offer advice and assistance to those in a spot of trouble.
Annie reached Death on Demand. As always, she was pleased and proud to see her storefront. A new cream- colored wooden sign hung above the front door. DEATH ON DEMAND gleamed in gold letters. A dagger dripping bright red drops pointed to the legend:
Annie took an instant to glance in approval at the display behind the plate glass of the front window. Ranged on a beach chair were brightly jacketed books sure to please summer sun worshippers:
The bell jangled as she pushed open the door. She eyed the recently hung poster at the end of the thriller section. She loved to tell the story of its discovery. Last month she and Max had wandered around a flea market in Savannah. Next to a particularly eclectic booth sat a worn old trunk adorned with this sign:
MYSTERY CONTENTS, YOURS FOR TEN BUCKS
She’d grabbed Max’s arm. “Mystery contents!”
“To you and me, maybe. Not to the shopkeeper.”
“Cynicism does not become you.” Annie had always loved mystery packages with unknown contents. She remembered with delight
All the way home Max speculated about what she would find, possibly old
The lid popped up, as if snapped by an invisible hand.
“Oh.” Annie’s spirits had drooped at the sight of a dun-colored worn army-issue blanket, likely 1940s vintage. She’d lifted out one and a second and a third.
Max had taken pity at seeing her crestfallen expression. “Hey, they’ll make a great gift for animal rescue. Put those back and I’ll take the trunk over.”
But maybe . . . just maybe . . . She kept on pulling out blankets. At the very bottom of the trunk, there was a rectangle covered by brown butcher paper. Annie lifted out the thin, stiff package and eased open the sealed wrapping. She had turned to Max and held up a poster and her smile was at a thousand watts.
Now customers shared her joy with the vintage movie poster for
Agatha, Death on Demand’s elegant and imperious black cat, shot past, batting at a small plastic ball with a wobbly feather.
“It just goes to show,” Annie called after her, but Agatha was too engrossed to respond and disappeared around the end of a bookcase. Annie wasn’t altogether sure of the cosmic significance of her fondness for mysterious packages and boxes, but she was certain they made life more interesting.
Maybe today there would be a new surprise awaiting her.
“Annie, is that you?” Footsteps sounded in the central aisle. Slender, quick moving, and efficient, Ingrid was, beneath her crusty exterior, kind to the core. Ingrid planted herself in front of Annie. Graying brown hair drawn back in a bun, her sharp- featured face looked harried. “Glad you’re here.” There was just the tiniest hint of rebuke for Annie’s tardy arrival. “A book club from Bluffton is due in half an hour, Henny’s waiting for you in the coffee area, and Laurel put a portfolio on your desk.” Ingrid looked puzzled. “On the outside of the portfolio—I couldn’t help seeing it as I went by—there’s an inscription in straggling pink letters and a funny splotch.”
Annie was well aware of the portfolio’s contents, which Laurel had exhibited to her and Max over dinner one evening. “I’ll deal with Laurel’s portfolio later.” Annie wished her reply didn’t sound as strained as if she’d found a copperhead wrapped around the coffee machine. After all, her mother-in-law’s enthusiasms were nothing new, from Laurel’s flirtation with harmonic convergences when they’d first met to her fascination with saints and now . . . This time Max would have to corral Laurel. There were limits.
An inner voice hooted:
Ingrid looked sympathetic and changed the subject. “Anyway, I’m on the phone with the Harper rep about the Mary Daheim titles. That bed-and-breakfast in Bluffton wants fifty copies by tonight.” She whirled and rushed toward the storeroom.
A distant whir indicated that Henny, no stranger to the store, was making cappuccino. Annie hurried down the central aisle to the coffee bar. Readers sat at several tables, all with mugs and biscotti.
Annie reached the coffee bar. “Thanks for taking care of everyone.” She gestured toward the contented coffee hounds and smiled at Death on Demand’s best customer and her cherished friend. As always, Henny was fashionably dressed, the terra-cotta of her linen top flattering to her silvered dark hair and dark eyes.
Henny pushed a mug toward Annie. “Lots of caramel. Hey, I like your sundress.”
Annie glanced in the mirror at the far end of the coffee bar that added illusory depth to the cafe area. She hadn’t been sure about the color, a dusty plum. The mirror reflected her honey-blond hair and gray eyes and the loose-fitting A-line dress decorated with appliques of silvery fern fronds. “I thought maybe the color was too cool.”
“Perfect for you.” Henny spoke with fashion authority.
Annie took a sip of the scrumptious foam. She was glad Henny liked the dress, but still felt a bit unsure of the shade. Though she knew she needed to get to work, she slid onto a stool at the coffee bar. She would take a moment to visit with Henny and admire the collection of coffee mugs behind the coffee bar, each with the name of a mystery author and title. Annie glanced at her mug.
