publishers, but the lines to fill in and boxes to click made her feel as if she were negotiating a maze in a deep fog. Let’s see . . . She needed to return the unsold Dan Brown hardcovers, but not the paperbacks. She answered absently, “Death on Demand, the finest mystery—”
“Hey, Annie. Has anybody figured out the paintings yet?” Henny’s resonant voice, which easily reached the last row in island little-theater productions, was just this side of strident.
Annie tossed aside her usual tact. “Nope, but don’t you sometimes feel like it’s shooting fish in a barrel? Where’s your sportsman’s blood? Why don’t you give ordinary readers a chance?”
“When Democrats embrace Sarah Palin or when you bar Emma from the contest.”
Since Annie would rather sunbathe nestled next to an alligator than in any way challenge the island’s rock- visaged queen of crime, she changed the subject. “Can you think of any way I can divert Laurel from hanging that stuff in the bookstore?”
A throaty chuckle was an answer. Of sorts. “I’m taking bets on whether Laurel prevails. And I wouldn’t call those lovely matted photos
Annie felt her spine stiffen. “I do love cats. And I know the posters are fetching.” It was a grudging admission. “But Death on Demand isn’t the place for Laurel to display them. I don’t care how clever they are.” Annie determinedly ignored the portfolio, only inches from her hand.
“Odds are running eight to one.”
Annie didn’t have to ask in whose favor.
“On a happier note—I hope—how is Pat doing?”
Annie smiled. “A much happier note. She’s a live wire. She’s trying so hard.” Through the open door into the office, she heard Pat’s eager voice. “Certainly if you enjoy Earlene Fowler, you’ll love Diana Killian and Emilie Richards. Over here we have . . .” Of course, Pat was cribbing from the staff recommendations list at the end of the romantic suspense aisle, but she’d taken the time to learn. “I gave her some Christies and, no surprise, she was enchanted. She read those and now she has another batch. She’s started quoting Christie.”
“A quotable lady.” Quick as a rapier thrust, Henny demanded, “Which character said: ‘I had the firm conviction that, if I went about looking for adventure, adventure would meet me halfway. It is a theory of mine that one always gets what one wants
“Anne Beddingfield in
Again that throaty chuckle. “Of course you know that one. I’ll bet your copy is dog-eared. You have a dash of Anne Beddingfield. I like this game. We’ll play it again.”
Annie was smiling as she clicked off the phone. There were no clouds on her horizon this sunny summer Friday.
Except, of course, Laurel’s latest project. And tomorrow.
Annie glanced at the portfolio, the better not to think about tomorrow. She reached out slowly, then yanked back her hand. No. Double, triple, quadruple no. She would not look and be charmed. Right was right. Death on Demand was a mystery bookstore, not a venue for highly original philosophical . . . She grasped for the proper word. Philosophical treatises? Too weighty. Philosophical exercises? Better. Philosophical nonsense? Too harsh.
As if on cue, Agatha bounded onto the desk. Before Annie could grasp the silky-haired creature, one black paw poked the keyboard.
The book order vanished.
“Did you do that on purpose?” Annie stared into cool green eyes that appeared both amused and questioning.
She suppressed the quivering thought that somehow Laurel had engineered the cat’s action. She mustn’t succumb to hysteria.
Annie grabbed the portfolio. Didn’t self-help gurus counsel confronting fears? She reached in, pulled out the first cardboard-mounted photograph. She looked from the photo to Agatha. “When did you pose for her?” And since when did cats pose? Of course, the cat wasn’t Agatha, although the resemblance was startling. There was no denying that the pictured cat had sleek black fur, glittering green eyes, and an uplifted (to swat) paw. The caption read: “British Black Shorthair.
Annie shoved the picture back into the portfolio and concentrated on breathing evenly. Was Laurel hoping to win Annie over by including a poster with Agatha’s double? Possibly. Possibly not. Who knew what Laurel was thinking? That question had mystified all who had ever known the woman, especially her daughter-in-law. It was time to go home, relax, forget Laurel and her posters. In any event, Annie couldn’t spare the emotional energy.
She needed every ounce of calm to survive tomorrow, which was a double feature for Death on Demand, Emma Clyde appearing at the Author Luncheon at the library at the same time as the Savannah Captivating Crimes Book Club arrived at Death on Demand for a light lunch and discussion of suspense novels from Eric Ambler to Suzanne Brockman. A recently departed (not from this life, but from the island) employee had blithely approved the date for both events. By the time Annie discovered the conflict, the schedules of the library and book club were set.
Somehow Annie had to sell books at the library while convincing Emma that, of course, the crowd was wonderful and not the least bit smaller because of the meeting at the store or the competition from several other luncheons occurring in various venues that the interim help also had not checked. Ingrid, meanwhile, would host the book club. Normally such an event required Annie’s presence as well as a summer clerk. Henny often helped out but she was presiding at a Red Cross luncheon at the Sea Side Inn. Laurel loved to sub at Death on Demand, but Annie had no intention of calling on her.
Thank heaven for Pat.
Saturday wouldn’t be doable without her.
Annie rushed into the kitchen. She’d changed into a short-sleeved knit top that matched a bright orange stripe in flamboyant cropped pants that shouted summer with pink, grape, white, lime, and orange stripes.
Max, muscular and tanned in a T-shirt, khaki shorts, and espadrilles, shredded carrots at the central
