Free Death on Demand by Carolyn G. Hart Page B

Curtiss, the eight volumes of complete Sherlock Holmes published by Collier, and a rare $110 copy of Elizabeth Lemarchand’s first book,
Death of an Old Girl.
New hardcovers, with splashily bright covers, filled the south window. Annie nodded approvingly. It was always a plus when she could offer a new Martha Grimes or Ken Follett. Readers flocked. All right. She couldn’t stand there forever and put off going inside. No matter what had happened last night, she was determined to erase the memory of Elliot’s murder. She had work to do.
    Annie was fishing her key ring from her purse when woodpecker-quick steps tapped up behind her. Ingrid Jones, her springy gray head bobbing, swooped up, wagglingthe key. “Decided it would be a good morning to shelve those books from that Texas estate.”
    Ingrid usually worked only on Saturdays and during lunch hours in the off-season. Annie wasn’t sure what prompted her early arrival, but she knew darn well it signaled support, and she felt a rush of affection. How nice it was to have friends! Then, insidiously, she wondered what made Ingrid decide it was time to rally round the flag.
    Ingrid unlocked the door, and led the way inside, flicking on the lights and chattering nonstop about the snowy egret she’d spotted that morning over near McAlister’s Point. Annie followed slowly, not really listening, but very grateful for human—and animal—sound. Agatha streaked inside, meowing imperiously. Annie stopped by the cash desk and looked down the main corridor toward the dark coffee area.
    No one was there.
    She had almost expected to find that corner cordoned off and a policeman in residence. But that was ridiculous. With a police force of three, and two murders taking place in less than twenty-four hours, Chief Saulter could hardly spare the manpower.
    She tucked her purse in its accustomed place beneath the cash register, then walked down the central corridor, flicking on lights. Agatha loped silently ahead. At the coffee bar, Annie stopped.
    A wobbly chalked outline marked the long oblong where Elliot had fallen. She looked quickly away and went around the bar to open the refrigerator and get out Agatha’s milk. When it was poured, she shook some cat food into the blue ceramic bowl that was inscribed in white script,
The Grande Dame.
    The bell jingled. Annie jumped up to peer down the central aisle, then struggled to look normal as Ingrid welcomed Sam Mickle, the postman.
    “Good morning, Sam.”
    “Morning, Ingrid. Miss Laurance.”
    Annie murmured for a moment to Agatha, who expected salutations along with provender, then moved unhurriedly up the aisle to glance through the pile of mail Ingrid had stacked on the cash desk. Despite everything that hadhappened, Annie was beginning to relax. It was a marvelously normal Monday. She thumbed through the material, dropping junk into the wastebasket, bills into a pile to her left,
Publishers Weekly to the right.
She would read
PW
, then … She held a small square package between thumb and forefinger and stared at the bold, slanted writing of the address.
    There was no doubt in her mind who had written her name in thick, dark strokes.
    But why would Elliot Morgan have mailed a small, square package to her? Shades of
The List of Adrian Messenger
, she thought miserably.
    It didn’t take Max long to figure the layout of Broward’s Rock. Of course, it wasn’t very big, seven miles long and five miles at its widest. One blacktop road circled the island, beginning and ending at Heron Point where the ferry landed, and funneling into the resort area through the checkpoint. The guard on duty nodded respectfully at the Porsche as it scooted by. The ferry office was part of a tin-roofed beer joint and bait shop owned by Ben Parotti, who could chew tobacco and guzzle Schlitz concurrently. When Halcyon Development Company decided to create a rich man’s refuge, it bought the skillet end of the island, intending to leave the narrow handle with