Honeymoon With Murder Read Free Page B

waved eagerly.
    They met midway on the path.
    “Ingrid, who’s the man—”
    “Annie, what are you doing—”
    They stopped and looked at each other in surprise.
    Annie spread her hands in puzzlement. “Laurel calledand said you were having a rip-roaring fight with somebody. Or, to be more accurate, she said, ‘Ingrid is involved in a confrontational encounter with a somewhat sinister individual, and I do feel, Annie, that steps must be taken to assure her safety.’”
    “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Ingrid laughed shamefacedly. “I always knew the island grapevine was unmatched for intelligence-gathering capabilities this side of the CIA, but still, I’m impressed.”
    Annie looked warily around, searching the grove of palmettos. “Where’s Laurel?”
    “I haven’t seen her this morning, but I suppose—Oh, she must have been here when I had my run-in with Jesse Penrick. You know Jesse! As for Laurel, she was probably coming from an early morning session with Ophelia.”
    “Ophelia? Session?” Annie wasn’t much given to the kind of psychic intuitions that regularly cast such dark shadows in the paths of Mary Roberts Rinehart heroines, but she felt an undeniable quiver in the nerve endings around her spine. “Sessions?”
    “Oh, Annie, not to worry. It’s all nonsense, of course, but no harm done. I’ll tell you all about it later.” Ingrid glanced at her watch and clapped her hands. “Good grief, we only have two minutes to make it across the island to the breakfast!”
    That’s how the rest of Annie’s wedding day went, in a breathless, tearing, headlong rush, with no more time for worry, cold feet, or panic. If the day at certain moments reminded her strongly of the islands annual triathlon, with all its attendant noise, confusion, concurrent activities, and exhaustion of available volunteers, she didn’t permit herself to dwell on the parallels.
    The breakfast, outdoors at a beach pavillion on the ocean side of the island, featured grits, sausage, bacon, ham with redeye gravy, pancakes, scrambled eggs, and fresh pineapple flown in from Hawaii along with six hula girls, who softly crooned a Hawaiian love song and draped guests with orchid leis. Annie was delighted to see that Laurel had herhands full with Uncle Waldo, who had taken a fancy to a fat, fortyish wahine and wasn’t to be fobbed off with only a lei.
    Max, of course, was smashingly handsome (a grown-up Joe Hardy) in his yachting cap as he climbed into his speedboat to compete in the race that followed. It was the first time Annie had ever watched Max race, and she was appalled at the incredible speed the beautiful boats achieved. Laurel swooped up to join her. A finger lightly touched the trough between Annie’s eyes. “It’s never too early to think about lines, my dear. Now, you must just relax. Max
always
wins.” Laurel, of course, was a vision of imperturbable Nordic beauty with her shimmering white-blond hair, ocean-blue eyes, and creamy gardenia-smooth complexion.
    “Fast,” Annie croaked.
    But Laurel was right. Max won. Triumphant, wet with spume, he climbed onto the dock. Laurel shoved a box in Annie’s arms. “You present the gift, my dear.”
    Max rooted happily in the tissue, then pulled out two peasants’ costumes from Lithuania.
Let us rejoice
, the card read,
in brotherhood
.
    “You and Annie can start a new fashion in sportswear that will bring together workers around the world,” Laurel crooned.
    Set up again
, Annie realized.
    Luncheon beneath the live oak trees near the harbor was another triumph—caviar from Russia, salmon from Scotland, lamb from England, rice cakes from China, and what Annie knew that Laurel would describe as a touching love dance from Burma, accompanied by a high, whining string instrument which reminded Annie sharply of cats stating differing objectives during an amatory encounter.
    There was no opportunity to think—or to find out more from Ingrid about her morning argument or what she