Dead By Midnight

Ingrid blinked uncertainly. “Kind of a funny answer. She said: ‘He who asks shall be rewarded.’ ”

Annie whirled back into the office and snatched up Laurel’s portfolio, thumbed through the contents. She found the proper poster, a large, sleek, muscular Bengal cat with a dense marbled coat—and a hugely satisfied expression: He who asks shall be rewarded. So Laurel was quite willing to help out. No doubt, radiating charm, she would expect Annie to hang cat posters in Death on Demand as a reward.

Annie gripped the portfolio. Could she hide the thick manila folder?

Her cell rang again. She fumbled in her pocket, lifted the phone, saw the caller ID, tried not to squeak when she answered. “I’m on my way, Emma.” She tossed the portfolio on the worktable. Que sera, sera. She grabbed the box of books. “I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

Annie whistled a jaunty tune as she toted a single box with no more than a half-dozen unsold titles up the steps to the back door of Death on Demand. Even Emma had been pleased by the sales and it took a lot of ka-chings to bring a smile to her redoubtable square face. She had even offered a grudging compliment. “Better than I expected. Of course, everyone loves Marigold.”

Annie loathed Emma’s sleuth, Marigold Rembrandt. Annie considered her a carping harpy with all the charm of a molting mongoose, but since she enjoyed ka-chings, too, she had warbled happily to Emma, “Marigold knocked ’em dead.” A flash in Emma’s frosty blue eyes reminded Annie that the author’s insatiable hunger for praise must be fed. “You were wonderful, Emma. Splendid. Brilliant.” Annie paused.

Emma had nodded, looking expectant.

Annie had almost rebelled. How much attention did the old warhorse need? She knew the answer. She took a deep breath. “Cogent. Compelling. Charismatic.” When they’d parted in the library parking lot, Emma had been at her most congenial.

Annie laughed as she opened the back door, the box on one hip. All’s well that ends well. Now, if only Ingrid had weathered the book club. Annie put aside any thoughts about Laurel and Cat Truth. Time would, unfortunately, tell.

She stepped into the storeroom. The door to the coffee area was ajar.

“ . . . and what am I bid for the Chestnut Oriental Shorthair?”

Annie would know that husky voice anywhere. Adrift on a space station. In a Deadwood saloon. Behind a Venetian mask. From the depths of a cavern. Riding in an alpine cable car.

Annie stopped in the doorway.

Her slender blond mother-in law, her patrician features quite lovely and perfect, her pale blue linen dress elegantly styled, stood in stocking feet on the coffee bar. She held up a poster. A rectangular-muzzled, green-eyed, chocolate-colored cat appeared as brooding as a gothic hero. The legend read: Always say yes to adventure.

A lantern-jawed woman in the front row thundered, “Two hundred dollars.”

A plump matron with untidy brown curls jumped to her feet. “Three hundred.”

“Three hundred dollars.” Laurel repeated the sum twice. “Do I hear three-fifty?”

After a beat, she clapped her hands together. “Sold for three hundred dollars. That completes my offering of Paws That Refresh: Cat Truth. I thank you for your wonderful support today for our animal rescue center. The sum raised by the auction—”

Annie took a step into the coffee area.

Laurel continued smoothly, “—will help provide shelter and treatment for abandoned and abused dogs and cats. We would also like to thank Death on Demand for offering to host the auction. And here is the wonderful proprietor of Death on Demand, eager to welcome you lovely ladies from the Captivating Crimes Book Club. Perhaps Annie would like to share a tribute to Mississippi Delta author Carolyn Haines, who writes wonderful books and helps rescue abused and abandoned horses, dogs, and cats, and to Mary Kennedy of Dead Air and Reel Murder fame, who rescues cats and supports all efforts to protect animals.”

Annie remembered one of the posters now residing in her and Max’s living room, a silky-furred, mitted, and bicolored Ragdoll stretched out on a red silk cushion, looking as comfy as Eva Longoria in a Hanes ad: Go with the flow.

Annie’s smile was genuine. “Thank you, Laurel, for your support for animals and for sharing news of Carolyn Haines’s Sarah Booth Delaney series and Mary Kennedy’s talk-radio series. Animal lovers”—she swept her arm in an all-inclusive gesture—“will enjoy visiting Carolyn Haines’s online animal rescue page, www.goodfortunefarmrefuge.org.”

Immediately, several ladies lifted their iPhones and fingers flew as they typed in the link.

Annie beamed at Laurel. The best outcome, in addition to sales, was that the dreaded posters were no longer on her worktable, though Annie well knew there were more where these came from. However, there was no point in borrowing trouble. Moreover, a worthy cause had profited.

Annie mingled and was charming. But if Pat Merridew dared enter Death on Demand, it would be the shortest stay in history.

As soon as Henny reached her car at the Sea Side Inn parking lot, she flipped open her cell.

“Death on Demand, the finest—”

Henny interrupted. “Hey, Ingrid, did Pat show up?”

“No. Laurel helped out. We made it through.” Ingrid described the auction.

Henny grinned. “If you can’t beat ’em, maybe you need to join ’em.”

“I don’t think that’s what Annie wants to hear. Oh, got to go. Some tourists . . .”

Henny sat behind her wheel, tapped Pat’s number. No answer. She had called twice before going to the