Carolyn G. Hart (31 page)

And think of the fascinating variety among victims: a charming, likable woman with good intentions in Dorothy Simpson’s
Last Seen Alive
, the narcissistic coed in Jane Langton’s
Emily Dickinson Is Dead
, an arrogant braggart who made the fatal mistake of collecting killers in Agatha Christie’s
Cards on the Table
, a woman who married too many times in Raymond Chandler’s
The Long Goodbye
, and the socially impeccable Cogswells in Virginia Rich’s
The Baked Bean Supper Murders
.

Where to begin? With victim or detective? Margaret Truman recommends starting with the victim, and Robert B. Parker insists the point of mystery fiction is the detective, not detection.

Should her mystery take advantage of its setting in one of South Carolina’s oldest coastal towns, as Leslie Ford milked the atmosphere for every last drop of Spanish moss in
Murder with Southern Hospitality?
Or should she appeal to the mystery addict’s interest in
faraway places, as Mary Stewart did in
My Brother Michael
and James McClure in
The Steam Pig?

She bent to straighten the row of Ruth Rendell titles. Now those kinds of stories wouldn’t do at all for this genteel group. No, better something more on the order of Mary Roberts Rinehart or Louisa Revell. Or perhaps—The bell above the door rang. She stepped into the central aisle, looked toward the front, and saw Max peering at her determinedly from the doorway. Ingrid beamed at Max, then shot her a shamefaced glance. Ingrid was the most wonderful employee in this or any other bookstore, but she was clearly on his side now.

The newcomer grinned at Ingrid, but his eyes were on Annie.

She waved her hand at him. “Come on in. The floor isn’t mined.” He was obviously girding for battle, still confident that he would prevail. Dammit, she loved him, the silly ass, but she wasn’t going to be swayed.

He still stood, half in and half out of Death on Demand, and she thought about Calvin Gates’s first encounter with Mr. Moto in
Mr. Moto Is So Sorry
, the two at cross purposes, Calvin tenaciously pursuing his destiny, and Mr. Moto intent upon his own ends. Even the enormous stuffed raven beside the door seemed to be looking at Max sympathetically. Was everybody, dead birds included, on Max’s side? And Agatha, of course, was moving languidly toward him. Where was her sense of loyalty? Didn’t she know who her mistress was? But the small, silky-furred black cat was already twined gracefully around his leg. Absently, he reached down to pet her, then cleared his throat decisively.

She hurried to forestall him. She wasn’t up to another discussion today. Besides, even though they were at odds, Max would be delighted at her good fortune.

“Guess what? I get to plan my own murders. For
money! And I can’t decide between cyanide or electrocution or maybe defenestration. But don’t you think cyanide in champagne has a lovely ring?”

“In a glass or bottle?” he inquired mildly. He finally came all the way inside. Ingrid patted his arm as he passed her and was rewarded with his sexy grin. Annie struggled to concentrate on her immediate task, but she felt the old familiar thrill, the unmistakable tingly delight at his presence. He looked freshly scrubbed, as if he’d just stepped from a shower and into his crisp white shirt and gray poplin slacks. Was there a hint of dampness in his thick blond hair? For a moment, she thought about Max in his shower, the water slapping against his tanned, muscled chest, then she firmly brought her mind to heel.

“What’s the difference?”

“Cyanide in a bottle, if mixed in a punch, could fell hundreds. Are you and Ingrid planning a reception for the store?”

“I prefer to entertain my customers, not kill them,” she retorted. She glanced around. Actually, the increase in customers at Death on Demand this spring had been phenomenal—and she didn’t believe it had anything to do with her notoriety as half of the team which solved the first murders in modern times on Broward’s Rock. At least not much. They came because they wanted to see the shop. Some wanted books. After all, she carried the best selection of mystery and suspense novels this side of Atlanta. Some were readers who relished matching the painted scenes on the back wall to favorite books. Local artists vied for the right to paint new scenes every month, and the contest successfully lured patrons in month after month. And, of course, all the area mystery writers liked to come, too, though they’d been a little slow to return after last fall’s
excitement. Hopefully, everyone was starting to forget about the murder in the shop.

“I guess I’d better put the cyanide in a glass.”

He moved so close she had trouble concentrating on her topic.

Casually, she stepped back a pace, then realized she was wedged between Max and the romantic suspense section.

“Whose? Anybody I know? I thought I was the only person you were mad at right now.” He managed to look both injured and appealing. Dammit, why did he have to remind her of a Brittany spaniel? What was there about Max that she found so irresistible? Well, she was going to avoid any further discussion of their dilemma, no matter how pathetic he managed to look. It was a pose, of course. He was a bullheaded, insensitive, money-flaunting brute.

“Come on and have some coffee,” she said brusquely, wriggling past him into the aisle and leading the way to the back of the shop. Behind the coffee bar, several hundred white mugs sat on shelving. Each mug carried the name of a book which had earned recognition as an all-time great in mystery fiction. She poured Max a fresh cup and refilled hers. Max lifted his mug and sniffed it suspiciously.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Just making sure the cyanide hasn’t popped from the champagne to the coffee.”

She laughed. “I’m not that mad at you. I’m thinking about cyanide for the Chastain Mystery Nights.” She described Mrs. Webster’s visit. “Although it’s going to be a royal pain to work with Her Highness.”

Max took time to see which famous mystery title was written in red script on his white mug
(The Lone Wolf)
. He raised an eyebrow quizzically.

She hastened to reassure him. “Nothing profound is intended. My mugs are not fortune cookies.” And she waggled her own, which carried the legend,
The Beast Must Die
.

He lounged comfortably against the bar, drank some coffee, and sighed.

It was wonderful the way good coffee could improve his disposition. She must remember that for future mornings together—if those mornings ever materialized. The prospect didn’t look so good at the moment.

“So you’re being unleashed to develop a murder program. Do they have any realization they may have uncapped a bloodthirsty genie from a bottle?”

She felt a surge of relief. She had successfully deflected him from the purpose of his visit. With luck, she could keep the conversation on cyanide and murder and away from the dangerous topic of September.

She put her mug on the yellow formica top of the coffee bar and smiled at him rapturously. “It’s going to be so much fun. Max, do you want to help?” she asked eagerly. “No kidding. We can do it together.” She ignored the quick gleam in his eye. “I mean, like Frances and Richard Lockridge. Or the Gordons. Or Per Wahloo and Maj Sjowall.” She bent over the bar, fished out a notebook and flipped it open, then scrounged vainly in the pocket of her white slacks for a pen. Max obligingly handed her one. “Look, what do you think? Should we do a locked-room mystery like John Dickson Carr’s
The Hollow Man
or Clayton Rawson’s
The Footprints On the Ceiling?
Maybe we should consider psychological suspense like Helen McCloy’s
The Slayer and the Slain
or Charlotte Armstrong’s
Mischief
. Or an academic murder, like Amanda Cross’s
Death in a Tenured Position
or Gwendolyn Butler’s
Coffin in Oxford
. And there’re always sporting murders. Let’s see, it was
archery in
Death at St. Asprey’s School
by Leo Bruce, bullfighting in
Puzzle for Pilgrims
by Patrick Quentin, running in
Dead Heat
by Linda Barnes, basketball in
The Giant Kill
by Kin Platt, golf in—”

“Annie. Annie. ANNIE!”

She paused, images still flashing in her brain like neon on a rainy Saturday night.

“Quiet now. Take a deep breath.”

Obediently, she breathed. Then she shook her head impatiently. “I’m not choking.”

“I thought you were hyperventilating. Take it easy. Approach it logically.” His voice was low, deep, soothing, and extraordinarily irritating.

“I am fine, thank you. It’s just that there are so many wonderful possibilities—”

Max was trying hard not to laugh. He set his mug down and reached out to ruffle her hair. “Annie, love, I do enjoy you so.”

She looked at him skeptically. “Are you making fun of me?”

“I’d never do that,” he said virtuously, but the corner of his mouth twitched suspiciously.

They both laughed, and she realized this was the happiest she’d been in weeks, immersed in mysteries and laughing companionably with Max. Agatha leaped gracefully up to the bar to join in the merriment. Annie stroked her and felt ridiculously happy. It was almost as if she and Max hadn’t quarreled. Well, it wasn’t exactly a quarrel. But it was a disagreement. In spades. This moment forcibly reminded her in what direction happiness lay. But she had to retain her independence.

Oblivious to her unspoken soliloquy, Max reached for the notebook and took his pen.

“Okay. First things first. Who will play the role of the suspects?”

She understood at once. “Oh, sure. That limits some of the possibilities.” Her mind ran over and discarded murder in the Himalayas, on a submarine, or while deep-sea fishing. “The roles will be played by members of the Historical Preservation Society.”

He quirked an expressive eyebrow. “If they are anything like the women in my grandmother’s bridge club …”

“Allowing for cultural distinctions between Connecticut and South Carolina, I would imagine they are soulmates.”

Devilment glinting in his dark blue eyes, Max leaned forward. “Hey, I’ve got a great idea. Make the victim a Hollywood producer in 1926 and have the suspects be a bunch of young starlets. Oh wow, can you see these old ladies in vamp clothes and beads and bangles …” He melted in laughter.

She laughed, too, then mused, “Actually, I can see casting that horrid Mrs. Webster as an aging star, who everybody hates. Maybe an old folks’ home for retired actors and actresses, and she has a chance for a big role, and all the other old-lady stars are jealous and one of them spikes her bedtime toddy with cyanide.”

He shook his head, half in awe, half in despair. “You do have a fertile mind, love, but let’s skirt any possibility of slander. Your Mrs. Webster probably wouldn’t like that role at all.”

His caution surprised her. Max could act like a lawyer most unexpectedly. But how marvelous that he wasn’t predictable. Now, what was she doing mooning on about Max? The mystery was the thing.

“She’s not my Mrs. Webster. But, you’re probably right. I’d better not use her as the victim.” Absently,
her face scrunched in thought, she stood on tiptoe and stretched. Her mind worked better when her muscles were loose. “Okay, we’re going to build a story that centers around upper-class, middle-aged suspects.”

He poised the pen over the notebook. “How do we go about it?”

“Just like Agatha Christie did. We
think.”
She ran her hand excitedly through her short blonde hair. “Did I ever tell you my favorite Christie story?” She charged ahead: “One day when walking in her garden with a friend, Christie abruptly announced her book was finished. This excited her companion, who had always wanted to read one of Agatha’s books before it was published. The friend asked for permission to read the manuscript. Dame Agatha looked very surprised, then responded, ‘Oh, I haven’t
written
it yet.’ ”

“Oh, that’s great.”

“So we have to do the same. We have to figure everything out.” Her eyes narrowed in concentration.

He tapped the paper with the pen. “How do we do it?”

“Here’s what we need,” she explained confidently. “Victim. Five suspects. Motives. Alibis. Clues.” She traced the outline of the title on her cup. “I mean
real
clues, like half of a torn letter, a smudged postmark, cigarette butts, a box of insecticide. I’ll scatter clues around the crime scene for the detectives to find.”

“Who’s the victim?” He scratched at his thick blonde hair with the stub end of the pen.

She pressed her fingers against her temples for a long moment, then nodded. “How about a bank president? Think of the lust, greed, and general hatred that can swirl around a bank president.” She pictured Roscoe Merrill’s shiny bald head. Any prosperous lawyer could look like a bank president.

“Dark secrets in the hallways of high finance,” Max intoned.

“We’ll call the bank president Thompson Hatfield—and we’ll use Kansas as a setting. Agricultural banks are nosediving all over the place in the Middle West. Now, here’s what happens,” and she leaned close to Max. They were elbow to elbow as he wrote furiously to keep up with her bullet-fast pronouncements. “Motives
abound
. His wife’s in love with another man, he’s about to foreclose on a huge ranch run by his brother-in-law, his stepson’s been embezzling, the vice president of the bank wants his job, he’s going to fire the PR director, and he’s the only man who won’t agree to merging with another town bank to save it from going under.”

“And somebody slips cyanide into his coffee thermos,” Max suggested. “See, there’s your cyanide.”

Clues to be found at the murder scene: The name of his wife’s lover written in his appointment book, the torn foreclosure notice for his brother-in-law’s ranch, a key chain belonging to the vice president who wants his job, a gun registered in the name of the PR director, a Stetson hat that belongs to the president of the rival, failing bank, and a strand of hair belonging to his wife. (She is a redhead.)

“Well, now that that’s settled,” Max began, and once again he had that determined, bullheaded
September
look in his dark blue eyes.