Death at the Door

by Carolyn Hart

Max pressed his face against her hair. His voice was muffled. “When I heard the shot—” He broke off.

  Annie pulled back a little, looked up into his stricken face. “Hey.” She spoke quickly, reassuringly, “I’m okay. Thanks to Billy.”

  Billy’s strong voice came from behind her. “Max found you. He used the app, spotted your cell phone.”

  Max reached out, gripped Billy’s arm. “You listened to me. You came.”

  Billy looked from one to the other. “When I stop listening to my gut, I’ll know it’s time to quit. Annie said she was coming to tell me who killed Paul. Annie told Mavis she knew. I never doubted her.”

  16

  Annie studied the shelf of Christie titles. The store was pleasantly full of afternoon customers, an ordinary day in October. The kind of ordinary day and days she’d come near to losing. She pushed away the image in her mind of Kate Murray, hair disheveled, pain etched in her face from the burn of a flesh wound suffered in the scuffle with police, pain and despair as she realized that David had been captured.

  More than a week had passed. Annie still woke in the night, breaking out of hag-ridden dreams of a once-beautiful room filled with menace. The week had been tumultuous, the arrest of David Corley on three counts of first-degree murder, the arrest of Kate Murray for conspiracy and attempted murder.

  Gazette coverage stated that a duly Miranda-warned David Corley had talked and talked and a full confession had been obtained. Kate Murray, on the other hand, declined to answer questions, though her attorney had released a statement in which she denied knowledge of the crimes and insisted she’d acted under duress in holding Annie Darling hostage. As Marian Kenyon had regaled listeners at the Pink Parrot: “Of course that doesn’t explain why she had a gun and shot at Annie, but we’ll see what happens at the trial.”

  Annie concentrated on the titles. She wanted a Christie, a book that would enfold her in warmth and laughter, an out-of-the-ordinary imaginative tale. Perhaps Cat Among the Pigeons. Or Secret Adversary. She knelt and her hand moved to The Man in the Brown Suit.

  Hurried steps slapped up the aisle. A pair of scuffed brown loafers stood unmoving by her knee. Marian Kenyon’s raspy voice sounded as morose as a foghorn. “Story of the year and I can’t use it. My God, they could have their fifteen minutes of fame.”

  Annie picked out the book and stood. “What story?”

  “A feel-good story.” Marian’s dark eyes looked like a spaniel deprived of a favorite toy. “Everybody disses newspapers, says why do we have to print bad stuff all the time. They don’t know how much we love sweetie-pie stories, the blind dog who finds his way to safety across miles of ice in Alaska, the chicken who clucks and wakes the family when the house is on fire, the cat who sleeps with a canary. And I track one down and will anybody talk? Hell no. So I’m going to tell you. I kind of have a feeling you’re the reason it happened.”

  “Would a great big cappuccino with whipped cream and a cherry help?”

  “Better than nada.” Marian scuffed morosely down the center aisle.

  Annie worked coffee magic behind the counter, brought two mugs to a table, slid into a chair opposite Marian. “So what did I do?”

  Marian dunked the cherry in the whipped cream, took a bite. “You got Billy to send out Lou to talk to that distant cousin of Jane Corley’s who was all upset in the receiving line at Jane’s funeral. Well, people like to unload about this and that, especially at the Pink Parrot. An unnamed mutual friend was there one night and the talk got around to people with raw deals and he said it was sure a shame how Jane Corley died before she could help out a nice woman who really needed help. Long and short of it, word got back to Frankie Ford. She talked to Tom Edmonds. They checked around, found out the deal, and damned if Tom isn’t going to relinquish his share in Jane’s estate to Margaret Randall. All he’s keeping are his own artworks and the contents of the studio. In fact, he rented a U-Haul and he and Frankie have already left the island for Atlanta. This means Margaret Randall can get the bone marrow treatment for her husband and besides that she’ll be as rich as can be and everybody says she’s a wonderful person and the family is rock solid. Her husband had a garage until he got too sick to work. One son is a sergeant in the army, a daughter is a nurse in Cleveland, and another son is a small farmer over near Bluffton. Now, can’t you see what a great story I could have written? It would have been picked up by AP. But none of them want any publicity. Don’t they understand how much those kinds of stories mean to people?”

  Annie reached out and gave Marian a quick hug. “I’m sorry you didn’t get your coast-to-coast story but you’ve made me happy. Maybe that counts for something.”

  • • •

  Despite the Closed sign hanging in the door of Death on Demand, light spilled cheerfully across the coffee area. Max Darling made the rounds, depositing hot fresh coffee of choice: mocha cream for Annie, cappuccino for Laurel, raspberry-flavored latte for Henny, double espresso for Emma. He took a seat next to Annie, holding a mug of Colombian juiced with an ounce of Baileys Irish whiskey and topped with whipped cream. He maneuvered his chair until his knee pressed against Annie’s.

  Her smile was quick, her eyes held a promise.

  “So strong.” Laurel gave Annie a swift glance as she strummed a chord on her guitar. “What an arm you must have.” In a husky voice she began to sing a Johnny Cash song.

  Annie said lightly, “I’m the Popeye of booksellers.”

  Henny Brawley smiled. “You never thought when you pitched on the plains that a well-aimed throw would disable a woman ready to shoot.”

  Max tilted his chair back, looked expansive. “Annie beaned a bad guy once when I thought I was going to be blown away. It’s not her first good pitch. The motto: Never trifle with a Sandie.” Max’s tone was light, but his glance at her held remembered horror when the cell phone rang and she didn’t answer it.

  Three faces looked puzzled.

  “Sandie?” Laurel repeated.

  Annie laughed. “The Amarillo High School Golden Sandstorms. Or the Sandies.”

  Emma downed half the espresso. “I’ll have to remember softball the next time Marigold saves the inspector.” Then she frowned, sighed. “Actually I don’t think Marigold could toss a beanbag much less a pool ball. But, all is not lost.”

  Everyone looked at her attentively.

  “Lost?” murmured Laurel. “I’d say nothing was lost. Our dear Annie is safe. Frankie is free. She and Tom will someday make a match. I understand they’ve already left the island. Of course, much is lost for Madeleine Corley. I fear she glimpsed her husband on the terrace that day. She carries a great burden even though she did hurry to Sherry, possibly to warn her. I imagine the psychic toll was enormous and that’s why she took refuge in her bed, terrified that she might be accused, not knowing which way to turn, and frozen by the fear that he might realize she was afraid of him and kill her, too.”

  Emma cleared her throat.

  Obediently, they all looked at her.

  “When I say lost, I meant that Marigold may not heave a baseball—rather unsubtle, in any event—but definitely she can look for the man who thought too far ahead. David Corley planned every move, outwitted everyone, but in the end that was what brought him down—he created an alibi when no one knew an alibi would be needed.”

  Henny lifted her mug in a toast. “To Annie, who in true Texas fashion kept on keeping on and uncovered a trail that led to a killer.”

  Mugs rose.

  “Hear, hear,” cried Laurel.

  “And further, here’s to Emma, who chose this month’s watercolors.” Henny’s smile wasn’t quite patronizing. “Of course, I’ve pinned them down. All Sales Fatal by Laura DiSilverio, Spice ’N Deadly by Gail Oust, A Killing at Cotton Hill by Terry Shames, Bones of a Feather by Carolyn Haines, and Dog in the Manger by Mike Resnick.”

  Emma attempted a graciou
s smile.