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Authors: Death on Demand/Design for Murder
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branches met over the roadway. The pleasantly cool night air, drifting through the open windows, smelled of marsh water. “Are you sure Hansel and Gretel don’t live down this way?”
“I guess it’s a little daunting at night.”
“I’d take Central Park after dark anytime.” He abruptly slammed on the brake, and she jolted forward, restrained by the seat belt.
“Good God, what’s that?”
The thick, low-slung creature darted swiftly across the dusty dirt road, clearly illuminated by the headlights. “That, city slicker, is a raccoon.”
Max eased the car forward.
“He didn’t even ask any questions.”
“Like, ‘Miss Laurance, did you do it?’ ”
“All right, smartass. Turn to the right, down that lane.”
Max slowed and swung the Porsche to the right, scowling. “This isn’t a lane. This is a bloody footpath.”
“Actually, it’s pretty rustic. Now, slow down. I live in that second tree.”
“The second tree. You did say
tree?”
“It’s a bargain. Some developer got the notion everybody would want to live like Robinson Crusoe, and he built a half dozen houses that are really platforms up in oaktrees. Unfortunately for him, they didn’t go over very well.”
The Porsche’s lights illuminated the tree house now. Wooden steps curved gracefully up from the ground to a circular house built around the main trunk.
“That is really homey,” Max commented drily. “Just you and the earwigs.”
“The realty company sprays every month,” she said severely. “I am bug-free.”
Max braked and clicked off the lights, but Annie was already opening her door. “That’s okay. You don’t have to get out.”
“I know I don’t, but behavior patterns are ingrained. I do not drop a girl off at her front door, especially when it is up in a tree in the middle of a swamp.”
“The South Carolina Tourist Association would frown on the term swamp.”
But he came around to take her arm and gallantly insisted on coming inside and checking every room.
Annie stood quietly in the center of her circular living room, waiting for Max, who was on his knees at the base of her bed, peering beneath it, to return. “Now, why did you do that, Max?”
“Because I’ve got the wild suspicion the island air isn’t too healthy right now.” He glanced around at the hexagonal living room. The walls were eleven-foot-tall sheets of glass, which, in daylight, bathed the room in light and warmth. Now, with the blinds up, the night pressed against the glass, threatening, disturbingly inimical.
Annie quickly lowered the slatted, tropical blinds, and leaned down to turn on a Tiffany lamp. With the night closed out, she felt a good deal more secure. The room was familiar again, the comfortable rattan furniture, fortunately so appropriate for a seaside dwelling, and so affordable. Here, too, as at Death On Demand, bright cushions provided splotches of orange, burnt sienna, and Texas red clay. Her latest photographs were pinned haphazardly to a square bulletin board in the center of the bookcases that filled the wall between the living room and bedroom. She was especially proud of the shot she’d taken at dawn near Moccasin Creek of a Little Blue Heron, his feathers slate blue on his body and purplish red on hisneck. Her Nikon lay on an end table, next to her trophy for being the winning pitcher for the Island Dolphins. The colorful paperbacks stuffed into every inch of the bookcases added another note of cheer. Her favorite books: all the Agathas, the wonderfully funny Leonidas Witherall books written by Phoebe Atwood Taylor as Alice Tilton, the Constance and Gwenyth Little books. Her room, safe and friendly.
“Nobody would want to hurt me.”
“How do we know that?”
Annie dropped down on the largest wicker couch, and Max settled right beside her. There would have been room left over for several others to sit. She scooted over a few inches. He followed.
“Look, Elliot was begging for trouble. He was
“I guess it’s a little daunting at night.”
“I’d take Central Park after dark anytime.” He abruptly slammed on the brake, and she jolted forward, restrained by the seat belt.
“Good God, what’s that?”
The thick, low-slung creature darted swiftly across the dusty dirt road, clearly illuminated by the headlights. “That, city slicker, is a raccoon.”
Max eased the car forward.
“He didn’t even ask any questions.”
“Like, ‘Miss Laurance, did you do it?’ ”
“All right, smartass. Turn to the right, down that lane.”
Max slowed and swung the Porsche to the right, scowling. “This isn’t a lane. This is a bloody footpath.”
“Actually, it’s pretty rustic. Now, slow down. I live in that second tree.”
“The second tree. You did say
tree?”
“It’s a bargain. Some developer got the notion everybody would want to live like Robinson Crusoe, and he built a half dozen houses that are really platforms up in oaktrees. Unfortunately for him, they didn’t go over very well.”
The Porsche’s lights illuminated the tree house now. Wooden steps curved gracefully up from the ground to a circular house built around the main trunk.
“That is really homey,” Max commented drily. “Just you and the earwigs.”
“The realty company sprays every month,” she said severely. “I am bug-free.”
Max braked and clicked off the lights, but Annie was already opening her door. “That’s okay. You don’t have to get out.”
“I know I don’t, but behavior patterns are ingrained. I do not drop a girl off at her front door, especially when it is up in a tree in the middle of a swamp.”
“The South Carolina Tourist Association would frown on the term swamp.”
But he came around to take her arm and gallantly insisted on coming inside and checking every room.
Annie stood quietly in the center of her circular living room, waiting for Max, who was on his knees at the base of her bed, peering beneath it, to return. “Now, why did you do that, Max?”
“Because I’ve got the wild suspicion the island air isn’t too healthy right now.” He glanced around at the hexagonal living room. The walls were eleven-foot-tall sheets of glass, which, in daylight, bathed the room in light and warmth. Now, with the blinds up, the night pressed against the glass, threatening, disturbingly inimical.
Annie quickly lowered the slatted, tropical blinds, and leaned down to turn on a Tiffany lamp. With the night closed out, she felt a good deal more secure. The room was familiar again, the comfortable rattan furniture, fortunately so appropriate for a seaside dwelling, and so affordable. Here, too, as at Death On Demand, bright cushions provided splotches of orange, burnt sienna, and Texas red clay. Her latest photographs were pinned haphazardly to a square bulletin board in the center of the bookcases that filled the wall between the living room and bedroom. She was especially proud of the shot she’d taken at dawn near Moccasin Creek of a Little Blue Heron, his feathers slate blue on his body and purplish red on hisneck. Her Nikon lay on an end table, next to her trophy for being the winning pitcher for the Island Dolphins. The colorful paperbacks stuffed into every inch of the bookcases added another note of cheer. Her favorite books: all the Agathas, the wonderfully funny Leonidas Witherall books written by Phoebe Atwood Taylor as Alice Tilton, the Constance and Gwenyth Little books. Her room, safe and friendly.
“Nobody would want to hurt me.”
“How do we know that?”
Annie dropped down on the largest wicker couch, and Max settled right beside her. There would have been room left over for several others to sit. She scooted over a few inches. He followed.
“Look, Elliot was begging for trouble. He was
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