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Griffith. It was important that Annie not say anything about why she was distraught. That would be the last thing Marian would want.
    Annie stood at the door with one hand gripping the knob.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Rita pushed up from her chair, came around the side of her desk.
    Annie managed to sound crisp. “I’m no longer involved in theevent planned for tonight.” It seemed an eon ago that she and Rita had worked out the number of chairs, the positioning of the lectern, the location of the cash bars. “Death on Demand isn’t participating.”
    Rita looked shocked. “Has the staff—”
    â€œIt has nothing to do with the hotel. I have withdrawn as a sponsor of anything connected with Alex Griffith. Whatever the Griffiths do has nothing to do with me or Death on Demand.”
    â€œWhy?”
    Why, indeed. “Let’s just say I decided it wasn’t an appropriate event for Death on Demand.”
    â€œBut, Annie—”
    Annie held up a hand. “Alex Griffith has a program in mind that wouldn’t be helpful to the bookstore. I don’t want to get into details. Let’s leave it at that. Now, if you’ll call a bellman, I’ll retrieve the boxes of books that Duane brought over.”
    Rita turned to her desk, lifted a phone. “Ask the bellman to bring the boxes of books stored for tonight’s event to the front desk . . . Thank you.” She looked at Annie. “The boxes will be there for you.” Her face creased in concern. “Will his talk go on as planned?”
    â€œI suggest,” Annie said carefully, “that you speak to the Griffiths.”
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    A nnie handed the bellman a twenty-dollar tip after he slid the last box of books into the Thunderbird’s trunk. She would be happiest if she could take Griffith’s damnable books and toss them from Fish Haul Pier, watch the boxes sink into green water. The next best thing was to return them to the wholesaler. Her lips pressed together as she slid behind the wheel. Alex Griffith was going to cost her money—the shipping costs for special quick delivery, the returns—but she didn’t care. She drove straight to the FedEx office, smiled atthe freckle-faced teenager who carried the boxes inside for her, filled out address labels. Good riddance.
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    A nnie carried the last copies of
Don’t Go Home
from the South Carolina authors table to the storeroom. She filled out forms for their return and boxed the books. When they were gone—she could drop them at FedEx—there would be no trace of Alex Griffith or his books at Death on Demand.
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    A nnie felt like she was swimming through heated molasses as she walked from her car up the back steps of the house. The sunlight now slanted through the pines but beginning shadows offered no respite from the humid air. She stepped into the kitchen, welcomed the cool blast of air-conditioning.
    Dorothy L, their gorgeous white cat, Max’s special gal, gave a plaintive mew.
    Annie understood. Max wasn’t here and he should be, so far as Dorothy L was concerned. He was often immersed in creating dinner when Annie arrived home. This evening there were no delicious smells, no pans on the range.
    â€œSorry, sweetie. Just you and me.” She bent and stroked Dorothy L’s thick, long fur, only a little thinned from summer shedding.
    Dorothy L gazed up at her with China blue eyes, then, almost as if shrugging in sadness, turned and padded slowly away.
    Annie fixed a tall glass of ice water. She felt at loose ends. Ingrid had already lined up Duane to help at the store tonight so she insisted Annie leave. “Take a break. Go down to the beach. There’s a newfish shack that deep-fries breaded jumbo shrimp. Without the food gendarme along, you can indulge.”
    Annie smiled as