by Carolyn Hart
Shell Hurst had called at eight seventeen A.M.
• • •
Shell Hurst automatically counted the strokes as she brushed her hair… Forty-five… forty-six… As always, her reflection in the mirror pleased her, glistening chestnut hair, smooth gardenia-petal complexion, large green eyes, straight nose, full lips, firm chin. She scarcely needed makeup, her eyebrows naturally dark, her long eyelashes the envy of other women. She favored a light coral lip gloss.
Today was going to be very satisfying. She looked forward to seeing proud, arrogant, dismissive people squirm. Most delicious of all was the fact that she had nothing to lose. Her prenup was solid. No wiggle room for Wesley there. She’d been careful about that. But he was just a stop along her way. The days of cramped living in a trailer in Bakersfield were a distant memory. She’d been smart enough when she got to Hollywood to know that beauty wasn’t enough and she didn’t have enough skill as an actress. But she was skilled enough to play the role of aspiring ingenue with Bucky Hurst, who was as bogus a producer as she was an actress. She’d figured from the first that bald-headed, burly Bucky was all blow and no show, but he had money. He’d been too wary to ever agree to marriage, but her investment paid off handsomely when he brought her to the island. Henpecked Wesley had been ripe for the picking. Last night Wesley had about collapsed when she told him she knew all about his secret little meetings with Vera. She had him in a sweat. And some others, too. She’d warned each of them that she intended to make some public announcements at the dance. Their reactions had been highly entertaining. Tonight she would hold all the strings in her hands. The puppets would move at her direction, Wesley and his oh-so-perfect ex-wife, Dave who’d been easy to seduce and never realized he was simply a means of provoking Maggie, who’d treated her like pond scum because of Vera, pompous little Edward who had made a fatal error in judgment. Would she jerk the strings or let them dangle?
• • •
Annie Darling felt haunted by the old adage: Be careful what you wish for. Yes, she wanted to have the best, most successful mystery bookstore north of Delray Beach. Yes, she wanted to hear ka-ching ka-ching as vacationers bought beach books. This summer had some sizzlers: The Big Cat Nap by Rita Mae Brown, What Doesn’t Kill You by Iris Johansen, 50% Off Murder by Josie Belle, Miss Julia to the Rescue by Ann B. Ross, and The Cat, the Wife, and the Weapon by Leann Sweeney. Yes, she wanted to celebrate holidays. Yes, she wanted to dance the night away with the handsomest man in the room. Tonight he would wear a white dinner jacket. Her knees turned to water when she saw Max in a white dinner jacket, Joe Hardy all grown up and sexy as hell.
But maybe, just maybe—she drew a deep calming breath—her plate was too full. Nose-peeling tourists who’d neglected to reapply sunscreen packed Death on Demand, and all of them were suckers for the Fourth of July display in the front window featuring Murder on Parade by Jessica Fletcher and Donald Bain, Exit Wounds by J. A. Jance, Star Spangled Murder by Leslie Meier, Iron Ties by Ann Parker, and Can’t Never Tell by Cathy Pickens.
“Annie, I can’t find that special order for Emma.” Ingrid Webb, narrow face imploring, spoke in a tone of doom above the hubbub wafting from the coffee bar, including a Marlene Dietrich–husky voice crooning “Come on-a My House.” Speaking of things wished for… Annie added to her tally. Yes, she wanted her lively, sparkling, always unpredictable mother-in-law to be happy. Laurel, a blond beauty who attracted men from nine to ninety, rarely passed a day without originating something totally surprising to those around her. But Laurel’s decision to strum her guitar (who knew Laurel played the guitar?) and sing haunting melodies (only Laurel could make a Rosemary Clooney hit seductive as a lace teddy) several evenings a week in the Death on Demand coffee bar—for free, of course—was way too much of a good thing.
Max was no help. When Annie tried tactfully to suggest that perhaps dear Laurel was too generous with her time and shouldn’t feel compelled to come in so often, he’d gazed at her with dark blue eyes reminiscent of his mother’s. “Not to worry. She’s having the time of her life and look at the crowds!”
Annie had resisted the impulse to point out that the crowds were all male and they took up all the tables in the coffee bar and they weren’t interested in books. They were interested… But some things were better left unsaid to a man about his mother.
“The order for Emma.” Ingrid’s voice was anguished, stricken by the possibility of riling Emma Clyde, the island’s famous mystery writer and staunch patron of Death on Demand. Emma was an irascible force of nature when her expectations were not met, blue eyes icy and strong jaw jutting.
Annie was counting. “… and five makes twenty.” She waggled a hand at Ingrid to indicate she’d address the missing order in a moment. Annie flashed a welcoming smile at the next in line. The smile changed from automatic to warm when she recognized Police Officer Hyla Harrison. “Hey, Hyla.”
Hyla was as no-nonsense in her leisure clothes, a white short-sleeve cotton blouse, khaki shorts, and white sandals, as when attired in a crisp French blue Broward’s Rock police uniform. As always her carroty hair was drawn back in a neat ponytail, her freckled face composed and reserved, but her quick smile was sweet. “Hey, Annie.”
“Ready for the holiday?” As she spoke, Annie was also listening to Ingrid’s plea, “Emma’s on her way and I can’t find the book!” Annie entered Hyla’s selections: I’m a Fool to Kill You by Robert Randisi, Blindside by Ed Gorman, Dead Low Tide by Bret Lott, The Retribution by Val McDermid, and One Blood by Graeme Kent.
“I don’t go on duty until ten tonight. The chief’s beefing up the night patrols. Lots of booze on the Fourth. We’re ready.”
Annie made change and slid Hyla’s books into her cotton book bag. “Those are great titles.”
Hyla tapped the Death on Demand logo on the black cotton bag, a silver knife with a dot of red blood at the tip. “Crime in books”—sharp emphasis—“is okay. They always catch the perp. I’m glad the store is keeping you busy.”
As Hyla turned away, Annie nodded at Ingrid. “I’ll look for Emma’s order if you’ll take over for me.”
Annie wormed her way down the center aisle toward the back of the store. She felt a tickle of amusement. Clearly, Hyla was inferring that Annie on the loose posed a danger to the public safety of Broward’s Rock. It wasn’t Annie’s fault that sometimes she became entangled in people’s problems. After all, good citizens assisted the police if it was within their power to do so. Annie felt sure that Hyla could rest easy and enjoy her stack of excellent books when she got off duty tonight. Annie was much too busy to get involved in anybody else’s trouble. Between the summer tourist crush at the store and her mother-in-law’s presence, which lured nonbuyers (of books, any one of them would be eager to purchase dinner, drinks, and very likely sweet mementos for Laurel), she scarcely had time for anything else.
Which reminded her of the table centerpieces for tonight’s July fourth dance at the club. She and Max were in charge of decorating the tables. It was already a quarter past six and she needed to dash home, dress, carry pots of red, white, and blue carnations from the coolness of the house to her trunk, and arrive at the club in time to place pots, each with a decorative American flag, on the tables that rimmed three walls of the dance floor.
Flowers… car… book… dance club… She dashed into the storeroom, scanning the metal shelving with special orders. Nothing on the A-B-C shelf. Uh-oh. Emma Clyde would not be pleased if her special order wasn’t found. She, too, would be at the country club tonight, though not attending the Fourth of July dance of the Lady Luck Dance Club. She was hosting a small dinner party to celebrate the birthday of Henny Brawley, who was both a close friend and Emma’s sharpest competition in the monthly contest at the bookstore to identify the books pictured in watercolors above the mantel in the coffee bar. Henny was a mystery expert as well as a gifted amateur actress and active in island charities and clubs.
Annie practiced deep breathing and began a s
low, careful, not panicked, certainly not, survey of the storeroom. Her patience was rewarded when she spotted an oblong package wrapped in layers of tissue on the P-Q-R shelf. She carefully unwrapped the book and, ta-da, here it was, a first edition of The Circular Staircase by Mary Roberts Rinehart. A summer employee had deposited the book by author’s name rather than purchaser. Annie couldn’t resist carefully turning the pages for a glimpse of the color frontispiece by Lester Ralph with a filmy, still-perfect tissue guard. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous.
She felt a swirl of delight, one of those lovely moments in life when everything is right. Henny and (thankfully) Emma would be happy tonight as well as Ingrid, who would be ecstatic with relief when Annie handed over the collectible. Sales were going to top last year at midsummer. Now Annie could race home, change into a cocktail dress, and soon dance the night away in the arms of the handsomest man in the room.
2
Color spots illuminated the dance floor. Max Darling took pleasure in the ease with which he and Annie moved together in a sinuous tango. As they walk-stepped through a silver spot, he enjoyed the glimpse of her filmy chiffon dress that emphasized the deep true gray of her eyes and the sun streaks in her sandy hair. But he also glimpsed a poignant awareness that their happiness wasn’t shared by all.
In a dusky vale between spots, he murmured, “The night is young and so are we. Let it go.” They turned and stepped, turned and stepped.
“Honestly, why did he even come?” Annie was looking toward the bar, one area of brightness.
Wesley Hurst hunched at one end of the temporary bar. He held a half-full glass in his hand. He looked toward the main doorway, his usually affable face drawn and weary. His bow tie was uneven and his red cummerbund looked bunched. Of course, it always helped a guy to have a lovely lady on hand to straighten and admire.
“Where is she?” Annie’s cool tone left no doubt about her feelings toward Shell Hurst, Wesley’s current wife.
If Wesley’s face foretold the future, Max doubted the marriage would last much longer. “Timing her entrance, of course.”
Annie’s nose wrinkled. They half turned together as the band played the haunting and subtly erotic “El Choclo.”
“Since when do couples arrive separately? We’ve been here an hour and not a trace of her.”
Max grinned. “The better to heighten suspense.”
“Why did he dump Vera for her?”
Max’s answer was light. “Stupidity.” He spun Annie to his right and her dress swirled and then they were lost in the beat and the rhythm.
• • •
Annie sat alone, watching the dancers. The other couples at their table were on the dance floor. Max eased around the next table and arrived triumphantly with their drinks. Tonight she’d opted for a Tom Collins. Max always preferred beer and he carried a glass foaming with a Full Sail Amber from a Savannah brewery. Annie smiled her thanks and took a refreshing sip. She was ready to enjoy a quiet moment and savor the evening. She wasn’t sure she liked the colored ceiling spots that left most of the room in semidarkness, including the tables where her lovely centerpieces looked like shadowy clumps.
Usually three chandeliers shed creamy light. She liked seeing people’s faces and noticing other women’s dresses. Most of the women chose cocktail dresses or evening slacks with dressy tops, though occasionally a woman appeared in a gown. Annie hummed as the band played “In the Misty Moonlight.” As couples moved near the perimeter of the floor, they passed for a moment beneath a red spot. Elaine Jamison was slender and lovely in a raspberry stretch crepe sheath. She smiled up at Burl Field. They planned a September wedding. Island newcomers Don Thornwall, the retired navy captain, and his wife, Joyce, seemed equally happy as they whirled by. Maggie and Dave Peterson were next.
Annie’s delight in watching the dancers ebbed. It would take time before she forgot Maggie’s strained expression, eyes staring, cheekbones prominent, body rigid in her husband’s embrace. Dave’s heavy face was somber. He seemed oblivious to his wife. His gaze was searching. They danced away into darkness. She had the same thought as when she’d noted Wesley Hurst’s glum face. Why come? What brought unhappy people to a party?
Max settled next to her, looked at her quizzically. “I left to go to the bar and you were having fun. I come back and you look forlorn.”
“Did you see the Petersons?”
“More candidates for marriage counseling?” Max took a deep swallow of his beer, glanced toward the floor.
“They looked grim.”
Max shrugged. “That’s their problem. Here’s to us.” He lifted his glass.
The band always took a short break at nine. Tonight the break was earlier, about a quarter to nine. The dances usually ended at ten. Tonight the last dance was scheduled for nine forty-five because the fireworks would start at ten. The dance before the break ended, before the musicians rose, before any sound or movement distracted, a French door swung open and Shell Hurst stepped inside from the terrace just as the chandelier lights illuminated the room.
Max looked sardonic. “Like I said, waiting to make an entrance.”
Shining chestnut hair fell in an enticing swoop down one side of her face, was drawn back on the other, emphasizing the swaying grace of the large silver loop earring in her visible ear. Only Shell could have worn the spectacular dress and not been overmatched. Instead, she and the dress molded together, the brushstroke-print silk caftan exquisite and dramatic. The caftan covered her shoulders and arms, swept to the ground, and that reticence emphasized the plunging V of a neckline that touched the black band at her waist. Black banding marked the flowing sleeves and the caftan side seams and the hem.
There was an instant of silence like the hitch in an old-fashioned reel film.
Before the soundless moment could end, Shell’s silvery laugh rang out. “Sorry to be late, everybody. I took a walk on the beach. To think things through. Lots of decisions to make. Oh, there you are, Wesley, right by the bar. You can bring me a drink. Then I’ll say hello to all my special friends.”
Wesley was still near the bar, face hard. He gazed at her as if she were a stranger. His tie was even farther askew as if he’d yanked at the collar. Now his glass was empty.
In the sudden brightness of the overhead lights, some dancers streamed toward the tables, some toward the terrace for a moment in the moonlight. The usual rumble of men’s voices and light high chatter of women began.
Joyce Thornwall, flushed from dancing, slipped into a chair across from Annie. “I suppose he’s embarrassed. Aren’t the Hursts tonight’s host couple?”
One couple served as hosts at each Lady Luck dance. Their primary duty was to welcome couples brought as guests. A second couple—this time Annie and Max—were responsible for the centerpieces. The club provided tablecloths and napkins. A buffet was provided for dinner at seven fifteen. Dancing began at eight.
Annie put two and two together. Wesley Hurst was probably angry at Shell’s late arrival and that accounted for his dour presence at the bar. But, as Max had pointed out, the night was young and so were they, and it was time to think about fun. Joyce Thornwall, always adroit and charming, leaned across the table. “I wanted to tell you how much I’m enjoying that clever series about the young royal.”
Annie smiled happily, “Rhys Bowen’s a wonderful writer. She writes another terrific series set in turn-of-the-century New York City.” Annie felt happy, talking about books she loved. She veered to other favorite authors of historical mysteries: Sharan Newman, Kathy Lynn Emerson, Sheldon N. Russell, Jacqueline Winspear, Charles Todd. She had scarcely tasted her drink when the band returned and once again she was on the floor with Max.
Near the bar, Annie looked over Max’s shoulder at Eileen and Edward Irwin as they took the floor when the band returned. Eileen was statuesque in a long-sleeve black blouse with gold sequins and dressy black slacks. Her silk shawl swayed as they danced. Annie gave a slight head shake. The black shawl with its fiery dragon mo
tif was a mistake. A bit too much glitz for a woman as pale as Eileen. A white or silver blouse and shawl would have been better. Annie found Eileen austere and daunting. Ice blond hair drawn back from her face emphasized the severity of her features, high forehead, straight nose, prim mouth. She danced with her husband but she might as well have moved alone. Shorter than Eileen, Edward looked as if he was enduring the dance, his rounded face solemn.
Shell Hurst came from out of the darkness into the patch of light by the bar. Her expressive face was amused. “Edward, I haven’t had a moment alone with you and my heart is breaking.” She placed a possessive hand on his arm. “Eileen, you will let me borrow him for a dance, won’t you? Wesley isn’t in a dancing mood tonight and my toes are tapping.”
Eileen and Edward stopped. Other couples flowed around them and Shell.
Edward looked stricken. Suddenly he seemed to shrink, rounded shoulders drooping.
Eileen managed an icy smile. “Of course.” She slipped free of Edward and turned toward the tables, her shawl fluttering.
Edward stared after her, his eyes huge behind the lens of his glasses. His mouth sagged open.
Shell stepped near, placed one hand on his shoulder. The other lifted his arm. “Let’s not waste our moment.” And her carefree laughter could be heard after they moved into the dimness between spots.
Annie stared. Occasionally couples switched partners. It was more customary to dance with your husband or wife. The tempo of the music increased as the band segued into a cha-cha version of “As Time Goes By.” No one else appeared to have noticed the quick exchange of partners, which was not surprising as dancers focused on the rhythmic triple step.
Max twirled Annie to a stop near the open windows to the terrace. “There’s something about a cha-cha,” he murmured, opening a French door to the terrace.