Deadly Valentine

by Carolyn G. Hart

  After the Ball

  The quiet was ominous, freighted with horror.

  Blood glistened obscenely against the magnolia-white skin and creamy silk, clung viscously to the diamond-brilliant necklace.

  Shakily, Annie took one step forward, then another. She had to see if … But when the light focused fully on that crushed head and what remained of a no-longer-lovely face, she knew there was no need to hurry.

  Shrubbery rustled to her left, toward the lagoon. Whirling, Annie swung the light in that direction. Was there a darker shadow past that clump of azaleas?

  “Who’s there?” Her voice rose in panic.

  No answer.

  Annie had had enough. She bolted toward the path to home, running as fast as she could.

  From the lagoon, she heard a splash….

  Bantam Books by Carolyn G. Hart

  Death on Demand Mysteries

  DEATH ON DEMAND

  DESIGN FOR MURDER

  SOMETHING WICKED

  HONEYMOON WITH MURDER

  A LITTLE CLASS ON MURDER

  DEADLY VALENTINE

  THE CHRISTIE CAPER

  SOUTHERN GHOST

  MINT JULEP MURDER

  Henrie O Mysteries

  DEAD MAN’S ISLAND

  SCANDAL IN FAIR HAVEN

  Table of Contents

  Other Books by this Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  Copyright

  To all Sisters in Crime:

  Wishing you

  Good books

  Good luck

  God’s blessing.

  One

  THE FACE MIGHT have been sculpted in stone. It wasn’t simply from absorption in a delicate, tedious task. Oh no. It was more than that. Much more. The taut muscles reflected icy determination, ruthless decision, implacable resolve.

  The gloved hand worked patiently, skillfully, with the cut-out letters, plucking them from their separate piles, applying glue with a toothpick, placing them neatly against the heart, scissored from scarlet construction paper.

  Finally, it was done. A derisive, merciless smile touched the artist’s mouth.

  Two

  SYDNEY CAHILL WAS determined not to cry.

  Crying made your eyes red and swollen.

  And it never helped.

  Despite her resolution, more hot tears welled. She grabbed a tissue and carefully patted her eyes dry. Swallowing jerkily, she leaned anxiously toward the mirror. Did she look dreadful? Soft black hair framed a face as delicate and translucent as porcelain. When Howard fell in love with her, he had told her she had skin as smooth as a gardenia. “Your hair, your eyes …” In her memory, his voice was soft, tender, loving.

  Now he was cold and aloof. Now his eyes didn’t follow her when she crossed the room. Now there were no more presents, no more surprises. Now he didn’t come to her.

  Frantically, she reached across her dresser for her jewel case. Opening it, her eyes darted from memento to memento. That jade pin, from Carl. The little intaglio ring of onyx, from Bruce. She smiled tremulously. Oh, that lovely butterfly pin, a golden filigree inset with crystals, from Bobby.

  Her breathing quieted. She picked up one piece, then another, remembering the giver and the love.

  Without warning, tears brimmed again, hiding the bright glitter of the stones, the glisten of the gold.

  Sydney snapped shut the jewel case and stumbled to her feet. She ran to her bath and splashed water on her face. Her reflection was blurred in the mirror. Gently, Sydney caressed her skin with the soft face towel and remembered the night that Howard had dried her body, wet from the hot tub, in a luxurious beach towel and …

  Love.

  Her heart cried out for love.

  Three

  JOEL GRAHAM TYPED slowly, clumsily. His dad had made him take typing last year instead of study hall. As usual, he had put forth as little effort as possible. Still, it had almost been worth the boring time it took, because his dad got him an Apple computer and Jesus, it did make school easier. Old hag-face Thompson, the typing teacher, was right about that. And all those neat games! Joel finished typing the title of the essay. The stupid required essay.

  AN EMBARRASSMENT OF ROCHES.

  He snickered and spaced back to make the correction.

  AN EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES.

  Mrs. Borelli made them write one goddam essay after another. And she picked the topics. So what was he going to write about? What did he have too much of?

  Then he thought what he had that probably not one other stud in the senior class had! Goddam, wouldn’t he love to write it all down. Women lusting for him. Older women. He could have them whenever he wanted. At least he could have until yesterday afternoon. That had been a hell of a deal. He still felt half mad, sending him home like he was a kid, his pants unzipped. But it had its funny side, too. He’d never forget the look on their faces. Two of them. Hot for his body! Be a hoot to write it all down. Mrs. Borelli would have a seizure.

  Joel moused the cursor backward, wrote:

  AN EMBARRASSMENT OF BITCHES.

  He moved uncomfortably in his chair. Shit, it made him horny. He glanced at the clock. Maybe he could get some later tonight.

  Four

  ANNIE LAURANCE DARLING was in a snit, which she thought she’d successfully concealed from her husband.

  It didn’t help her mood when Max grinned at her, that devil-may-care, damnably attractive grin, as they parted on the fog-shrouded boardwalk, each destined for his own establishment of business, and said cheerily, “Hope you feel better soon.”

  “I feel fine,” she’d retorted furiously.

  A benevolent smile, this time, which almost prompted her to explode, but she contained her outrage until she’d slammed shut the front door of Death on Demand, which rustled the line of decorative lace-edged red valentines strung above the center aisle.

  “Fine!” she said aloud. Her voice echoed down the central corridor of her beloved mystery bookstore. She flicked on the front lights.

  Tiny claws clicked against the polished heart pine floor and the new feline, Dorothy L., frolicked into view. She was already purring.

  Annie reached down to pick up the kitten, then paused as an awesome growl reverberated, competitive on a sound scale with a Peterbilt truck in fourth gear and straining.

  “Oh, Agatha,” Annie said sadly.

  Agatha crouched atop the bookcase devoted to Agatha Christie, for whom she was named. Amber eyes glowing with fury and heartbreak, the sleek, elegant black cat revved her growl another notch.

  Annie stepped toward the bookcase, hand outstretched. “Agatha, love, please don’t be so angry. Please. I still love you. You’re the Number One cat, the best cat, the prettiest black cat in the whole world!”

  A whip-quick paw, claws extended, snaked through the air, a livid scratch welled blood on the back of Annie’s hand, and a flash of ebony signaled Agatha’s abrupt departure into the darkness of the American Cozy area, between the south wall and a row of diagonal bookcases.

  Dorothy L. twined around Annie’s ankles, her good humor undiminished by the older cat’s rage.

>   Annie grabbed a Kleenex from the box behind the cash desk and pressed it against the bleeding scratch, then sighed, scooped up the kitten, and started down the central aisle to the back of Death on Demand. Her goal was the coffee bar, which also, most importantly to felines, was the feeding area.

  “Agatha doesn’t mean to be ugly, Dorothy L. But she’s heartbroken. You see, she was the only cat. She’s dreadfully jealous of you.”

  Dorothy L., her purr a paean of happiness, wiggled from Annie’s hand and wobbled up her arm to poke a tiny pink nose in her ear.

  Putting the kitten down behind the coffee bar, Annie opened a can most succulently labeled CHOICE CUTS AND CHEESE, which she apportioned into two bowls. “Agatha, come here. Breakfast time.”

  Agatha, of course, didn’t come. As Cleveland Amory explains so clearly in his delightful book, cats don’t “come.”

  “You don’t want to cut off your nose to spite your face,” Annie called as she measured water and coffee.

  No Agatha.

  “Agatha, it’s childish and silly to be jealous.”

  No Agatha. Dorothy L. finished her bowl and stepped to the second.

  “And you’re going to be rotund. You can’t eat for two cats.” Scooping up the fluffy white kitten, Annie carried her back up the center aisle, tucked her on an afghan behind the checkout counter, and went in search of Agatha.

  She found her finally, hunkered beneath the delicate fronds of a Whitmanii fern.

  Agatha would not be cajoled, entreated, or enticed, ignoring even a fresh offering of salmon. The look in her burning eyes would have daunted even Nero Wolfe.

  Defeated, Annie walked morosely to the coffee bar. She studied the shelves filled with mugs. Upon each mug was inscribed the title of a famous mystery. Annie picked up NO HERO, in honor of John P. Marquand’s first Mr. Moto book, because Annie clearly was no hero to a certain enraged cat. She poured a cup of Kahlúa Fudge. But not even the sinfully delicious brew could lift her spirits. Annie felt like a criminal, a betrayer, a heartbreaker. And anybody who didn’t think a cat could be jealous, unforgivingly, furiously, pitiably jealous, just didn’t know much about cats.

  Or people, came the insidious thought.

  She was not jealous.

  Of course not.

  She was too mature, too certain of her relationship with Max ever to harbor the faintest inkling of jealousy.

  Agatha stalked into view, her eyes seeking the hated kitten. Reaching the bowls, she sniffed, growled again, low in her throat, then bit into her food.

  “Don’t growl and eat,” Annie warned. “It will ruin your digestion.”

  Agatha ate, growled, ate, growled.

  Annie sipped her coffee.

  “It isn’t the same thing at all,” she told Agatha conversationally. But Annie’s innate honesty wouldn’t let that pass. “All right,” she added irritably. “Maybe you have a point, Agatha.”

  The parallels were too clear.

  Agatha had been secure in her world until the abrupt, heart-stopping advent of a competitor for Annie’s affection and attention. Annie’s soothing explanations that Dorothy L. was a foundling, an abandoned waif, helpless in the alley behind Death on Demand meant absolutely nothing to Agatha.

  There were substantial differences in the two situations.

  “I mean, I know Max isn’t interested. I mean, it isn’t his fault that witch lives next door. And I’m not a jealous person.”

  Even as she spoke, however, she felt hot all over, reliving the blaze of anger that had swept over her that morning.

  It was so outrageous. There she and Max were, enjoying an early breakfast outside on their patio, taking delight in the changing landscape as the fog rolled in. It was a very private patio, so they’d felt quite comfortable to be outdoors in their nightclothes, she in a shorty cotton gown, Max in his boxer shorts and a T-shirt. Luscious in his boxer shorts. And up sauntered their next-door neighbor, Sydney Cahill, in a damn peach negligee just millimeters shy of sheer. At seven o’clock in the morning! Annie’s mood was not improved by the fact that Sydney, whose mammillary endowment was spectacular, had to be the best-looking woman on Broward’s Rock Island. On the island, hell! On the entire coast of South Carolina! And she’d had the temerity not only to join them, but to drape herself in the chair next to Max and lean close as she talked to him, revealing magnificent cleavage. Deliberately. Provocatively. With Annie sitting there!

  “Outrageous!” Annie snapped aloud. “As far as she was concerned, I might as well have been a damn palm tree!”

  Agatha’s shoulders tensed.

  “But I’m not jealous!” Annie insisted to glittery-eyed Agatha.

  She reached down, tried to rub behind Agatha’s ears. A truly horrendous growl erupted. Annie yanked back her hand to avoid bared teeth.

  What a mess—an inconsolable cat and an irresistible husband who thought the wiles of a predatory female were fanny! And a commitment to go to a party—tonight—where that witch could fling herself at Max again. Sydney was, after all, going to be their hostess and one could not ignore one’s hostess.

  Funny! What was funny about a gorgeous woman in a see-through negligee taking a dead set at someone’s husband at the veritable crack of dawn? And Annie couldn’t deny Sydney’s beauty. Sydney was hauntingly lovely: enormous, soulful emerald-green eyes, hair so richly black it glistened like a moonlight-silvered midnight sea, a striking face remarkable for deep-set eyes, hollow cheeks, and tremulous, vulnerable mouth.

  Annie didn’t have to look in a mirror to tot up her own attributes—sandy hair, serious gray eyes, a nice-enough nose sprinkled with freckles, a stubborn jaw. Fresh and wholesome, sure.

  But not glamorous, by any means.

  The phone rang.

  Annie wondered if she would always give a slight start at Ma Bell’s peal. Would she forever associate the telephone with her mother-in-law? Not that she didn’t adore Laurel. But there was always the possibility—even Max had to admit it—that a call from his mother presaged difficulties, of one sort or another. Not that Laurel ever intended to cause trouble. Oh no. Laurel meant well.

  Annie pondered the ringing phone. Three, four. Ingrid, her wonderful assistant, wouldn’t be in until after lunch. Actually, the work load didn’t require two of them, but Annie insisted that Ingrid come. February afternoons were too quiet and she and Ingrid could plan special events for summer when the tourists would be there in force. The island didn’t exactly teem with visitors in February, despite the Chamber of Commerce’s optimistic christening of the winter doldrums as the Adventure Season. However, it truly was the best time of year for shell seekers, and Max assured her that February was a fisherman’s delight, flounder and spottail bass plentiful in the salt marsh creeks, plus lots of cobia and black and red drum. Thirty-five miles offshore at the Snapper Banks, fishing was good for black sea bass. And sixty-five miles out in the Atlantic was the Gulf Stream with plenty of fighting game fish—marlin, sailfish, wahoo, dolphin, and barracuda. This year the world’s weather pattern was screwy and it had been uncommonly warm, which accounted for this morning’s fog. Amber billows of fog normally wreathed the island in March. Seven, eight.

  Annie lifted the receiver. “Death on Demand.” Annie considered Death on Demand to be quite the most perfect name for a mystery bookstore. Admittedly, there were many mystery bookstores around the country with marvelous names: Grounds for Murder in San Diego, The Scene of the Crime in Los Angeles, The Footprints of a Gigantic Hound in Tucson, The Raven in Lawrence, Scotland Yard in Winnetka, Criminal Proceedings in Milwaukee, Once Upon a Crime in Minneapolis, Whodunit in Philadelphia, Booked for Murder in Madison, The Butler Did It in Baltimore, Murder Undercover in Cambridge, and the original Murder Ink in New York.

  But nothing topped Death on Demand.

  “Annie, my sweet, I do sometimes feel that we are led.”

  Annie’s hand tightened spasmodically on the receiver. God. Was she turning psychic? No. Absolutely not. She didn’t believe
in that nonsense. She’d merely thought about Laurel when the phone rang because Max’s mother called a lot. So why shouldn’t it be Laurel?

  The husky, unforgettable voice—a mixture of Lauren Bacall, Marlene Dietrich, and wood nymph—gamboled over the line. “Providential, I have no doubt. Do you know what I think?”

  Annie might predict the next president, prognosticate about Edgar and Agatha awards, even foretell the gyrations of the stock market, but she would never, ever presume to hazard a guess at the dizzy twists and turns of her mother-in-law’s mind.

  Despite the little quiver of apprehension always present in any dealings with Laurel, Annie began to smile. “No, Laurel, what do you think?”

  “The work of Saint Valentine, of course.”

  Had she missed something? Annie shook her head a little, but it didn’t help. She was reduced, as was often the case, to helpless repetition. “Saint Valentine?”

  “Of course. Can there be any doubt? After all, it is Saint Valentine’s Day. I did think it was quite unkind that he was dropped from the Calendar of Saints. Along with Saint Christopher. Such a disappointment for travelers. But we all know about Saint Valentine. And I, for one, shall always believe in him. And today has only reaffirmed my faith. Oh my dear, to have one’s heart sing! Even I, experienced in love as I am …”

  As the husky voice flowed on, Annie raised a jaundiced brow. She met Agatha’s dark gaze and held up five fingers, for Laurel’s five marriages. Experienced, indeed. Of course, she had to be careful in her comments to Max. He always smiled fondly: “Mother,” he would muse, “is so romantic.”

  Yeah.

  “… the handsomest man—well, perhaps not the very handsomest. There was that darling young man on Crete. But,” and Laurel’s tone was brisk, “the past is past. But today, when he walked out of the fog—”

  A presentiment, so beloved of gothic heroines from Wilkie Collin’s Rachel Verinder to Victoria Holt’s Martha Leigh, electrified Annie. Fog. Fog? Grasping at the faintest of hopes, she asked, “Is it foggy in Connecticut, too?”