White Elephant Dead Read Free Page A

could scarcely begin to count her blessings. Her handsome blond husband was not only a sexy grown-up version of Joe Hardy, he had recently embraced cooking as his latest hobby. Only in quiet moments of reflection did Annie worry about his genetic inheritance. Her mother-in-law Laurel was forever and anon embracing new enthusiasms. But surely Max would never be tempted to raise anacondas or scale forty-story office buildings. Not that Laurel had succumbed to any such peculiar interests. Yet. Certainly Laurel’s latest preoccupation was inoffensive. Wasn’t it? Annie glanced at the beautifully executed flowers drawn on a note card her mother-in-law had left at the cash desk earlier in the day, a pink rose, a bunch of sweetpeas and a Christmas rose. Each flower was carefully labeled, perhaps for the elucidation of the florally impaired, i.e., Annie. Though she knew she was succumbing to Laurel’s ploy, she couldn’t resist unearthing an old book on the language of flowers and trying to decipher the message. Annie wasn’t at all certain, but she was afraid it translated to something like: Please believe me, your departure would calm my anxiety.
    Annie grabbed the phone. “Death on Demand.” She loved saying the name of her store. She’d taken the narrow, cramped, admittedly dingy mystery bookstore she’d inherited from her Uncle Ambrose and turned it into a spacious, welcoming enclave with heart-pine floors, the best in current mystery fiction from Albert to Zukowski, a fabulous selection of classic mysteries from Allingham to Zangwill, and a used book section with plenty of collectibles including some super recent acquisitions: The Blunderer by Patricia High-smith, a letter written by Raymond Chandler and a signed map of Maggody drawn by Joan Hess.
    “Dinner is served, madame.” Max’s voice was smooth and deep. Then he spoke in his usual easy tone. “The master chef is producing yet another delicious delight. When may I expect my appreciative audience?”
    Annie glanced toward the front window. Even though the boardwalk was covered, wind-driven rain splatted against the front window. “I’m waiting for Henny. She’s on her way.” Annie frowned. The entire island could be traversed in eight minutes. Even doubling it for the rain, Henny should have arrived. Of course, she’d said she had to find the club van first. But how long could that take?
    “Maybe she changed her mind,” Max suggested. “It’s rugged out there.” Static buzzed on the line as another bolt exploded.
    “She’d call and tell me.” Annie heard the worry in her own voice. This was a small island. A very small island. “She has to be here pretty soon. Do you mind waiting?”
    “Nope.”
    Annie was grateful Max had not assumed the temperamental qualities of a master chef. He was, in fact, his accustomed good-humored self, even though she was delaying the arrival of his oh-so-appreciative audience.
    Max continued to win husband-of-the-year awards. “Don’t worry, Annie. Everything’s on warm. It’s probablybetter to wait until the storm eases anyway. Dorothy L. and I will relax with a good book. I’ve got Steven Womack’s latest.”
    Annie smiled as she clicked off the phone. Max was especially fond of the elegant white cat that she’d rescued from the alley behind the store only to find that Agatha was implacably opposed to sharing her territory. Dorothy L. by default became their home cat and she was Max’s devoted admirer. Annie couldn’t resist occasionally telling the blue-eyed feline that after all if it weren’t for Annie, Dorothy L. would be a foundling. In the usual manner of cats, Dorothy L. took no notice and continued to adore Max and ignore Annie. But Dorothy L. was so endowed with charm that Annie didn’t hold a grudge.
    Annie glanced down the coffee bar. Agatha now sat with her back to Annie as she scrubbed her face with a decisive paw. Okay, so Agatha was short on charm. What she lacked in charm, she made up in