Death Walked In Page 2

  Annie reached for the paper. Except on Sundays, the Gazette was an afternoon paper. They saved each issue to read over breakfast the next day. This morning they looked at the Tuesday-afternoon edition. She slid sports and business to Max, kept the front section.

  Annie unfolded the paper, glanced at the front page. “Wow.”

  Max looked over the top of the sports section.

  “We had a million-dollar heist Monday night right here on our sleepy island. Marian wrote the lead story.” She began to read:

  BURGLARY NETS DOUBLE EAGLES VALUED AT 2 MIL

  by Marian Kenyon

  Annie grinned. “I expect Marian came up with the headline. It’s too jazzy for Vince.” Vince Ellis, the editor and publisher, was much more formal. Marian’s lively personality added spice to the Gazette.

  “What happened?” Max added a dollop of butter to his stuffed apple.

  Annie rustled the paper and read aloud:

  Eight twenty-dollar gold coins, including an extremely rare 1861 Philadelphia Mint Reverse Double Eagle, were stolen Monday night from the home of island civic leader Geoffrey Grant, Police Officer Hyla Harrison said Tuesday.

  Annie raised an eyebrow. “I guess with Billy and his family on a holiday and Lou in the hospital, Sergeant Harrison’s in charge.” Lou Pirelli was recuperating from an infection following an appendectomy.

  Sgt. Harrison said Grant estimated the value of the 1861 Double Eagle at more than six hundred thousand dollars. According to Grant’s report, the stolen coins total almost two million in value and include a rare Mint State (MS–65) 1850 Double Eagle valued at $200,000.

  Sgt. Harrison said Grant called police Tuesday morning when he found the glass display case containing the collection smashed and the coins gone.

  Sgt. Harrison said the display case stood in Grant’s library. Grant told police he last saw the coins when he locked them into the case around ten-thirty p.m. Monday night. Grant told police he discovered the theft shortly after seven a.m. Tuesday.

  The officer said investigation revealed a broken pane in a French window leading into the study from the terrace.

  No one in the house reported hearing a disturbance, Harrison said. The officer declined to say whether any suspects had been identified.

  Grant served three terms on the town council. He is a past president of several service organizations and has worked with the Chamber of Commerce to publicize the island as a vacation destination. He is an adjunct faculty member at Chastain College and is an authority on Victorian literature. Grant said, “The stolen coins represent some of the finest American coins. I hope the thief can be found and the coins returned without damage.”

  Annie turned the front page for Max to see. “Two pix. One of Geoff Grant.” Grant wore his black hair a little long. He looked genial and a trifle smug, a man sure of his position in the world. “And a shot of a gorgeous gold coin.” Even in a newspaper reproduction, the coin had unmistakable glory. Annie said casually, “Maybe Grant will hire you to find out what happened.”

  Max retrieved another apple. “I’m too busy to run around looking for a small-time thief.”

  She was startled. “Since when is two million dollars smalltime?”

  Max added a dollop of orange marmalade to the stuffing. “The thief is small-time even if the theft isn’t. It’s too risky for a sophisticated crook. The only access to the island is by ferry or private boat or plane. You can bet Harrison’s already got a line on arrivals and departures. I’ll bet she already has a list of every car, truck, bike, or boat that left the island Tuesday morning. Strangers stand out like a sore thumb this time of year. A thief with any savvy would wait until July, maybe July Fourth when the island is packed with visitors, and it would be easy to come and go without notice. Here’s my prediction: When the police find out why the theft occurred in February, they’ll know the whole story.”

  Tendrils of fog drifted across the island, turning the marina ghostly, trailing over the boardwalk to hover near the plate-glass windows of the shops and stores. Snug in the inner office of Confidential Commissions, Max Darling reclined in his red leather desk chair, head resting comfortably, feet slightly elevated, and gazed at his favorite portrait of Annie in the ornate silver frame provided by his mother.

  Come to think of it, he’d never paused to wonder at Laurel’s selection. The intricate silver swirls of the frame were dramatic. A no-nonsense, plain silver frame, something on the Art Deco line, would better suit his delightful and delightfully predictable wife, honest, open, genuine, unpretentious, adorable Annie.

  Was Laurel suggesting that the inner Annie—his mother was ever attuned to the subconscious—might not be quite so predictable? Certainly Annie was often impulsive. She’d been known to explode when provoked. Sometimes when she plunged directly toward her objective, she was unaware of possible repercussions. Max gave a thumbs-up to the portrait.

  Annie’s gray eyes gazed steadily toward him. Flyaway honey-bright curls framed an open and generous countenance. Her kissable lips were slightly parted, ready to smile.

  Whatever, predictable or possibly possessing depths perceptible only to his perspicacious mother, he was one lucky man and he knew it.

  Max’s smile faded. He drew in a sharp breath as he grappled with the sudden tightening in his chest that still came, though not so often now. He gripped the edge of the gleaming Renaissance refectory table that served as his desk. The table was one of the few furnishings that hadn’t been replaced. Last summer, not long after a last-minute case embroiled him in a murder charge, he’d totally redecorated his office, cypress walls and bookcases, huge framed black-and-white photographs instead of paintings, spare Danish furniture, carpet in squares of black and white.

  He’d never said why. The day the office was done, Annie stood on tiptoe to kiss him. She held him tight. “Don’t you think a new desk would be better?” The table had been a Christmas gift from Annie when he first opened the office. “Something in chrome and glass?” That would leave the room completely transformed with nothing to remind him of the day when a sultry, hot-eyed young woman walked through that door and asked for help, all the while knowing that a shadowy figure behind her request intended no good for Max.

  Max had touched Annie’s lips with a finger. “I only think of you when I see my table.” He smiled at the memory, and the tightness eased. He gave a final glance at Annie’s portrait and was still smiling as he rose and moved quickly toward the door. He should have left a few minutes ago to meet the finish carpenter at the Franklin house. Hopefully, he was ready to put in new cypress paneling in the library. Next stop would be the ferry landing to pick up a shipment of solid bronze sash window fasteners.

  Max was eager to get to the house. Yesterday the locksmith had been scheduled to install solid bronze doorknobs with a star pattern in the front and back doors as well as matching plates with upper keyholes which any old skeleton key would open, common to most antique locks, and lower covered keyholes that controlled newly installed interior dead bolts. Of course, there were often delays and complications in getting tasks accomplished. The first shipment of window fasteners had been lost in transit. Stained-glass windows with matching peacocks were overdue. If all went well—his grin was wry, the knowing resignation of a householder involved in renovations—they might move in by April. The house had been his salvation throughout the fall and early winter, always a decision to be made, a workman to hire, an elusive purchase needed. The memory of August blurred beneath happy days and nights.

  The door to his office swung open. His tall blond secretary, Barb of the bouffant hairdo, culinary talents, and generous heart, beamed at him. She held the portable phone tightly to her chest, the speaker covered. “Max, a lady needs to talk to you. She says it’s urgent.”

  Barb’s voice lifted with delight. To her, urgent spelled trouble and trouble meant Max might soon have an interesting case and Barb could use her Internet skills to come up with information. Max understood her elation
. Barb was high energy, and though she’d enjoyed helping choose swatches for the office furniture and dealing with the frame shop about the photographs, she often had nothing to do. She blamed Max for the fourteen pounds she’d gained since summer because she said she cooked too much when she was bored. Despite the limitations of a two-burner stove with a temperamental oven tucked into a dark corner of the storeroom, she created succulent triumphs. Yesterday’s dish had been mustard fried rice seasoned with blackstrap molasses and garlic. It had been…interesting.

  Ever since August, he’d turned down almost all who came to Confidential Commissions. He’d helped a schoolteacher struggling with identity theft, found a missing gray cat, and failed to authenticate a pitcher’s mitt alleged to have belonged to Babe Ruth though he and Annie had had a swell time in Boston checking out records.

  He always insisted he wasn’t a private detective, explaining that Confidential Commissions was devoted to assisting clients in solving problems. If in the past Confidential Commissions at times appeared to resemble a private detective agency, Max was determined that confusion would no longer arise. Problems he would deal with. But if anyone came to him with a tale of crime, he would remember the lesson that had been seared into his soul: People lie.

  “Max?” Barb’s whisper was piercing. “She sounds scared.”…sounds scared.

  Max’s face hardened. Last summer a sexy young woman had pretended to be afraid to go to the police. He’d fallen for her story, hook, line, and sinker, and he’d almost been sunk. If the caller was scared, she could be scared on her own time or ask a cop for help.

  He sidestepped Barb and flung over his shoulder, “Got to go. Man waiting on me. Tell her to call the cops.” He plunged toward the front door. On the boardwalk, he gave another thumbs-up as he passed Death on Demand, the finest mystery bookstore north of Miami. He didn’t give another thought to Barb’s disappointed face or to the caller who sounded scared. He strained to see through the fog and hoped the carpenter showed up and the ferry was running on time.

  Chapter 2

  Agatha, the elegant black cat who owned Annie Laurance Darling, stretched luxuriously on her red silk cushion atop the coffee bar in the Death on Demand mystery bookstore. She rolled over on her back.

  Annie bent near to nuzzle a soft, sweet-smelling tummy. “Isn’t this fun, sweetheart?” Annie was usually gregarious, eager for excitement and people and action, but occasionally she gloried in a quiet day. Today had been sheer delight, she and Agatha alone in the store, catching up on correspondence, packing up books to return, unpacking shipments, including books by Nancy Atherton, Carolyn Haines, and Aaron Elkins. Her faithful clerk Ingrid and husband Duane were sitting in the sun in Florida, no doubt sipping rum coladas. February was a slow month for tourists on the out-of-the-way South Carolina sea island of Broward’s Rock, and the bell signaling a customer hadn’t rung today, so Agatha’s cushion resided atop the coffee bar in splendor with no concerns about health department directives.

  Agatha clamped her front paws to either side of Annie’s face. Tiny pressure points hinted at sheathed claws.

  Annie remained in a crouch. Agatha was simply being playful. Of course she was. Silky fur muffled Annie’s voice. “Let go now, honey.”

  Did Agatha’s claws seem infinitesimally sharper, just this side of embedded? Was there a suggestion of movement by her back paws? With enormous caution, Annie carefully gripped taut front paws to free her head. She pulled away just in time to avoid a rabbit thump from Agatha’s back paws.

  Annie looked reproachfully into gleaming green eyes. “That wasn’t nice.” Annie’s tone was rueful, not angry. Agatha was what she was, captivating and capricious, loving when it suited her, unencumbered by even a shred of conscience. In short, she was a cat.

  Agatha rolled to her feet and strolled on the coffee bar. She leaped to the heart pine floor, moved toward the fire. She looked up at the mantel.

  Annie was poised to spring. There were replicas of two of the famous mystery awards, the ceramic teapot presented to winners of the Agatha Awards at the Malice Domestic convention and the rotund ceramic bust presented to winners of the Edgar Awards by the Mystery Writers of America.

  Was Agatha getting ready to jump? Instead, Agatha stretched out on the hearth and gazed into the flickering flames.

  Annie relaxed and admired the watercolors ranged above the mantel. Every month a local artist created five watercolor paintings, each representing a famous mystery. The first customer to correctly identify the books and authors received a free new book and coffee for a month. This month’s offerings were by authors with utterly different and distinctive styles, each a personal favorite of Annie’s.

  In the first watercolor, a blond woman in a ski parka was trapped between icy dark water in a pumphouse reservoir and a man moving toward her with murder in his eyes and a gun stuck in his belt. His face was deeply tanned, his collar-length sandy hair streaked with gray. Behind him, a dark-haired girl stood on one booted foot. A curly-haired, athletic teenage boy with a fixed look of determination on his face moved forward, a girl’s sharp-heeled ski boot clutched in one hand.

  In the second painting, a neatly dressed young man, eyes burning in a bloodless face, pulled a younger girl toward the railing of an old brick bridge above a canal behind an abandoned factory. Sunlight glittered on the blade of the knife he clutched in one hand. Police moved toward them. On the towpath near the filthy water, a beautiful dark-haired woman stared upward in horror.

  In the third painting, an attractive dark-haired woman in a long cotton dress balanced on wooden boxes stacked beneath a barred window. The alleyway was dim and quiet. She clung to the sill and stared inside the building. Another woman stood watch where the alley opened to the dusty street.

  In the fourth painting, a big red pompom bounced on the soiled white stocking cap of a disheveled old woman hunched over the steering wheel of a pickup truck. In the passenger seat, a strikingly pretty slender blonde with hazel eyes held on tight as the truck swung into a snow-crusted drive.

  In the fifth painting, guests elegantly attired in nineteen-thirties evening dress stared in horror toward a black piano on a small stage in a ship’s saloon that gleamed with mahogany and teak. Half a dozen waiters stood between the guests and the piano. A too-thin, auburn-haired woman in a white satin gown spoke urgently to an angular woman in a black crepe dress who shook her head in refusal.

  No entry had yet been received this month. A tiny frown tugged at Annie’s face. It was absurd how many times Henny Brawley had won. Henny was Death on Demand’s best customer and a cherished friend, but enough was enough.

  When Henny didn’t win, island mystery author Emma Clyde was likely to swirl into the bookstore in a multicolored caftan, lift a stubby finger, and whip off the answers in her gruff voice, all the while with a hint of disdain as if none of the books could possibly match any of hers. That premise was unspoken but clear.

  Annie gave a little jig, carefully avoiding Agatha’s tail. This month was going to be different. Henny and Emma were enjoying a sun-drenched sailing trip aboard Marigold’s Pleasure, the luxurious yacht named after Emma’s sleuth. In Annie’s view, Marigold Rembrandt was about as charming as a tarantula, but several million readers found her enchanting.

  Best of all possible worlds—Annie permitted herself a truly blinding flash of pleasure—Max’s mother, Laurel, was also on board Marigold’s Pleasure, far, far away.

  Annie glanced guiltily toward the front door. Max loved to pop in unexpectedly and sometimes he had the same uncanny ability to read her mind as his mother seemed to possess. Annie wouldn’t hurt Max’s feelings for the world.

  Laurel was—Annie searched for the appropriate designation. Several adjectives hovered in her mind. Dizzy, ditzy, and daring occurred. Laurel in the past had sometimes gently chided Annie for a perceived lack of tact. Annie now made it a point to exercise tact as well as self-control in her mother-in-law’s presence. A tactful description of Laurel? Easy
as pie. Certainly she could describe Laurel with both tact and accuracy. Laurel was an AMAZING mother-in-law. That summed up Laurel as nicely as Annie knew how.

  Laurel seemed—usually—to have Annie’s best interests at heart. Max thought his mother hung the moon. Annie forbore to suggest perhaps she resided on it.

  In any event, it would be lovely if Max popped in. However, she’d better be sure his surprise was well hidden. Annie skirted the espionage section, stopped in front of the collectible shelves. Max enjoyed mysteries too, especially those by Robert Crais, Ridley Pearson, and Les Roberts, but he wasn’t likely to browse among titles by John Dickson Carr, Baroness Orczy, Melville Davisson Post, or Mabel Seely. Annie checked the fourth row. A slight volume with a dull pebbled gray spine was tucked between The Old Man in the Corner and Lady Molly of Scotland Yard.

  Annie gently touched the book. The night she and Max moved into the Franklin house, Max planned to cook a special Low Country dinner of baked scallops, dirty rice, and a steamed vegetable medley with almond cake for dessert. Her gift to him would be the bound monograph: A History of the Franklin House.

  Until then her surprise would be safe among the rare books, but, just in case he dropped in, she’d better not bring attention to this aisle. She smiled in anticipation as if the wish would magically produce him, thick blond curls damp from the fog, vivid blue eyes filled with love and laughter. To her, he was always the handsomest man in the room with straight firm features and a generous mouth. He was tall, strong, unflappable, and good-humored. For a time, his eyes had reflected the dark days when their life together seemed ended. Slowly, his natural ebullience was returning though he often pulled her near in the night and held her hard as if a rogue wave, unheralded, unexpected, unheard, might pull them apart.

  Annie gave a last pleased glance at the book she’d hidden after the manner made famous by Edgar Allan Poe, then walked to the coffee bar. She looked up at shelves filled with white mugs. She never tired of scanning the titles emblazoned on the mugs. Each mug celebrated a wonderful mystery and its author. Which to pick today? Thinking of Max and the lie which had wrapped itself around him, almost destroyed him, she chose The Franchise Affair by Josephine Tey.