April Fool Dead (2 page)

 

Annie Laurance Darling walked fast on the boardwalk of the Broward's Rock Harbor. She scarcely spared a glance at the dozen or so boats, ranging from the huge yacht
Leisure Moment
to the little fiberglass sailboat
J. P. Vanilla,
and the richly green water slapping gently against the harbor front. Out in the sound, a half dozen bottle-nosed dolphins arced in an aquatic ballet. Annie heard the unmistakable whoosh of sound from their blowholes and she wanted to stop, but darn it, she didn't have time. There was so much to do. First, of course, she needed to see if Emma's books had arrived. Annie breathed deeply. If they hadn't…Not to worry, she reassured herself, as she skirted the thick hose pumping water out of the bottom of a cabin cruiser. That's why she'd ordered the books well in advance. Certainly Annie Laurance Darling, owner of Death on
Demand Mystery Bookstore, was not going to be caught short of books when the island's famous mystery author, Emma Clyde, appeared at Annie's store this coming Sunday to sign
Whodunit,
her latest Marigold Rembrandt adventure.

Annie looked up the boardwalk at the plate-glass windows of her store and felt the old familiar thrill. Her bookstore, the best mystery bookstore east of Atlanta, with the greatest selection of mysteries, everything from Susan Wittig Albert's China Bayles herbal series to Sharon Zukowski's financially savvy P.I. Blaine Stewart titles as well as wonderful adventures from Jeff Abbott's
Do unto Others
to Mark Richard Zubro's
A Simple Suburban Murder.

Annie picked up speed. Surely, surely, surely Emma's books had arrived. It was always a coup to persuade Emma to do a signing. And it would be a smashing beginning to April. Annie pushed back a prickly worry that Emma was simply playing a huge April-fool joke on Annie with her promise to come to the store. No, surely not. Emma might be flamboyant, but she was dependable and could be counted upon to entrance the customers. Emma was definitely memorable, from her outrageous caftans to her spiky orange (the latest color) hair to the iciest blue eyes shy of a serial killer. Emma was not an author to irritate. Annie, in fact, had managed to tempt Emma to the April 1 signing only by promising a most spectacular promotion, entitled, appropriately, Whodunit.

The promotion was right on schedule. Annie had scattered flyers around the island last weekend, everywhere from the Island Hills Country Club to Parotti's
Bar and Grill. Annie refused to think about the island's stiff litter laws. So, all right, she and Max and anyone else she could cajole were going to have to do major duty cleanup in a few days. Rachel had promised to get a gang of kids from school to help. Annie frowned, another worry. Rachel hadn't gone to school this morning. A stomachache? Well, sure, it could be true. She'd been fine when she went to her room last night, still bubbling with excitement over her date for the prom. But Rachel's eyes were red-rimmed this morning and she'd hardly had a word to say at breakfast. Annie enjoyed having her new stepsister living with them, but sometimes she felt the awesome responsibility, surrogate mom to a volatile teenager. Annie knew that Rachel was still grieving for her mother. It was too bad Pudge was off island for a while. A smile tugged at her lips. But hey, Annie understood. Her equally newly found dad meant to settle in—and he loved Annie's tree house, her first home on the island—but he had an adventurous spirit and the idea of a trek to Nepal as chief of provisions was not one he could turn down. Oh, well, Rachel would surely be her old self by the weekend. Rachel loved mysteries, especially those by Jerrilyn Farmer and Katherine Hall Page, and she was as excited about Emma's signing as Annie. She'd plastered the school with flyers and said a lot of the kids planned to come.

Annie clung to that thought. She didn't care who came as long as there were lots of bodies with cash or credit cards. Of course there would be a big, big turnout for the signing. If not…Annie refused to contemplate the aftermath of a sparsely attended signing
for Emma. Would Emma invite Annie to her palatial home and unveil a whirlpool patterned after Poe's Maelstrom? Entice Hannibal Lecter to the island, offering Annie as suitable prey? Whip up puffer-fish sushi especially for Annie?

Okay, okay, it wasn't going to happen. Or, Annie thought confusedly, the Sunday-afternoon signing was certainly going to happen, and the event would be a huge triumph, such a success that even Emma's redoubtable demeanor would soften. Annie tried to envision Emma with a grateful smile, then immediately abandoned that attempt.

Annie paused at the front window of Confidential Commissions. She managed not to gape at the
OPEN
sign propped in the window. After all, why should she be so surprised? Max had promised to redouble his efforts to be gainfully employed. But for her laid-back, agreeable, easygoing husband to be at his office this early was nothing short of mind-boggling. It wasn't even nine o'clock and he'd had a rooted appearance in his easy chair, intently studying
Baseball Weekly,
when she'd dashed out at eight for the Merchants' Association monthly breakfast. She had presented all the association members with flyers touting Emma's signing and the Whodunit mystery contest that would surely draw even more readers than usual to the store.

Annie blinked at Max's
OPEN
sign. She would scarcely have been more surprised had Emma Clyde materialized on the boardwalk clad in a sari and crooning Irish lullabies. Annie had smiled at Max's pronouncement last week, considered it a sweet and well-meaning attempt to counter her occasional exhor
tations for him to become a worker bee, and consigned the promise to the back of her mind along with other high-minded plans, such as cleaning out the drawers in the kitchen, organizing the tax papers for their accountant
before
April 15, or arranging the cans of soups and vegetables in the cabinets in alphabetical order. As for the latter, maybe someday she could hire Jo Dereske's exceptionally precise librarian sleuth, Miss Zukas, to create order in the Darling kitchen.

Annie took a step toward Confidential Commissions, then abruptly marched past. Three doors down was where she must go. She had to get to the store. Now. What if Emma's books weren't there? She'd check with Max later. Dear Max. Perhaps he actually was turning over a new leaf, finding joy in the possibility of work, not heretofore an obsession of his. Well, Annie thought loyally, as she charged toward Death on Demand, Max might not have the work ethic, but he was affable, genial, handsome, sexy as hell, and he loved her. And she loved him.

Annie was grinning when she reached Death on Demand. She paused for an instant to admire the display in the window, surely a prod to all green thumbs to head for the garden to enjoy mulch and murder. Red tulips, bright as splotches of crimson blood, and a bower of red azalea branches framed five gardening mysteries:
The Grub-and-Stakers Move a Mountain,
by Alisa Craig;
The Spider-Orchid,
by Celia Fremlin (definitely a collectible);
The Murder of My Aunt,
by Richard Hull;
Death of a Garden Pest,
by Ann Ripley; and
Suddenly, While Gardening,
by Elizabeth Lemarchand.

That instant's pause kept her on the boardwalk long enough to hear the buzz of a small airplane. The drone of the engine was louder and louder. Annie moved to the edge of the boardwalk and craned to see. A bright yellow Piper Cub swooped down, curved up, then down, then up, leaving behind a trail of silvery smoke.

Annie clapped her hands. Skywriting. What fun. But how unusual over the placid little island of Broward's Rock. This was the kind of display that arced above ball games with thousands of viewers. Who would see the message here?

As she watched the plane's curving flight, she spelled out the letters:

W-H-O-D-U-N-I-

“T!” Annie exclaimed. “WHODUNIT.”

The word hung in the sky, the silver smoke clear and distinct against the clear blue sky.

“Fabulous!” Annie exclaimed. “Fantastic!” What a super promotion for Emma's signing and Annie's mystery contest. This was a stroke of advertising genius.

But Annie hadn't ordered the skywriting. As for Emma…Annie knew the answer. If Emma ordered skywriting, the smoke would spell:

E-M-M-A C-L-Y-D-E.

There could be only one answer. As the plane droned away, its mission accomplished, Annie moved with glad purpose toward the door of Confidential Commissions.

M
AX WAGGLED
the putter. Maybe he should order one of those new ones advertised on the golf channel. In the testimonials, cheery golfers claimed to drop putts with more regularity than quarters click into slot machines in the Las Vegas airport. (Get 'em going and coming.) Max pondered the analogy, wondered if it had cosmic significance, thought briefly of his mother, then consciously relaxed his knees, bent his head, addressed the ball, tried to move the club head with both ease and precision—

“Max!” It was an exuberant shout.

He jerked. The ball shot off the indoor putting green, hit the hardwood floor, bounced against a wooden magazine stand and barreled past Annie to skid through the office door into the anteroom.

His secretary, Barb, called out, “Feeling vigorous this morning, are we?”

“Max!” Annie exclaimed again, her face glowing. “You are wonderful.”

Max wished he had a camera. Here was Annie as he always pictured her—sun-streaked golden hair, serious gray eyes, kissable lips curved in a joyous smile. Reaching out a slim tanned hand, she beamed at him.
He loved the way she stood, as if captured in mid-stride, ready to move, always in a hurry, always eager and enthusiastic. Apparently he was the object of this moment's enthusiasm. As far as he was concerned, that was a status even more desirable than shooting sixty seven.

He tossed the putter, didn't care that it clattered on the floor, reached her in two strides, took her hands in his, pulled her close. “All kudos are happily accepted.” He loved the feel of her body against his. “Hey”—his voice was eager—“I've got a great idea. Why don't we go home and—”

“Max!” she managed to invest the three letters with appreciative interest, regretful dismissal and the hint of future pleasures, then proceeded to focus on the present. “The skywriting! How did you ever think of it?”

Max had a 5 handicap at golf, was ranked a 4 in tennis and was rather proud of his capacity to relax—the hammock factor, as he fondly deemed it, always an advantage in dealing with people who attacked life like pit bulls run amok. Not, of course, that he included Annie in that category, oh, certainly not. But skywriting?

“Is this on some sort of astral plane?” he inquired gently. Had Annie been communing with his mother? Laurel was rather well known around the island for her enthusiasms. Was skywriting a new one? Had Annie confused him with his mother?

Annie ran her fingers through her flyaway hair and looked at him blankly. She waggled her hand in the general direction of the ceiling. “Skywriting,” she repeated. “WHODUNIT. In the sky.”

Max was equally blank. “Whodunit? I thought that was the title of Emma's new book. And the name of your mystery contest.”

“Oh.” Annie jammed her hands in the pockets of her floral skirt, one Max particularly liked, a bright cherry with silver thingamabobs on the hem. Oh yeah. Annie said it was scalloped. Sounded like a recipe.

Annie grabbed his arm, tugged him toward the anteroom. “Come on.”

He was perfectly willing to follow. Who knew? Maybe they might go home for a little while…

On the boardwalk, he followed her pointing finger and looked up at indistinguishable blobs of gray in the sky.

“…a little plane and it skywrote WHODUNIT. It was just gorgeous. I thought you'd ordered it as a surprise.”

Max wished like hell he had. “Maybe Emma did it.”

“I don't think so.” Annie squinted at the now indecipherable message. “I'll call her and ask. But I really don't think so. Emma”—Annie's lips quirked in a wry grin—“Emma would either do herself or Marigold. Product identification, that's her motto.” Annie's voice was suddenly lower, a little raspy, cool as a mountain stream. “‘Annie, my dear, readers read my books because they know my name. Always put the author's name first in any advertisement. In the largest letters, of course. Titles come and go. The author is forever.'”

Max laughed aloud. Annie's rendition of Emma was uncannily close. “Sorry I didn't think of it first. I'll tell you what, I'll find out who did it. I know you have a lot to do—”

Annie clapped her hands to her head. “What am I
thinking of? What am I doing? Things to do! Oh, Max, I've got to hurry. The books, have the books come…”

The last words were lost as she raced down the boardwalk, yanked open the door to Death on Demand and plunged inside.

Max grinned. Dear, kissable Annie. Oh, well, evening would come. Maybe even afternoon…Maybe the books would be there and all the arrangements for the book signing and the contest would fall into place. Afternoon delight…

Max ambled back to Confidential Commissions. He paused in the anteroom and his secretary, Barb, looked at him inquiringly. “We have a mystery to solve,” he announced grandly. Max wished it were a real challenge, not a matter to be resolved by two or three phone calls at the most. After all, puzzles were the business of Confidential Commissions. His latest newspaper ad, which appeared daily in
The Island Gazette
“Personals” column, said it best:

 

Troubled, puzzled, curious?
Contact Confidential Commissions.
321-HELP.

 

Max was always quick to explain he was not a private investigator. To set up shop as a private detective in South Carolina required a license achieved through a good deal of work and experience, much more effort than Max intended to expend. But who could complain about a man eager to counsel those in need of solutions?

It would, in fact, be a most interesting career if only
his office phone rang a bit more often. He didn't want to admit how eagerly he had seized upon this small challenge. For an instant, he felt a qualm. Was he becoming imbued with the work ethic? Surely not.

“A mystery?” Barb's eyes lighted in anticipation. Recently she'd been scouring the Internet for information about dowsing. Her usual recourse when bored was to utilize the tiny kitchen at the back of the office and create elegant desserts, everything from confetti corn pudding, in which dots of red and green pepper achieved a striking visual effect, to pineapple-coconut cookies, a taste treat for sweetness freaks. However, with the advent of spring, she was trying to lose weight and had forsworn cooking. Max was reluctant to probe the interest in dowsing, a subject that held no interest for him. As far as he was concerned, water came out of pipes.

Barb's brown eyes gleamed and she already had her hands poised over the keyboard. “What's up?”

“The phantom in the sky. Well, maybe it won't really turn out to be much of a mystery.” He described the vaporous appearance of Emma's title. “How many skywriting companies can there be? See what you can find out.”

 

Annie usually took a moment to savor the marvelous (in her estimation) mystery milieu of her bookstore: Edgar, an imposing stuffed raven in honor of Edgar Allan Poe, the founding genius of the mystery; the display case of mystery collectibles, this month focusing on advertising—
Murder Must Advertise
by Dorothy L. Sayers,
Design in Diamonds
by Kathleen Moore Knight,
And Be a Villain
by Rex Stout,
The 31st of
February
by Julian Symons, and
Cover-Up Story
by Marian Babson; the coffee-bar mugs emblazoned with the names of famous mysteries and their authors, ranging from Eric Ambler's
Epitaph for a Spy
to Israel Zangwill's
The Big Bow Mystery;
the enclave especially for children with all the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys books, as well as the newest titles from George Edward Stanley, Bill Crider, Beverly Hastings, Betsy Haynes, Joan Lowery Nixon, Katherine Hall Page, and, of course, J. K. Rowling. However, pride of place always went to the paintings hung at the first of every month to provide a competition for the store's keenest readers. Each painting represented a well-known mystery, and the first person to identify all the paintings correctly by title and author received a free new book and coffee privileges for a month.

As Annie skidded into the main aisle, admiring the fresh shine of the lovely heart-pine floor, she had a fleeting regret about the free coffee. Henny Brawley, island club woman, close friend, the store's best customer, and a mystery reader on a par with mystery author and famed critic H. R. F. Keating, hadn't paid for coffee in months. Annie glanced down the aisle at the watercolors. They looked wonderful.

In the first painting, twin Confederate flags flanked the entrance to the ornate Victorian Gothic mansion distinguished by rose-red brickwork and sand and ivory gingerbread decorations. Four women in smocks unloaded a cleaning cart from the back of a van with the legend:
HOUSE MOUSE CLEANING SERVICE
. A youngish woman with gray-streaked, curly black hair pointed up the steps to the ornate door. An index card
posted next to the painting mysteriously announced: “FYI—11/8/20, brown thrasher.”

In the second painting, two huge furniture showrooms offered startling contrast. In the first, rococo couches, tables and chairs glistened with antique ivory paint and gleaming encrustations of gilt. But the slender young woman in a black jacket and beige slacks hurried toward the display of outdoor furniture. She stared at the man lying facedown on the cushions of a swing, his cowboy boots unmoving. “FYI—13/13, cardinal.”

In the third painting, two attractive black women, one young, one middle-aged, stood near a crumbling fireplace in the dilapidated, empty front room of an old house. They stared in shock at the man's body on the floor. Animals had scavenged the body, mutilating it. The older woman, her wise face sad and troubled, had smooth golden-brown skin the color of candied sweet potatoes. “FYI—14/4, Carolina wren.”

In the fourth painting, a petite older woman with graying strawberry-blond hair stood by the open door of a car in the parking lot of a Chinese restaurant. A woman stretched on the seat, arched in a convulsion. Among those hurrying to help was another older woman, a six-foot-tall bleached blonde who must have weighed 250 pounds. An index card posted next to the painting mysteriously announced: “FYI—1/7, yellow hammer.”

In the fifth painting, an attractive young redhead in mussed white slacks stood at the foot of some stairs, holding a frayed rope. She stared warily at the woman perched midway up the steps. The woman's nutmeg-bright hair gleamed beneath a fluffy hat. Her Easter-grass-green suit
would have looked great on Greer Garson in a World War II movie. “FYI—15/6/2, cardinal.”

Maybe this time Henny wouldn't sail to victory so easily. Several of the paintings were not the first in the mystery series. Annie had simply selected a title she had particularly enjoyed which might or might not be the first. She had not, of course, changed her usual procedure simply to make the contest harder. Definitely not. For example, the second watercolor featured the fifth (some might say sixth) book in a series by an author famous in the mystery world. The first title (not counting the prequel) in that particular series was the only book ever to win all of the major mystery awards in a single year. A painting of that winning title would have been a lay-down for most of Death on Demand's sophisticated readers. However, to be fair, Annie had posted beneath each painting an index card with cryptic hints. To Annie, the cards made the identity of each author and locale so easy, Encyclopedia Brown would have solved them in an instant.

A tiny frown wrinkled her forehead. Maybe the hints made it too easy. Maybe she should take down the index cards. After all, the oh-so-Southern centerpiece of Spanish moss and pinecones on the coffee bar was a dead giveaway. Annie took two steps toward the back of the store, then stopped, sighed. Was the compulsion to play fair the result of reading so many mysteries? Or was the hunger for fairness the reason she and her customers loved mysteries? Dammit, she'd leave the cards in place as well as the centerpiece. After all, the month was almost over and no one had solved the contest yet.

Her store, her wonderful store…Annie's sense of euphoria evaporated as she heard the clipped words of Ingrid Webb, standing behind the cash desk, the portable phone clutched in her hand. “…must receive those books by Friday…Look, I don't care if you have to get some recruits from Parris Island and storm the warehouse; we have to have those books….”

Annie felt a presentiment worthy of any Victoria Holt heroine. She forced herself to remain calm. After all, it was just a signing. Surely Emma—no, Emma would not be reasonable, understanding, or equable. Emma…Annie took a deep breath.

Ingrid clicked off the phone, ran a hand through her tight gray curls. “Annie, don't panic. I was talking to the distributor. I told him Dirty Harry would look him up pronto if we didn't get the books.” A swift grin lighted her face. “That, combined with the name of the store, got his attention. So I think we'll be okay. He promised the books would be on the afternoon ferry tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow…” Annie clasped her hands together.

“Take it easy.” Ingrid came around the counter. “Come on, let's have coffee. But watch out, Agatha's furious. And something's got Emma's dander up. And what does the light of the moon have to do with dowsing?”

Annie focused on first things first. She moved swiftly down the broad center aisle, taking only a moment to reach down and straighten the Anne Perry titles, which occupied their own shelf. Agatha, the imperious black cat who ruled both the bookstore and its owner, was newly slim from a restricted diet. And always hungry.

Annie reached the coffee bar, where Agatha paced,
green eyes glittering, sleek black coat glistening like polished ebony.

“Agatha, you are gorgeous.” But Annie slipped gingerly behind the bar, alert for a swift black paw, claws extended. She didn't even think about serving Ingrid and herself first. She opened a cupboard, reached for the dry diet food.

Agatha leaned so far over the edge of the counter, she challenged the law of gravity. Her growl verged on desperate.