Death of the Party Read Online Free Page B

people who were there—and she was fond of some of them—and wonder which face hid murder.”
    Max sketched a face with staring eyes. “You broke the law.”
    â€œYes.” She was decisive. “That’s why I’ve come here.”
    Max’s eyebrows rose. “I can’t help you there, Ms. Barlow—”
    â€œPlease. Call me Britt. Everyone does.” Her grave look was an appeal.
    â€œBritt.” He liked the sound of her name: crisp, fresh, different. “I suggest you contact an attorney.”
    â€œI’m not worried about that. Oh, I know.” She shrugged. “I suppose I’ll be in trouble. Maybe a lot of trouble. I guess”—her tone was thoughtful—“they could put me in jail. That doesn’t matter. What matters is finding out who killed Jeremiah. I’ve thought and thought. I could go to the police, tell them what I’ve told you. Maybe they’d listen. Maybe they wouldn’t. But what could they do?”
    Max drew a massive question mark, decorated it with handcuffs. “If your report was taken seriously, a detective would interview everyone who was on the island at the time.” But there was no physical evidence available now. Unless someone had seen something that would be meaningful once murder was suspected, the trail was cold. Still…“I recommend contacting the sheriff’s department.”
    â€œNo.” It was a simple declaration. And final. “If someone—a detective—came to see them, they’d be warned. Oh, I’ve thought it all over. And here’s what I want to do…” She leaned forward, her green eyes intent.
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    Annie Laurance Darling had the bookstore to herself. Well, she and Agatha and hundreds of her friends. That’s how she thought of mystery authors. Her friends. After all, friends give to each other, and the wonderful writers had given her a lifetime of pleasure. Thanks to them, she’d detected from Atlanta to Zanzibar, all from the comfort of her easy chair.
    Annie bent down, picked up the sleek black cat, draped her over one shoulder, sauntered down the central corridor toward the coffee bar. A fire crackled in the fireplace. The South Carolina sea island of Broward’s Rock, home to the best mystery bookstore east of Atlanta, was never truly cold enough to need a wood fire. But there were nippy days in January when a fire was welcome and always cheerful.
    Annie hesitated near the coffee bar. She should march straight back to the storeroom and open that latest box of Sister Carol Anne O’Marie titles. She had some returns to pack, orders to place…. She veered behind the coffee bar.
    Agatha wriggled free, landing lightly atop the counter. The elegant black cat lifted a paw, licked, swiped at her cheek.
    Annie smiled in contentment. Yes, Agatha should be removed at once from the countertop. But hey, she and her cat were alone in the store. So far as she knew, all health department officials were busy elsewhere. “Why not?” she demanded of Agatha.
    Inscrutable golden eyes seemed to blink assent.
    â€œBesides,” Annie valued truth, “you’d bite me if I tried to move you.”
    Annie studied the mirrored wall behind the coffee bar, which held almost a hundred white pottery mugs, each inscribed in red script with the name of a famous mystery and the author. Annie started the cappuccino machine, took her time selecting a mug. She wanted the perfect one—the bon mot of titles. After all, this was a special day. There were no To Do lists in regard to the wedding because, of course, the wedding was over and a grand and happy success. Her father and his new bride were en route to Tahiti for several weeks. Pudge and Sylvia were now Mr. and Mrs. Laurance.
    The wedding—last Saturday—had been blessed with a sparkling day, white clouds scudding in a robin’s-egg-blue sky, the temperature a mild sixty. That was