White Elephant Dead Read Free

Kathryn’s card were scratched out. Written below the original list in a bold back-slanting script were four addresses: 31 Mockingbird Lane, 17 Ship’s Galley Road, 8 Porpoise Place, and 22 Sea Oats Circle.
    Henny yanked the card from the bulletin board. What would Emma Clyde think if she saw the changes? Emma didn’t encourage improvisation. Tucking the card in the pocket of her slacks, Henny hurried toward the door, pausing only long enough to retrieve her purse and her gray poncho. The sooner she found the van, the sooner she could go to Death on Demand and pick up her wonderful box of books.
     
    At the Death on Demand Mystery Book Store, owner Annie Laurance Darling spoke firmly to the resident feline, although in her innermost heart Annie knew she was on the losing side. “Agatha, you can’t eat again.”
    Green eyes venomously slitted, the imposing black cat stalked to the end of the coffee bar and crouched.
    “Agatha, no! Do not attack—” Annie jumped sideways to avoid a hurtling mass of fur.
    Agatha thumped to the ground, turned a graceful pirouette and moved toward Annie’s left knee, fangs clearly visible.
    Annie may not have moved as gracefully as the cat, but she was damned fast as she sought refuge behind the coffee bar. “All right. All right. A snack. A healthy snack. But the vet said you were too heavy and you know it.” She rattled dry diet food into a blue plastic bowl, set it atop the coffee bar.
    Agatha floated through the air, emitting piercing yowls on the order of, “I am starving. I am neglected. I am riven by pangs of ferocious hunger and you do not care.” She poked her lovely face into the bowl and, growling between bites, ate like Joyce Porter’s Inspector Dover on a binge.
    “You are much prettier than Inspector Dover,” Annie cooed.
    Agatha continued to eat and growl, growl and eat.
    Annie would have liked to stroke the cashmere-soft black fur, but she wasn’t stupid. A series of small scars on both forearms reminded her that Agatha in a bad mood was not to be trifled with.
    Annie moved a safe distance along the coffee bar. She resisted the temptation to forage in the refrigerator for a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. After all, fair was fair and she couldn’t feed Agatha diet food while munching on delectable candy. Annie glanced at her watch. She, too, was beginning to feel like a starving castaway on a desert island. Where was Henny Brawley, her best—and sometimes most demanding—customer? Henny, of course, was a Serious Collector, which meant the fact that books were available in paperback mattered not a whit. Hardcover firsts only, please. Annie regretted having reported the arrival of the special order, but she was so pleased with her success in finding the books that she hadn’t been able to resist. After all, it was quite a coup to come up with hardcover first editions of books that had been published more than a year earlier. Henny had been on a trek to the Himalayas when the books came out. Except for stars like John Grisham andMary Higgins Clark, the shelf life of new hardcover books ran about three months. Not to worry, so long as Annie Laurance Darling, bookseller extraordinaire, could come to the rescue. She looked in satisfaction at the box, wonderful books all: Bellows Falls by Archer Mayor, Fertile Ground by Rochelle Krich, Death of a Rodeo Rogue by Robert Greer, and Killing Time by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles.
    As Annie glanced at her watch—already half-past six—a huge blast of thunder almost coincided with a vivid crackle of lightning. The lights in the store wavered, went out, came on again. Rain gurgled in the waterspouts behind the store. The roads were probably an inch deep in water.
    The phone rang.
    Annie felt a quiver of relief. That would be Henny, saying she’d turned back, the storm was too much, and Annie would be free to slosh home to Max, who would welcome her with a glass of California Cabernet and homemade ravioli and a Caesar salad. Annie