Dead By Midnight

Rice.

Henny followed her glance. “I know how you like surprises.”

Annie noted the lively, determined intelligence in Henny’s dark eyes and felt a tingle of alarm. “That depends.”

Henny’s smile was quick. “Nice surprises, like the Murder, My Sweet poster.”

Annie, of course, had shared the story of her well-rewarded curiosity far and wide.

Henny finished a latte with an extra dollop of almond slivers and came around the bar to settle on a stool next to Annie. She held up her mug (Taken at the Flood by Agatha Christie) in a toast. “As you pointed out after you so wisely persevered despite initial disappointment, treasures can be found in the most unlikely places. Darling, do I ever have a treasure for you!” Henny’s beautifully modulated voice was confident, but her dark eyes held a plea.

Chapter Two

“Did you read Nancy Drew when you were growing up?” Annie heard the discouragement in her voice. As far as she had been able to determine, Pat Merridew had never read a single Agatha Christie.

Pat pushed back a sprig of graying auburn hair. Her pale blue eyes slid away from Annie, then back. “I always watch CSI. I’ll catch up. I’m a quick study.”

Annie saw bravado and embarrassment.

Pat slid her fingers together in a tight grip. “I know it’s important to be knowledgeable for customers. But Henny said you really needed help at the store. If you’ll give me a chance, I’ll do my best. Maybe let me try out for a couple of weeks.” Her mouth twisted in a wry almost-smile. “I’ll go nuts if I sit around the house much longer. I’ve always worked.” She tugged at the collar of her blouse. She’d obviously dressed with care for the interview, a crisp white cotton blouse, a tropical bright skirt with cheerful splashes of indigo and rose, light blue leather loafers.

Annie knew it wasn’t the money that prompted Pat’s plea, certainly not the modest salary Death on Demand offered. It was the sense of worth conferred by holding a job. Jobs on a small island could be few and far between. It was the height of the tourist season, but those jobs had been snapped up before the end of May, primarily by college students. The handful of year-round shops near the marina or the island’s small downtown belonged to people who had owned them for years, and openings were quickly filled by someone who knew someone.

Henny knew Annie. Death on Demand needed a clerk. But Pat obviously didn’t know cozy from noir or thriller from police procedural.

Pat’s gaze fell. She looked resigned and began to turn away.

Annie reached out, touched her arm. “I’m sure you’d like mysteries.”

Pat faced Annie, her eyes brightening with hope. “I know I would. I’ll read as many as I can as soon I can.”

Annie forced a bright smile. “You can be a great help with unpacking and shelving and ordering. Let me show you around.”

By the time they reached the coffee bar, Annie was berating herself internally. She was beginning to suspect that Pat not only didn’t read mysteries, she didn’t read, a state of being Annie equated with abandonment on an ice floe without a Kindle, Sony, or Nook, much less a book.

Annie gestured toward the watercolors hanging above the mantel. “Every month I hang fresh paintings for our mystery contest. Each represents a particular title. The first person to identify the book and author receives a month of coffee and a free book.”

Annie admired the bright splashes of color.

In the first painting, moonlight beamed through tall windows, illuminating a staircase and great hall. Hanging banners appeared shadowy and gray in the cool radiance. A man in a soft bathrobe lay limply on the checkered floor. An awkward figure scrambling unsteadily to his feet reached out, crashing a suit of armor to the floor.

In the second painting, a fresh-faced teenager, eyes bright, held his cell phone up, but three women in a sunroom were oblivious. Seated with one foot on a hassock, a heavily made-up woman in a filmy dress and matching turban gazed in dismay at a small, older woman. The smaller woman also wore a turban. Gray hair poked from beneath purple cloth. Scowling, she held a bent cookie sheet. On the sheet rested a plate of cookies. Observing the turbaned women was a graceful, middle-aged woman whose expressive face reflected breeding, intelligence, and wisdom.

In the third painting, roiling smoke and shooting flames were shocking in the pale moonlight. Smoke darker than the night billowed through the front door of a three-story building as an obviously injured man hobbled across a porch toward the front steps, helped by a stocky figure wearing a bandanna that covered the lower part of his face.

In the fourth painting, a tall young woman with auburn hair stood in a radio studio. Her eyes wide, she stared out the window into the palm-tree-rimmed parking lot at a platinum-haired, voluptuous blonde in a shocking-pink halter dress and Jackie O sunglasses as she navigated forward in stiletto slingbacks.

In the fifth painting, shock was obvious in the moonlight-illuminated faces of two young women lugging a tarp-wrapped body. A Pomeranian, with its mouth open wide to bark, rode on the corpse’s chest. Looking haunted were a tall, olive-skinned brunette and a plus-size Rita Hayworth lookalike with long red hair.

“Oooh.” Pat looked impressed. “Do they get any book they want?” She had exclaimed at the $310 price tag for the three-volume leather-bound set of Sherlock Holmes.

Annie’s reply was swift and firm. “Only a noncollectible.”

“Noncollectible?”

Annie took a deep breath. Maybe Pat would be a whiz at the coffee bar.

Annie’s cell rang. She stared at the computer. Online ordering might be easier for the