A Little Class on Murder Read Free Page B

stiffened. Which wasn’t easy when lying almost horizontal in the soft leathery embrace of his reclining desk chair. Not even the soothing warmth of the heater assuaged the sudden chill enveloping his mind.
    “I’ll write you all about it, Laurel. I’ll keep you informed. I’ll send you the books on the reading list. Of course, Annie’s hoping that no one she knows enrolls. Her first time to teach, you know.”
    “My dear child, Annie must be
confident
. Maxwell, we must
encourage
Annie.”
    “That’s just it,” he said heartily. “We’ll be behind the scenes.
Behind the scenes
, Mother.”
    “A noble thought, Maxwell dear. You do phrase things so beautifully. Just like Rasheesh.”
    Max pursed his lips and frowned.
    Light laughter, reminiscent of leprechauns in the twilight. “My newest link to the Other Side, my dear.”
    “Of course, Mother. So glad you’re all linked up. And I know you’re very busy with—with—with linking, and all that.”
    “Not
too
busy. In fact, I was just thinking how
much
I missed Broward’s Rock. And I’ve quite despaired of finding another mystery bookstore as wonderful as Death on Demand. And dear Ingrid. I had a note from her just the other day with a new shipment of books.”
    “You’re reading mysteries?”
    “Of course, my dear. I feel that it is incumbent upon a mother-in-law to create a rapport with her children’s spouses. And you know how
hard
I’ve tried with the girls’ husbands.”
    Max winced at the memories. Laurel taking up skydiving (Diedre’s husband Ed’s hobby—until an outing with Laurel), moose hunting (the former passion of Gail’s husband Kenneth), and crapshooting (of course, Harry, Jen’s husband, was better off not gambling. Still—).
    “Mother, we all—the girls and I—enormously appreciate the efforts you’ve made, but you must give time to yourself.” He scrambled for a diversion. “After all, there must be so
much
for you and Rasheesh to discuss.”
    A thoughtful pause. “Rasheesh,” Laurel murmured. “Maxwell, what an excellent suggestion. I shall speak to Rasheesh about it.”
    After he hung up, Max refused to admit to himself that his failure to inquire as to the subject of her talk with Rasheesh was evidence of moral cowardice.
    And there was no point in worrying Annie.
    Was there?
    * * *
    The little tickle of warm breath in her left ear was distracting. And the light but lingering kiss on her cheek—
    “Max, go away. I can’t think when—”
    Somehow—Annie was unclear just how—Max insinuated himself beside her on the couch, despite the uneven mound of books with paper markers extruding like lake wind warning flags. And where was that particular passage? The one about the death of Mary Roberts Rinehart’s canary Dickie and the indelible mark it had made upon her? More than breath now and the lingering touch of lips—
    “Max, I can’t think—”
    “You don’t need to
think.
”
    “But the faculty meeting’s tomorrow and—”
    His lips got in the way.
    The books toppled to the floor.

5
    Annie was too excited to spend the ferry ride sitting calmly in her aging Volvo. (She’d resisted Max’s attempt to substitute a Porsche. Her car worked.) She rested her elbows against the white metal railing, breathed deeply, relishing the salty sea scent, and gazed across the softly green water of Port Royal Sound at the mainland. A ragged V formation of stiff-tailed glossy cormorants skimmed low, seeking their prey, menhaden and minnows. The expert divers were a sure sign of fall, coming south to follow the migrating fish schools. And there, to port, was a bobbing band of lesser scaup, wintering tidewater ducks. Their glossy black heads glistened in the November sunlight.
    Fall. To a plains Texan, it evoked memories of cool mornings, wind out of the north, and geese overhead on their way to the Gulf.
    And school.
    The shrill sound of bells, the scrape of shoes on wooden floors, the clang of lockers between classes.