Honeymoon with Murder by Carolyn Hart

Author:Carolyn Hart
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-01-31T18:43:57+00:00

Late Sunday night

"Makes copies back and front, in five colors, and collates." Henny closed the paper holder and punched three buttons.

Max studied the open liquor cabinet by the light of his flash. He took no interest in mechanical details. The information at hand, he was quite willing to let Henny take charge of reproducing it. "Harley does himself proud." He held up one bottle. "My God, does anybody actually drink creme de menthe?"

"Sounds like Harley. Any scotch?" Serenely, she placed the second rental application onto the machine to be copied.

"Sure. Dewars and Johnnie Walker Black."

"I'll take Dewars."

Max's voice was muffled as he bent to open the refrigerator. "Ice maker, too. All the comforts of your home bar." He found glasses, poured their drinks, handed one to Henny.

She raised her glass in salute. "So you had 'further sources to draw on'

in compiling information on our suspects?"

He smiled blandly. "How about a gentleman's agreement, Henny? You don't reveal my sources—and I won't reveal yours."

The cheerful clink of glasses sealed their bargain.

Annie's hip throbbed from her fall, but she ignored the nagging discomfort as she peered intently at the circular loops in the braided rug. She ignored, also—or tried to— the husky humming that drifted from Ingrid's bedroom. All she needed now was to have to deal with Laurel! It was like trying to do brain surgery with a leprechaun tap-dancing beside the surgical instrument tray.

"Annie, love, could you come?" Laurels throaty murmur rose confidently.

Taking a tight grip both on her flashlight and her temper, Annie bounced to her feet and hurried to the bedroom door. "Shh," she implored her mother-in-law. "If anyone hears us and calls the cops, we're in terrific trouble."

Laurel's hyacinth-blue eyes widened. "My dear, you sound so apprehensive! But there is a simple remedy— oxygen, that most life-giving of forces. Please, please, Annie, take a deep breath. One. Two.

Three." The pencil flash waved in concert with the words.

Annie was infuriated to realize she was indeed breathing deeply.

"Laurel, stop it! We don't have time to fool around. I need to—"

"Time is not our master, Annie dear. We can conquer time. As I have learned from dear Ophelia, the world can be ours through meditation."

The ingenuous eyes brightened. "Just think about that, Annie, my sweet, and you will feel a sense of relaxation, even of exultation."

Maddened almost beyond endurance, Annie opened her mouth to explode, but Laurel deftly headed her off.

"Now, I called you in here because you, dear, of all people, can help the most to rescue our dear Ingrid. You see, I might make the wrong choice," and she pointed toward the clothing visible through the open door to Ingrids closet.

Annies mouth closed. She struggled for composure.

"Annie, I want you to think. Press your fingertips lightly to your temples, close your eyes, remember Ingrid in her favorite clothes."

Annies mouth opened again, then closed. It might be quicker—and, God knew, simpler—if she did whatever damfool thing Laurel wanted. Then she could return to the living room.

Laurel stepped into the closet.

Annie squeezed her eyes shut.

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