Mint Julep Murder Read Free Page A

beyond the partially open door. She tiptoed across the floor, peered into the bookstore, her wonderful, dear store, full of fabulous mysteries from the newest (the delightful debut of Gar Anthony Haywood’s Dottie and Joe Loudermilk series) to the oldest (leather-bound copies ofthe
Collected Edgar Allan Poe).
Reassured, she pushed the door wider.
    “Dear Annie.”
    Annie froze.
    Laurel Darling Roethke uncurled from the petit point sofa in front of the fireplace. It was a new acquisition to make readers feel quite at home. Just as cozy as the nooks and crannies in Denver’s Tattered Cover bookstore. Though, of course, the Death on Demand hearth was cold now. South Carolina was much too balmy in May for a fire.
    Agatha rose, too, stretching and hopping down to twine around Laurel’s ankles.
    Annie ignored a pang of jealousy. But it was irritating for her very own cat, the pampered prima donna of the store, to treat Laurel with such affection, especially since Agatha had ignored Annie for the past three days. That, of course, was why the sleek black cat was so ostentatiously pirouetting about Laurel. The message couldn’t have been clearer.
    To be fair, Annie understood. Nothing in the store was quite on schedule, despite Annie’s best efforts. And nothing would be on schedule until the Festival was over. Agatha despised change. Or any other aspect of life that didn’t suit. Too much wind. An unaccustomed frost. As far as Agatha was concerned, Annie was responsible. Period.
    Annie crossed her arms and regarded her mother-in-law gravely. And tried hard not to let her mouth curve into a grin. She pressed her lips together. God, she mustn’t
encourage
Laurel.
    Laurel beamed. “Dear Annie,” she caroled.
    Annie’s lips quivered.
Steady
, she warned herself. Laurel must not detect any softening of Annie’s refusal to cooperate. No way did Annie intend be outmaneuvered by her silver-tongued, crafty, incredibly determined mother-in-law. Absolutely no way.
    No matter how appealing Laurel looked in her simple white cotton blouse and beige linen skirt.
    Anyone else would look like the class nerd in a Fiftiesmovie. Laurel, of course, looked sublimely elegant and as gloriously and agelessly beautiful as ever, her hair as softly gold as moonlight, her patrician features touched with warmth, her vivid blue eyes merry with laughter and a hint of childlike expectation that bordered on the otherworldly. Bordered, hell. Crossed over, in Annie’s opinion.
    Laurel clasped a hand to her chest. “The Sun Shines.”
    Annie waited.
    “Don’t you think, my dear,” Laurel’s distinctive husky voice rose slightly, “that says it all?”
    Now those beautifully manicured hands—shell-pink polish—were clasped soulfully to her chin.
    A smooth, wrinkle-free chin, Annie noted acerbically. But Laurel insisted she’d never had cosmetic surgery.
    Yeah.
    Those deeply blue eyes continued to regard Annie patiently.
    Annie realized a response was expected. “Uh … yes. Yes, I guess that sums it up pretty well.”
    Laurel darted to her, gave her a swift embrace. Annie felt the whisper of lips on her cheek, smelled a faint hint—Annie’s nose wrinkled—rose? Hmm. Usually Laurel preferred the scent of lilac. Out of long experience, Annie wondered sharply what the change in fragrance augured. That it augured something, she didn’t doubt. Oh, of course. Laurel’s latest enthusiasm, the theme of her book:
Simplicity.
She was probably gathering up roses, drying them, squashing them, and making her own perfume. Were roses more easily obtained than lilac blooms? Who knew? Who
cared?
That was harmless enough. If only Laurel would confine her activities to similarly socially harmless pursuits. But, unfortunately—
    Annie felt a piece of paper being tucked in her skirt pocket. Then Laurel wafted past her into the storeroom.
“Dear
Annie. Thank you, thank you, love. For everything. For your sweet nature. For your support.
The Sun Shines.
That shall