Dead By Midnight

Laurel glanced at the title and made no comment. Her golden hair shirred short, blue eyes sparkling, face radiant, Laurel looked young and vibrant in a scoop-neck pale blue sweater and knee-length frilly polka-dot-print silk skirt. She crossed her legs. The delicate blue of butterfly-bow denim slides matched her blouse.

Annie fixed an iced latte with a shot of raspberry syrup for herself. Her mug read: Stalemate.

Laurel looked amused.

Not, Annie thought, a good sign.

A sip and Laurel patted the familiar portfolio. “You always work so hard, my dear.” Her tone was admiring.

Annie was instantly on alert. The smiling comment, though ostensibly a compliment, was a subtle reminder that Laurel had stepped into the breach when Pat failed to show up. Annie gave a modest shrug. “Same old, same old.”

“It was such a pleasure for me to be able to help out last week when you were busy at the library and dear Ingrid had the book club all by herself.” Almost as if inadvertently, though Annie knew better, Laurel pushed the portfolio nearer Annie. “I know you didn’t mind my taking advantage of that lovely group of women to raise money for animal rescue. Now I feel in my heart”—a graceful hand was delicately placed—“that I must repay that debt and so”—the words came in a rush as swift as the flutter of mallards honing in on a lagoon—“I’m giving you at no charge, of course, your very own collection of the Paws That Refresh to share with Death on Demand’s wonderful readers.” She picked up the portfolio and held it out to Annie as if presenting her firstborn.

Annie’s mouth opened. Closed. To refuse a gift was rude. She limply took the manila folder.

Laurel beamed and plucked the folder back. “Since you are always busy, I will take care of all the details.”

Laurel twirled in her seat to drop lightly to the heart-pine floor. She dashed another smile. “I use masking tape to mount them and that will make it easy to change them out when I have new ones.”

Annie gripped the edge of the coffee bar. New ones? Was the collection intended for permanent display? Would cat photos cover every inch of free wall space, spreading like kudzu? There had to be some way of deflecting her mother-in-law, short of a lasso.

Annie’s cell rang. She plucked it from the pocket of her skirt and glanced at the caller ID. Maybe Henny would have an idea. “Hey, Henny—”

“Annie, I need help.” Henny’s tone was grim. “I just talked to Billy.”

Billy Cameron, Broward’s Rock’s stalwart police chief, was a good friend and a fine policeman, devoted to his community, hardworking, fair.

“He says I’m too close to Pat’s death to be objective.” Henny’s tone was brusque. “He might listen to you. After all, you scarcely knew her, but you saw quite a bit of her in the days before she died. You can describe her state of mind. What upsets me the most is that the report will be released and there will be a story in the Gazette.”

A chair scraped. Laurel popped up to stand on the seat and survey the rectangle of space on the left side of the fireplace. She stood on tiptoe to tape a photograph of a thick-furred, piebald Siberian Forest cat, its white front a brilliant contrast to a charcoal head and back. In a side view, the cat’s broad face appeared almost angelic. Always try a smile first.

If Laurel poached on the space for the mystery paintings, there would be a line drawn in the sand. “A story about what?”

“The official pronouncement of cause of death: suicide.”

Annie gripped the cell. “Suicide?” Pat’s days at Death on Demand whirled through her mind. In particular, she remembered Wednesday afternoon when they’d visited over coffee about mysteries. “I don’t think that’s possible. I’ll talk to Billy.”

Billy Cameron, tall, sturdy, and muscular, pushed back his office chair and stood. “Hey, Annie. What can I do for you?” His thick sandy hair held traces of white. His strong face was genial, but it was ever and always a cop’s face, with an underlying toughness, eyes that had seen the worst of pain and injury and death, a mouth that could tighten into a hard line of confrontation.

Annie sat on one of two hard wooden chairs that faced his desk.

Billy settled in his chair, looking large and official.

She began without preamble. “Pat Merridew worked at Death on Demand.”

He glanced at her, his blue eyes thoughtful, then pulled a green folder from a stack, flipped it open. “She was fired from the law firm. She started to work at the bookstore two weeks later. She was in your employ for four days.”

Annie knew that Billy always did his homework. His dispassionate tone suggested Pat Merridew’s file was complete.

Annie scooted to the edge of the hard wooden seat. “Billy, I think it is very unlikely that Pat Merridew committed suicide.”

Billy arched one eyebrow. “You knew her well?”

Annie made an impatient gesture. “I scarcely knew her. I’m not here as a friend. I’m here with specific information that, to my mind, suggests she didn’t end her own life.”

Billy folded his arms, but asked politely, “What information do you have?”

Annie could read body language. Billy’s mind was closed. He was asking politely, but his voice was distant. She spoke quietly. “Pat knew very little about mysteries. I gave her some Agatha Christies to read. Billy, two days before she died, we sat at the coffee bar.” Pat had made the drinks under Annie’s tutelage, two iced lattes. “Pat thumbed through her copy of Towards Zero and found the passage where Superintendent Battle figured out the truth about his daughter’s confession. Pat thought that was really clever on his part. I told her my favorite passage was when a young nurse spoke with a would-be suicide bitter at having been saved. The nurse said, ‘It may be just by being somewhere—not doing anything—oh, I can’t say what I mean, but you might just—