Dead By Midnight

Henny lifted her coffee mug (Devious Design by D. B. Olsen) in a salute. “You asked Billy to have the mugs fingerprinted.” Her tone was admiring. “If it weren’t for you, a perfect murder would have been committed. Now Pat’s death will be labeled possible homicide instead of suicide.”

Annie didn’t feel triumphant. “Billy said he would pursue inquiries. Like what? I suppose he’ll check with neighbors, but if no one saw Pat’s visitor, where does he go from there?”

Henny frowned. “No one will have seen the visitor. I think we can count on that. Anyone smart enough to set up her death to appear as a suicide is too smart to be seen. But”—she was emphatic—“that’s a lead right there.”

Annie brought her mug around the coffee bar and sat down next to Henny. “How so?”

Henny lightly touched fingertips to each temple. Eyes narrowed, she stared into the distance.

Annie wondered if Henny was channeling Madame Arcati, the ebullient psychic in Noel Coward’s Blithe Spirit, a role Henny had recently played with elan in the local little theater.

“I see a close connection,” she intoned.

Definitely Madame Arcati.

Henny swiveled to face Annie. “The OxyContin! That’s the tip-off. Only someone who knew Pat well, someone who spent time around her, would be aware that she had broken her wrist and taken pain pills. All right. Who knew? Certainly the people she worked with—Glen Jamison, Cleo Jamison, Kirk Brewster. In fact, all of the Jamisons. Pat was close to Maddy and later to Glen’s sister, Elaine. Through the years, Pat took the kids to doctor appointments, all that sort of thing.”

Annie shook her head. “Maybe she talked to her postman about her pain pills. Henny, we don’t have anywhere to start.”

Henny looked stubborn. “All right. Forget the pain pills for now. Instead, I’ll call mutual friends who knew Pat, see if I can turn up anything odd or unusual in the last week or so.”

Annie refrained from pointing out that Pat’s final two weeks had been very different, fired from her job of more than twenty years, hired into a retail position for which she had no background. What else was Henny likely to hear about from Pat’s friends? Henny was unlikely to discover why Pat brewed coffee for a killer. “Good idea.” She knew her lack of enthusiasm was evident.

Henny’s gaze was searching. “Do you have a better idea?”

Annie turned her hands palms up.

After the front bell signaled Henny’s departure, Annie walked slowly toward her office. She heard Ingrid suggesting titles to a thriller fan, the latest titles by Michael Connelly, Daniel Silva, Laura Bynum, Kayla Perrin, Judith Cutler, and Steven Hamilton. She needed to unpack boxes of books by Robert Crais, Parnell Hall, Janet Evanovich, Diane Mott Davidson, and Joanne Fluke. Hilton Head mystery writer Kathryn Wall was coming over for a signing next week.

Annie reached for the box cutter. What would Wall’s sleuth, Bay Tanner, do in these circumstances? Bay would make her choice on the basis of honor and execute any plan with tenacity. Annie understood that inner compulsion to follow where conscience led. She had felt compelled to approach Billy Cameron because of her conversation with Pat about suicide.

Annie slid the tempered steel blade down the center of the box lid, careful to avoid damage to book jackets. Yeah, yeah, yeah, a small inner voice sneered. You didn’t believe Pat committed suicide. You pointed the way for an investigation. Big deal. But now you know Billy’s best efforts won’t lead anywhere. He’s already found out that no one local profited from her small estate, that she had no known enemies, that she was well regarded in the community.

Impatiently, Annie lifted out five books and another five. The cover of the Hamilton thriller, The Lock Artist, featured a shiny steel padlock with the shackle unfastened. That lock was open.

Was there a way to unlock the truth about Pat?

Maybe, just maybe . . . She reached for her cell phone. “Max, meet me at Parotti’s. I need help.”

Chapter Four

Annie stepped inside Parotti’s Bar and Grill, the island’s oldest and most successful cafe and bait shop. She welcomed the air-conditioning, augmented by ceiling fans. In winter, she ordered a fried oyster sandwich. In summer, she opted for fried flounder. Despite Ben’s transformation from grizzled leprechaun to snazzy proprietor after his marriage to tea-shop–genteel Miss Jolene, Parotti’s maintained its rakish atmosphere, sawdust on the floor in the adjoining bait shop, battered old Burma Shave signs as decor, and a 1940s jukebox that worked. Maybe she’d play Frankie Carle’s “Rumors Are Flying.” Of course, Miss Jolene’s influence was unmistakable, quiche on the menu and red-and-white-checked cloths on the tables.

Annie slid into her favorite booth. In a moment, Ben brought iced tea for her and lemonade for Max, left menus and a breadbasket. She sipped the tea and absently scanned the Burma Shave signs. Her favorite sequence read: Don’t stick / Your elbow / Out so far / It might go home / In another car.

She looked across the room as the heavy oak door opened.

Max swerved around a group of sunburned tourists, moved purposefully toward her. As always when she saw his blue eyes looking for her and his generous mouth widening in a smile for her, she felt a familiar thrill. Tall and blond, he was the handsomest man there. Or, as far as she was concerned, the handsomest man anywhere.

He slid into the booth, reached out to touch her hand. His touch was warm and she felt, as always, a surge of happiness.

Ben was there to take their orders, fried flounder for Annie, grilled for Max, fries for her, coleslaw for him.

As Ben turned away, Max buttered a slice of jalapeno corn bread. “You sounded grim.”