Chapter One
Annie Laurance Darling crouched on the floor by the coffee
bar. She peered into a deep crack. Maybe if she got a
skewer she could reach the silver bell. A skewer? This was
a bookstore, not a culinary shop. Whatever made her think
of skewers? Probably the box of Diane Mott Davidson books
waiting to be unpacked. Readers loved books with sleuthing
cooks at Christmas. Maybe she'd better order some more of
the Katherine Hall Page and Janet Laurence titles.
Annie popped to her feet, tried to push back a loop of
yarn into her sweater and glared at Agatha. "Agatha, this
is my favorite Christmas sweater."
The elegant black cat lifted a languid paw, the same paw
that an instant before had swiped swiftly through the air
and ripped the silver bell from atop the green yarn
Christmas tree on Annie's red sweater.
Agatha tilted her head and looked for all the world as if
she were smiling.
Annie finally grinned. "Okay. I don't blame you. It's what
anybody deserves who goes around with a bell dangling from
their front. Happy holidays, sweetie." Annie reached out,
carefully, and stroked the velvet-soft fur, then moved
behind the wooden bar and poured Kona coffee into a mug.
Each mug at the Death on Demand Mystery Bookstore carried
the name of a famous mystery. This one emblazoned: MURDER
FOR CHRISTMAS by Agatha Christie. She also had a mug with
the English title: HERCULE POIROT'S CHRISTMAS.
Annie held the warm mug and smelled that wonderful Kona
aroma. How cheerful to think of lacy waterfalls and
champagne music when it was cold and foggy outside. Annie
loved the South Carolina Low Country and especially the
barrier island of Broward's Rock, but even she had to
admit that December, with its sharp winds and drab brown
marshes, was a good time to stay inside, read wonderful
mysteries (perhaps Renowned Be Thy Grave; Or, the
Murderous Miss Mooney by P. M. Carlson, Death at Dearly
Manor by Betty Rowlands or False Light by Caroline
Llewellyn) and drink Hawaii's best coffee. December was
also a good time for shelling, especially an hour or two
after dead low tide. Yesterday she and Max had found
channeled whelks and two lettered olive shells. The olive,
South Carolina's state shell, was glossy with a pointed
spire. Max had picked up the first olive and smiled. "Hey,
this one's perfect. A Low Country Christmas present just
for us."
Annie grinned. She adored Christmas, but sometimes she
thought Max loved the holiday even more. Last night they'd
made red and green taffy and one evening soon they would
whip up a batch of divinity. As far as Annie was
concerned, there was never time enough in December to do
all she wanted to do. There were boxes of books to unpack
and a big stack of luscious bound galleys to read.
Publishers sent out early paperback versions of
forthcoming books to alert booksellers, and many of her
favorite authors would have new books out in the coming
year: Anne George, Harlan Coben, Peter Robinson, Deborah
Crombie and Caroline Graham. Hmm, what riches. Her
Christmas present to herself would be the time to savor
these books.
Annie picked up the fragrant coffee, happily drank.
Christmas was her favorite season. She loved everything
about it: the tangy scent of pine, decorating the tree,
the lighting of an Advent candle at church each Sunday,
buying presents and wrapping them, making divinity and
pumpkin bread. After all, Max wasn't the only chef in the
family....
She put down the cup. Family. Christmas was a time for
families. She'd always envied friends with big, sprawling,
though sometimes noisy and cantankerous families. Her own
memories were, perforce, of small gatherings. But happy
ones. There were the years with her mother before she
died. Later Annie had come to the island to spend the
holidays with her Uncle Ambrose, a taciturn man who seldom
spoke but whose every gesture to Annie spoke of love.
These recent years, Christmases with Max. Dear Max, who
always looked toward her when he entered the room and
whose dark blue eyes held a special warmth that was for
her alone. Dear Max, who was definitely not the Prince
Charming she had imagined. Oh, of course he was charming
and handsome and sexy, but he was light-years different
from any spouse she'd ever envisioned when she was growing
up. To be honest, she'd thought of someone like herself.
serious, intense, hardworking.
"Agatha, have you ever heard of the Odd Couple?"
Agatha lifted her head to sniff the coffee mug, wrinkled
her black nose.
Quickly, Annie said, "Well, we aren't that odd."
From the front of the store, Ingrid Webb, her longtime
clerk and friend, called, "Annie, are you talking to that
cat again?"
Annie called back, "Ingrid, she didn't mean to bite you."
"Humph." There was a slap of books being shelved.
Annie understood Ingrid's coolness. Of course Agatha had
damn well meant to bite. Agatha was bright, quick,
gloriously beautiful and exceedingly temperamental.
Annie bent down, whispered, "Agatha, you shouldn't have."
Agatha eyed the green-yarn Christmas tree on Annie's
sweater.
Annie took a step back. Not, of course, that she was
afraid of her own cat. But prudence prompted retreat.
Prudence. Yes, Annie knew she was prudent.
Max was not prudent, although he was too mellow ever to be
reckless. Max didn't believe in schedules. When they
traveled, he was always ready to turn down an enticing
road even if it wasn't going in the right direction. He
liked the unexpected. Max was handsome and fun and
adventurous -- and lazy? She brushed away the word. To be
fair, Max was quite capable of intense and excellent work.
It was only that he so rarely found any reason to work.
Max was debonair and clever and kind. So, all right...
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