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Millions of mystery readers love mystery bookstores, and Carolyn G. Hart has given them and the bookstore owners someone to cheer for. Annie Lawrence, whose own store is the base for exciting and intellectually stimulating cases in such books as A Little Class on Murder, Something Wicked and death on demand. Ms. Hart lives in Oklahoma City. Her good name by carolyn g. Hart. Amy Lawrence Darling, will the telephone to ring? But the undistinguished garden variety black desk telephone remained mute. Damn it, Max could at least call. The more she thought about it, the more she wished that she had gone. Of course, it was undeniably true that Ingrid wasn't available to mind the bookstore, but it wouldn't have been for a few days in November. She didn't let herself dwell on the fact that Saturday had been her best fall day ever. She'd sold cartons of the latest by Leah Matera and Sarah Paretzky. But there was Max after Patagonia and adventure. And here she was, stuck in her closed bookstore on a rainy Sunday afternoon with nothing to do but unpack books and wonder if Max had managed to spring Laurel. Even Law should have known better than to take up a collection for Amnesty International in the main hall of the Justice Ministry in Buenos Aires. A tiny worm of worry wriggled in Annie's mind. She knew, of course, that her husband was absolutely capable, totally in command, unflappable, imperturbable, and he snapped the book shut and bounced to her feet. But oh, sweet Jesus. Who knew what kind of a mess Laurel had? The phone rang and he leaped across the coffee area and grabbed at the extension behind the coffee bar. She didn't bother saying death on demand. The finest mystery extra on the loveliest resort island off the coast of South Carolina wasn't open. Hello? She tried not to sound concerned, but maybe if she caught a jet tonight. Maxwell Darling. The tone was peremptory, cut through to the bone direct any shoulders tensed, she immediately recognized the dry, crackly voice that rustled like old paper. What did Chastain, South Carolina's most aristocratic, imperious, absolutely impossible old hag, want with Annie's husband? Miss Dora, how are you? And he could remember her manners even if some others could not. And he could imagine the flicker of irritation in Ms. Doris. Reptilian black eyes. No time to waste. Get him to the phone. I wish I could. And he snapped. Where is he? Patagonia. A thoughtful pause on the other end, then a Smith. Laurel, no doubt. The old lady's voice rasp like a rattlesnake slithering across sand as she disgustedly pronounced the name. Mother. Of course, annie groused. And I darn rushed it. Gone. He might need me. You know how dangerous it is in Argentina. A lengthening pause faded with emanations of chagrin, malevolence, and rapid thought. Well, I've no choice. You'll have to do. Meet me at 103 Bay street at 4 o'. Clock. Anna's eyes narrow with fury. Miss Dora was obviously the same old hag she'd always been, and just who the hell did she think she was, ordering Annie to a matter of honor? The phone banged into the receiver. Annie stalked down the stone dark street, the November rain spattering against her yellow slicker. Clumps of sodden leaves squished underfoot. The semi tropical Carolina Lowcountry was not completely immune to winter, and day such as this presaged January and February, and he felt another quiver of outrage. Why had she succumbed to the old bat? Why was she even now pushing from the gate and starting down the oyster shell path to 103 Bay Street? The aged sandpaper voice sounded again in her mind, a matter of honor. The sign to the right of the front door hung unevenly, one screw yielding to time and weather. An amateur had painted the outstretched cupped hands, the thumbs over large, the palms lumpy. The legend was faded but decipherable. Helping hands. Annie was almost to the steps of the white frame cottage when she saw Miss Doris standing readily beneath the low spreading limbs of an ancient live oak. Anna was accustomed to the gnome like old ladies eccentric dress last century bombazine dresses and hats Scarlet would have adored. But even Annie was impressed by the full gray cloak, the wide brimmed crimson hat protecting shaggy silver hair, and the ivory walking stick planted firmly in front of high topped black leather shoes. A welcoming smile tugged at Amy's lips, then slid to oblivion as Miss Doris scowled and thumped the stick. You're late. The Carillons play at 4 o'. Clock. Caroline a vexed his Come, come, we'll go inside. Wanted you to hear the carillons. It's too neat. You know the shot at precisely 4 o'. Clock. No. It must have been then. Otherwise somebody would have heard. Bumping stiffly to the door, Ms. Doris Scrabble in her oversized crocheted receptacle. No one's taken Constance's character into account, not even her own brother blackening her name. A damn little lie. She jammed a black iron key into the lock as the door swung in. Miss Dora led the way. A tiny limping figure. She clicked on the hall light, then regarded Annie with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. Would do it myself, she muttered obscurely, but sciatica with the rain in November. The parchment face, wrinkled with age, also held lines of pain and he almost felt sorry for her. Almost. The stick swished through the air. A dependency, of course, stuff small, cramped cold floors in the winter. Constance had no use for her own creature comforts. Never gave them a thought. 60 years she took care of the poor and the helpless here in Chastain. Everybody welcome here. The rest muted to a whisper. And may her murderer burn in hell. The hair prickled on the back of Annie's neck. She looked around the dimly lit linoleum floored hallway worn straight. Chairs lined both sides of the hall near the door, turned sideways to allow passageway sat a yellow pine desk. The stick pointed at the desk. Manned by volunteers. 10am to 4pM every day but Sunday. Emma Louise Ramit yesterday. You will talk to her. The calm assumption irritated Annie. Look, Ms. Doyle, you're taking a lot for granted. I only came over here because you hung up before I could say no. Now I've got things on my mind. I murder. Amy fervently hoped not. Surely Max and Laura were safe. Max had promised to be careful. He was going to hire a mercenary, fly into the secret airstrip, hijack Laura from her captors. A pot full of money always worked wonders, whatever the political persuasion, and fly right back out. Oh hell, she should have gone what if he needed her? Oh, who knows? Annie moaned. Don't be a weak sister, the old lady scolded as an unfrit. He'll cope despite his upbringing. A thoughtful pause. Perhaps because of it. Any event, you work to do here. The cane pointed at a closed door. There's where it happened. The rasp was back, implacable, ice, hard, vindictive. The old lady, moving painfully stumped to the door, threw it open, turned on the light, her blood still there. I'm on the board gave instructions. Nothing to be disturbed. Any edge reluctantly into the room. She couldn't avoid seeing the desktop and the darkish brown splotches on the scattered sheets of paper. The low beam ceiling and rough hewn unpainted board walls indicated an old lean to room. No rugs graced the warped floorboards. An unadorned wooden chair sat behind the scarred and mixed desk. In one corner a small metal typewriter table held a Remington, circa 1930. Gloved fingers gripped Annie's elbow like talons. The walking stick pointed across the room. Her chair. That's the way the police found it, propelled by the vice like grip, and he crossed a few feet to the desk and stared at the chair, the very unremarkable oak chair. Old, yes, but so was everything in the room. Old with a slap missing. The ivory stick clicked against the chair seat. No pillow. Constance always sat on a pillow. Bad hip. Never complained, of course. Now you tell me, young miss, where's that pillow? Right at 4 o' clock and no pillow. Anna was so busy wondering if Miss Dora had finally gone round the bend and which would be no surprise to her, that was for sure, but it took her a moment to realize that she was Young Miss Annie slanted a sideways glance. Miss Dora hunched over her stick now, her gloved hands tight on the knob. She stared at the empty chair, her lined face sorrowful. 60 years I knew Constance. Always doing good works. Didn't simper around with a pious wine or a holier than thou manner. Came here every day. And every day the poor in Chastain came to her for help. No electricity. They came here. Husband beat you son stole your money. They came here. A sick child and no food. They came here. A tear edged down the ancient sallow cheek. I used to tell her, constance, the world's full of sorrow. Always has been, always will be. You're like the little Dutch boy at the dyke. The old lady reached out a gloved hand and gently touched the straight chair. Then the reptilian eyes glittered at any know What? Constance said. No. The dark little room and the blood spattered desk held no echo of its former tenant. This was just a cold and dreary place. Touched by violence, Constance said, why, Dora? Love. It's so simple. I was hungry and you gave me meat. I was thirsty and you gave me drink. I was a stranger and you took me in naked and you clothed me. I was sick and you visited me. I was in prison and you came unto me. Beyond the dry whisper was an echo of a light and musical voice. Ms. Doyle's stick cracked sharply against the wooden floor. She stared at Annie with dark and burning eyes. A woman, she rasped, hard as stone against stone, who saw her duty and did it. A woman who would never the cane struck. Never. The cane struck. Never. The cane struck. Quit the course. Annie reached for the telephone, then yanked her hand back. Damn it. She dreaded making this call. Miss Dora had almost persuaded her yesterday afternoon. Indeed, Constance Bolton's life did argue against her death, and he studied the picture Miss Dora had provided of a slender white haired woman in a navy silk dress. Constance Bolton looked serious, capable and resourceful, a woman accustomed to facing problems and solving them. Her wide set brown eyes were knowledgeable but not cynical. Her mouth was firm but not unpleasant. Stalwart, steady, thoughtful. Yes, she had obviously been all of these and more yet and he glanced down at the poorly reproduced copy of the autopsy report on Constance Maud Bolton, white female, age 72. The answer seemed inescapable, however unpalatable to Constance Bolton's friends. Annie hated to destroy Ms. Doris Faith, but facts were facts. She dialed in a rush. Here, Ms. Doyle. This is Annie. I'm at the store. Listen, I got a copy of the autopsy report on Ms. Bolton. Annie took a deep breath. She was sick, Miss Dora. Dying. Bone cancer. She hadn't told many people, but she knew her doctor said so, and there were powder burns on her hand. Gusts of polar wind could not have been colder than Ms. Doy's initial silence. Then she growled, doesn't matter, young myth. Get to work. Think. The receiver started with the same forces the cane had struck the floor in that dingy office. Never, never, never quit the course and slammed down her own receiver and glared at the phone, then jumped as it rang again. This on demand. The pillow, Mr. Intoned the pillow, young miss. The pillow and the receiver. Bang. Begin. Amy jumped to her feet and paced across the coffee area. Agatha, the bookstore's elegant and imperious black cat, watched with sleepy amber eyes. Damn it, Agatha. That old batsman to drive me crazy. Agatha yawned, unreasonable, ill tempered, stubborn. Amy stopped at the coffee bar and reached for her mug. But not stupid Agatha. As she drank the delicious French roast brew, Annie stroked Agatha's silky fur and thought about Miss Dora. Irascible, yes, imperious, yes, stupid, no. And a bad as sentimental as an alligator. So if she knows in the depth of her creaky bones that Constance Bolton wasn't a quitter, where does that leave us? It wasn't suicide. It had to be murder. How could it be? Powder burns on her right hand. Constance Bolton was right handed. A contact wound, star shaped to the right temple. Bone cancer. And the gun? Annie returned to her table and rifled through the police report. The gun had been identified by Ms. Bolton's housekeeper, Sammy Calhoun. A.32 caliber revolver. It had belonged to Constance Bolton's late brother, Everett. It had as long as Sammy worked there, laying in the bottom drawer of the walnut secretary in the library. She had seen the gun as recently as late last week. The fact that this gun had been brought from Ms. Constance's home was another pointer to suicide. But if she had been murdered, the use of that gun sharply circumscribed the list of possible killers. It had to be someone with access to the bottom drawer of that walnut secretary. Suicide or murder? On the one hand, total illness, powder marks, a contact wound, a gun brought from home. On the other hand, Ms. Dora's unyielding faith in her friend's character. And a missing pillow. Annie sifted her coffee. A pillow? That didn't seem to be any reason. She thumped the mug on the counter and clapped her hands. Of course. Of course it could only have been done with a pillow. And that explains why the murder had to occur at 4:00 when the carillon sounded. It wouldn't have been necessary to mask a single shot, but it was essential to mask two shots. Oh my God. The old devil was smart as hell. Anna pictured the dingy room and Constance sitting behind the desk. A visitor, someone Constance knew well, surely, standing beside the desk. The movement would have been snake quick, a hand yanking the pistol from a pocket, pressing it against her temple and firing. That would have been the moment. Demanding swiftness, agility. Then it would have been a simple matter, edging the pillow from beneath her, pressing her hand against the gun and firing into the pillow. That would assure the requisite powder residue on her hand. The stage then was set for suicide and it remained only to slip away, taking the pillow and once home to wash with soap and water to remove the powder marks upon the Killer's hand. Oh, yes. And he could see it all, even hear the tiny click as the door closed, leaving death behind. But was there anything to this picture? Was this interpretation an illusion born of Miss Dora's grief or the work of a clever killer? And he could hear the crackly voice. And behind it the musical tones of a good woman. I was hungry, by God. Nobody was going to get away with the murder of Constance Bolton. Not if Annie could help it. Annie focused on Ms. Constance's last few days. If it was murder, why now? Why on November 18? The housekeeper agreed that Miss Constance was sick, but she paid it no never mind Miss Constance. She always kept on keeping on, even after Mr. Peter was killed in that car wreck up north that broke her heart. But she never gave in. Howsomever she was dragged down last week. Thursday night she hardly pecked at her supper. Annie made a mental note about Thursday. She compiled a list of Ms. Constance's visitors at Helping Hands the past week. The visitors were all to the volunteers. Familiar names, familiar troubles, familiar sorrows. Except on Thursday, Porsche Finley said energetically, we did have someone new late that afternoon. A young man, very thin. He looked ill. A Yankee. Wouldn't tell me what his trouble was. Said he had to talk to Ms. Constance personally. He wrote out a note and asked me to take it into her. She read it and said she'd see him immediately. They were still in her office talking when I went home. It took all of Amy's tact, but she finally persuaded Porter Finley to admit she'd read that short note online. Notepad paper. I wanted to be sure it wasn't a threatening note or obscene. Oh, by all means. And he said encouragingly, it didn't matter much. Just that he was a friend of Peter's and Peter had told him to come and see her. Friday's volunteer, Cindy Axton, reluctantly had nothing out of the ordinary to report. But Saturday's volunteer, Emma Louise Rammert, had a sharp nose, inquisitive steel, gray eyes, and a suspicious mind. Don't believe it was suicide. They could show me a video of it and I still wouldn't believe it. Oh, yes, I know she was sick, but she never spoke of it. Certainly that wouldn't be motive enough, not for Constance. But something upset her that morning, and I think it was the paper. The Clarion. She was fine when she came in. Oh, serious enough. Looked somber, but not nervy. She went into her office. I came in just a moment later with the mail, and she was staring down at the front Page of the Clarion like it had bitten her. Besides, it seems a mighty odd coincidence that on the afternoon she was to die, she'd send me off early on what turned out to be a wild goose chase. Supposed to be a woman with a sick child at the Happy Vale Trailer Court and there wasn't anybody of that name. So I think Constance sent me off so she could talk to somebody without me hearing. Otherwise I'd have been there at 4 o', clock just closing up. Was the volunteer's absence engineered to make way for suicide or for an appointment? Constance Bolton, had she planned to die easily, could have waited until the volunteer left for the day. But if she wanted to talk to someone without being overheard, what better place than her office? At closing time, Annie picked up a copy of the Saturday Morning Clarion and took it to the Sip and Sup coffee shop on Main Street. The lead story was about Arafat and another PLO peace offer the town council had met to consider banning beer on the beach. Property owners attacked the newest beach nourishment tax proposals. Island merchants reported excellent holiday sales. A story in the bottom right column was headed. Autopsy Reveals car occupant Murder victim. Buford county authorities announced today that a young man found in a burning car Thursday night, originally thought to have died in a one car accident on a county road, was a victim of foul play. Despite extensive burns, the autopsy revealed the young man had died as a result of strangulation. The victim was approximately 5ft 7 inches tall, weighed 130 pounds, was Caucasian and suffered from AIDS. The car was found by a passing motorist late Thursday evening on Kaloi Road, two miles south of the intersection with Jasper Road. The car was rented at the Savannah Airport on Thursday by a Richard Davis of New York City. Authorities are seeking information about Davis's activities in Chastain. Anyone with any information about him is urged to contact Sheriff Chadwick porter. Annie called Ms. Dora. Tell me about Peter, Constance's grand nephew. His father, Morgan, was the son of Everett, her older brother. Everett died about 20 years ago, not long after Morgan was killed in Vietnam. Peter inherited the plantations, but he never worked them. James did that, the other brother, but they went to Peter. The oldest son of the oldest son inherits in the Bolton family. Peter inherited from his mother too. She was one of the Cinnamon Hill Morleys. Grieved herself into the grave when Morgan was killed in Vietnam. So Constance raised the boy and James ran the plantations when he was grown. Peter went to New York, a photographer. Didn't come back much then. He was killed last winter, A car wreck. One car wreck had mass murder had another, and he wished for Max as she made one phone call after another. But she knew how to do it. When it became clear that Peter Bolton didn't die in a car wreck, despite that information in his obituary, which had been supplied by his great uncle James, she redoubled her efforts. She found Peter's address, his telephone number, and the small magazine where his last photograph had been published and talked to the managing editor. But Peter wasn't murdered. Peter died in a New York hospital of aids, and Richard Davis had been dying of AIDS before he was strangled and left in a burning car in Beaufort County, South Carolina. Richard's note to Constance Bolton claimed he was a friend of Peter's, more than a friend. Maggie Sutton had the apartment above Richardson and an old Brooklyn brownstone. Her voice on the telephone was clipped and unfriendly. You want to know anything about reading Davis, you ask before she could hang up, destroy Annie's link to Richard, and threw him to Peter and interrupted quickly, richard's dead. Murdered. Please talk to me. I want to find his murderer. It took a lot of explaining. Then Maggie Sutton said simply, my God, poor Richie. Did you know Richard was coming to South Carolina? Yes. He was sick. I know. And they fired him. They aren't supposed to do that, but they did it anyway. Before most people with AIDS can appeal, file a lawsuit, they're dead. Ritchie was almost out of money. His insurance was gone. They only want to ensure healthy people, you know, Nobody with real health problems can get insurance. Richie and Peter live downstairs from me. Nice guys. She paused, repeated forcefully, nice guys. A sigh. God, it's also rim Richie took care of Peter. He died last winter. Last week. Richie told me he was going on a trip and he asked me to feed their cat, Big Boy, while he was gone. Richie said Peter had written a will before he died, leaving everything to Richie. But he didn't do anything about it then. I mean, he didn't want Peter's money. But now he was desperate and he thought maybe if he went down there, showed the will to the family. Her voice trailed off. The family, the last surviving member of the family stood with his head bowed, his freshly shaved face impassive, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. As mourners dispersed at the conclusion of the graveside service on Tuesday afternoon, a dark suited employee of the funeral home held a black umbrella to shield James Caldwell Bolton from the rain. The day and James Bolton were a study in grays. The metallic gray Constance Bolton's casket resting over the dark pit of her grave. The steel gray of Bolton's pinstripe suit, the soft grave weathered stones, the misty gray of the weeping sky, the silver gray of Miss Dora's rain cape, the flinty gray of the stubby palmetto's bark, the ash gray of the rector's grizzled hair. Annie huddled beneath the outspread limbs of a live oak, a silver thick wool scarf knotted at her throat, her raincoat collar upturned. Rain splashed softly against gravestones as mourners came forth to shake Bolton's hand and murmur condolences and stared at the man who had inherited the Bolton and Morley family plantations. James Bolton didn't look like a murderer. He looked as indeed he was, like a substantial and respectable and wealthy member of the community. There was a resemblance to his dead sister. Brown eyes, white hair, a firm chin. But where Constance's face was memorable for its calm pity and gentle concern, there was an intolerant and arrogant quality to his stolid burger's face. As the last of Ms. Constance's friends trod away across the spongy ground of the graveyard, Annie left the Oyster Shell Pass. Skating behind a stand of pines. She moved into the oldest part of the cemetery, stopping in the shadow of a crumbling mausoleum some 25 yards distant from the new gravesite. Bolton waved away the undertaker with the umbrella. Had any of the mourners looked back, they would have glimpsed his figure, head again bowed, lingering for a last moment with his sister. But Annie could see his face. It was for a singular heart stopping, instant transformed. His lips curved up in satisfaction and he knew as clearly as if he'd shouted that James Bolton was exalting a murderer twice over. Safe, secure, successful, a rich and powerful man. James. His face reformed into sad repose as he turned toward Miss Dora. The old lady took her time, each step obviously a painful task. Amy slipped free of her raincoat, unfurled a navy umbrella. Sammy Calhoun had quite willingly given her mistress's umbrella to Miss Dora and undid the scarf covering the curly white wig. Miss Dora, her wizened face contorted in a worried frown, and peered up at James Bolton. James, I've had the artist. The raspy voice wavered communication. The Ouija board last night. Never been a believer in that sort. Jillian held a high, light musical tone, then let her voice waver and drop like the sigh of a winter wind in her own ears. It didn't sound enough like the recorded interview the local radio station station had found of Constance Bolton speaking out in a League of Women Voters forum on abortion. She tried again, a little louder. J. It must have been better than she thought. James Bolton's head whipped around, seeking out the sound. His face was suddenly gray to the color of old putty. Amy glided from behind the COVID of the mausoleum, one hand outstretched, stretched. J. Then she backed away, just as a dimly seen figure might drift forth, then disappear. Once out of Bolton's sight, she darted in a crouch from stone to stone until she gained the street. Quickly pulling on the scarf and raincoat, she hurried to Miss Doris. Miss Dora's satisfied cackle would chill the devil. She poured a cup of steaming tea. Annie sneezed. The heat against her fingers helped a little, but she didn't feel that her bones would ever warm from the graveyard cold. Miss Dora glowered. No time to flag young people today. Too puny. I'm fine, anna retorted crisply, and knew she was catching a cold. But she couldn't afford to sneeze tonight. She and Miss Dora weren't finished with James Bolton. Scared him to death. Miss Dora gloated. He looked like bleached bones. Her raisin dark eyes glittered, mouth open, whites of his eyes big as a platter. And when I pretended I hadn't seen or heard a thing. Thought he was going to faint. That's when I told him about the weed message. Pillow. Find pillow. She cackled again. Anna took a big gulp of tea and voiced her concern. Ms. Doy, how can we be sure he didn't destroy the pillow? Miss Dora's disdainful look infuriated Annie. Classical education taught people how to think, the old lady muttered. Crystal clear, young miss. He dared not leave it behind. He had to take it with him. Then what? He couldn't keep it in his house. Old Bueller Williams, his housekeeper. Not a single spot safe from her eyes. So not hidden in his house. No incinerators permitted in the city. Besides, it's too bulky to burn. Well, do. Bill Tompkins drives James. So not in his car. I talked here and there. He's not been out to any of the plantations since Constance died. So where is it? Somewhere not too far, young miss. Another malicious cackle. James thinks he's so smart. We'll see. We? The rain had eased to a drizzle and he was warm enough. A black wool cap, Thermal underwear. A rainproof jacket over a wool sweater. Rainproof pants. Sturdy black Reeboks. The nylon hose over her face made it hard to breathe, but it sure kept her toasty. From her vantage point she could see both the front and rear doors to James Bolton's house. She had taken up her station at 9:30. Ms. Dora was to make her phone call at 9:35 and play the recording Annie had made and remade until Annie's whispered, james, I'm coming for the pillow sounded sufficiently like Constance bolton to satisfy Miss Dora. The back door opened at 9:40. James Bolton, too, was dressed for night in dark clothing. He paused on the top step and looked fearfully around, then hurried to the garage. Annie smiled grimly. He reappeared in only a moment carrying a spade, and he followed him across the Bolton property and through a dank and dripping wood. She stepped softly along the path, keeping his shaded flashlight in view, stopping when he stopped moving when he moved. Who? Annie's heart somersaulted and she gasped for breath. Bolton, cowed by a live oak. Annie wasn't sure which one of them the owl had frightened the most. Iron hinges squealed and Bolton stepped through the open gate to the old graveyard, leaving the gate ajar. He moved more cautiously now, and the beam from his flashlight poked jerkily into shadowy pockets. Did he fear that his dead sister awaited him? Annie tipcode. Scarcely daring to breathe, one hand slipped into her jacket pocket and closed around the sausage thick canister of mace, a relic of the days when she lived in New York. The other hand touched a lacquer that hung from a strap around her neck. Bolton stopped twice to listen. Annie crouched behind gravestones and waited. When he reached the older section of the cemetery, he moved more boldly, confident now that he was unobserved. He walked directly to a winged angel at upper marble Pedestal, stepped five paces to his right, and used the shovel to sweep away a mound of leaves, and was willing to bet the earth beneath those leaves have been recently loosened. He shoveled quickly, but placing the heaps of moist sandy dirt in a neat pile to one side, Annie crept closer and closer, the Leica in hand. She was not more than 10ft away and ready when he reached down and lifted up a soggy newspaper wrapped oblong. The flash illuminated the graveyard with its brief brilliant light, capturing forever and always the stricken face of James Bolton. He made a noise deep in his throat. Wielding the shovel, he lunged blindly toward the source of light, and he danced sideways to evade him. Now the canister of mace came out, and as he flailed the shovel and it crashed against a gravestone and he pressed the trigger and mace spewed in a noisome mist. Annie held her breath, darted close enough to grab up the sodden oblong where he had dropped it, paused just long enough she couldn't resist it, to moan James. Then she ran faster than she'd ever imagined in a 10k, leaping graves like a fox over water hazards. The headline in next morning's Clarion told it all. James Bolton Charged in Murder of Sister Miss Dora rattled the newspaper with satisfaction, then poured Annie another cup of coffee. The old lady's raisin dark eyes glittered. We showed him, didn't we? Saved Constance's good name for once. And it was such an odd feeling. Annie felt total rapport with the ill tempered, opinionated, impossible creature awaiting her answer. Annie grinned. This door we sure as hell did. Annie bought her own copy of the newspaper before she took the ferry back to the island. She wanted to have it to show to Max, especially since his telegram had arrived last night. Retrieval accomplished. No fireworks. Boring, actually. Only action caused by fleas Laurel picked up in jail. Plus Teresa Tummy me home soon. But not soon enough. Love, Max. Her good name by Carolyn Hart is taken from the book A Woman's Eye, Edited by Sarah Paretsky. Narration by Laurie Holt. Music by Craig Harris. All rights reserved.