Honeymoon With Murder Read Free Page A

“Death on Demand.”
    “Annie, my sweet.” As always, Laurel’s husky voice brimmed with good cheer, delight, and eagerness. Annie had a vision of blond beauty levitating by a phone. “I had a feeling you might be—well, just a little bit nervy. And when I couldn’t find you
anywhere
, well, I knew you would have run to earth in your burrow.” A pause. “The shop.” In case Annie had by any chance missed her point. “And I thought, the very
best
thing I can do is help you take yourself
out
of yourself.”
    Annie pondered that interesting suggestion while the throaty discourse continued. It wasn’t necessary to hear Laurel’s every word. There were so many extraneous bits, asides about the glorious future of the world as a result of the recent Harmonic Convergence, the necessity of synchronizing with new vibrations, and the duty of each earthling to help cleanse the planet in preparation for the Momentous Events that would unfold in 2012, according to newly interpreted Mayan writings.
    With the skill of much recent practice, Annie winnowed the bright phrases, always alert for any reference to the wedding.
    But the kicker still caught her by total surprise.
    “What?” she demanded. “What did you say?”
    Simple, direct questions unnerved Laurel, eliciting verbiage festooned with qualifications, interpretations, explanations, and disclaimers, but the essential message remained the same.
    “I’d better go see,” Annie cut in hastily. She thumped down the receiver and raced for the back door.
    Annie braked just long enough to wave at the entry-point guard, shot through the open gate, pulled the wheel hard left, and squealed off the blacktop onto a rutted dirt road that snaked around clumps of palmettos and dipped into sloughs. A plume of grey dust boiled in her wake. She flew past Jerry’s Gas ’N Go.
    Not far now.
    The Volvo’s chassis quivered at the jolts, but Annie kept her foot on the accelerator until she screeched to a stop just past the honeysuckle-covered wooden arch that marked the entrance to Nightingale Courts.
    She turned off her motor, looked around, and wondered if Laurel had suddenly become a practical joker.
    Because nothing disturbed the gentle, early morning quiet of this sun-burnished pocket of Broward’s Rock. Nightingale Courts, a semicircle of seven cabins, faced the salt marsh. At high tide, only the tips of the spartina grass could be glimpsed. At low tide, the marsh drained to shining mud flats and shallow salt-pan pools. Just past eight o’clock on this lovely September morning, the tide was flowing in; a hungry dolphin out in the sound sliced through the water in search of a tasty breakfast of herring, mackerel, and whiting; a fisherman in a bright yellow tank top and cutoffs leaned against the railing at the end of one of the piers that poked through the marsh to deep water; a ringbilled gull zeroed in on an unwary mouse, and a well-hidden clapper rail cackled derisively Three delicately plumed snowy egrets searched contentedly for crabs.
    It could not have been more placid or cheerful, the balmy morning sunshine bathing the cabins, the weathered wooden piers, and, across the inlet, the thick clumps of yucca and sea myrtle that partially screened from view two ramshackle cabins. The sunlight glistened, too, on the shiny tin roof of Jerry’s Gas ’N Go.
    As far as Annie could see, she and yellow tank top were the only people up and about.
    Feeling foolish, she stepped out of the Volvo and walked past the mailboxes toward the cabins. Built in the thirties as tourist courts, they’d fallen on hard times during the sixties, but had been bought and refurbished as rental units in the late seventies. Stuccoed a cheerful pink, they added a touch of California to the island. Annie had always enjoyed coming to Nightingale Courts to see Ingrid, who managed the property in exchange for her living quarters in Cabin 3.
    Ingrid’s door opened. She started down her steps, paused, then