Death Comes Silently Read Online Free
weren’t suited in some ways, but there was never any doubt that they could not live without each other. What was love? Passion, yes, always, but love meant trust and faith and laughter. To know that Max was in a room with her made that place a haven. They’d known happy days and tough days, but it was always the two of them together.
She crossed her fingers. On both hands. Not, of course, that she was superstitious. But she and Max had come near the unraveling of their lives, and she never ceased to be thankful for their escape. Underneath their cheerful banter, they possessed a sober realization of life’s uncertainties.
She turned to look across the boardwalk at the shops that curved in a semicircle facing the marina. Death on Demand, her wonderful mystery bookstore, beckoned her, though she was braced for a frazzling day. She shivered, drew her cheerful peacock blue wool jacket close.
Her cell phone rang.
Annie slipped the cell from the pocket of her wool slacks, glanced at the caller ID, raised an eyebrow. “Hello.”
“Don’t think she hasn’t spotted you.” Ingrid spoke in a whisper.
The connection ended. Her clerk was giving her a heads-up. Another day, another encounter with Annie’s always unpredictable mother-in-law, Laurel Darling Roethke. Where Max was handsome, Laurel was gorgeous. Silver blond hair framed a fine bone structure. Yet there was more than beauty; there was a hint of rollicking adventure and enthusiasm and eagerness for life. When Laurel walked into a room, everyone suddenly felt touched by magic. Laurel’s Nordic blue eyes might sometimes be slightly spacey, but they could also be incredibly perceptive.
Annie moved toward the steps to the shops. Annie had survived Laurel’s flirtation with cosmic karma, her delight in saints, most especially the remarkable Teresa of Ávila, and most recently her determination to decorate the bookstore with photographs of exotic cats. Cat photos now hung on the walls among book posters—Harlan Coben’s new thriller, Mary Saums’s clever new
Thistle and Twigg
—and were adored by customers. Annie enjoyed looking at them as well. As she well knew, cats ruled, especially Agatha, Death on Demand’s sleek black resident feline.
Annie reached the front door, thoughts whirling. Laurel was no stranger to the store, but today was challenging, a Beaufort book club arriving for a talk by Emma Clyde and a light lunch. Had the chicken salad been delivered? Emma, the island’s famous crime writer, would sign copies of her new Marigold Rembrandt mystery,
The Case of the Convivial Cat
. Woe betide Annie if they ran out of books. Woe betide Annie if she’d ordered too many, making the author feel the signing was a flop.
Annie drew a deep breath. Chicken salad… the new books… Leave a couple of boxes in the storeroom? She didn’t have time for Laurel this morning. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the charm of Laurel’s most recent preoccupation, but she insisted—nicely—upon audience participation. Annie wasn’t sure why she objected sostrenuously, but she’d always refused to wear silly hats, watch Charlie Chaplin, or draw undue attention to herself.
She stopped with her hand on the knob. Good grief, was she a pompous ass?
What harm would it do to play along? Get in the spirit?
Annie gave a decided head shake. Responding quickly to a question before she had time to think was too much like a public Rorschach test. She took a deep breath, opened the door, activating the new
Inner Sanctum
door recording that Ingrid’s husband, Duane, had installed before Halloween. The satisfying creak of hinges foretold chills and thrills, exactly what readers would find in the finest mystery bookstore north of Florida’s Murder on the Beach.
Annie stepped inside, drew another happy breath, this time of books and bindings and coffee.
Slender and intense, her graying hair in a new short cut,
She crossed her fingers. On both hands. Not, of course, that she was superstitious. But she and Max had come near the unraveling of their lives, and she never ceased to be thankful for their escape. Underneath their cheerful banter, they possessed a sober realization of life’s uncertainties.
She turned to look across the boardwalk at the shops that curved in a semicircle facing the marina. Death on Demand, her wonderful mystery bookstore, beckoned her, though she was braced for a frazzling day. She shivered, drew her cheerful peacock blue wool jacket close.
Her cell phone rang.
Annie slipped the cell from the pocket of her wool slacks, glanced at the caller ID, raised an eyebrow. “Hello.”
“Don’t think she hasn’t spotted you.” Ingrid spoke in a whisper.
The connection ended. Her clerk was giving her a heads-up. Another day, another encounter with Annie’s always unpredictable mother-in-law, Laurel Darling Roethke. Where Max was handsome, Laurel was gorgeous. Silver blond hair framed a fine bone structure. Yet there was more than beauty; there was a hint of rollicking adventure and enthusiasm and eagerness for life. When Laurel walked into a room, everyone suddenly felt touched by magic. Laurel’s Nordic blue eyes might sometimes be slightly spacey, but they could also be incredibly perceptive.
Annie moved toward the steps to the shops. Annie had survived Laurel’s flirtation with cosmic karma, her delight in saints, most especially the remarkable Teresa of Ávila, and most recently her determination to decorate the bookstore with photographs of exotic cats. Cat photos now hung on the walls among book posters—Harlan Coben’s new thriller, Mary Saums’s clever new
Thistle and Twigg
—and were adored by customers. Annie enjoyed looking at them as well. As she well knew, cats ruled, especially Agatha, Death on Demand’s sleek black resident feline.
Annie reached the front door, thoughts whirling. Laurel was no stranger to the store, but today was challenging, a Beaufort book club arriving for a talk by Emma Clyde and a light lunch. Had the chicken salad been delivered? Emma, the island’s famous crime writer, would sign copies of her new Marigold Rembrandt mystery,
The Case of the Convivial Cat
. Woe betide Annie if they ran out of books. Woe betide Annie if she’d ordered too many, making the author feel the signing was a flop.
Annie drew a deep breath. Chicken salad… the new books… Leave a couple of boxes in the storeroom? She didn’t have time for Laurel this morning. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the charm of Laurel’s most recent preoccupation, but she insisted—nicely—upon audience participation. Annie wasn’t sure why she objected sostrenuously, but she’d always refused to wear silly hats, watch Charlie Chaplin, or draw undue attention to herself.
She stopped with her hand on the knob. Good grief, was she a pompous ass?
What harm would it do to play along? Get in the spirit?
Annie gave a decided head shake. Responding quickly to a question before she had time to think was too much like a public Rorschach test. She took a deep breath, opened the door, activating the new
Inner Sanctum
door recording that Ingrid’s husband, Duane, had installed before Halloween. The satisfying creak of hinges foretold chills and thrills, exactly what readers would find in the finest mystery bookstore north of Florida’s Murder on the Beach.
Annie stepped inside, drew another happy breath, this time of books and bindings and coffee.
Slender and intense, her graying hair in a new short cut,
Readers choose
Thomas Hollyday
P.J. Night
Jillian Hart
Lisa T. Bergren
J.C. Valentine
Rebecca Tope
Lilia Birney
James Patrick Riser