Death of the Party by Carolyn Hart Page A

peeped from beneath a shower cap. Max moved nearer the oversized claw-foot tub. “He strikes me as one tough dude. I’d be worried as hell if I thought we were stuck here with this weird mix of people. But there’s a yacht, a motorboat, and a ham radio. None of which our hostess shared with us. So we won’t let her know we know.” His eyes glinted. He was clearly in a tit-for-tat mood. “And if anybody gets out of line, I’m sure I can count on Harry to give me a hand.”
    Annie sat up very straight. “If you need help, I’m here.”
    Rising from the bubbles…sexier than any mermaid…“Indeed you are. Right here.” He tossed away the legal pad. It landed with a thud in the bedroom.
    Annie’s laughter was light and soft. “Hey, come on in. The water’s fine…and so are you….”
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    Ice tinkled in glasses. Sweet-scented hickory logs blazed in the fireplace. Twin chandeliers glistened, the teardrop crystals enchanting as limpid water in the summer sun, a glorious reminder of days when beauty was as important as function. The crimson drapes in the drawing room were closed against evening. It might have been any elegant party in a grand plantation home except for an underlying tension among the guests, reflected in oblique glances, a certain stiffness in conversation, occasional strained pauses.
    Britt Barlow moved about the room, talking, gesturing, smiling. The easy drape of her blue tulip-print silk dress emphasized her slenderness. A midnight blue hair clip with rhinestones glittered in her dark hair. She was a thoughtful hostess, making sure her guests felt welcome.
    Annie maintained a steady smile while resisting the impulse to tell Millicent McRae she had as much interest in politics as in astrology and thought the two had much in common.
    Millicent’s smile was steady, too, the practiced accoutrement of a woman always on stage. She was dramatic in a black woolen dress with printed white butterflies rising from the hem to one shoulder. Herice blond hair was coiled to one side. “…expect a weekend such as this to be very instructive. I am always eager to learn more about my constituents. Britt assured me this gathering might form the core of a future support group. What prompts your enthusiasm for my programs?”
    Annie recalled televised press conferences. Savvy politicos always avoided awkward queries by responding to a question that had not been asked. Her cheek muscles felt strained, but she continued to look—she hoped—eager and enthusiastic. “I believe in grassroots democracy.” Even soulful. “Everyone here strikes me as utterly committed. Just as I’m sure Jeremiah”—Annie’s tone suggested she and Jeremiah had often shared political insights—“was one of your staunchest admirers. What did you and he talk about that last weekend?”
    â€œThat last weekend?” Millicent’s modulated voice repeated the words slowly. Pale blue eyes fastened on Annie as if seeing her for the first time. She stared at Annie, then slowly scanned the gathering, one person at a time. As her head moved, Everett Crenshaw walked through the open double doors into the drawing room, the last of the guests to arrive for cocktails. He looked speculatively at Britt. She gave him a pleasant smile. Everett strolled toward Isabel, sitting stiffly in an Empire chair near the fire, her face averted from the group. Tonight his floppy shirt was navy silk and the cravat a pale blue. It might be a dramatic costume on screen. In person he looked absurd. But there was nothing absurd in the questing glance that ranged the room, bright, quick, intelligent eyes that missed nothing.
    When Millicent’s survey was complete, her face hardened, making her look like an expensive parrot, with vivid feathers and a beaked face.
    Annie wanted to exclaim, as Ann Landers always advised, Wake up and smell the