From the Queen Read Free

… Mum took me with her … a tea shop … we met Millicent …” She smiled, her voice soft. “… Mum was so pleased …” Then the smile fled. She gently touched the M. “Don’t you suppose,” she searched for words, “she probably knew the book could bring some money but she kept it because the Queen gave it to her?” Pink tinged her cheeks. “I don’t know why the Queen would but maybe it was a memento when Millicent was going to leave to marry an American. Anyway, I know I’m guessing, but the Queen gave her the book and Millicent never parted with it, not even when she was old and poor and had only a little box full of belongings. Just think, the Queen held that book in her hands.”
    There was awe in Ellen’s high voice.
    Annie understood that breathless awe. It was the same feeling she had when she looked at old black-and-white photographs. A young woman in a long-sleeved blouse and long skirt stood on a bluff, face shaded as she gazed out to sea. Perhaps she’d been seventeen or eighteen, the photo made in 1914. That moment in time was forever captured. That moment had been real. She had lived and breathed and cared and now she had long been dust. But for that moment she was here again.
    The book held that same magic, a book touched by the Queen, a book touched by a writer with auburn hair and blue eyes who in 1925 was still in love with Archie and whose amazing life had yet to unfold.
    Ellen’s brows drew down. She asked, the words uneven, “Do you think she minds if I sell it?”
    Annie felt an odd shiver. It was as if another woman stood near, worn and stooped but clinging to remembered glory.
    The money from the book would transform Ellen’s life, push away fears of poverty, save her eyesight, give her freedom to be generous to her niece. But Ellen worried that a long-ago war bride might grieve if her greatest treasure were auctioned off to the highest bidder.
    Annie searched for words. “I don’t know what heaven is like. No one knows. But,” she traced her index finger on the knitted M, “she’s there now. I believe she’s caught up in magnificence and there’s no malice or uncharitableness. She will be happy for you.”
    Ellen’s faded blue eyes looked misty. “Thank you, Annie.” She cleared her throat. “You are terribly kind to help me.”
    Annie held out the folder. “It was fun for me to gather this up.”
    Ellen took the folder, held it against her chest. Her gentle face glowed with happiness.
    What a difference a day made, although it was still February chilly. Annie was grateful for a thick navy turtleneck, gray wool slacks, and a quilted jacket, but she stopped at the marina to admire a newly arrived white yacht gleaming in the sunlight. She shaded her eyes as she read the name on the hull: Hot Mama . She wondered if the yacht belonged to a wealthy woman on the prowl or signified a male owner’s fondest dream. Or best memory.
    She was still smiling as she turned on the main lights in Death on Demand and greeted Agatha. “I’m sorry I’m late, sweetie. The breakfast chef is in California.” Annie hurried down the central aisle. When Agatha was contentedly munching, Annie turned on the coffee maker. Today she really must unpack that latest shipment …
    â€œAnnie.” The high shrill cry pierced the amiable early morning quiet. Rapid footsteps clattered. Ellen Gallagher, tears streaming down her face, mouth working, stumbled toward her. “Somebody took my book. I came to the shop this morning and when I went inside, the cover was lying on my counter and it was empty. I’ve looked everywhere but my book is gone. It’s gone, gone, gone …”
    Officer Hyla Harrison, crisp in her khaki uniform and a belted jacket that read POLICE on the back, stood on the boardwalk and studied the window in the narrow passageway to the