by Carolyn Hart
“Cool it,” she said aloud as she unlocked the front door to Death on Demand. Her subconscious thumbed its nose, muttering, People don’t just disappear into thin air. Annie ignored the mutter and concentrated on the tasks that lay ahead. She had a half hour before the store opened at ten to check e-mails, orders, arrivals, and possibly open and shelve several boxes of books, including new titles by Rita Mae Brown and Cleo Coyle. Next month there would be a signing for Emma Clyde. The island mystery author was nothing if not prolific. She was still writing two books a year. Annie felt a qualm. It was getting harder to round up people to attend a signing for Emma. In January, Annie had combined the signing with a luncheon. Emma had been grudgingly pleased with the turnout. In late summer many people they knew were on holiday. She would make a note to remind herself to call regular customers. She could offer a discount on books bought that evening… It would be helpful to know when Shell last used her cell phone.
Annie stepped inside, wrinkling her nose at the familiar and delightful scent of new books and old. She turned on the lights and the overhead circular fans. She loved the light swish as they revolved. At the dance, Shell timed her entrance for maximum effect. Annie took a moment to glance at a new display by the cash desk. The top three slots in the cardboard display stand featured Emma’s newest, The Case of the Charismatic Cat. The lower slots featured The Last Minute by Jeff Abbott, Some Like It Hawk by Donna Andrews, As the Pig Turns by M. C. Beaton, and Wicked Autumn by G. M. Malliet. Maybe a ten percent discount on these titles for everyone attending Emma’s signing next month—
A sharp nip at her ankle was a reminder that Agatha, the world’s most gorgeous, imperious, and regal bookstore cat, didn’t hold with lollygagging around when it was feeding time.
Annie looked down at her glossy black feline, but she started moving at the same time. No one could say she wasn’t cat trained. “Sorry, Agatha. Just for a teeny minute I wasn’t thinking about you.”
Agatha was right behind her. Any instant sharp incisors might clip her bare heel. Annie refused to admit that she was running, but her sandals slapped against the floor. She reached the coffee bar, skidded around the end, and retrieved Agatha’s bowl. Why did Shell and Wesley arrive separately?
Agatha landed lightly atop the counter. Her green eyes gleamed, her tail switched.
Annie measured out kitty salmon, placed the bowl in front of Agatha. She’d swab the counter with Clorox wipes later. Removing an irritated Agatha to the floor wasn’t an option. By the time Annie had made a cappuccino, Agatha was content.
Annie came around the counter, settled at one of the tables. She should be doing many things, but she’d relax and enjoy a peaceful moment. Wesley Hurst had too much to drink that night. Determinedly, Annie looked up at five watercolors hanging above the fireplace. One of the store’s most popular promotions was the monthly contest to identify the title and author featured in each painting. It would, she thought regretfully, be even more popular if someone other than Emma Clyde and Henny Brawley would occasionally win. That wouldn’t be the case this month due to Annie’s clever ploy of inviting Henny to suggest titles to the artist, thus removing Henny from the competition.
Henny had enthusiastically complied. However, she had succumbed to the temptation of choosing books with, Annie feared, the sole goal of exposing Emma Clyde as deficient in her knowledge of the mystery genre. In fact, Henny had slid a triumphant look at Emma when she’d said oh-so-casually, “You may want to sit this one out, Emma, since it requires a knowledge of earlier best-selling authors,” the clear implication being that Henny truly knew the mystery field and Emma did not. The result, of course, was a flash of bloodlust in Emma’s eyes as she gruffly replied, “No one knows more about mysteries than I do.” The gauntlet was flung. Emma was determined to provide the answers.
In fact, Emma had taken to arriving every morning, ordering a double shot of espresso, and pacing back and forth beneath the watercolors, muttering to herself.
Henny had added insult to injury in midmonth by adding publication dates beneath each title, saying again oh-so-casually, “This may help readers who are mystery challenged.”
Annie herself didn’t know the titles and authors. She was pretty sure she’d figured out the answers for paintings one, three, and four. Two and five had her stumped. She looked up at the watercolors.
In the first painting, fog swirled around the London cab stopped on cobbled stones. The headlights scarcely penetrated the mist. The cab’s dim interior light revealed a smallish round gentleman in evening dress slumped against the cushions, a dark bruise on his temple. Standing at the open rear door, his intelligent, sensitive face mirroring recognition, a handsome man stared in shock at the dead passenger. 1938.
In the second painting, a hand holding an automatic poked through parted velvet curtains into a small, cozy living room that contained deep armchairs and a table with a plate of ham and cheese and tankards of beer. A brown-haired, slim, midthirties man in a double-breasted blue suit stared in shock as blood streaked the head of a taller man standing near the mantel above a gas fire, and a third man slowly collapsed to the floor. 1946.
In the third painting, a large, imposing woman, conservatively and tastefully dressed, stood among the tables in a seedy nightclub, midway between the back bar and front staircase. She held open a fur coat, offering cover for a beautiful young blonde wearing a red cloak that reached only to her thighs, and little else. 1949.
In the fourth painting, the figure inching up the side of a château wall, high above ground, was a dark shadow, gray sweater, gray flannel trousers, and form-fitting gray leather slippers almost indistinguishable from gray stone. The man moved fluidly, one hand reaching higher to search, patiently and carefully, for a crevice, enough for a fingerhold to ease higher toward the overhanging eave. 1953.
In the fifth painting, a dark-haired young woman, tears of joy streaming down her face, rushed across the courtroom to the counsel table to hug the ruggedly handsome, broad-shouldered man just picking up his briefcase. A border beneath the scene featured small inset drawings of a shoe box with the lid askew and greenbacks visible, heavy dark glasses, a folding wheelchair, and a swarm of teenage boys cleaning a sedan. 1961.
Annie finished her cappuccino. Why wasn’t Wesley Hurst trying to find his wife? As she washed the mug, she gave a decided nod, quickly swiped the mug dry. She hurried to the storeroom for her cell. In an instant, she’d touched the number for Hyla Harrison.
Hyla answered, her tone formal. “Officer Harrison.”
Annie knew Hyla was on duty. “Hyla, it’s Annie.” Of course, Hyla had caller ID and was well aware of her caller’s identity. “Do you have a minute to talk?”
“A couple of minutes.” Hyla was businesslike.
“You covered traffic the night of July fourth. Where were you working?”
“Bay Street. Bumper to bumper to the ferry.”
Annie thought quickly. She’d last seen Shell at shortly before ten P.M. “Did you see a new green Porsche Carrera between ten o’clock and midnight?” The last ferry left at midnight. If Shell took the ferry, they could try to trace her on the mainland.
There was a pause. “You know how many cars we had on Bay Street? But maybe I can help you out. I keep an eye peeled for any cars reported stolen so I give the cars going on the ferry a good look. I only remember one Porsche in the ferry line. It was black. Got to go.”
• • •
Annie sounded as if she had looked into a mist and seen something frightful. “People can’t just disappear into thin air.”
In one part of his mind, Max took pleasure in Annie’s presence, her shining sandy hair and steady gray eyes and kissable lips—very kissable. But this wasn’t a moment to suggest they slip home for morning delight. He considered his options. A soothing tone? Grave interest? Instead, he chose an uncomfortable truth. “People disappear all the time.”
“Maybe that’s because no one really looks for them.”
; Max tried for sweet reason. “There’s nothing to indicate she didn’t leave the island willingly. Certainly there’s no evidence of a crime. That’s the choice, isn’t it? Either she left the island in her car or something happened to her after the dance. If she’s the victim of foul play”—his tone made clear that he discounted that possibility—“why hasn’t anyone found a body or found the car?”
Annie was undeterred. “Hyla says her car didn’t board the ferry.”
Max jerked his thumb toward the marina. “There’s more than one way off an island. Maybe she went on board one of those snazzy yachts. Maybe she’s on her way with some Brazilian millionaire.” Knowing Annie’s tendency to be literal, he added, “Metaphorically speaking.”
Annie didn’t even glance toward the marina. “Where’s the Porsche?”
“There are places on the island where a car could be hidden for years and nobody would find it. Miles of forest.”
Annie persisted. “Okay, let’s say she’s skipping the country with a Brazilian millionaire. Why not leave her car at the marina?”
Max felt that he was, metaphorically speaking, being backed into a corner. “To throw people off the track.”
“The track,” she said drily, “that nobody’s even noticed except a teenage kid.”
Max turned his hands palms up. “Whoever knows what’s in the mind of a woman?”
Annie’s eyes narrowed. “Sexism—the last resort of a man who can’t answer a question.”
Max grinned.
Annie didn’t grin. Instead, she perched on the edge of his desk, her short skirt pulling up to reveal an enticing length of thigh.
Max reined himself in. There was a time and a place. Hopefully, soon. Right now, he assumed a suitably serious expression. “You have a point about the car.” What it was, he didn’t know, but he knew when to make nice. “What do you suggest we do?”
Annie looked relieved and pleased. “We need to plan a campaign.”
Max raised an eyebrow.
She hurried on. “It’s up to us to see if we can find out where she is.”
Max kept his tone mild. “Why us?”
“We were at the dance. We were among the last people on the island to see Shell. There’s lots we can do.” She took a breath, blurted, “Besides, she may be a mess, but somebody should care enough to figure out if she’s okay.”
Max got it. Annie, as usual, was charging to the succor of the downtrodden. He had difficulty picturing Shell Hurst as downtrodden, but Annie had it right that no one apparently gave a damn about Shell and her whereabouts except a screwed-up teenager. That was enough to galvanize Annie into action.
She leaned forward, said eagerly, “Somebody always knows something. We’ll start with the day she was last seen.”
Max had no doubt that Shell Hurst was off island, very likely with a lover. But Annie was clearly determined to find the woman. “Look”—he tried to be tactful—“you can’t go around saying Shell’s disappeared. People will get the wrong idea.”
Annie looked stubborn. “Maybe the idea there’s something wrong will shake loose the information we need. Sure, she’s probably in Rio right now, but there’s a chance she’s not. If we don’t look, no one will ever know. We can’t just leave it that, oh well, she’s left the island and who cares. Hayley cares.” Her brows drew down in a frown.
Max knew that Shell was volatile and selfish, and maybe leaving without a word to anyone amused her. But it was possible that Shell was a victim. Yeah, people sometimes disappeared into thin air and were never seen again. Judge Crater. Jimmy Hoffa. And too many others, often young and female. Maybe they went on to better things. Maybe not.
Annie plunged ahead. “We need to find out more about Shell and about that last day. If she left deliberately, there has to be a reason. Or, put it another way, if we can find out why she would leave, we’ll know if she left.”
Max started to reply, stopped. Annie had already accused him of sexism. It wouldn’t be smart to suggest that her logic was both circular and exceedingly feminine. He simply nodded.
“You can find out more about Shell.”
Max was relieved. That sounded innocuous enough and perhaps he would make contact with someone who had seen or spoken to Shell after the Fourth. “Okay.”
“Then you can talk to Wesley.”
“Excuse me?”
Annie was impatient. “Obviously, Wesley thinks she had a reason to leave or he would have started looking for her. Wouldn’t he?”
Max looked down at the legal pad, realized he’d been doodling as Annie talked. He’d sketched a shadowy dance floor and scarcely realized moving figures, a low-slung sports car, and, below the penciled images, the dark circles of a vortex. Anything, everything could disappear in the maw of a whirlpool. That’s how he would feel, flung to destruction, if Annie walked out of his life.
When Hayley asked for help and told him her father had made no effort to find Shell, Max was convinced Shell had simply chosen to walk away. Any man who cared for a woman would surely move heaven and earth to find her. Wesley had certainly cared a lot at some point. Even if now he was glad she’d left—Max remembered his hard, angry face at the dance—he might have a very good idea where she’d gone. And why.
• • •
In between waiting on customers and unpacking boxes of books—the most recent by Lee Goldberg, Dorothy Howell, and Victoria Thompson—Annie arranged for backup at the store, calling on Pamela Potts, an old friend and utterly reliable. Pamela’s blue eyes regarded the world without a trace of humor, but she knew mysteries and would shepherd customers to the kinds of books they liked.
Pamela arrived, delighted to be of help. Her blond pageboy was, as always, perfect. She joined Ingrid at the front counter and Annie was free. She walked down the center aisle, automatically straightening books as she went. The Joan Hess titles were out of order in the caper/comedy section. She smiled as she noted the new editions of wonderful M. M. Kaye titles in romantic suspense. She swerved toward the coffee bar and took a moment to survey glass shelves with mugs that carried the name and title of famous mysteries in bright red lettering. Annie chose Lady, Where Are You? by Hugh Desmond. She carried a mug of Colombian coffee to the storeroom, firmly shut the door behind her.
She settled at the worktable, pulled a legal pad close, wrote fast:
Need to Know
Who is cherie?
So far as is known, Shell Hurst was last seen at the July 4 Lady Luck dance.
Did anything significant occur at the dance?
Who was the last person to see her?
When did she leave the club?
Where is her car?
Annie sipped the hot, strong brew. Did she know anyone who could give her some insight on Shell Hurst? Regretfully, Annie shook her head. She and Max had been members of the dance club for four years, but that was their only real social contact with Wesley Hurst, his first wife Vera, and his second wife Shell. The Hursts were part of an affluent island milieu that lived off inherited wealth, jetted around the world on a whim, enjoyed yacht journeys to the Caribbean. Annie, true to her Protestant ethic upbringing, believed work, if not the road to salvation, was surely the highway to happiness, which, of course, accounted for Max’s devotion—possibly too strong a word—to Confidential Commissions. Max also enjoyed inherited wealth. Though not averse to work, he didn’t equate effort with worth, but he applauded Annie’s ideals and took pleasure in their mostly middle-class friends.
In short, Annie wasn’t on speed dial with island socialites.
However, there were other avenues to obtain tidbits about the rich. She retrieved her cell phone, called.
“Your appointment’s not ’til next week, Annie.”
Annie’s short hair was good to go after a quick shower so she went to the beauty shop once a month for a trim. “I’ll be there. Daisy, you have a second?”
“Annie,” her deep voice boomed, “for you, I got a whole minute.” Big and buxom, Daisy Case
y talked fast and always said what was on her mind in a honey-sweet Southern accent.
“You know everything there is to know on the island.”
Daisy’s laugh was husky. “You got questions, ask the beautician, the banker, or the mortician. We cover it all. What’s on your mind?”
“I wondered if Shell Hurst—”
“That woman’s cruisin’ for a bruisin’. Stand me up like I’m white trash! She has her regular appointment, two hours’ worth, every Monday morning, and not a peep out of her yesterday. She better not show her face around here again, and she’ll have to go all the way to Savannah for someone who can handle the kind of rinse she needs. Why, bless her heart, she’ll look like the hind end of a bee-draggled pound dog.”
Shell was definitely on Daisy’s blacklist. Annie grinned. “So you won’t mind giving me the lowdown on Shell.”
“Sweetie, I’ll rain on her parade like a Lowcountry downpour. Talks pretty as you please but she kind of has a sneer in her eyes.”
“How about a lover?”
The silence on the line was stark.
Annie’s hand tightened on the cell.
Daisy spoke slowly. “I don’t like to cause nice people any grief.”
Annie was sure that Daisy didn’t mean Shell. Annie picked her words carefully. “I’m not planning on causing grief to anyone nice. But I have a real reason for asking. I’m trying to figure out if Shell’s off on a vacation with somebody from the island. She left July fourth and someone’s trying to get in touch with her.”
“Is it important?”
Annie thought about a teary teenager waiting for a call. “I think so.” And in the back of her mind, there was the green Porsche that hadn’t left the island.
“Men can be the biggest butts. And after he was such a rock when Maggie was so sick—”
Annie felt a twist inside. Maggie Peterson and her fight with cancer and the distance between Maggie and Dave on the dance floor.