Death Comes Silently Read Online Free Page B

cold winter day?”
     
    Fertile. If anyone ever knew about… Annie wrenched her mind away from any consideration of her oft-married mother-in-law’s romantic proclivities as well as sunflower trivia. There was much to be done…
     
    The next hour passed in a frantic blur, food served, spilled iced tea mopped up, a controversy as to seating settled, cell phones hopefully turned off, and finally spiky-haired Emma Clyde in a caftan that looked like a cross between a ship’s billowing sail and a flannel nightgown rose majestically to her feet. Stalwart, sturdy, stern-visaged, self-absorbed, and a sponge for attention, Emma looked benignly at her audience. “Marigold Rembrandt and I”—she might have been describing royalty—“have perhaps enjoyed our finest moment—”
     
    Annie watched with a cool gaze. Was Emma grandiose or what?
     
    Emma’s knife-sharp blue eyes paused in their sweep of the room.
     
    Annie promptly rearranged her face in what she devoutly hoped would pass as an entranced expression.
     
    “—in
The Case of the Convivial Cat
. Marigold once again takes Inspector Houlihan to task as she insightfully, really quite brilliantly—”
     
    Annie maintained her pleasant expression. Implicit was the premise that Marigold was simply a reflection of the incredible sagacity of author Emma Clyde.
     
    “—follows the cunningly inserted clues—”
     
    Annie’s cell phone rang. She’d been thrilled when Duane Webb had downloaded the Inner Sanctum creak to serve as her ringtone, mirroring the sounds when Death on Demand’s front door opened, but the piercing squeal blared in the hushed quiet of the bookstore.
     
    Emma came to a full stop. Her icy blue eyes slitted. She folded her sturdy arms across her chest and gazed at Annie with a stony expression.
     
    Annie fumbled in her pocket.
Creeaaak
… She’d gone from table to table and pled with charm for all cell phones to be turned off. How could she have forgotten her own?
     
    Phone in hand, she flipped it open, whispered, “I can’t talk now…”
     
    Emma waited, the Empress Dowager contemplating a lower life form.
     
    Some of the ladies turned to stare. A few made disapproving murmurs.
     
    Annie heard a familiar semihysterical voice. “Annie, you have to come… Such a fright always… I don’t think I can stay here with that big hulking brute… and”—her voice puffed with self-importance—“Ihave to decide what to do about that index card that I found…”
     
    Annie took a deep breath. Gretchen Burkholt lived in a world of extreme stress, a gentle rain heralded a nor’easter, any stray cat was surely rabid, the potato salad at the picnic might harbor salmonella… Annie and Gretchen were among volunteers at Better Tomorrow, the island charity shop, which offered groceries, clothing, job tips, firewood, help with bills, and encouragement to those in a financial bind. Better Tomorrow’s client base had swelled during the recent bad times. Gretchen had switched volunteer slots today so Annie could host the luncheon and book event. Therefore, Annie was in no position to be abrupt.
     
    Emma cleared her throat. Emphatically.
     
    Annie heard snatches of Gretchen’s increasing frenzied patter. “…I always check the clothing, especially when someone’s recently deceased… family members can be too distraught… and everyone was so puzzled that he was out there…”
     
    Annie broke in, hating to be rude, but she had to end the distraction before Emma rose and departed with the grace of an offended rhinoceros. “Gretchen, sorry. Have to go. Call back. Leave me a message. As soon as the signing’s over”—anything to be free—“I’ll do whatever you want.” She ended the call, clicked off the phone, dropped it in her pocket.
     
    “I’m very sorry. Unexpected call. I forgot to turn my phone off.” This last in a mumble. “Now I know Emma will forgive me and share with you the wonderful”—great emphasis—“scene