Honeymoon With Murder Read Free

Dotting the painting like colorful butterflies were miniature renditions of a magnificent Buddhist temple, a tilted bronze bell, two golden hairpins, and the wooden hand gong often carried by mendicant monks.
    A world sheathed in ice and snow glittered in the second painting. A monk, his habit covered by a thick traveling cloak, stood in snow-crusted boots by the edge of a frozen brook, staring grimly down at the body of a beautiful woman, held in the ice like a fly in amber.
    Moonlight bathed a cliff face in the third painting, illuminating a grotesque figure, swathed in yards of crumbling bandages that covered both body and face. Against the rotting bandages of its breast, the creature pressed the unconscious form of a young woman. Two striking figures stared in astonishment and horror, a strong-featured, black-haired woman and a tall, well-built man with a bronzed face, bright blue eyes, and a dimpled chin. The man carried a limp, turbaned figure in his arms.
    In the fourth painting, fantasy and reality warred. A brown-handled kitchen knife protruded from the chest of an actor dressed as a Munchkin, the knife obscenely visible against the yellow coat of his comic soldiers uniform. He lay dead on the Yellow Brick Road, staring sightlessly up toward the sound-stage lights. The middle-aged man kneeling beside the body had a tough face with a nose that had taken too many blows.
    In the fifth painting, a traveler in bedouin dress but with a European face pitched a tent beside a dying camel. The desert wastes stretched endlessly, and a burning sun glittered in a cloudless sky. But there was neither despair nor fear on the face of the man, only utter and complete determination.
    Henny Brawley, of course, was probably five furlongs ahead of the competition in discovering the titles and authors represented. She was always excited at the prospectof receiving a free book. Henny was by far the most avid mystery fan on the island. Her taste ran from Millar to Rice, Van Dine to Langton, Kienzle to Maron, and that wouldn’t begin to cite them all. Moreover, she would immediately recognize this sub-genre (historical mysteries). She especially enjoyed Peter Lovesey and advised everyone who would listen to read
The Detective Wore Silk Drawers
. Henny also enjoyed dabbling in real mysteries, and had earned Annie’s undying (perhaps quite literally) respect for her timely arrival at the bookstore in the recent affair involving murder below stage during an amateur theatrical rehearsal of
Arsenic and Old Lace
.
    Recalling those difficult days, Annie groaned. Laurel had wrested control of the wedding plans while Annie was distracted by homicide. So, for the rest of the summer, Annie had engaged in guerrilla actions to try and regain mastery over the ceremony, one lightning foray at dawn to the seamstress, a clutch of impassioned midnight pleas to Max (these were usually very effective), several preemptive strikes on the telephone to various wholesalers and jobbers around the country.
    As a result, the ceremony was not quite as Laurel had hoped. (A Cosmic Statement on Love.) But it also wasn’t quite what Annie had envisioned (a dignified, simple exchange of vows) when she plighted her troth. Perhaps it would be fair to say it was a curious and original amalgam of the traditional—and the not-so-traditional.
    And it would begin at five P.M .
    The telephone rang.
    Annie jerked around and regarded it warily. It was certainly too late for Laurel to call with new ideas. Surely she couldn’t have any innovative suggestions, with the wedding only hours away.
    The shrill ring sounded again.
    Refusing to answer would be a cop-out. She hadn’t reached that point. Yet. Besides, it was probably a book rep. Or one of those infuriating robots that opened the onversation with, “Please——don’t——hang——up. This——call——could——change——your——life.” Or a friend. Or a wrong number.
    She yanked the receiver up in mid-peal.