April Fool Dead by Carolyn Hart

stairs and stepped out on the front porch to hang another.
    â€œHenny, hey, Henny!” Edith charged onto the porch,the flyers held high. “Now I know why we had a ghost here Monday night!”

Seven
    T HE SIGN , scrawled in huge red letters, was taped next to the doorbell:
    Â 
    DON’T RING
    DON’T KNOCK
    THIS MEANS YOU
    Â 
    Annie poked her finger toward the doorbell, hesitated. This house on Least Tern Lane was precisely one-half mile east of Sand Dollar Road. The house belonged to Paul Marlow, owner of The Grass Is Green lawn and garden service. And, according to Barb, one sexy dude. A deep-throated bark sounded beyond the closed front door.
    The house was built on sturdy wooden pilings, savvy Low Country architecture in anticipation of hurricane storm surges. The wooden front porch had been recently whitewashed. The shutters were painted a bright red, emphasizing the soft gray of the weathered wood. Two wicker chairs with yellow cushions sat near a wicker table. The house presented a smiling, contented face, a place where leisure and quiet were appreciated. The landscaping was sheer beauty, the blaze of crimson azaleas, the purity of shining white azaleas, the sweetness of pittosporum and honeysuckle and gardenia.
    Annie’s finger hovered near the bell. She looked away from the sign, stuck her fingertip against the button, heard the shrill buzz.
    A clatter sounded to her right.
    She looked through a clean windowpane at a darkly handsome face twisted in a scowl. One hand gripped the pull cord of wooden blinds. Abruptly, the blinds fell.
    Annie pushed harder on the button.
    The front door banged open. He shoved the screen door, stalked outside to glare at her. He was a little over medium height, lean, muscular and definitely a hunk. His blue work shirt was neatly pressed, his jeans unbelted and worn low on slim hips. Dark eyes glared at her. “You can’t read, lady?”
    Annie wished she were anywhere other than where she stood—on a freighter steaming into Malta, an expedition up Mount Everest, a hog farm, anywhere. She’d known this was going to be hard, but she’d not realized how hard. “Mr. Marlow, I’m Annie Darling.” She thrust a poster at him. “I own the mystery bookstore and I did not put out the flyer listing your house.” And, she thought as she looked into burning eyes, accusing you of adultery. “I want you to know that I had nothing to do with those flyers.”
    Marlow jammed his hands into the jeans pockets. “I’ve seen the flyers from your store. They look the same as the ones that…” He didn’t finish.
    She didn’t look away from his angry stare. “Somebody took my idea and used it. So we’re both victims.” She held up her poster with its urgent warning against fakes.
    He pulled his hands free, took a deep breath. He stepped toward her, standing so near she could see the slight tic in the muscle of one cheek, smell fresh dirt and grass. He looked deep into her eyes. Gradually, the tightness eased out of his body. He pointed at her poster. “If you didn’t do it, who did?”
    â€œThat’s what I want to find out.” Annie tucked the poster under her arm. “I’m hoping you will help me.”
    â€œIf I find out”—he stared at Annie, his face bleak and cold—“I’ll kill him.” The words hung in the soft spring air, ugly words on a lovely day. He took a step toward her. “I’ve got to find out. Do you know what this has done to—” He stopped, pressed his lips tightly together. “Listen, the flyers are like yours. You must have some idea who could have done it. Somebody in your store, maybe?”
    For an instant, Annie felt a tingle of shock. No, it wasn’t anyone in her store. But perhaps she should address the question she intended to ask him. She listened to her own words with an odd intensity. “No, the fake