this morning, maybe. But we have to hang around now for the general meeting.” At Laurel’s look of inquiry, he explained Henny Brawley and MadeleineKurtz’s formation of the Citizens Search for Ingrid Jones and the mobilization of Broward’s Rock.
“That’s very good.” Her tone was the kind used by an indulgent adult admiring a child’s mud pie.
Max quirked an eyebrow. “What else can we do?”
“I believe a physical search must, of course, be undertaken. But to combat evil requires
intense
mental concentration, and, of course, those of us who embrace an unlimited view of human achievement have recourse to other and more ethereal means.” She beamed at them. “Ophelia and I have dedicated ourselves to this task—and I have no doubt but that we shall succeed.” That winning smile. “I always succeed.” It was said not with pride but with utter confidence.
It gave Annie the willies. God only knew what Laurel would take it in her head to attempt.
Max scented danger, too. His handsome face looked a little haggard.
“Mother, what are you up to? And how did you get mixed up with that dingbat?”
“My dear, Ophelia is not a dingbat. She is, indeed, a gateway to the beyond. But there’s no time—” From the courtyard came a repeated clang. Annie peered around Max and saw Madeleine’s substantial form now teetering atop the latticed arch, one arm industriously striking a pie tin with a metal spoon. “… for me to entrust you with the many and various avenues to enlightenment available to those who open their minds and hearts to the unseen but
vigorous
impulses which stream from the universe. In fact, I must
rush.”
She turned to her daughter-in-law. “Annie, I need a key to the store.”
The leap from the philosophical to the practical was too abrupt for Annie’s earthbound mind. “Uh, what?”
“Death on Demand. Where may I find a key?”
Laurel excelled at non sequiturs. From the universe to the store in one mighty bound—what else was new?
The query reminded Annie that something else was askew. Because Ingrid, of course, had agreed to manage Death on Demand while Annie and Max honeymooned.
“The store!” Max exclaimed. “Annie, what will we do?”
“Keep it closed, I guess. I mean, we can’t worry about that while we’re looking for Ingrid.”
Laurel clapped her hands. “Aha, the fates direct us when we are too blind to see.”
Annie eyed her cautiously. Had it finally happened? Had Laurel’s precarious mental balance tipped?
But her mother-in-law’s smile was serene and blinding. “I’ll take charge of the store. You needn’t give it a thought. It’s the perfect place for Ophelia and me to harness our energies and focus upon Ingrid. Now, Annie, I’m sure Ingrid has some personal effects at the shop. A favorite cup, perhaps? A compact? A sweater?”
Coffee at Death on Demand was served in white pottery mugs inscribed in bright red script with the names of landmark titles in the genre. Ingrid’s favorite was
The Clue
(the first Fleming Stone book by Carolyn Wells) and she jealously guarded it from use by the G.P. (general public).
A little blankly, Annie offered, “You’ll find Ingrid’s cup in the bottom left-hand drawer behind the cash desk. And she keeps some other personal things in there.”
“Good. Good. And the key to the store?”
Keys. Keys. “Vince Ellis at the
Island Gazettes
keeping one. I don’t know where Ingrid’s are, and I think mine are in the drawer of the telephone table at the tree house.”
“Vince will be fine. That’s very convenient, since the
Gazette
offices are so close to the store.” Laurel nodded complacently. “Everything works out for those who seek. That is the first byword of Harmonic Convergence, and the principle I always attempt to impart. Take care, my dears.” The oatmeal-colored robe flared above her trim ankles as she turned.
From the courtyard, Madeleine’s tattoo on the pie tin reached a crescendo.
Max looked
“That’s very good.” Her tone was the kind used by an indulgent adult admiring a child’s mud pie.
Max quirked an eyebrow. “What else can we do?”
“I believe a physical search must, of course, be undertaken. But to combat evil requires
intense
mental concentration, and, of course, those of us who embrace an unlimited view of human achievement have recourse to other and more ethereal means.” She beamed at them. “Ophelia and I have dedicated ourselves to this task—and I have no doubt but that we shall succeed.” That winning smile. “I always succeed.” It was said not with pride but with utter confidence.
It gave Annie the willies. God only knew what Laurel would take it in her head to attempt.
Max scented danger, too. His handsome face looked a little haggard.
“Mother, what are you up to? And how did you get mixed up with that dingbat?”
“My dear, Ophelia is not a dingbat. She is, indeed, a gateway to the beyond. But there’s no time—” From the courtyard came a repeated clang. Annie peered around Max and saw Madeleine’s substantial form now teetering atop the latticed arch, one arm industriously striking a pie tin with a metal spoon. “… for me to entrust you with the many and various avenues to enlightenment available to those who open their minds and hearts to the unseen but
vigorous
impulses which stream from the universe. In fact, I must
rush.”
She turned to her daughter-in-law. “Annie, I need a key to the store.”
The leap from the philosophical to the practical was too abrupt for Annie’s earthbound mind. “Uh, what?”
“Death on Demand. Where may I find a key?”
Laurel excelled at non sequiturs. From the universe to the store in one mighty bound—what else was new?
The query reminded Annie that something else was askew. Because Ingrid, of course, had agreed to manage Death on Demand while Annie and Max honeymooned.
“The store!” Max exclaimed. “Annie, what will we do?”
“Keep it closed, I guess. I mean, we can’t worry about that while we’re looking for Ingrid.”
Laurel clapped her hands. “Aha, the fates direct us when we are too blind to see.”
Annie eyed her cautiously. Had it finally happened? Had Laurel’s precarious mental balance tipped?
But her mother-in-law’s smile was serene and blinding. “I’ll take charge of the store. You needn’t give it a thought. It’s the perfect place for Ophelia and me to harness our energies and focus upon Ingrid. Now, Annie, I’m sure Ingrid has some personal effects at the shop. A favorite cup, perhaps? A compact? A sweater?”
Coffee at Death on Demand was served in white pottery mugs inscribed in bright red script with the names of landmark titles in the genre. Ingrid’s favorite was
The Clue
(the first Fleming Stone book by Carolyn Wells) and she jealously guarded it from use by the G.P. (general public).
A little blankly, Annie offered, “You’ll find Ingrid’s cup in the bottom left-hand drawer behind the cash desk. And she keeps some other personal things in there.”
“Good. Good. And the key to the store?”
Keys. Keys. “Vince Ellis at the
Island Gazettes
keeping one. I don’t know where Ingrid’s are, and I think mine are in the drawer of the telephone table at the tree house.”
“Vince will be fine. That’s very convenient, since the
Gazette
offices are so close to the store.” Laurel nodded complacently. “Everything works out for those who seek. That is the first byword of Harmonic Convergence, and the principle I always attempt to impart. Take care, my dears.” The oatmeal-colored robe flared above her trim ankles as she turned.
From the courtyard, Madeleine’s tattoo on the pie tin reached a crescendo.
Max looked
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