The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [17]
A rolled-up magazine pokes from a pocket.
Henny’s cheeks were perhaps a bit flushed from the champagne, but as always her superb diction carried clearly despite the hubbub.
“Brava, Annie!” she called. “Brava!” She raised her glass in a toast.
Annie grinned at her best customer. Henny looked marvelous in an off-white georgette blouse with a double accordion-pleated collar and cuffs piped in black and an ankle-length black taffeta skirt. Her softly waved hair sported a new silver tone. On anyone else it would have looked grandmotherly, but on Henny, with her observant brown eyes and fox-sharp nose, the result was an aura of sleek intelligence.
Annie lifted her glass in a return toast and permitted herself a warm glow of pride. The champagne reception at Death on Demand was a rousing success. The bookstore had never looked more wonderful, the heart-pine floors gleaming, the gum bookcases filled to the bursting (she had ordered hundreds of extra books, and Ingrid was ringing up sales faster than Annie could replenish the stock from the storeroom; they’d already sold out of the latest Jonathan Gash), the American cozy area enticing (especially to Agatha, who soon retired to her favorite hiding spot among the ferns), the coffee bar appealing. (Despite the appearance there of a model of a tomb from deep in the bowels of the House of Usher. With a furtive glance about, Annie had grabbed the gritty papier-mâché monstrosity and placed it beneath the sink behind the coffee bar. In the interest of familial harmony, however, she had left untouched the jaunty pink scarf gracing the feathered throat of the stuffed raven on his pedestal just inside the front door.)
The evening’s only drawback was Max’s absence. Annie kept a sharp eye on the opening door, but her tanned and handsome husband didn’t appear. (Lightly tanned, of course. Max was a firm believer in the evils of too much sunshine, the efficacy of oat bran despite the jibes of disbelievers, the importance of being relaxed, and the dangers of LDL cholesterol. Max espoused moderation in all things. Well, almost all things. Sex, after all, was natural, wholesome, and essential to achieving the most elevated state of relaxation.)
Annie was regretful. Not only because it was always more fun with Max at her side, but also because he had looked forward to the reception with as much enthusiasm as she. But he had been quick to agree that it was essential to reach Fleur Calloway before Emma did. Annie had no idea how far afield that assignment may have taken him, so she continued to glance hopefully every time the front door opened.
She met several first-time authors who approached her shyly, so nervous they were scarcely able to murmur the names of their titles. They didn’t realize that most booksellers look forward to meeting new authors. She was especially pleased to meet Natalie Marlow, whose macabre Down These Steps had been one of the most exciting debut novels of the year. It didn’t especially surprise Annie to find the author of that polished, icy prose to be gawky, almost incoherent with shyness, and tattily dressed. Not even interviews on the Today show could lure some authors out of polyester.
The reception lacked the rowdy overtones of others she had hosted (notably one for the cast after the successful opening night of Arsenic and Old Lace a couple of years earlier), but Annie could not have been happier: Death on Demand, plenty of books, and wall-to-wall mystery fans.
Lots of islanders were sprinkled among the party-goers: Frank Saulter, the lanky police chief who never missed a Tom Clancy; Vince Ellis, the red-headed publisher of the Island Gazette, who had asked for the latest by Linda Grant; and a glum-faced Emma Clyde, who leaned against the horror/science-fiction shelves. Annie tried to ignore the unwavering stare from hostile blue eyes.
They weren’t the only blue eyes Annie was busy ignoring. Laurel, lovely in a kelly-green silk with a pink rose print, sent occasional reproachful glances from her station near the Poe collection. When, of