Engaged to Die Page 3

Annie wrote, held the pen poised. “Bob?”

  “Bob Winslow. She knows me.” His eyes looked hurt and puzzled.

  And you don’t mind giving your name. Annie didn’t say it aloud, but she wrote Winslow with a flourish. “Any message?”

  He hesitated, his face furrowed. A shock of dark hair hung almost to the top of his glasses. “No. I guess not.” He turned away. In two long strides, he was at the door. He pulled it open. As the bells jangled, he looked back, said abruptly, “Tell her…tell her I’ve been looking everywhere for her.” Cool air and a dash of mist swirled inside as the door closed behind him.

  Holding the pad, Annie marched determinedly down the central aisle.

  Chloe was perched on a coffee stool. Before Annie could say a word, she held up her hand. “Nope. I know. He’s honest, worthy, kind to animals, helps old ladies cross the street—and he’s just deadly dull. I mean”—she crossed her arms—“Aunt Frances trotted out Bob the last time I was here. Before Mom died. And he was the first person she had over this Christmas. He’s a lawyer. Probate and wills.” Chloe yawned. “His father and Uncle Hal bowl together. Anyway, Bob follows me around with big eyes, hat in hand—” Her eyes lighted. “Bob doesn’t really wear a hat. He doesn’t have enough style. This guy, the one on the pier, wears a cap. You know, the kind golfers used to wear years ago. Annie, have you ever seen a really good-looking guy, curly dark hair and blue eyes and a golfer’s cap, anyplace on the island?” She looked at Annie as though she might hold the secret to her dreams.

  Slowly Annie shook her head. “Cap…hmm, I don’t think so. But I don’t know everyone on the island, honey. Why, at the last census we had ten thousand residents. We’re darn near a metropolis.”

  “Oh.” Chloe’s disappointment was clear. Then she brightened. “But he’ll be there tonight. Oh, Annie, he is so cool.”

  Annie waggled the pad. “Mr. Mystery Man may be cool. But I think I’d go for Bob Winslow. As in, he has a name and uses it.”

  “Oh, Annie, don’t you have any imagination? Do you remember”—Chloe’s eyes were suddenly serious—“when you met Max?”

  The store was damp with the cool undercurrent of layers of moist air chilled by January wind. The flames in the fireplace added cheer and coziness but did little to warm the long room. Memories warmed Annie. Her lips curved into a smile. It wasn’t that long ago when she’d looked across a crowded room at a tall blond man whose blue eyes met hers. They’d moved toward each other, a slender young woman with an eager face and a tall man who loved to laugh. They skirted other people, shook off greetings that might have slowed them. They came together and were quiet, their eyes meeting, oblivious to the noise and smoke and music, and both had known their lives were changed forever. “I remember.” Annie’s voice was soft: merry blue eyes, wiry blond hair, intelligence and charm and grace in his face, strength and power in his every move. That instant of attraction led to a whirlwind of days together, enchanted, magical, wondrous days, until she decided they were too different: He was rich, she was poor; he’d grown up with every advantage, she’d worked hard for her future; he was laid back, she was hard charging; he saw life as sport, she saw life as a challenge. She’d left him behind, returned to this South Carolina sea island, set to work in the bookstore she’d inherited from her uncle. But Max had come after her. And now…

  Annie’s eyes were still soft, but her voice was firm. “Yes, I remember. But, Chloe, he told me his name—”

  The bells at the front door jangled. “Annie, we’re here.” Max’s shout was ebullient. “Got the paintings. Boston’s with me.”

  Annie laughed. Trust Max already to be on a first-name basis with the distinguished artist. Max and Will Rogers—and apparently Chloe, also—never met a stranger. Annie waggled her hand at Chloe. “Quick. Get those easels from the storeroom. I should have had them ready….”

  Annie pushed a table farther from the coffee bar. There was just room enough for five easels. What a coup for Death on Demand! When she’d heard in late summer that the Charleston artist was to be featured in a January show at the Neville Gallery, she’d called Mackey. After all, he’d bought mysteries from her by e-mail for several years. And he was a collector. He’d paid five thousand and sixty dollars for a signed very fine first edition in dust wrapper of Graham Greene’s Ministry of Fear: An Entertainment (Heinemann, London, 1943). When Annie told him about her mystery contest—every month she hung five paintings by a local artist, each representing a famous mystery, and the first person to name the authors and titles received a free book (not a collectible) and coffee for a month—Boston Mackey boomed, “You can’t afford my paintings.” Annie had said quickly, “A crayon would do.” His exuberant bellow of laughter forced her to hold the phone away, but he agreed to dash off watercolors. “Just one catch, young lady.” “Yes?” “I get to pick the books.”

  As far as Annie was concerned, he could pick the mystery of Miss Muffett’s tuffet as long as he produced. She’d wasted no time getting the word out across the island, and with Boston Mackey’s approval, the watercolors would be auctioned in February to benefit the island’s literacy program. Of course, the auction would be at Death on Demand. As Annie pointed out smugly to Max, “It just goes to show that it never hurts to ask.” Max smiled agreeably, though obviously it didn’t occur to him to apply the moral of the story. Not that Annie had any firm ideas about what Max should ask and of whom. But still…

  Carrying a large portfolio, Max strode into the coffee area. As always when they met, whether an hour or days had passed, his eyes held a special light just for her. He gestured toward his burly companion. “We’ve got the goods.” As he bent forward, there came an eager whisper for her ears alone. “That means you can take the afternoon off.” To Mackey, he announced, “My wife, Annie, and her assistant, Chloe Martin.”

  Annie grinned, shot Max a cheerful but ambiguous look, and stepped past him. She held out her hand. “Mr. Mackey, I’m absolutely thrilled that you are creating this month’s mystery contest. Everyone is very excited.”

  The artist beamed, enfolded her hand in a firm grip, vigorously pumped. “Mrs. Darling. Miss Martin.” His dark eyes, bright and quick as a curious monkey’s, swept the bookshelves and the collection of mugs behind the coffee bar. “I’ve wanted to see this store ever since I found you on the Internet.” His tone turned casual. “By the way, I noticed a very fine copy of The Moonstone in your collectible display.”

  The locked glass case stood just inside the front door. Annie had recently added several treasures, first editions of Wilkie Collins’s The Moonstone, E. Phillips Oppenheim’s The Double Traitor, John Buchan’s The Thirty-Nine Steps, and Eric Ambler’s Epitaph for a Spy.

  “We may have to have a little chat about it.” Merry brown eyes peered from beneath bristly gray brows. Mackey seemed to take up most of the room in the coffee area, a huge man with flowing silver hair captured in a bushy ponytail, a massive face, close-cropped white beard, and a chest that rolled over onto a bulging stomach. His brown tweed jacket hung open and probably hadn’t buttoned in a decade of good dinners.

  “Now”—he was suddenly businesslike—“those easels are too close together.”

  In a flurry of action, with Chloe and Max and Annie responding to his directions, Mackey had the watercolors placed to his liking: One by the cash register. One by the coffee bar. Numbers three and five on either side of the fireplace. Number four near the long line of bookcases holding hard-boiled mysteries.

  He led the way to the first painting and looked at Annie. “You got ’em figured, haven’t you? I did them in order of publication, of course.”

  Annie looked at each painting in turn.

  The first: A man’s body, its bearded face rigid with horror, lay in a dirty unfurnished room. Splashes of blood surrounded the victim who, however, appeared unmarked by wounds. Three men stared at the fourth, who knelt by the corpse. The first observer was tall, white-faced, and flaxen-haired. The second was a sallow, rat-faced fel
low with beady eyes. The third had a military bearing though he was sadly emaciated and held his left arm in a stiff and unnatural manner. Oddly, his haggard face was tanned nut-brown though he wore a thick overcoat. The kneeling detective, his eyes sharp and piercing, was distinguished by a thin hawklike nose and prominent square chin. He was excessively lean, and the hands that examined the victim were blotted with ink and stained by chemicals.

  The second: A dignified man with an egg-shaped head, dandified mustache, and glowing green eyes stood by a rumpled bed, observing the overturned bedside table and the debris lying on the floor—a reading lamp broken into two pieces, some books, matches, a bunch of keys, and the crushed fragments of a coffee cup.

  The third: Two teenage boys clambered up the rickety ladder, several rungs missing or dangling, of an abandoned water tower near the railroad tracks. Their faces were determined, excited, eager. The boy near the top of the tower had straight dark hair, dark eyes, and a serious face. Close behind, pulling himself over the broken rungs, came a muscular, blue-eyed blond, who looked ready for any adventure.

  The fourth: Light filtered through drawn blinds. A stocky man lay on the dining room floor, his right arm outstretched, his right hand folded around the blue-and-white handle of an ice pick that was embedded in the left breast of a dead woman. She lay on her back, her coarse brown hair fluffed around her face, her long muscular legs in line with the kitchen door. Her right stocking was laddered with a run.

  The fifth: Inside a moving van filled with furniture and rugs and lamps, a slim, blue-eyed blond girl pointed her flashlight at an old-fashioned clock that lay on a blanket atop a table. A crescent decorated the top of the clock above the square face.

  The images were tantalizing. Of course she knew these books. In just a moment—almost any instant—she’d be able to rattle off all five titles. Number one was easy. And number two. But the others—oh, the answers were certainly on the tip of her tongue. Well, maybe lurking at the back of her mind, to be honest. She was a mystery expert. She could talk about mystery writers from Delano Ames to Margaret Tayler Yates. She knew titles from The A.B.C. Murders to The Zebra-Striped Hearse. But maybe she’d never realized how challenging it was for her customers to look at a drawing or a painting and come up with the title and the author. She said hopefully, “Your watercolors are lovely, so full of movement—”

  Max’s eyes glinted with amusement. He leaned against the coffee bar. “Tell us about tonight’s exhibition, Boston.”

  The phone rang. Gratefully, Annie reached for it.

  “Annie.” The cheerful familiar voice was eager.

  Annie smiled. “Hi, Henny.”

  Henny Brawley was definitely the best customer of Death on Demand. She knew, loved, absorbed, and inhaled mysteries, everything from the toughest to the most genteel. Her dark hair was silvered, her eyes wise with age, and her mind always on a quest. Henny had been young during World War II, and she’d never met a challenge she didn’t take. One of her main aims in life was to demonstrate with panache and finality that she indeed knew mysteries better than anyone, including Annie. Her latest pleasure was flinging a name or place at Annie and awaiting the mystery connection. “Hepzibah.”

  Annie managed not to crow. She replied casually, “Maud Silver’s middle name.”

  “Hmm. More anon.” The phone clicked off.

  Chloe darted toward the coffee bar. “A cappuccino, Mr. Mackey? Max? Or espresso?”

  “Espresso,” the artist boomed.

  Annie was still smiling as she studied the paintings. Her panic began to subside. Oh, of course. Sure. She knew one and two. But the third, fourth, and fifth…

  The coffeemaker bubbled and hissed.

  The artist pulled a crumpled brochure from his pocket. “It’s going to be quite a party. Of course”—his tone was wry—“Virginia is celebrating more than my paintings. But that’s all right.” His smile was magnanimous. “Why not celebrate romance? The more people who come to the party, the merrier. Who knows? Maybe somebody who comes for scandal will have a pocket full of cash and the wit to recognize true worth in art.” He smiled admiringly at Chloe as he accepted the tiny espresso cup. He breathed deeply, inhaling the rich dark coffee aroma.

  “Cream or milk, Max?” Chloe opened the door of the small refrigerator.

  “Skim, please.” Max winked at Annie.

  Annie knew she should admire such character. In fact, she found Max’s restraint odious. She moved to the coffee bar, reached for the whipped cream can, added a double shot to her mug, and winked back.

  Chloe expertly moved the levers. “Scandal?” She turned, swiftly selected a mug. As she held it under the spout, the title was clearly visible: The Scandal-Monger by William Le Queux.

  Max waved away whipped cream.

  Mackey gulped down the espresso, shuddered. “Ahhh.” He placed the cup on the coffee bar, overflowed onto a stool, and folded his big arms across his paunch. “Now, I like the Nevilles.”

  Annie and Max exchanged amused glances. Mackey’s verb quivered with import. He was getting ready to dish out gossip with gusto despite his assertion. Annie knew all of the family except the late-come second Mrs. Neville. Irene played tennis of the smash-it-in-your-face-if-you-try-the-net sort. Carl was a good customer, especially fond of cerebral mysteries by writers such as Michael Innes. Susan was an assistant director of the Altar Guild. Rusty had his own table in the card room at the club and was reputed to be a man to watch at poker. Louise drifted through the Neville Gallery, her cold, watchful gaze keeping careful track of visitors.

  “Good art people,” Mackey boomed. “I was worried for a while after Natty died. But Virginia’s left things pretty much up to Carl and Susan. Virginia inherited everything but the house. Hell, that’s a crime, really. A man’s supposed to take care of his family. You can bet I’ve made a will, and my kids get everything. I don’t blame Natty for marrying Virginia. I mean, she’s a sweet lady and she was good to him. By all accounts, she’s been damn decent, left the running of the gallery to Carl and Susan, made a will leaving everything to them, that sort of thing. But now the fat’s in the fire.” He flung out his mammoth hands. “Sex and money. They cause trouble every time. I wouldn’t think Virginia would be such a fool, marrying somebody half her age.” Suddenly his bristly eyebrows arched, his mouth curved into an O, and he burst into raucous laughter. “By God, what’s sauce for the gander.”

  Mackey became aware of three sets of eyes regarding him blankly. He turned his hands palms up. “Come to think of it, I’ve been married four times and each bride was younger than the last. And each one dumped me faster than her predecessor.” His full lips spread in a huge smile. “But I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the hell out of each one for the duration. So more power to Virginia. Like I say, if she wants to announce her engagement to this young guy at my party, hey, that’s all right. Of course, the family’s not happy. To put it mildly.” He heaved himself to his feet. “Anyway, be sure and come. Seven o’clock tomorrow night. Neville Gallery. Get a ringside seat.” He whopped a big fist into an open palm. “Pow. Pow. Pow.”

  Two

  FOG PRESSED AGAINST the windows. The Tiffany shade of the brass lamp near the bed glowed like Tower of London jewels. Flames danced in the fireplace.

  Annie smiled into the softness of dark blue eyes. Max’s thick blond hair was mussed, his regular features relaxed and contented. He lifted her hand, drew it to his lips, gently kissed her palm. Annie turned her hand, squeezed his fingers, then sat bolt upright, tugging the sheet to her bare shoulders. Even with a fire, the bedroom was chilly. Her mind raced. There were books to unpack, customers to call. She should be at the store. After all, it was the middle of the afternoon.

  Max didn’t move. His eyes admired her, understood her. “The store will keep.” He gave a satisfied sigh. “I knew today was going to be a good day. A very good day.”

  Annie laughed and reached for her robe.

  The phone rang.

  “Let it ri
ng.” His voice was drowsy. “Check the caller ID. Probably a mortgage company or a sweepstakes pitch. We don’t need anything. Or anybody. Just you and me on a January afternoon…”

  Annie reached for the phone. She glanced at the caller ID. Unknown. But it might be an important call. She grabbed the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Annie, Denise Abbott. I’m sorry to bother you at home—”

  Annie pulled her robe shut.

  “—but there wasn’t any answer at Max’s office. So I called your store and the clerk said you were taking the afternoon off. I guess it’s slow as molasses there. Listen, I need some help. If you and Max could do me a favor, I’d really appreciate it.” Denise’s words rattled like seeds in a shaken pod, edgy, hollow, distant. “I don’t know if you know about Dave—”

  Annie had always liked Denise Abbott, an elegant ash blond who loved turquoise and always dripped with beads. She’d managed the Vibrant Woman dress shop on the harbor boardwalk until her husband, Dave, was diagnosed with liver cancer. Nothing had worked, and they’d gone to Mexico in search of a holistic cure. “—but he’s lots worse. I’m calling from a pay phone at the gas mart. We’re staying at Dave’s sister’s home in Fresno. He’s real sick, Annie.”

  The cheer and happiness of the room faded. “Denise, I’m so sor—”

  “That’s not the reason I called.” Her tone was thin.

  “Except that’s why I can’t come back to the island. I’ve got this problem and I didn’t know who to call, and then I thought about Max.”

  Annie covered the receiver. “Max,” her call was soft. Then she spoke to Denise. “Max is here. Do you want to talk to him?”

  Max was on his feet, pulling on his shorts. He came around the bed, sat beside her.

  Denise spoke fast. “That’s okay. I can tell you, Annie. And maybe this is better. I don’t know if a man would understand. Anyway, do you remember my grandmother, Twila Foster?”

  Annie recalled a tiny old woman with deep-set dark eyes in a wrinkled parchment face. She crocheted afghans and sold them through the Proud Pelican gift shop a few doors down from Death on Demand. Annie had bought one as a Christmas present for Max’s mother. “Does she still make those beautiful afghans?”