The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [8]
Perfect, perfect, perfect.
Annie felt a glow of eagerness. Everything was in readiness here at Death on Demand. She glanced at her watch (an el cheapo on a sturdy plastic band; the very word Rolex raised her hackles). Almost four. Maybe there would be time for a jog and, if Max were home early, not an unlikely occurrence, other afternoon delights.
She switched off the lights, leaving the bookstore in dimness, and stepped into the storeroom. She paused to pet Agatha, ignoring the low growl, and heard the muffled jangle of the bell at the front door. Annie turned, ready to greet Ingrid.
Light footsteps sounded in the central aisle. A faint scent of lilac eddied in the air.
Annie’s eyes narrowed as she peered out of the storeroom. Damn. She should have known.
Enough light speared in from the high windows on the north to illuminate a puzzling pantomime—to anyone other than Annie.
A notably lovely woman, delicately golden hair that glistened like moonlight, blue eyes as dark and vivid as a deep northern sea, patrician features that would be as enchanting at eighty as at eighteen, crouched—dammit, she even crouched gracefully despite her fashionably long skirt—at the center table of the Christie exhibit.
For a long moment, the golden head tilted at a listening angle, then, with a nod of satisfaction, an elegantly beringed hand (sapphires predominating) opened a canvas carryall.
Annie cleared her throat.
The intruder’s slim shoulders stiffened.
Annie flicked the switches and light flooded Death on Demand, illuminating every corner, the coffee bar with mugs bearing the names of famous mysteries in bright red script, the cheerful enclave for readers that offered inviting cane chairs, Whitmani ferns sprouting from raffia baskets, and onyx-based brass floor lamps, the softly gleaming gum bookcases lined diagonally to the central corridor.
Without turning, the intruder addressed her in an unforgettable, husky, lilting voice. “Dear Annie, how like you to be lurking.” Serenely, she bent back to her carryall and busily lifted out an assortment of objects. “I didn’t want to be any trouble. Just a little thought of mine. A soupçon of history adds so much to every aspect of our lives.”
Annie stalked across the floor, valiantly repressing a sense of imminent defeat. Laurel was not going to prevail. Not this time. She managed to keep her voice pleasant when she stood beside her mother-in-law. “Laurel, I know you mean well….” As she spoke, Annie felt she’d fulfilled her obligation for Christian charity for at least a month. “But this exhibition is in honor of Agatha Christie.” She continued forcefully, “Agatha Christie only.”
Laurel looked up reproachfully. Her primrose-blue eyes brimmed with disbelief, dismay, and acute puzzlement.
Since they’d already fought this battle a dozen different ways on a dozen different days, Annie felt a strong urge to say, “Aw, come off it, Laurel.” That she didn’t was an indication, she felt, of restraint akin to saintliness.
“After all,” Annie continued grimly, ignoring the seductive eyes, “we are celebrating the centennial of the birth of the greatest mystery writer of all time. More than one billion of her books have been published. One billion, Laurel.”
Laurel smiled benignly. “Of course.” An airy wave of her hand dismissed the figure. “But Annie, we cannot,” she said gently, “have the chicken without the egg. Now, can we?” She bent back to her carryall and reverently lifted out a facsimile of a 3½-by-6½-inch manuscript page covered with tiny, cramped script. She held it out as a priestess might proffer an icon. “Where would Agatha Christie be without Edgar? Who wrote the very first detective story in the history of the world?”
Annie muttered, “How about Vidocq? For that matter, what about Voltaire’s Zadig?”
But Laurel continued to pull items from the carryall, carefully placing