Part 7 (1/2)
”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.
Seven.
The 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 appet.i.te 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-sh.e.l.l 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 cordgra.s.s. 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 s.h.i.+mmered 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 cafes bordering the basin gleamed a soft gray, the natural wood exteriors weathered by the sun.
Max pulled into the crushed-sh.e.l.l 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, Marigolds Pleasure.
Annie loved the little harbor. It was as elegant as a Faberge 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*bn 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 splas.h.i.+ly 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 fis.h.i.+ng her key ring from her purse when woodp.e.c.k.e.r-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 Sat.u.r.days 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.