Read Online Deadly Valentine by Carolyn G. Hart - Free Book Online
Authors: Carolyn G. Hart
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stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, then lifted a sweeping hand to encourage the orchestra. “Everyone now, all together, form one long line.” She placed Howard’s hands on her hips and began to lead a high-stepping march to the infectious, irresistible blast of music.
Annie was caught up in the growing line. The old, familiar chant sounded as the line of dancers snaked about the floor.
It was a hell of an end to a hell of a party.
Six
A S M AX UNLOCKED the front door and stood aside for Annie and Laurel to enter, Laurel paused and beamed at them. “I might just run back. For a moment. Dear Howard. If he ponders Saint Bernard, I know it will be a comfort.”
Max’s hand shot out with incredible speed. “Tomorrow, sweetheart. It’s late now. Past midnight.”
Annie had a vision of an enormous dog, which she knew revealed a depth of ignorance, but she couldn’t resist. “Saint Bernard?”
“Not, of course, any resemblance in personality at all. Between Bernard and Howard. Bernard, of course, was such a
driven
man. Given over to scourging and really so hard on his monks.
Very
little food. But he faced discouragements with such bravery. You see, the Second Crusade was a
disaster
. And it was Bernard who had rallied the West to besiege Damascus. I do feel Howard must accept defeat and rise above it. Though not withdrawing from society, as Bernard did. Bernard was quite opposed to light-mindedness. But then,” and she laughed lightly, “we don’t want Howard to be a saint, merely to be inspired.”
“Not tonight,” Max repeated firmly, still gripping his mother’s elbow.
Laurel shot him a flashing sapphire glance, but Max had his stubborn look. Annie agreed entirely.
It wasn’t all that easy, of course. They made several trips to the kitchen
(“A little fruit before bedtime. So good for mental lightness”)
, shared a final glass of wine, agreed that it had indeed been a delightful party (so many thoroughly nice people), and promised not to give Laurel a thought in the morning
(“Just do your regular thing, my dears. Whatever it is.”)
before Laurel was finally settled in the pink and gold suite.
In their own room, Max closed the door, looked at Annie and said simply—“God.”
She nodded, not sure whether it was a prayer, a plea, or a benediction.
She was opening her mouth, ready to rehash the night (and how could she tactfully suggest to Max that his mother should be caged?), when she saw the package in the middle of their king-size bed.
“Oh, Max. Max!”
He grinned happily.
Annie could demolish a wrapped package faster than Spenser could pump iron.
“Oh, Max!” She stared down at the lovely pin, a two-inch ivory dagger with a jeweled hilt and a ruby at its tip. “Max, it’s lovely!”
“Just a little memento for Valentine’s. Can’t say love isn’t celebrated in mysteries. How about Patricia Wentworth’s
The Ivory Dagger?
Love always wins out.”
Her eyes misted. Dear Max. How much trouble he must have gone to. And obviously he had consulted Ingrid. No way would he have known about Patricia Wentworth and her prim sleuth, Miss Silver, who was so adept at righting an upside-down world for lovelorn couples. His taste ran more to Jeremiah F. Healy’s John Francis Cuddy or Nicholas Freeling’s Henri Castang.
What a jewel of a present.
What a thoughtful lover.
She stepped into his arms and their true Valentine celebration began.
Annie smiled sleepily and touched once again the ivory pin, firmly attached to the yoke of her soft cotton nightshirt. (That, too, had been a gift from Max. He visited rather often at the shop next door to Death on Demand and seemed intrigued by the assorted stock at Lingerie for Loving Ladies, often bringing her a gaily wrapped package. She did so enjoy packages, though some of his choices seemed impractical to an extreme. Flimsy.)
A lovely end to a day that had begun—Her eyes snapped open. Oh yes, what a beginning. But all’s well that
Annie was caught up in the growing line. The old, familiar chant sounded as the line of dancers snaked about the floor.
It was a hell of an end to a hell of a party.
Six
A S M AX UNLOCKED the front door and stood aside for Annie and Laurel to enter, Laurel paused and beamed at them. “I might just run back. For a moment. Dear Howard. If he ponders Saint Bernard, I know it will be a comfort.”
Max’s hand shot out with incredible speed. “Tomorrow, sweetheart. It’s late now. Past midnight.”
Annie had a vision of an enormous dog, which she knew revealed a depth of ignorance, but she couldn’t resist. “Saint Bernard?”
“Not, of course, any resemblance in personality at all. Between Bernard and Howard. Bernard, of course, was such a
driven
man. Given over to scourging and really so hard on his monks.
Very
little food. But he faced discouragements with such bravery. You see, the Second Crusade was a
disaster
. And it was Bernard who had rallied the West to besiege Damascus. I do feel Howard must accept defeat and rise above it. Though not withdrawing from society, as Bernard did. Bernard was quite opposed to light-mindedness. But then,” and she laughed lightly, “we don’t want Howard to be a saint, merely to be inspired.”
“Not tonight,” Max repeated firmly, still gripping his mother’s elbow.
Laurel shot him a flashing sapphire glance, but Max had his stubborn look. Annie agreed entirely.
It wasn’t all that easy, of course. They made several trips to the kitchen
(“A little fruit before bedtime. So good for mental lightness”)
, shared a final glass of wine, agreed that it had indeed been a delightful party (so many thoroughly nice people), and promised not to give Laurel a thought in the morning
(“Just do your regular thing, my dears. Whatever it is.”)
before Laurel was finally settled in the pink and gold suite.
In their own room, Max closed the door, looked at Annie and said simply—“God.”
She nodded, not sure whether it was a prayer, a plea, or a benediction.
She was opening her mouth, ready to rehash the night (and how could she tactfully suggest to Max that his mother should be caged?), when she saw the package in the middle of their king-size bed.
“Oh, Max. Max!”
He grinned happily.
Annie could demolish a wrapped package faster than Spenser could pump iron.
“Oh, Max!” She stared down at the lovely pin, a two-inch ivory dagger with a jeweled hilt and a ruby at its tip. “Max, it’s lovely!”
“Just a little memento for Valentine’s. Can’t say love isn’t celebrated in mysteries. How about Patricia Wentworth’s
The Ivory Dagger?
Love always wins out.”
Her eyes misted. Dear Max. How much trouble he must have gone to. And obviously he had consulted Ingrid. No way would he have known about Patricia Wentworth and her prim sleuth, Miss Silver, who was so adept at righting an upside-down world for lovelorn couples. His taste ran more to Jeremiah F. Healy’s John Francis Cuddy or Nicholas Freeling’s Henri Castang.
What a jewel of a present.
What a thoughtful lover.
She stepped into his arms and their true Valentine celebration began.
Annie smiled sleepily and touched once again the ivory pin, firmly attached to the yoke of her soft cotton nightshirt. (That, too, had been a gift from Max. He visited rather often at the shop next door to Death on Demand and seemed intrigued by the assorted stock at Lingerie for Loving Ladies, often bringing her a gaily wrapped package. She did so enjoy packages, though some of his choices seemed impractical to an extreme. Flimsy.)
A lovely end to a day that had begun—Her eyes snapped open. Oh yes, what a beginning. But all’s well that
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