Free Carolyn G. Hart by Death on Demand/Design for Murder Page A

through palmetto palms and sea pines toward the populated area. Spanish moss shrouded the glossily green live oak trees. Alligators sunned on the banks of shallow green ponds, and turtles, frogs, and snakes slipped silently through the water. The soft air shimmered a paler shade of green beneath the tree limbs.
    When Max’s red Porsche plunged out onto the blacktop that circled the island and ran past the luxuriant green of a sleekly mowed golf course, he commented, “From the boondocks to the country club.”
    “Part of the charm.”
    The blacktop served the access roads to the islands’ mansions, which overlooked the fairways of the Island Hills Golf Club. The three-story Tudor-style Club House glistened in the morning sunlight. Ornate, twelve-foot-tallbronze gates were already open to admit early morning foursomes.
    She pointed toward an imposing home on a gentle rise near the fourteenth green. “That’s Emma’s house.”
    Max grinned. “Her little place in the country.”
    Annie nodded. “Right. I saw a feature on it in
American Country Homes
. That little cottage is valued at just under two million.”
    “Crime does pay.”
    “For her.”
    Max squinted against the sunlight and upped his speed to sixty.
    They flashed by more magnificent homes, some barely glimpsed through the spreading live oak trees.
    Max decreased his speed almost immediately because they were already upon the harbor area. Red-tiled roofs marked the beginning of the condos, Swallows’ Retreat. The stores and cafés bordering the basin gleamed a soft gray, the natural wood exteriors weathered by the sun. Max pulled into the crushed-shell parking area.
    “She could have done it.”
    Looking ahead to Death On Demand, Annie didn’t make the connection.
    “Who could have done what?”
    “Emma could have murdered Elliot. She’s smart enough.”
    “Max.”
    “Somebody did it,” he said virtuously.
    “Somebody did,” she agreed. “And that charming Chief Saulter can figure it out.”
    To Annie’s surprise, Max didn’t even attempt to come into the shop with her. In fact, he dropped her off at the edge of the plaza, promised to meet her for lunch, and waved goodbye with an annoyingly cherubic smile.
    Curving around the natural harbor that served as the marina, the plaza was the social hub of Broward’s Rock. Since it was well past the summer season, some of the sailboats were battened down for winter, but most were moored by the wooden docks, ready for island owners to enjoy on idyllic October days. On the far side of the harbor were yacht slips. There were only three big yachtsleft now, and one of these was Emma Clyde’s,
Marigold’s Pleasure
.
    Annie loved the little harbor. It was as elegant as a Fabergé egg. From her front windows, she could watch sailboats scud into the sound and sea gulls swoop and hover near pier’s end in hopes of free fish. All of the shops built on the curve of the plaza were open, but now that the tourist season was over, the atmosphere relaxed perceptibly. The occasional shoppers were more likely to be year-rounders. It was a good time of the year to inventory, to decide on new stocks for next summer, to savor the relaxed hush.
    As she crossed the plaza, she was thoughtful. Why was Max so easily dissuaded from accompanying her? And what was happening in the investigation into Elliot’s death? A
dart?
That still seemed impossible—and contrived. The more she thought about it, the crazier it seemed.
    She walked up on the verandah that fronted the shops and stopped at her own storefront.
Death On Demand
marched in square gilt letters in the center of the south window. The north window carried the information painted in bold scarlet: Mysteries, Suspense, Horror, Adventure, New and Old.
    She looked appraisingly at the display behind the north window. The
Murder Ink
mystery companions took pride of place. Hard to imagine a true mystery aficionado without them. Her latest and most prized old books, first