didn’t extend to, say, a first edition of Robert Hans van Gulik’s
Dee Goong An: Three Murder Cases Solved by Judge Dee,
a privately printed edition of twelve hundred numbered copies signed by van Gulik, at nine hundred dollars, or a first edition of Dorothy L. Sayers’s
In the Teeth of the Evidence
at eight hundred dollars).
In the first painting, an elderly, black-haired man with an egg-shaped head, catlike green eyes, and a luxuriant mustache stared down at a splotched area on the dark carpet of an English country home bedroom. A soldierly-looking man observed his actions closely. The bedclothes were tumbled and tossed. The fireplace was filled with still-smoldering ashes. Summer roses bloomed outside the windows. A table by the bed had been overturned. Among the debris on the floor were a reading lamp, books, matches, and the finely crushed remnants of a coffee cup. A small purple despatch case with the key in its lock lay on a writing table. The door from the hall was closed as was an interior door. A third door, to a connecting bedroom, hung brokenly on its hinges.
In the second painting, a well-dressed man paused on the threshold of a study, bag in hand, looking back into the room at the dark blue leather chairs, the round table with magazines and journals, the bookshelves, the fireplace. The rest of the study wasn’t visible from the hallway. The man’s face was furrowed in thought as he gave that last measuring glance and began to shut the door. Approaching him from the hallway was an oily-faced butler.
Annie loved that particular book. Clever, oh, it was clever. But only one of this wonderful author’s completely original tales.
The book represented in the third painting was without doubt one of the most unusual crime novels ever written. The hands of the clock in the dining room pointed to twenty-twopast nine. The eight guests in evening dress appeared white-raced and fearful, from the elderly, white-mustachioed gentleman standing by the fireplace to the rather handsome young fellow near the French windows that opened onto the terrace to the elderly woman sitting rigidly, hard spots of color in each cheek. Broken cups and spilled coffee marked where the butler had dropped his tray.
The fourth painting told a grim story. An old woman’s body lay sprawled on the floor of the modest parlor. The back of her head had suffered a brutal blow. Blood stained her gray hair and the dark carpet The desk drawers were askew; papers were strewn about. A pale young man—his face reflecting terrible horror and indecision—hesitated in the doorway. A smudge of blood stained one cuff. There was no sign of a weapon.
An elderly woman sat transfixed in the fifth painting, staring through the window of her train compartment at the compartment in a train running parallel to her own and at the tableau of murder: a man stood with his back to his compartment window, his hands fastened about the throat of the woman he was strangling to death.
Perfect, perfect, perfect.
Annie felt a glow of eagerness. Everything was in readiness here at Death on Demand. She glanced at her watch (an el cheapo on a sturdy plastic band; the very word
Rolex
raised her hackles). Almost four. Maybe there would be time for a jog and, if Max were home early, not an unlikely occurrence, other afternoon delights.
She switched off the lights, leaving the bookstore in dimness, and stepped into the storeroom. She paused to pet Agatha, ignoring the low growl, and heard the muffled jangle of the bell at the front door. Annie turned, ready to greet Ingrid.
Light footsteps sounded in the central aisle. A faint scent of lilac eddied in the air.
Annie’s eyes narrowed as she peered out of the storeroom. Damn. She should have known.
Enough light speared in from the high windows on the north to illuminate a puzzling pantomime—to anyone other than Annie.
A notably lovely woman, delicately golden hair that glistenedlike moonlight, blue eyes as dark and vivid