Laughed ’Til He Died Read Free

fully clothed man, even to a black overcoat, lay submerged in the water, staring upward with dead, glassy eyes. His dead face was unprepossessing.
    In the second painting, a petite young woman leaned againstthe side of a lakefront cottage, looking up at the porch and two burly men, one with blond hair held by a bandana do-rag, the other with a massive wiry brown beard. In the yard, a dozen motorcycles were bunched. Their riders looked big, rough, and dangerous.
    In the third painting, a small African woman, her back twisted, one leg shorter than the other, struggled to mount the steps of a wooden scaffold where a noose hung waiting. A crowd of thousands, black faces and white, watched in frozen silence. Not far from the wooden structure stood a young white woman, her face strained but determined.
    In the fourth painting, a young woman with short dark hair, dressed all in black, from her polo sweater to her black leggings, crouched behind the balustrade of the minstrel gallery to peer down into a candlelit village hall at seven figures in black hooded cloaks drinking beer. A black cloth covered a table near the back wall.
    In the fifth painting, protective face visor lifted, a woman stared in horror at putrefying human remains scattered on the ground. She was a startling figure in the desert moonlight, her head bristling with electronic wires and probes, her body encased in a lightweight metal contraption of arm and leg braces, a web vest fastening her to a computerized spine.
    Each book was utterly original. Annie loved recommending these authors and she was thankful for mysteries, old and new, that made her bookstore a magnet for mystery lovers. Annie was convinced her customers also came for the ambience, a molting raven perched above the children’s section near a photograph of Edgar Allen Poe’s tomb, comfortably cushioned wicker chairs and potted ferns à la the days of Mary Roberts Rinehart, and posters from famous mystery movies, including The Cat and theCanary, Charlie Chan Carries On, The Thin Man, Ellery Queen and the Murder Ring, and Murder by Death . Pride of place went to the vintage poster for The Maltese Falcon, worth a cool $3,500. Humphrey Bogart was the quintessential Sam Spade: wary, suspicious, battered but never broken.
    As she made another graceful swoop, the storeroom door banged open.
    “Some people get to dance.” Max Darling stood in the doorway, holding a sturdy cardboard box.
    As always, Annie’s heart danced, too. Was there a man anywhere as handsome, sexy, and fun as her tall, blond husband?
    At the moment, he was trying hard not to smile, attempting, in fact, to appear apprehensive. “Other people steal sand from the beach. I wonder if I broke any laws. At least I didn’t take a sand dollar.”
    “Max, you’re here!” Her exclamation indicated sheer delight. “Bring the sand up to the front. I’ve got the books ready.”
    Annie walked swiftly down the central corridor, her flats slapping on the heart pine floor. She hurried to the front window, humming “Summertime.” Quickly she removed the books that had celebrated the Fourth of July: Roanoke by Margaret Lawrence, Blood and Thunder by Max Allan Collins, Red, White, and Blue Murder by Jeanne M. Dams, Murder on Lenox Hill by Victoria Thompson, and The Drop Edge of Yonder by Donis Casey. No books were more American than these.
    Annie never tired of showcasing mysteries sure to please. Well, they might not please everyone, but they pleased Annie.
    A thud sounded behind her. “Damn.” Max’s exclamation was anguished. Perhaps a trifle too anguished?
    She turned. “Are you all right?”
    Her husband bent to massage a sandaled foot. “Dropped onmy big toe.” He gave the sand-filled box a kick, grimaced. “I may never walk again.” He reached out to drape himself against her. “I need solace. Lots of solace.”
    Mmm. Trust Max.
    But she smiled. It never mattered when she saw him, movie-star handsome in a tux, sleepy-eyed with