors from small regional presses. Plus a goodly number of booths from some of the big New York publishing houses.

Several thousand festivalgoers.

It should be a fabulous success,
would
be a fabulous success, and certainly Annie shouldn’t let small embarrassments—

The storeroom door opened swiftly; her mother-in-law’s golden head popped out. “One for All, All for One.” Laurel’s husky voice brimmed with confidence. A final beaming smile, then Laurel withdrew, and the door softly closed.

“Oh, God,” Annie groaned, “that’s what’s driving me—” Annie felt a prick on her ankle. She looked down. “Dammit, Agatha, you could at least ask first.”

The pressure from Agatha’s two exceedingly sharp incisors increased, just a little.

“Okay, okay. I’ll feed you.” Annie moved fast. Once Agatha reached the incisor-to-the-ankle stage, bloodletting wasn’t far off. As Annie pulled the tab on a can of savory salmon, she told the feline sternly, “I’ve about had enough of everybody. You, Laurel, Henny, Miss Dora, my authors.” Actually, although she’d quite soon realized that dealing with authors meant handling very fragile egos accompanied by the ability to be
creatively
demanding, she still enjoyed—mostly—getting to know five very bright and
gifted people. She’d even begun to think of them proprietorially. All except Jimmy Jay Crabtree, of course.

She picked up the coffee thermos, then turned behind the coffee bar to select a mug.

This was one of the great pleasures of Death on Demand. Annie took pride in her collection of coffee mugs, each inscribed in red script with the name of a famous author and title. Usually, it put her in a good humor simply to pour a cup of special brew—sometimes Kona, sometimes Colombian, sometimes Kenya—into one of the mugs.

This afternoon, however, she eyed the mugs without enthusiasm. She considered
Phantom Lady
by William Irish. Maybe she could disappear. No. It wasn’t quite that bad. She was tempted by Carolyn Wells’s
Murder in the Bookshop
because that’s what she felt like committing. First victim: Blue Benedict of Hilton Head’s Benedict Books, who’d talked Annie into serving as an author liaison. “Annie, it won’t take much time at all!” The memory of that hideously inaccurate prediction made Annie’s lip curl. Annie had spent so much time on the telephone with her authors—and charming as most of them were (except, of course, Jimmy Jay Crabtree)—it had kept her up late at night and working weekends to get her ordering done and keep Death on Demand running smoothly, especially since Ingrid Jones, her wonderful assistant, had been out with foot surgery until this week.

But it
was
fascinating to get to know these very famous authors (except for Jimmy Jay Crabtree) and to try and make them feel comfortable and welcome. Annie had quickly read all their books, and now she felt she knew them very well indeed.

The phone rang. Death on Demand closed at five, and it was already past six o’clock.

The sharp peal sounded again.

Annie ignored the rings. She felt she could count on two verities. The call wasn’t from the Georgia or Florida lotteries; the call was from one of her authors, and right now she absolutely couldn’t handle one more task. Nada.

Annie poured coffee into
V as in Victim
by Lawrence
Treat, took a sip, and sighed. The coffee was tepid. She poured it out. Finally, the ringing stopped.

Annie swished out the sink, then moved around the coffee bar to the central aisle. She did take time to look up at the month’s mystery paintings hanging over the fireplace. The first customer to correctly identify the author and title represented by each painting received a book and free coffee for a month.

Henny Brawley, her most knowledgeable customer, was the all-time champion. She had, in fact, won the past three months in a row.

But Henny hadn’t visited Death on Demand even once this month. Definitely a financial loss, but maybe it would give someone else a chance to win.

Henny would know these five books, of course, because they were the start of something wonderful in mystery fiction, something that had changed the course of mystery publishing in the United States.

The first painting captured so beautifully the crowded, tatty splendor of an antique store. Furniture, vases, lamps, books, and artwork were jammed together. In the sharp, white glare from the floodlights set up by the police, the chalked outline of a corpse was starkly apparent against the Oriental rug. A golden chain dangled from the key still in the lock of the glass cabinet that contained small pieces of value, including a set of bone-handled knives. One knife was missing. A young woman, her black hair marked by a streak of gray, stood in a narrow aisle, staring at a mannequin of a small boy. The mannequin’s feet had been fitted with an ornate pair of iron shoes.

In the second painting, the young woman on the temple stage was pinning a Berkeley police badge to her blouse. At her feet, a knife protruding from his chest, sprawled a handsome Oriental man in a loose gold robe. His thin T-shirt and pants were also gold. A crimson sash circled his waist. Behind them rose an altar draped with gold, electric blue, and orange brocade. Prayer wheels flanked each side of the altar. Overlooking the altar was a
giant picture of the man who now lay so still with the ugly weapon in his chest.

In the third painting, a good summer tan darkened the face of the woman in the yellow cotton top and blue jeans. She looked athletic. Her face was somber as she stared at the decomposing body of a man slumped face forward over a kitchen table. The back of his head was a mess from the bullet’s exit.

In the fourth painting, the woman in jeans knelt beside the body in a kelly green bathrobe. The bullet hole was at the base of the dead blonde’s throat. The body lay straight back, arms flung out, hips turned slightly. The green eyes were half open. The living room carpet held no footprints.

In the fifth painting, the bathroom was Las Vegas style with plenty of mirrors, pink marble, and gleaming white tile. The only out-of-the-ordinary occupant of the sumptuous room was the young girl lying on the red-and-white tile floor. Her throat had been cut, and there was blood everywhere. On a nearby pink velvet couch, a middle-aged woman sobbed. The house detective talked into his handheld radio. An attractive young woman with brown hair and green eyes stood to one side, taking everything in.

These books had made a difference in the mystery world.

Annie nodded in satisfaction.

Her good humor restored, she headed up the central aisle, passing the Romantic Suspense. She paused at the Psychological Suspense section to put a Rochelle Majer Krich title on the proper shelf. She took time to be sure she still had plenty of titles by Mary Higgins Clark and Patricia Highsmith and Judith Kelman.

Comedy mysteries—a whole shelf full of Joan Hess!—were on her right, and spy novels and thrillers to her left. She so enjoyed Eric Ambler and Manning Coles.

Annie reached the front desk. She looked thoughtfully at the answering machine. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink.

Five red blinks.

Five messages.

Agatha flowed through the air, settled beside the answering machine, and delicately began to wash her face.

“Want to bet it’s the Gang of Five?” Her authors could be both charming and imperious. “Or another of the Three Musketeers?”

Agatha’s cool green eyes looked through Annie as if she were indeed a phantom.

Annie reached out, gently stroked the shiny, sleek fur. “I’m sorry, Agatha. I know everything’s topsy-turvy. But it won’t be for much longer.” Annie yanked her hand back just in time to escape the razor-sharp teeth. “Ingrid will be here all weekend. She loves you, too. And it
will
be a fun weekend.”

That was for sure.

It was a great opportunity to see authors she’d admired and sold for so long: Lee Smith. Alexandra Ripley. Sharyn McCrumb. Louise Shivers. Ernest Gaines. Margaret Maron. And many, many more.

Although she did have a presentiment—no way were those the sole prerogative of damsels in distress—that she was going to be very busy with her own special charges. She could almost hear Blue Benedict’s soft South Carolina accent: “Annie honey, you’re just
so
good with people, and it’s
so
important to keep these
special
honorees happy….”

But enough was enough. Annie shook her head at the blinking lights, grabbed the notebook with the conference itineraries for her authors, and headed out the back door.

By the time she turned the car into the long, curving, dusty road leading home, she was humming. It increased her cheer that she no longer had to slow for the gated entry. Since the Burgers had moved to Australia, the Scarlet King Neighborhood Association, made up of the homeowners with houses around the lagoon, had agreed to remove the ugly gate. Annie was pleased. She pushed on the accelerator, and the car picked up speed.

Almost home. Sunshine glistened through the graceful swaths of Spanish moss. With the windows down, she could smell the sweet scent of blooming magnolias. She loved
her island, the dusty unpaved roads, the palmetto palms and quick-growing ferns. Almost home.

As for her Festival duties, she would follow the example of the South’s most famous literary heroine. “After all, tomorrow is another day,” she murmured.

The gray road curved, and there was her beautiful house, hers and Max’s.

As always, her heart lifted and her mouth curved into a smile. She loved the glistening expanses of glass that let streams and rivers of golden light pour into the sand-toned, two-story wooden house. Sometimes she couldn’t believe her good fortune. Married to the most fun guy she’d ever known (and Max was undeniably as good-looking and sexy as a grown-up Joe Hardy), living on Broward’s Rock, the most beautiful island off the coast of South Carolina, owner of the best little mystery bookstore east of Atlanta!

How could life get any better?

The thought was swift: When she was once again her own boss, the Dixie Book Festival successfully behind her …

Annie parked next to Max’s red Maserati. Max! What had she promised? Oh, yes. The sugar. He’d left a message asking her to pick up sugar. Why sugar? She shrugged and picked up the five-pound sack. As she slammed the car door, she dropped the keys into her pocket and felt the square of paper Laurel had tucked there. Annie wanted to ignore it.

But delay would not make it more palatable.

She stood in the deep shadow from a live oak tree. The sun slanting through the branches cast a pattern on the paper, but it didn’t mute the brilliant crimson of the letters—in script—or the bright blue foil border:

A yellow Post-it was stuck to the bottom. She read the note:

Annie shoved the sheet back into her pocket. No matter what she said, Laurel refused to believe Annie had no clout in the world of publishing. Annie shook her head, then hurried up the oyster shell path. Of course, once the Festival was over, Laurel and Henny and Miss Dora would have to give up badgering Annie for introductions to publishers.

Annie skipped up the steps at the thought. And, despite the Three Musketeers, she was certain the Festival was going to be fabulous. She’d just have to be patient with Broward’s Rock’s publisher-obsessed wannabe authors.

She hurried up the steps and opened the front door.

“Max?”

She stopped in the entry hall, tilted her head, and, quite frankly, sniffed. Something was burning, something terribly sweet….

“Annie!”

She doubted that Max had ever managed to put quite so much expression into the sound of her name. She followed her nose toward the kitchen. “Annie.” Hope mingled with frustration. She stopped in the doorway.

It was Max all right, blond hair that she always wanted to touch, eyes a darker blue than a Minnesota lake—vivid blue eyes usually shining with laughter, but not right now—an expressive mouth that could turn her resolve to jelly.

But Max with a difference. His face was bewildered, his polo shirt stained, his navy shorts—and he did look
so
good in shorts—dusted with flour. Actually, heavily splotched with flour.

There was flour on the floor, in his hair, dappled across
the range, in interesting swirls and eddies atop the table. Dorothy L., too white for flour to show, sat on a countertop, gingerly licking her front paws. Annie could see dainty cat pawprints in the swirls and eddies.