Something Wicked (2 page)

As she hung the painting of the gray stone house, Annie remembered the first time she’d ever read the book, and that haunting opening line. The words shimmered in her mind, as luminous as moonlight on dark water. What a
wonderful
writer. And how much pleasure she’d given millions of readers over the years.

It didn’t take long to hang all five. As Annie folded the stepladder, she quickly scanned the paintings again. Each brought back memories of exquisitely pleasurable, long ago Sunday afternoons, plates of chocolate chip cookies, and Uncle Ambrose handing her a stack of books and saying gruffly, “Pretty good, these. Think you’ll like them.”

The sharp peal of the telephone shattered her reverie.

Annie eyed the telephone with all the enthusiasm of a Roderick Alleyn fan stuck on a desert island with a crate of Mike Hammer books.

But, at Ingrid’s stern nod, she sighed and said grumpily, “I’ll get it.”

“Yo,” her clerk replied from the cash deck. Ingrid, too, had a strong suspicion as to the caller’s identity and had no intention of running interference. “Bunter I am not,” she had explained firmly, defending her cowardice.

“Death on Demand,” Annie answered and knew she still took pleasure in so announcing the finest mystery bookstore on the Atlantic coast, even though her tone at the moment was clearly defensive.

Laurel Darling Roethke’s voice flowed over the line like gin at a Pam and Jerry North cocktail hour, smooth and
mellow. The undercurrent of laughter, wonderment, and other worldliness was as unforgettable as Shirley MacLaine’s performance in
The Trouble With Harry.

Annie could feel her face softening in a smile, despite her near certainty that the call heralded yet another outrageous suggestion for the coming wedding.

“My sweet,” Max’s mother caroled, “I actually feel as though I’ve had a vision of feathered-serpent rainbow wheels. It’s quite mystic, actually, and it all springs, of course, from the approach of the Harmonic Convergence.”

As Laurel rhapsodized over the glories to be experienced later in the summer when the earth entered a new phase of evolution, which would climax in 2012, Annie’s hand tightened spasmodically on the receiver. She’d considered Harmonic Convergence, a hodgepodge of New Age philosophies, Mayan lore, sixties-style radicalism, and Buddhism, to be quite amusing until her future mother-in-law had telegraphed in April from Egypt:

“So, of course,” Laurel now cooed in Annie’s ear, “I know you and Max will come round to my view of the wedding. Annie,” and now the husky voice was solemn with a catch in it, “this is truly a
historic
opportunity.”

Annie tried not to wail, but her voice rose wildly. “Laurel, I just want a
simple
wedding. Nothing extravagant. Nothing grand. And I’m certainly not going to turn it into a three-ring circus by trying to make some kind of cosmic statement.”

For an instant, she felt a swell of pride. She’d laid it on the line, been pleasant but firm. Her relief was short-lived, however.

Laurel gave a tiny golden laugh. “Oh, my sweet, don’t worry, you will receive enlightenment, I’m sure of it.”

It was like trying to seize motes in a sunbeam.

The graceful notes of laughter sounded again. “I want
you to relax, Annie. Breathe deeply. Think of blue. That’s a lovely color, isn’t it? And then I know you’ll become a part of an ever-growing swell, a life-loving Force, and you will see just how marvelous it will be to create with this wedding, with the exchange of vows between you and Maxwell, a perfectly lovely representation of wedding customs from around the globe. Now,” and she was suddenly brisk and efficient, if a bit chiding, “you know that you needn’t concern yourself with the spadework at all! I’m taking care of everything. I will discover the finest, the most unusual, the most meaningful customs that have represented love’s true glory in every nation, and I shall bear them to you like Cupid hoisting garlands upon a silver salver.” She paused to draw breath, then added triumphantly, “I know you will be enchanted, my dear, to discover what the groom does in Korea.”

Annie waited in stony silence.

Undaunted, her mother-in-law-to-be trilled, “It’s so
dear!
The groom rides a white donkey to the bride’s house, and he’s carrying a goose and a gander as symbols of fidelity. Did you know those glorious creatures mate for life? Isn’t that quaint!” (Since Rudolf Roethke was Laurel’s fifth husband, Annie thought the description interesting.) “Anyway,” the husky voice flowed on cheerfully, “I’ve thought about it.” Her voice dropped a little. “Of course, it’s hard, since it’s here at home. Without a pyramid, you know. But I climbed the apple tree in the north meadow and I have an interpretation. Max can come to your house in a white Lincoln Continental and he can present to you on a white satin pillow a most lovely charm bracelet with a goose and a gander—and you can wear it at the wedding!”

“In addition to the gold whale’s tooth?” Annie asked acidly. “Won’t I start to clang?” (In Fiji, custom demanded that the groom give to the bride’s father a whale’s tooth, representing riches and status.)

“Oh. Oh, dear. I’d forgotten the whale’s tooth! Mmmh. Of course, we can’t have you clanging. Don’t worry, Annie, I’ll resolve it.”

And she rang off.

Annie looked toward the cash desk.

Ingrid raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Korea. Groom on white donkey carrying goose and gander.”

Ingrid turned back to an order list, but not in time to hide her grin.

“Just wait,” Annie warned. “Let Laurel get her teeth into what you’ll wear as matron of honor—then we’ll see how funny you think it is.”

The phone rang.

Annie jumped and stared at it as warily as she would regard a hungry boa constrictor.

It rang again. Annie took a deep breath and lifted the receiver.

The sibilant hiss over the line hit her eardrum with stiletto sharpness. “Annie, it’s time we got to the bottom of the problem.”

Although this somewhat enigmatic pronouncement might be expected to puzzle her, Annie had no difficulty identifying the whisperer and her preoccupation. Leaning back against the coffee bar, she relaxed. “Hi, Henny.” She carefully kept amusement from her voice. Annie still felt a little awkward addressing her long-time and perhaps most avid customer, Mrs. Henrietta Brawley, in such familiar terms, but since they’d both joined the cast of the summer production of
Arsenic and Old Lace,
Mrs. Brawley had insisted on being on a first-name basis.

“Shh!”

Annie jerked the receiver away from her ear.

“No names, please!” The S’s rustled richly. “It’s time for action. We’ve got to
save summer theater!”

The corners of Annie’s mouth edged upward. “Oh, it’s not
that
bad.” (In comparison to geese and ganders, Annie felt Henny’s concerns were mild.) “And maybe,” she added cheerfully, “whoever’s doing it will get bored.”

“Evil ignored flourishes like the green bay tree,” Mrs. Brawley intoned, forgetting to whisper.

Annie wasn’t sure whether this was an adjustment of a Biblical quotation, an observation based on the reading of more crime novels than any other resident of Broward’s Rock, or merely a social comment, so she ignored it and asked pragmatically, “What do you want to do?”

The whisper returned. “You and I can take turns camping out overnight at the theater.”

So far as Annie was concerned, camping—indoors or out—was a wonderful pursuit for pilgrims, pioneers, or extremely hearty party-goers, but she, personally, preferred to be pampered at a Hilton Inn, and even a Ramada would do in a pinch.

“Absolutely not.” Pleasantly, but oh, so firmly.

Once again the whisper fled, this time replaced by indignation. “Annie Laurance, I’m surprised at you! What do you think Hildegarde Withers would do?” A disgusted sniff. “Well, if I have to do it all on my own, I will!” A brisk click broke the connection.

Annie stared at the receiver for a moment, then slowly replaced it. Her sense of quiet amusement seeped away, and not because of the undisguised disappointment in Henny Brawley’s voice. The unease over the play that lurked just below the level of conscious thought burgeoned like a spark fanned by a willful wind. Actually, Henny had every right to—

“Penny for your thoughts.”

She looked up and flashed a brief smile. “Hi, Max. I didn’t hear you.”

“A phone call?” he asked tentatively.

His tone was just ingenuous enough to excite her suspicion. She looked at him sharply. “Has your mother called you, too?”

Max smiled airily. “The Japanese have a wonderfully liquid approach to such a solemn occasion. The bride and groom exchange sips of sake and become husband and wife after the first sip.
We
could substitute scotch.”

Damn, he would think Laurel’s plans hilarious, but Henny’s call made light conversation impossible. Annie frowned.

He leaned comfortably against the coffee bar and looked at her curiously. “Are they building a nuclear generating plant next door?”

That jolted her. “For Pete’s sake, I hope not. Where did you hear that?”

Max managed not to look toothpaste-ad handsome because his regular features—nice strong nose, firm jaw, and lake-blue eyes—had a slightly rakish air, not quite Mephistophelian,
but assuredly not Eagle Scoutish. Those eyes now gleamed with quite as much pleasure as Agatha was exhibiting as she poked her head out of the painting box to watch them.

“Had I not been taught to be forthright and honorable at all times, I would claim to have heard about it over beer at Ben Parotti’s Bait Shop and Bar, and soon a whirlwind of rumor would sweep our tiny island. There would be torchlight parades. Mystery novelist Emma Clyde would chain herself to the Post Office flagpole in protest. An absolute explosion of excitement.” He smiled regretfully at a luscious prospect denied. “To tell the truth, however, I made it up just now.”

Annie sighed gustily in relief, then glared at him. “Why?”

“You looked so worried,” he replied earnestly, as if that explained everything.

Slowly, reluctantly, she began to laugh. “So okay,” she agreed, “nothing’s
that
bad.” Then her brows drew down again. “But, Max, I
am
worried about the play.”

“The play? Oh, well, sure. But what else is new?” He walked around the coffee bar and lifted down two mugs from her collection. Each mug carried in bright red script the name of a famous mystery.

Annie automatically noted the titles,
The Innocence of Father Brown
and
The Rasp.
“Do you think we have time?” She glanced at her watch.

“There is always time for coffee,” he said reverently.

As he poured, Annie sniffed the richness of the dark Colombian brew. Oh, well, she and Max usually arrived promptly for rehearsals, and almost everyone else ran late. She accepted the mug.

“So, why are you upset about the play?” He paused, and rephrased the question. “Or, more upset than usual? Has anything else happened?”

“Mrs. Brawley called.” She cleared her throat. “Er—Henny.”

He sipped and waited.

Annie struggled to explain. “Now, look, you know I don’t let things bother me.”

A thick golden brow arched sardonically over one quizzical blue eye.

“I mean,” she amended quickly, “I know I stew around
and get mad, but we’ve agreed to go with the flow over the play.”

An encouraging nod.

“I can be relaxed, too,” she insisted.

He patted her shoulder, his expression unaltered.

“Dammit, Max,” she spewed, now pushed to the limit, “I am not uptight!”

“I didn’t say a word,” he said virtuously.

“It’s just that all those things that have happened, well, you have to admit they are worrisome.”

“The play is being presented by the Broward’s Rock Players. The director is Sam Haznine, the famous Broadway director. The stage manager is Burt Conroy, president of the players and a moving force in the Broward’s Rock Merchants Association.” He recited it as a litany. “In short,” and now his tone was brisk, “this production is not, as we’ve discussed before, any responsibility of the charming proprietor of Death on Demand.”

“Yes.” It was an unwilling agreement. “Darn it, I wish we’d never agreed to be in it. After all, we didn’t have to.”

“We had a gilt-edged invitation.”

“Yeah,” she said ruefully. “Us and Shane.” She grinned. “Maybe we all deserve each other. Just because you produced a couple of plays off-Broadway and I tried to be an actress, we’re classified as big New Yorkers with experience in The Theater. That’s just about as phony as Sam Haznine being a big-deal director.”

“Actually, Sam
was
a fairly big deal, until he had three flops in a row,” Max said mildly. “That’s why the players were able to hire him to direct the first play of the summer. He has to have some success somewhere, even if it’s a little island like Broward’s Rock. And you have to admit Shane has more experience than we do. He really was in all those surfer movies in the sixties.”

“Where he learned nothing,” she said darkly.

“How to surf?” As always, Max’s tone was gently amused and reasonable.

She shook her head impatiently. “Shane isn’t the point. He may,” she admitted, “be part of the problem, but he isn’t the point. I’m worried about Henny.”

Max looked surprised. “Is she going to quit or something?”
For the first time, he sounded concerned. “Actually, she’s a great Abby.”

“Quit? You’ve got to be kidding. She’s enjoying this more than anything since she bought a full run of Nero Wolfe first editions in jacket from an estate dirt cheap. No, it’s all the mess. She wants to
investigate!
Find out who’s behind all the trouble.” Annie’s brows drew together once again in a tight, worried frown. “Max, maybe we ought to help her.”

He finished his mug of coffee, put it down with a decisive bang, reached over, and gently smoothed away the line between her nose. Then, with elaborate gestures, he curved his hands as if lifting an extremely heavy round object from her shoulders.