Slowly, reluctantly, Annie walked with him down the drive.
The oyster shells crunched beneath their feet. The faraway, mournful whistle of a freight train mingled with the nearby hoot of an owl.
Annie shivered. The night was cool and damp, the shadows ink dark, the rustles of the shrubbery disquieting.
"Max?" Her voice was thin. "Do you think Courtney's dead?"
Her question hung in the air.
He didn't answer, but his hand tightly gripped hers.
Annie felt better when they walked into their carefully appointed suite at the St. George Inn. The crimson coals from a discreet fire glimmered in the grate. The Tiffany lamp cast a warming glow over the chintz-covered sofa. The spread was invitingly turned down on the four-poster rice bed, and foil‑
wrapped candy in the unmistakable shape of truffles waited on the plump pillows.
As Max put on Colombian decaf to brew, Annie picked up the envelope lying on the coffee table. It was addressed to them in Barb's free-flowing script.
Dear Annie and Max,
What a day! For starters, the PI from Savannah dropped by and we have a date to go bowling tonight. Honestly, Max, do you believe in fate? He's really neat—kind of like Michael J. Fox, that cutie, all grown up—maybe forty-something. And he's really come up with the goods for you and Annie. I put the folders with all his stuff on your table
Annie looked at the stack of folders piled on the replica of a pine plantation desk near the kitchenette.
—and I'll fax you some more stuff tomorrow. You'll find the fax behind the chaise longue in the bedroom. I paid a bonus to get the phone installed and turned on today. Also, I wangled about a half-dozen pictures of Courtney Kimball from friends, schools, etc. Isn't she pretty? Gee, I hope you find her okay. But it's scary, isn't it? More than twenty-four hours now.
Everything's super at Death on Demand. Except I think maybe Agatha needs counseling. I was reading about these cats in New York and they go to a psychiatrist and maybe you could get a long-distance consultation. I'd swear that Agatha actually threatened me! I know that sounds crazy
Annie didn't think so. She'd known Agatha to be in a mood.
—but when I was fixing an anchovy pizza for lunch, Agatha jumped up on the coffee bar and tried to snag an anchovy, so, of course, I gave her a push
Annie could have written the rest of the scenario herself. One did not shove Agatha.
—and I swear she growled and raised her paw at me! And, Annie, she wouldn't get down until I put a couple of anchovies in her bowl. Have you ever had a cat give you an I-don't-give-a-damn look and refuse to budge? Other than that
Annie decided she would have to instruct Barb without delay that what Agatha wanted, Agatha got. Otherwise, many unpleasant and rationally inexplicable events would occur—books randomly knocked down from displays, customer lists shredded, claw marks on collectibles (Annie'd had to knock fourteen dollars off the price of an otherwise of copy of Murder with a Theme Song by Virginia Rath), and once—and Annie had no explanation for this—the utter disappearance of a miniature replica of the famed Edgar awarded annually at the Mystery Writers of America banquet. Annie was confident Agatha couldn't have removed it by mouth (it was ceramic and so offered no toothholds) or by paw (she was smart but didn't have opposable thumbs). Nonetheless, the miniature was nowhere to be found. Annie consoled herself with the thought that life did hold its little mysteries as well as its big. (Two socks go into a washing machine, one comes out; you are wearing your oldest, sorriest sweat outfit and the first person you see in the grocery is a) your priest, b) the hunk you've hankered to impress, c) the banker you approached for a business loan in your niftiest little black suit; late for a job interview on the fourteenth floor, you find the elevator is broken so you arrive in the office with a cherry-tomato face and a respiratory rate qualifying you to blow up the balloons at the annual company picnic.)
—everything's going fine. I put Henny's latest postcard on top of the folders. Gosh, if some people don't have all the luck! Anyway, hope you and Max are figuring out what happened. We had two calls today from the Atlanta Consti‑
tution and one from the New York Times and one from AP. I put out a news release that said Max was pursuing late-breaking developments and hoped for an early and successful conclusion to his investigation. Was that okay?
Next to her flamboyant signature, Barb had penned a happy face wearing a deerstalker hat.
"Milk?" Max asked, his hand on the small refrigerator. "Milk and sugar both." Why did she still feel so cold inside?
"Coming up."
He brought the coffee on a tray—this was a suite with every refinement—with the cups and saucers, sugar bowl and milk pitcher, and a plate full of peanut butter cookies.
Annie grabbed her cup and handed Max the message. As he started to read, she said, "I hope Barb had fun bowling."
"Barb always has fun," he answered absently. He settled beside her on the cushioned wicker couch, the note in one hand, his cup in the other.
Annie picked up Henny's postcard.
Dear Annie,
X marks the spot.
Annie turned the card over and spotted a red X inked beside St. Paul's Cathedral.
I actually stood at the very spot where Charlotte and Anne Brontл stayed when they came to London to see their publisher in 1848! They stopped at the Chapter Coffee House which was at the entrance to St. Paul's Alley, just by St. Paul's Churchyard. Can you believe it? In transports of joy, yours, as ever
—Henny.
They were both smiling as they put down the respective missives. Annie drank the clear, fresh coffee, munched on her cookie, and felt the icy core inside beginning to warm.
Max picked up the top folder and opened it. He drew his breath in sharply, then held up, for her to see, a photograph.
Annie put down her coffee cup. She shivered. No, the coldness hadn't gone away.
Courtney Kimball's blond hair was drawn back in a ponytail. Barefoot, she wore a floppy shell-pink T-shirt, and faded cutoffs. She leaned forward to balance on the uplifting catamaran, the carefree grin on her face and the luminous shine in her eyes the essence of summer.