he ever wanted," she drawled bitterly, "from His Holiness, the Honorable Augustus Tarrant."
They stood at the edge of the bluff and looked down at the swift-flowing river rushing headlong toward the sea. In the glow of sunset, the darkening water glittered coldly, obsidian streaked with copper.
Max bent down, picked up a fused clump of shells, and lofted them high and far, out into the darkness.
Where they fell, it was impossible to tell.
The water would be cold. The river was deep, and the current ran fast and dangerous. If Courtney went into the river (was she injured? was she conscious?), would she have had the strength to reach shore? If she didn't go into the river, where was she? What had happened to her? This was Friday night. Courtney Kimball had disappeared, leaving behind a blood-smeared car, on Wednesday night.
Annie shivered.
Max slipped an arm around Annie's shoulders, held her tightly.
She looked around the point. Theirs was the only car parked here. Where was Harris Walker? Had the hounds circled and circled? What would he do now?
Annie reached up to grip Max's hand, his warm and comforting hand. "If Courtney went over the edge, if she went into the water, they may never find her."
"We are going to find her," Max said stubbornly. "One way or another."
It was unlike Max to agree to eat fast food, very unlike him to be the proposer of fast food, and exceedingly unlike him to speed through dinner (though, of course, he opted for the healthy salad while Annie thoroughly enjoyed a Big Mac). That he had done all three was nothing short of astonishing. But Annie understood. Time, time. Every hour that passed
made it less likely Courtney Kimball would be found alive. Max wanted every minute to count.
Their headquarters at the St. George Inn was beginning to seem homelike. She poured freshly brewed (Colombian decaffeinated) coffee into the thermos, arranged pens beside fresh legal pads, and eavesdropped on Max's side of a conversation with Miss Dora.
He was firm. "I consider it absolutely essential." He glanced at the clock. "It's just after eight P.M. You can call all of them now."
Annie settled comfortably in a chair at the breakfast room table, picked up a pen, and began to doodle. It wouldn't have won a blue at an art show, but it was recognizable as a Southern mansion. Beneath it, she wrote "Tarrant House."
"That's right. Tomorrow afternoon at Tarrant House." Although he was barefoot and wore a pale-blue polo shirt and white shorts, Max didn't look relaxed. He hunched over the telephone with the intensity of Craig Rice's John J. Malone studying a dopesheet. "I'll handle everything else." Max looked up and gave Annie a big grin and a thumbs-up signal.
She scrawled "Here we come!" in bold letters.
It had a confident, aggressive ring. But Annie wondered just how eerie tomorrow afternoon's gathering at Tarrant House would be. How would you feel, she wondered suddenly, if you were a murderer, invited for a little exercise in reconstruction? But wouldn't a murderer have learned to school his face (her face?) through years of deception? Still, wouldn't it be a heart-pounding exercise?
As Max continued his brisk outline, Annie poured herself a cup of coffee and thumbed through the day's mail, which Barb had brought over in the afternoon:
The latest Publishers Weekly: An exploration of the market in Spain, the latest in computerware for booksellers, gossip about who really wrote a movie actor's bestseller, a nice assortment of mysteries reviewed.
MOSTLY MURDER: Fascinating and up-to-date reviews on all kinds of mysteries, from the most hard-boiled to the most genteel. A wonderful quarterly.
A brightly colored postcard brought a smile. Where was Henny now? Annie studied the sunlit picture of Charing Cross and the sandstone railway station named for it. "Felt myself in quite good company today," the unmistakable backward-looping script reported. "Irene Adler and Godfrey Norton caught their train here in A Scandal in Bohemia. And here's where Tuppence Cowley took a train in search of Tommy in The Secret Adversary. Dear Annie, wish you were here. But I'll be home soon—and eager to jump into the thick of things."
Annie felt a pang of homesickness. Not, of course, to be in London, where she had never been, but to be back at Death on Demand, the finest mystery bookstore this side of Atlanta, to unpack books and check stock, to sell mysteries and pet Agatha, to respond good-naturedly to Henny's whodunnit one-upmanship and Laurel's unpredictable interests, to talk new books with Ingrid and look forward to after-hours and Max.
Dear Max.
He was sprawled back on the love seat now, the telephone balanced on his stomach, obviously pleased with the progress of his campaign. ". . . and one final point, Miss Dora. Ask Sybil and Chief Wells to come. That will put more pressure on the murderer."
A prickle moved down Annie's back.
She hadn't read mysteries since beginning with The Secret of the Old Clock without gaining a keen appreciation of some of the verities of the detecting life. Only the first murder is hard.
"Yes, we'll be prepared, Miss Dora." Max had never sounded more confident. "You can count on that." As he hung up, Annie popped to her feet.
"Max, what if the murderer gets too scared?" She managed to sound brisk. Inside, she still had that it's-midnight-andI'm-alone-in-the-cemetery feeling. Like reading Mary McMullen or Celia Fremlin.
Max set the phone on the end table. He pushed up from the love seat, then stood and stared down at her, his hands jammed into the pockets of his shorts.
Annie saw a worry as deep as her own reflected in his eyes. "I know. Someone out there"—he gestured toward the