workstation. Not only was he a gorgeous hunk, he was a super chef. He looked over his shoulder. “Sangria’s made.”
Annie felt bubbly without a sip. She moved toward the refrigerator. “What kind tonight?”
“Max’s Coolest Ever. Chardonnay with fruit, lemonade, and two shots of peach brandy. You can add the ginger ale.”
Annie fixed two glasses, placed one near Max, then perched on a stool to watch as catfish sizzled in the skillet. She cradled the cool glass in her hands. “If I ever needed a pick-me-up, it’s tonight.” She hesitated, then asked obliquely, “Have you talked to your mother?”
Max ladled rice from the cooker. “She looked cheerful when I saw her.” He carried their plates to the table. “If you’ll zap the corn bread in the microwave, everything’s ready.”
Annie put down her glass. “You saw her?”
“Why don’t we eat and then—”
Annie folded her arms. “Where are they?”
Max’s blue eyes shifted away. He moved fast as Dorothy L, his plump white cat, jumped onto the table. “Not when we’re eating, D.L.” He retrieved the fluffy cat and carried her to the kitchen door.
Annie was still waiting when the door clicked shut.
Max studied Annie’s face and placed the plates in the microwave for later reheating. “In the living room.”
Annie stalked from the kitchen and strode to the living room, her sandals clicking on the heart-pine floor. Just inside the wide double doors, she stopped and took a deep breath. She spotted a portfolio, twin to the one in her office, pink letters and black splotch straggling across the stiff plastic over. The inscription was burned into her consciousness:
She wanted to snarl that the black splotch following the title, obviously a paw print, was just too cute. Actually, the paw print was cute, even though Annie loathed cuteness. She didn’t turn when Max came up behind her and slipped an arm around her rigid shoulders.
His voice was conciliatory. “Don’t you think they’re clever?”
“Of course they’re clever. But they don’t have anything to do with mysteries. Displaying them at Death on Demand would distract from the books.” Not to mention the watercolor contest. She had no doubt Laurel coveted the expanse above the fireplace as a space to display the cats.
Laurel had discovered free online pictures of exotic cat breeds and never looked back. She printed photos on glossy paper and mounted them on acid-free mat board. In printed letters beneath the photos, each cat was identified by breed, and a caption expressed a “Cat Truth.” The classy, high-end posters were everywhere, propped against the sofa and several chairs, ranged along the mantel, and spread across the coffee table.
A smile tugged at Annie’s lips. She honestly couldn’t look at pictures of cats, all kinds of cats, Maltese, Abyssinian, Siamese, Scottish Fold, domestic short hair, tabbies, and not be enchanted by their beauty. The coup de grace was the legend beneath each picture. A Sphynx, its hairless gray skin wrinkled, stared with obvious reproof. Uneven pink letters inquired:
Annie counted twenty admittedly fetching photographs of gorgeous cats, each mounted on poster board with the announcement of breed and an inscription. “Cat Truth,” she mused. “Okay, the pix are great, the comments priceless.” If Max quoted her to Laurel, maybe this sop to TV ads would soften the blow. “However”—she was emphatic—“a Philosophy of Life according to cats has no place in a mystery bookstore.” She turned and realized she was in Max’s embrace, a very nice place to be. She smiled up at him. “I have a great idea.” She wriggled one arm free and made an inclusive gesture. “We’ll leave the posters just the way they are and have a cocktail party here to celebrate Laurel’s”—she paused for inspiration—“trenchant philosophical triumph.”
Annie’s cell rang. She glanced at the clock. A quarter to eleven. She felt beleaguered, irritated, pressed, and ill-treated. She needed to get to the library and set up the book table. Emma Clyde wanted books on sale both before and after an event. What Emma wanted, Emma got, Annie having long ago decided the better part of valor was never to rouse a quiescent literary lioness. She checked her caller ID and frowned. “Hi, Henny.” She tried to sound pleasant, but if she hadn’t listened to Henny, she’d probably have found someone other than Pat to hire and today would not be a disaster waiting to happen.
“You sound stressed.”
“That sums everything up nicely. I have the library Author Luncheon for Emma and”—she heard the high twitter of feminine voices through the open door of her office—“the Savannah book club’s here and Pat’s a no-show, which puts Ingrid in a deep, deep pit. I need to get to the library. I’ll talk to you later.”
Annie put more copies of Emma’s new paperback,
A black paw snaked through the air, leaving a mark on the back of her right hand.
“Agatha, I’m not playing now. I don’t have time.” When the books were safely in the box and Agatha distracted with a moist treat, Annie pressed a Kleenex against the scratch and poked her head out of the storeroom.
“Has Pat shown up?”
Ingrid slid her hand over the portable phone’s mouthpiece. “No. I called Laurel and she’s going to help out.”
Annie opened her mouth, closed it. Pat Merridew had picked a lousy day to be late for work. Obviously, Ingrid couldn’t handle the book club by herself. Henny was committed for a luncheon. Emma would be wearing her author hat. That left Laurel.
“What did she say?”
