Carolyn G. Hart by Death on Demand/Design for Murder

certain she cared to know. Emma looked shrewd, tough, and frighteningly self-possessed.
    Ingrid Jones’s narrow little body seemed to have shrunk. She clutched her notebook, which she brought every Sunday evening, and stared determinedly at the horror section. The better, Annie guessed, to pretend she wasn’t there at all.
    Fritz Hemphill looked as comfortable as if he were waiting to tee off. He flicked an occasional impassive glance at the corpse, then picked up
The Bourne Supremacy
and began to read.
    Capt. Mac made occasional forays around the coffee area; once he poked his head into the storeroom, thenreturned to the coffee bar and made notations on a napkin, his face creased in concentration.
    An old firehorse, that’s what Capt. Mac was. Annie felt reassured. Like Inspector Maigret or Steve Carella, he represented order.
    Janis Farley clung to Jeff’s arm. Her ivory complexion was tinged with green. Jeff stood stiffly, as if he were alone. For heaven’s sake, his wife looked like she was about to faint. Why didn’t the bloody idiot do something?
    “Capt. Mac. Please. Let’s get a chair for Janis.”
    He looked up, then nodded.
    There was a little flurry: Ingrid Jones poured a glass of water, then brought some wine while Max dragged over one of the cane chairs and Annie helped Janis into it. She was shocked when she touched Janis’s arm and found it bony and sharp like an underfed cat’s spine.
    Harriet’s face was splotchy with excitement and terror, and her eyes shifted nervously between Elliot’s motionless body and the others.
    Hal spoke up suddenly. “My God.
Murders in the Rue Morgue. The Mystery of the Yellow Room. He Wouldn’t Kill Patience. Death in a Top Hat.”
    Harriet enthusiastically moved from the general to the particular. “A classic locked-room situation. He’s standing in front of a room facing—” she counted “—eleven people, the lights go out, presto, he’s dead. The murderer has to be one of the eleven.”
    Emma Clyde’s forehead puckered.
“Death in the Air.”
    Jeff Farley swung toward Harriet, high spots of anger burning in the gaunt cheeks above his beard. “Be careful what you say. Nobody’s going to call me a murderer.”
    “I’m not calling you a murd—”
    “She’s just saying you have to look at the obvious,” Hal explained earnestly.
    Kelly Rizzoli’s dark red hair swung in gentle negation. “Nothing is ever obvious. Certainly, this will not be.”
    “The back door was open.”
    Annie’s quiet declaration created immense interest, and Hal was starting for the storeroom to investigate when Capt. Mac summoned him back.
    Emma Clyde spoke authoritatively. “That answers thequestion, then. There’s no question of a locked-room murder—if the back door is open.”
    The murder maven was looking at Annie with approbation. Then, as clearly as though she’d actually said it, Annie realized Emma believed she’d opened the door herself!
    A siren sounded in the distance.
    “Nutty,” Frank Saulter muttered in disgust.
    Capt. Mac rubbed his jaw. “It would take a damn writer, wouldn’t it?”
    Saulter ignored him. “Wonder if he had a weak heart? We’ll have to call on the county for help. The boat picked up the Kearney corpse two hours ago. Now they’ll have to come get this one.” He took a deep breath. “I guess we’d better get started.”
    He turned to study the assembled writers.
    Dislike was instantaneous on both sides.
    Saulter was humorless, dogmatic, religiously read
Sports Illustrated
in the barber shop, and liked Broward’s Rock better before all
those
people came and moved into the elegant beach houses. The summer tourists were the worst, but he didn’t much hold with the year-rounders either if they talked funny and drove those expensive cars. He especially didn’t like ex-cops who’d made money and thought they were too goddam good for plain people anymore, like Hemphill with his fancy-dan golf clothes and McElroy with a saltwater