A Little Class on Murder Read Free

What fun! But, of course, she wasn’t really qualified. “I’ve never taught—”
    “Doesn’t matter. You speak right up. Saw you in
Arsenic and Old Lace
last summer. Anybody who can do summer theater can handle a class. How about it? You could start with Poe, of course. And there’s Hammett, Chandler—”
    Annie held up both hands. “Not that same tired track,” she objected. “Mr. Burke—”
    “R.T.,” he interrupted.
    “R.T.,” she repeated. “If I teach a class, it’s going to be from a different slant. I’m sick of the same old incantation: Poe, Doyle, Hammett, Chandler, and all their derivative brethren. Not that lots of them aren’t wonderful. But many of the greatest mystery writers of all time are women and no one ever talks about them!” Her voice rose excitedly. If Max were there, he’d no doubt point out that she’d climbed up on her favorite soapbox. “Do you realize that Agatha Christie outsold almost every writer in the world except the Bible and Shakespeare? Oh, they give lip service to her at mystery writers’ meetings today, then make snide remarks about her paper-thin characterizations, her inadequate settings, her reliance on the puzzle. Well, I’m here to tell you—”
    That thin wiry hand grabbed hers and began to pump. “You’ll do it! Faculty meeting at four Thursday afternoon. Like to make adjunct faculty feel part of the team.” He rolled his eyes. “Shit team, but it’s all I’ve got. See you then.” He wheeled around and charged up the central aisle.
    Annie stared after him. “Mr. Burke. R.T.—Hey, wait—”
    The bell jangled as he yanked open the door. “Be a challenge. Counting on you. Do any damn thing you like. Any writers. Women. Men. Pygmies. Academic freedom. All I demand is good work. Have at it.”
    As the door banged after him, Annie felt like Donald Lam contemplating a Bertha Cool disaster. What had she let herself in for? Teaching. Next week. Next week! Authors and titles swam in her mind. Christie, of course. And three of her best titles,
Murder for Christmas, Murder in Retrospect
, and
A Murder Is Announced
.
    But who else?
    She turned, her eyes darting from shelf to shelf, then an answer burgeoned in her mind. Humming, she moved down the aisle, looking for titles. Oh, yes, indeed. The three
grande dames
of the mystery: Mary Roberts Rinehart, Agatha Christie,and Dorothy Sayers. As her arms filled with books, the tuneless hum rivaled Agatha’s throatiest purr.
    Henny Brawley’s eyes narrowed in a steely gaze. “I
know
that book. I know that
book
.” Annie’s best customer (Henny devoured mysteries the way Agatha Christie had lapped up Devonshire cream) drummed beringed fingers against the counter top and glared at the fourth watercolor. Henny was a fashion plate this afternoon in a black-and-white silk jacquard print with a V-neck and back kick pleat. Her graying brown hair was upswept and gold hoop earrings dangled from her ears. She looked like a clubwoman en route to a board meeting, but Annie knew this deceptively conventional exterior masked an original and formidable personality. (Henny was also quite at home in sweats and sneakers or camouflage fatigues, and she had a sharp, bony nose that wriggled at moments of high stress.) And Annie was getting darned tired of handing out free books and coffee to Henny, who’d won three contests so far this year. Enough was enough. It was someone else’s turn. But Henny was preternaturally adept at finagling tidbits of information, especially out of Annie.
    Without removing her determined gaze from the figure in painting four, the indolent young man with insolent eyes, Henny remarked conversationally, “That fellow behind the desk has on a coat and tie. But the young guy—a PI?—looks so casual. Almost beachy.”
    Annie’s lips tightened into a thin straight line. Not a word was she going to say. Not a word.
    From the front of the store, she heard Ingrid mask a giggle with a very phony cough. So