White Elephant Dead (2 page)

Agatha floated through the air, emitting piercing yowls on the order of, “I am starving. I am neglected. I am riven by pangs of ferocious hunger and you do not care.” She poked her lovely face into the bowl and, growling between bites, ate like Joyce Porter’s Inspector Dover on a binge.

“You are much prettier than Inspector Dover,” Annie cooed.

Agatha continued to eat and growl, growl and eat.

Annie would have liked to stroke the cashmere-soft black fur, but she wasn’t stupid. A series of small scars on both forearms reminded her that Agatha in a bad mood was not to be trifled with.

Annie moved a safe distance along the coffee bar. She resisted the temptation to forage in the refrigerator for a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. After all, fair was fair and she couldn’t feed Agatha diet food while munching on delectable candy. Annie glanced at her watch. She, too, was beginning to feel like a starving castaway on a desert island. Where was Henny Brawley, her best—and sometimes most demanding—customer? Henny, of course, was a Serious Collector, which meant the fact that books were available in paperback mattered not a whit. Hardcover firsts only, please. Annie regretted having reported the arrival of the special order, but she was so pleased with her success in finding the books that she hadn’t been able to resist. After all, it was quite a coup to come up with hardcover first editions of books that had been published more than a year earlier. Henny had been on a trek to the Himalayas when the books came out. Except for stars like John Grisham and
Mary Higgins Clark, the shelf life of new hardcover books ran about three months. Not to worry, so long as Annie Laurance Darling, bookseller extraordinaire, could come to the rescue. She looked in satisfaction at the box, wonderful books all:
Bellows Falls
by Archer Mayor,
Fertile Ground
by Rochelle Krich,
Death of a Rodeo Rogue
by Robert Greer, and
Killing Time
by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles.

As Annie glanced at her watch—already half-past six—a huge blast of thunder almost coincided with a vivid crackle of lightning. The lights in the store wavered, went out, came on again. Rain gurgled in the waterspouts behind the store. The roads were probably an inch deep in water.

The phone rang.

Annie felt a quiver of relief. That would be Henny, saying she’d turned back, the storm was too much, and Annie would be free to slosh home to Max, who would welcome her with a glass of California Cabernet and homemade ravioli and a Caesar salad. Annie could scarcely begin to count her blessings. Her handsome blond husband was not only a sexy grown-up version of Joe Hardy, he had recently embraced cooking as his latest hobby. Only in quiet moments of reflection did Annie worry about his genetic inheritance. Her mother-in-law Laurel was forever and anon embracing new enthusiasms. But surely Max would never be tempted to raise anacondas or scale forty-story office buildings. Not that Laurel had succumbed to any such peculiar interests. Yet. Certainly Laurel’s latest preoccupation was inoffensive. Wasn’t it? Annie glanced at the beautifully executed flowers drawn on a note card her mother-in-law had left at the cash desk earlier in the day, a pink rose, a bunch of sweetpeas and a Christmas rose. Each flower was carefully labeled, perhaps for the elucidation of the florally impaired, i.e., Annie. Though she knew she was succumbing to Laurel’s ploy, she couldn’t resist unearthing an old book on the language of flowers and trying to decipher the message. Annie wasn’t at all certain, but she was afraid it translated to some
thing like: Please believe me, your departure would calm my anxiety.

Annie grabbed the phone. “Death on Demand.” She loved saying the name of her store. She’d taken the narrow, cramped, admittedly dingy mystery bookstore she’d inherited from her Uncle Ambrose and turned it into a spacious, welcoming enclave with heart-pine floors, the best in current mystery fiction from Albert to Zukowski, a fabulous selection of classic mysteries from Allingham to Zangwill, and a used book section with plenty of collectibles including some super recent acquisitions:
The Blunderer
by Patricia High-smith, a letter written by Raymond Chandler and a signed map of Maggody drawn by Joan Hess.

“Dinner is served, madame.” Max’s voice was smooth and deep. Then he spoke in his usual easy tone. “The master chef is producing yet another delicious delight. When may I expect my appreciative audience?”

Annie glanced toward the front window. Even though the boardwalk was covered, wind-driven rain splatted against the front window. “I’m waiting for Henny. She’s on her way.” Annie frowned. The entire island could be traversed in eight minutes. Even doubling it for the rain, Henny should have arrived. Of course, she’d said she had to find the club van first. But how long could that take?

“Maybe she changed her mind,” Max suggested. “It’s rugged out there.” Static buzzed on the line as another bolt exploded.

“She’d call and tell me.” Annie heard the worry in her own voice. This was a small island. A very small island. “She has to be here pretty soon. Do you mind waiting?”

“Nope.”

Annie was grateful Max had not assumed the temperamental qualities of a master chef. He was, in fact, his accustomed good-humored self, even though she was delaying the arrival of his oh-so-appreciative audience.

Max continued to win husband-of-the-year awards. “Don’t worry, Annie. Everything’s on warm. It’s probably
better to wait until the storm eases anyway. Dorothy L. and I will relax with a good book. I’ve got Steven Womack’s latest.”

Annie smiled as she clicked off the phone. Max was especially fond of the elegant white cat that she’d rescued from the alley behind the store only to find that Agatha was implacably opposed to sharing her territory. Dorothy L. by default became their home cat and she was Max’s devoted admirer. Annie couldn’t resist occasionally telling the blue-eyed feline that after all if it weren’t for Annie, Dorothy L. would be a foundling. In the usual manner of cats, Dorothy L. took no notice and continued to adore Max and ignore Annie. But Dorothy L. was so endowed with charm that Annie didn’t hold a grudge.

Annie glanced down the coffee bar. Agatha now sat with her back to Annie as she scrubbed her face with a decisive paw. Okay, so Agatha was short on charm. What she lacked in charm, she made up in intelligence, determination, cleverness—and ferocity. Annie loved every dangerous black inch of her.

Annie reached gingerly for the empty bowl, rinsed it, refreshed Agatha’s water. She glanced around the store. Everything was in order. As soon as Henny came, Annie could scoot—okay, splash—home to a wonderful dinner and other delights. Her eyes softened as she thought about Max, her unflappable, good-humored spouse. Not that Max was perfect. He lacked application. He wasn’t lazy, of course, but he’d never equated self-worth with work, a concept difficult for type-A Annie to comprehend. He did have his own business. Of sorts. In fact, Max was very proud of Confidential Commissions, which was not, he was quick to point out, a private detective agency, but was a counseling service devoted to solving problems, problems of any sort. Annie had to admit that Max took an interest in promoting Confidential Commissions. He had, in fact, recently revised the ad which ran, boxed, in the
Island Gazette
personals:

He’d thrust the paper across the breakfast table with a proud grin.

Annie had managed to squelch the tart response that immediately came to mind: Well, honey, that’s fine. But how long has it been since you’ve actually had a client and done any work?

If you have as much charm—and money—as Max, who needs to work
?

Annie’s eyes widened. She’d not said it aloud but the thought had come so clearly, the words seemed to ring in her ear. Her Calvinistic rectitude immediately protested—it was amazing the dialogues she could manage to have with herself—that charm was no substitute for effort.

Charm, so impossible to define, so joyous to encounter. She’d been thinking a good deal about charm lately. What made a mystery charming? Perhaps that accolade would differ with every reader. But Annie didn’t think so and she’d devised a perfect test. Every month, she commissioned a local artist to paint five watercolors, each representing a mystery that Annie considered to be very special indeed. The mysteries always had a common theme: American history, women PIs, romantic suspense, comedy. Always before, the theme had been readily apparent. This time, she was asking the contest winner not only to name the title and author represented by each painting, but to define the quality common to all the books. The prize would be the winner’s choice of a current hardcover plus a month of free coffee.

Annie glanced toward the paintings hanging over the fireplace. She grinned. The various books certainly didn’t fit into any obvious category.

In the first watercolor, flickering candlelight fitfully illuminated the inside of an old stone burial vault. An old man’s body lay in stiff repose atop a tomb. A handsome young man with curly dark hair and vivid green eyes and a slender young woman with long flowing hair stared in horror at the wet cement being slapped on the still form atop the tomb by an old woman with a rhinoceros-wrinkled face and crazed eyes.

In the second watercolor, a muscular, bronze-skinned man in his fifties with a head as bald as a cue ball glowered at two deputy sheriffs as they hitched a twenty-four-foot silver Airstream Excella to the back of a mustard-yellow Chevy truck with Coconino County badges on the doors. A round-faced woman with a short, light brown Afro anxiously watched.

In the third watercolor, pale fluorescent light illuminated the large open L-shaped room divided by book stacks and tables. A yellow plastic tape inscribed
POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS
blocked access to the Mo-Ne fiction aisle. Four uniformed policemen and two men in suits watched as a young woman studied the body sprawled face down between the book stacks. Everything about her proclaimed order and neatness, from her short curled hair to her navy heels. The blue of her skirt exactly matched the blue of the Brazilian enameled bird on her burgundy sweater. In sharp contrast, the dead man’s brown hair and beard were matted, his jeans and sweater worn and the laces of his Rockports untied.

In the fourth watercolor, two old women energetically jitterbugged in a country and western bar. The big blond woman’s turquoise T-shirt featured a pelican peering around the slogan
TOUGH OLD BIRD
. She swung the small woman, gray-haired and petite, over a glowing inlaid glass boot in the dance floor. Overhead spots glowed red, green and yellow. Neon behind the bar announced
SCOOT ‘N’ BOOT
.

In the fifth watercolor, a blinding glare of light speared down into a water-filled pit. Sheer panic distorted the sharply curved features of a gorgeous young woman with
light brown skin and almond-shaped hazel eyes. She stared at a massive hippopotamus only a few feet away. Reaching out to her was a determined young white woman with dark brown eyes, auburn hair and an oval face with fine features and a tip-tilted nose.

Would the winner immediately comprehend that these were the first books in series that resonated with charm?

Time would tell.

Time—she glanced at her watch.

Annie grabbed the mobile phone, punched in Henny’s home number. Maybe her most intrepid reader had decided to escape the storm. When the voice mail came on, she said slowly, “Henny, this is Annie. It’s a quarter to seven—” Annie broke the connection. Forty-five minutes since Henny had called. This was wrong, all wrong. Henny: responsible, thoughtful, punctual Henny. Where was she?

Thunder exploded. Lighting flashed, so near the boardwalk sizzled with a sulfurous glow. The lights went out.

“Sure we can go look.” Max Darling cradled the phone under his chin as he snapped the plastic casserole top on the dish and slipped it into the refrigerator. “Don’t be frightened, honey.” He pictured his wife pacing with the telephone, her curly blond hair rumpled from nervous hand swipes, her usually cheerful face strained, her gray eyes dark with worry, her eminently kissable lips drawn by a frown.

“Max, do you think I’m overreacting?” Static blurred Annie’s worried voice.

“No. Henny may just be stalled—”

“She has a cell phone.” Annie spoke with finality. A woman with a cell phone was never more than the push of a button away from a connection.

“She may be trying to get a wrecker. Maybe she forgot to call you—”

“Max! Henny would call. And now it’s almost an hour—”

“Okay, honey. Let’s figure it out. She called from the
Women’s Club—” Max pictured the skillet-shaped island. The club, housed in a restored, very old plantation chapel, was at the north end of the island, Annie’s store in the curving harbor on the southwest tip.

“She said…” Static drowned out Annie’s voice. “…had to find the club van and…come here.”

Max sketched the island on a kitchen pad. “Where was she going to look for it?”

Annie paused before she said slowly, “Henny said something about it being on the way to the store.”

Max marked the club on the map. The club was in an isolated area on the east side of the island and perhaps a half mile north of St. Mary’s Church. If Henny’s search for the van was en route to the bookstore, that meant she was heading south and the only road going south was inside the gated community of the retirement and resort area. The gate was manned at all times, usually by a retired Marine sergeant or former cop. Residents’ cars had decals.

“Hold on, Annie, let me call the gate, see if the guard remembers Henny coming through.” In a moment, he came back on Annie’s line. “Willard’s on duty. He said Henny drove through shortly after six and turned right.” Sand Dollar Road circled the resort. Streets poked off into exclusive neighborhoods. Narrow dusty roads twisted beneath live oaks to remote homes. Henny’s west-side house was one of these, with no near neighbors and a spectacular marsh view.

“Then she intended to look for the van on the west side of the island, somewhere between the entry gate and the harbor. That makes a lot of sense, Max.” Annie’s voice sounded brighter. Action always pepped her up. “Okay, Henny was looking for the van. We’ll find Henny.”