Free A Little Class on Murder by Carolyn G. Hart Page A

palms down on his desk, and stared at him accusingly. “Laurel said you suggested behind-the-scenes support! So what does that mean? You told her about the class? You
told
her?”
    “Annie, love, I was so excited at the prospect, so pleased for you. I know how much you enjoy digging out all those fascinating facts about mysteries. The ones you told me about, likeMary Roberts Rinehart basing
The After House
on the famous ax murders that occurred in the 1890s on that lumber schooner, the
Herbert Fuller
, and how her book reopened the case and resulted in freedom for the mate who’d been convicted. And Agatha Christie patterning Louise Leidner in
Murder in Mesopotamia
after Sir Leonard Woolley’s imperious wife, Katharine. And all the fun Dorothy Sayers—”
    “L,” Annie interrupted automatically. “Dorothy L. Sayers.”
    “—had when writing
Murder Must Advertise
, using her background as a copywriter at the London advertising agency of S. H. Benson’s.” He paused. Annie was nodding contentedly. “Certainly, I had the best of intentions.”
    That wasn’t the politic remark to make.
    “Good intentions!” she fumed. She resumed her pacing. “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
    He received this original pronouncement in respectful silence.
    Annie shoved a hand through her sandy hair. “I can’t believe this has happened to me. My class—just a nice little class on murder, and now look what’s happened!”
    Max began to feel a trifle combative. After all, Laurel was a good sort. He banished to a deep recess of his mind the outcome when Laurel had engaged in activities close to the hearts of his brothers-in-law. “Well, now, Annie, really, don’t you think you’re overreacting? I know Mother can be a bit overwhelming, but she really does mean well.”
    “It isn’t just Laurel. I could cope with one. But not three!”
    “Three?”
    “Oh Max, it isn’t just your mother. Henny’s in my class, too. And Miss Dora. You remember her. She has that old house and she runs that town and everybody’s scared to death of her. She’s in there, too. And every time I really get started, one of them interrupts. Laurel coos something about love and Miss Dora thumps that damn cane, then Henny has a bright aside. Max, they’re devouring my class.”
    Not just Laurel! Max was careful not to let his relief show, but this certainly put a different face on it. “Three of them,” he exclaimed happily.
    Annie glared, and he promptly assumed a totally sympathetic expression. “Annie, that’s a damned shame.”
    “Isn’t it just,” she said bitterly. “And if that’s not bad enough—a free spirit, an old bat, and a mystery nut—all hell’s breaking loose over the college newspaper and I might as well have recited GNP statistics for the rest of the class period. Nobody gave a damn about anything but that damn student newspaper.”
    Max seized on the diversion. “What student newspaper? What happened?”
    “I don’t know and I don’t care. And I can tell you this, Max Darling, I’m not going to have a single thing to do with any of it!”

7
    Annie breathed deeply of the cool November air. A light breeze stirred the Spanish moss in the live oak limbs and rustled the fronds of the sturdy palmettos. Their footsteps echoed on the wooden verandah. They had the harborside to themselves, it was so early. She squeezed Max’s hand, then darted a quick sideways glance. Max looked glum. Which was, of course, so unlike his usual pleasant, equable demeanor.
    Was it cruel and unusual punishment to roust him from the comforts of the tree house and deposit him at his office door before eight o’clock in the morning?
    Annie almost took pity. After all, they could be home in five minutes, and she knew what would lighten his mood. Turn him effervescent, as a matter of fact.
    Then she vanquished temptation. Duty called. She had been so distraught over the unexpected composition of her class that she had thrown up