The Christie Caper (13 page)

“Oh, sure,” he said quietly. “A gallant old gal, too.”

“Oh, God, Max, do you think Lady Gwendolyn’s right?”

He had no trouble understanding her thought processes. “That we’re sitting on something pretty ugly? She could be. Or she could be overreacting.” He poured out the last of the coffee. “All we know is that someone shot out a window at Death on Demand two nights ago. Was it an attempt to kill Bledsoe? Or is your instinct right and was Emma toying with him again? Or was it a random attack?”

A random attack on an island with a year-round population of about twelve hundred? Random attacks in a big city she could understand. She’d read Ed McBain.

On Broward’s Rock?

“Not random,” she said decisively. “It must have been aimed either at Bledsoe—or at Death on Demand. But,” she pointed out emphatically, “nothing happened yesterday. If nothing happens today, I think we’ll be okay.” But her brows drew down in a tight, worried frown.

“Hey, Annie. Relax. Today’s going to be fun.”

“I know.” She spread her hands helplessly. “It goes around and around in my mind. First, I think it’s just a
prank—even if a vicious one. Then I get this icy feeling of panic, and I wonder if a killer’s just biding his time.”

“Cool it, sweetie. You aren’t the militia. Frank and Billy will be here every minute today, keeping an eye on Bledsoe. Nobody will try anything.”

“I hope not.”

“Come on, Annie. Smile. This is your great day, the start of the conference sessions. You’ve worked hard for months, now it’s time to have fun.”

It certainly was. She felt a spurt of resentment. Why had Neil Bledsoe come to her conference? Just to make some people miserable? It was a heck of an investment of time (a full week) and money (six hundred dollars, which included registration, meal tickets, hotel room, and conference fees) simply to indulge in petty harassment.

“Damn him,” she snapped aloud. She didn’t have to tell Max who had elicited her wrath. “What if he stalks around the conference like he did at Death on Demand, upsetting people, causing scenes? Or shows off, like he did at the fête?”

“What if he does?” Max speared a chunk of cantaloupe. “I know you want everyone to have a good time, but life is full of unpleasant surprises, and most people handle them just fine.” He reached for a second brioche, drew back his hand, murmured, “Actually, this
is
a holiday,” and picked up the roll. He didn’t, of course, put butter on it, opting instead for fruit spread. He bit into the brioche and mumbled, “Everybody knows he’s here now. No more shock value in that. The people who don’t like him are prepared. And consider this, only a few people even know or care who he is!”

Annie brightened and began to enjoy her second cup of coffee. Max had a good point. She ticked off one by one the people who obviously didn’t like Bledsoe. The editor with the stiff brush of graying black hair, Nathan Hillman. The sandy-haired, snub-nosed young man, Derek Davis. Both from Hillman House Publishers. Was that important, or a coincidence? The imposing, porcelain-pale agent, Margo Wright. The reserved and somehow pathetic author’s widow, Victoria Shaw. And, of course, Fleur Calloway. Funny, she looked like she’d seen a ghost at the fête yesterday. But she had known Bledsoe was on the island, even if she hadn’t acknowledged his presence at the bookstore. Something awfully
grim there, from Emma Clyde’s viewpoint. But, Emma wrote mysteries. Perhaps she exaggerated the circumstances in her mind because of her fondness for Fleur.

Sunday afternoon during the fête, each of them had seemed linked to Bledsoe. But the linkage could simply be in Annie’s overactive imagination.

“We won’t let anything sabotage The Christie Caper,” Max insisted stalwartly, once again reading her mind.

Annie was all over the hotel in the next couple of hours: the gritty depths of the heating-cooling area of the basement because the air-conditioning was malfunctioning in Meeting Rooms A and B, the controlled hysteria of the catering offices for a last-minute check on that night’s dinner à la Lucy Eyelesbarrow, who functioned both as Miss Marple’s agent and as first-class cook in
What Mrs. McGillicuddy Saw!;
the mob scene that was the registration table (Ingrid and her good friend and neighbor Duane Webb had the situation under control); the idyllic holiday atmosphere of the Palmetto Court where many conference-goers had elected to enjoy leisurely tea and crumpets while awaiting the opening session, when Lady Gwendolyn would speak on “Christie—Her Life, Her World, Her Work.”

Annie trotted happily from task to task. Everything was perfect—and perfectly ordinary. No evil under the sun here. And, glory be, Laurel had apparently switched allegiances. In odd locations, Annie discovered oddments of information about Christie executed in exquisite calligraphy. Taped to the paper towel dispenser in the ladies’ room:
Christie began
Death Comes as the End
in response to a challenge from Professor Stephen Glanville, a University of London archaeology professor.
Pinned to a curtain in Meeting Room A:
Miss Marple’s most distinguishing characteristic is a profound understanding of human nature.
In the main lobby, a pillar carried this calligraphic information:
The concept of changed or hidden identities is often explored in Christie’s fiction.

Annie was still grinning when she noticed the chunky middle-aged editor and the young publicist from Hillman House deep in conversation with Lady Gwendolyn and Max in an oasis of quiet behind a line of potted palms. Annie
raised an inquiring eyebrow as she passed, but her husband didn’t even notice her, he was so absorbed in watching the official hostess. Lady Gwendolyn was leaning toward the editor with a most engaging smile. Hillman had the expansive expression of a man busy talking about himself.

Twenty minutes later Annie spotted Max and Lady Gwendolyn making a beeline for Margo Wright. The agent was striding toward the elevators in lavender jogging top and shorts, her face flushed from exercise, a pink headband restraining her tumbling dark curls. (Near the button panel, a card proclaimed:
Christie’s favorite home—after Ashfield—was Greenway House, which is located on the river Dart, just south of Torquay.)
Annie eyed the agent and the pursuing duo thoughtfully.

The mob scene at the registration table had transferred to the lobby outside the book room. As Annie tried to calm two collectors who were jockeying viciously for first place in line, she noted Victoria Shaw halfway down the line—smiling eagerly at Lady Gwendolyn. Max, of course, was close at hand.

Behind the closed doors of Meeting Rooms F and G, mystery booksellers from across the country were frantically emptying boxes and filling their tables. Annie didn’t even have to peek inside to know that Henny had already finagled her way into the book room and was busy spotting the good buys, ready to grab up the true collector’s items at the stroke of ten.

Fleur Calloway, striking in a richly red cotton top and a split red skirt emblazoned with tropical flowers, looked over the heads of eager autograph seekers and waved a cheery good-morning to Annie. The author’s light green eyes crinkled in a warm smile. Annie grinned in return. She
liked
this woman.

Lady Gwendolyn, with an ebullient “Good morning, dear Annie,” swept past, Max in tow, to join Fleur Calloway.

Lady Gwendolyn obviously didn’t believe in letting grass grow under
her
size-four feet. But how could she hope to learn anything important in these brief chats?

If, Annie mentally crossed her fingers, there was anything important to learn. There was, despite Emma’s denial, a darn
good chance the shooting could be marked down to malicious mischief, not attempted murder.

Annie dashed through the Palmetto Court several times. (Two palmettos bore cards:
Hercule Poirot is buried in Styles St. Mary; Of all her books, Christie best liked the beginning of
The Body in the Library.)

It was on Annie’s first rush through the Palmetto Court that she’d noticed Bledsoe, lounging at a choice table on the north side. The table was shaded from the sun by the fountain to its left, the wall behind, and the rising tier of balconies above. (The breeze fluttered a card taped to the fountain:
Agatha and Max left Nimrud for the last time in 1960.)
Scattered papers and a dish-laden table testified to an indulgent breakfast. Bledsoe, once again in an all-white suit (Did he think he was Hercule Poirot in Egypt?), leaned back in sleepy contentment, basking under the adoring gaze of Natalie Marlow, whose sensitive face reflected excitement—and more. Annie wondered sardonically how Bledsoe had managed to jettison the Miss Marple look-alike and just how much time he had spent with Natalie since yesterday. His blunt hand occasionally stroked her arm. He looked supremely self-satisfied. His sensual lips parted in a half-smile and his cigar tilted at a jaunty angle. All was right with his world, that was apparent.

All was certainly not right with Chief Saulter’s world when Annie almost cannoned into him near the registration table, her vision obscured by an armful of thermoses topped by a stack of island maps with
X
clearly marking the spot (location, of course, of the one and only Death on Demand, the finest mystery bookstore this side of Atlanta).

“Got a minute, Annie?” the chief asked brusquely. His normally sallow skin was flushed a dark pink.

“Sure, Frank.” Plumping down the island maps, she placed a thermos by Ingrid, who smiled her thanks, and shifted the remaining containers. “Taking fresh coffee to the workers. What’s up?” She took a quick glance at her watch. A quarter to eleven. Almost time for Lady Gwendolyn’s session.

“You got a list of everybody attending the conference?” This query was delivered with all the charm of Inspector
Slack. Annie lacked Miss Marple’s adroitness at remonstrating without words at rudeness, but her startled look of surprise evidently sufficed. Saulter’s flush deepened. “Sorry, Annie. That—” the chief stopped, swallowed, started again with an obvious effort at control—“Bledsoe still won’t give us a damn thing. Not a single name. Says he’s pretty sure he knows who’s behind the shooting, and he’ll take care of it.
He’ll
take care of it. Who does he think he is? A bloody vigilante?” The chief’s face gleamed like copper in the desert sun. “Sorry. Anyway, I need the list. Bledsoe’s not going to make a fool out of me. I’ll figure out who knows him whether he likes it or not.”

As Annie delved into boxes, hunting for the master list of attendees, she wondered at Bledsoe. The man had his psychology all wrong. If he thought obstructionism was the way to choke off the chief’s investigation, he was going to have to think again.

The chief stalked off, list in hand.

It was during her final dash through the Palmetto Court that her swift stride checked for an instant in surprise. Bledsoe’s table was full now: the critic, the young woman author, Max, and Lady Gwendolyn. Lady Gwendolyn’s bright blue eyes studied Bledsoe, who was talking fast and gesturing vigorously as he spoke. Natalie Marlow looked prim and uncomfortable, like a child at the adult table. Max had on his Charlie Chan face.

Annie hurried on to the main conference room. She checked the speaker’s table—the mike worked, ice water was available, and clean glasses in place—then tilted the blinds on the east wall to filter the late morning sunlight. The seats were rapidly filling, and there was a genial roar of excited conversations.

“… can’t understand the preoccupation of the American media with hard-boiled books! Romantic twaddle, most of them. Reality? Christie was closer to it than …”

“… Agatha thought Margaret Rutherford looked like a bloodhound …”

“… she scrapped very hard about the book jackets …”

“… can’t believe it! I found a copy—very fine—of the first American edition of
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
for less than a thousand!”

“I
love
that movie. I think Margaret Rutherford’s marvelous, even if she isn’t even a little bit like Jane Marple.”

It was a good-humored, holiday crowd, eager for the first session to begin. By golly, everything was going to be all right. So a few people didn’t like Bledsoe! So what? The world, as Max pointed out, was full of unlikable people, and you just coped. Annie waved to Laurel and raised an eyebrow at Henny’s huge sack overflowing with books. Aglow with excitement, her fox-sharp nose quivering in triumph, Henny raised her closed right fist, indicating some good buys in the book room. It was a bit painful, but Annie knew she couldn’t run a conference and scout for titles at the same time, so she grinned, clasped her hands above her head, and mouthed, “Congratulations.”

Neil Bledsoe ambled in, Natalie clinging to his arm. Her fashion rating was still abysmal. Today she wore an ill-fitting brown cotton jumper and blue blouse with puffed sleeves. Her lusterless brown hair, which desperately needed to be both styled and cut, hung unevenly, a jagged frame for her thin face. Her eyes were at odds with the rest of the face, almost as if they’d taken up residence there by mistake. They were deep-set, luminous, unforgettable eyes, as richly brown as fresh-turned Texas earth, and they gazed up tremulously at Bledsoe.

The unlikely couple passed within a few feet of Annie. Bledsoe was smiling down at his companion, his knowing eyes focused on her intently His manner exuded sexuality. Natalie was speaking. “You are so different from anyone I’ve ever known. You make most men seem so—so anemic, so puerile …”

Then they were past. Apparently Bledsoe was going to be safely occupied for the rest of the conference. If Annie could read the signs, and it didn’t take the expertise of a sex therapist to figure this one out, Bledsoe had poor Natalie’s number. Annie wished he had picked on someone sawier. But it was none of her business.

Augustus Markham, president of Chastain College, greeted her. “Wonderful occasion, my dear. A pleasure to be here.” Heads turned to listen. Augustus would be as difficult to ignore as an organ crescendo. “No one will ever equal Christie as a mystery writer. She was a great lady, too,
an inspiration to the rest of us. She always did her best. She knew what it was to live.”