The Christie Caper (18 page)

A
nnie, Anniieeeee …”

Her name, huskily, throatily, penetratingly voiced, buzzed in her ear with the persistence of a mosquito.

Annie said, “Mmmhph,” and sleepily pawed to her left. The rumpled sheets were cool to her touch. She reluctantly opened one eye and turned her head. No Max.

“Annie, Anniiieee …”

Annie lifted her head and peered through the shadows toward the windows opening onto the balcony.

The call came again. Annie knew who it was, of course. In all the world, there was no other voice quite like Laurel’s, a combination of Dietrich sultriness, Bacall sensuality, and wood nymph innocence, a beguiling, enchanting, bewitching triad—but not at sunrise.

The call came again, clearly from outside.

Their room was on the third floor. Sleep fled. Both eyes snapped open. Surely—

Annie rolled out of bed and trotted to the balcony. Peering out, she saw Laurel on the next balcony. Oh, good Lord, she hadn’t realized her mother-in-law’s room was that close to their own. And they’d left the balcony doors open both nights…. Annie’s ears flamed.

Laurel, with the eyesight of a marsh hawk, hadn’t missed the telltale movement. She waved energetically to summon her daughter-in-law, and the folded sheet of yellow paper fluttered in her hand.

Annie peered out once more, this time surveying the darkened Palmetto Court below and the untenanted nearby
balconies, then, with a shrug, padded barefoot in her shorty pajamas to the railing.

Laurel didn’t say anything, but her brief glance at Annie’s pajamas moved the flush from Annie’s ears to her cheeks.

Laurel’s eyebrows rose just a fraction; she gave an infinitesimal sigh and headshake.

So what was wrong with Bugs Bunny pajamas! Annie liked them. But she knew that once again she’d failed to pass muster. She was quite certain that Laurel, in her many marital outings (five, for heaven’s sake), had always worn the daintiest night things imaginable. Actually, the Bugs Bunny p.j.’s were Annie’s concession to the married state. Previously, she had preferred a cotton T-shirt and shorts.

Annie opened her mouth, then closed it. She had no intention of discussing her nocturnal fashion choices. Dammit, surely Laurel hadn’t rousted Annie from her slumbers merely to glance askance at her choice of lingerie. Not any of her business, anyway. “Yes?” she snapped.

With a sweet smile that exuded patient forgiveness of early morning irritability in less gracious creatures, Laurel announced firmly, “Annie, we
must
confer. I shall fly to your door.” Whirling, with the grace and effortless speed of a ballerina, Laurel pirouetted back into her own apartment.

Annie was not slow-witted, but her unexpected awakening, the vision of Laurel, bright and eager in a delicate shell-pink warm-up, and the unaccustomed misery of awaking first (Max
always
got up and put the coffee on and had it ready when she stumbled down the stairs. Really, that instantly available cup of coffee the first thing in the morning was one of the greatest plusses of the married state.) combined to make her less than alert.

So it took a minute or so for her to respond to the steady knock at the suite door.

Laurel sped inside, taking time only to scoop up another sheet of yellow paper from the floor just inside the door. Adding that to the sheet she’d fluttered from her balcony, she stalked to the center of the living room and clapped the squares of paper dramatically to her heart.

“Annie, Agatha is being Griswolded.”

Annie stared at Laurel. Her head was beginning to throb. Coffee. God, how she needed a cup of coffee. Of all the
mornings for Max to go for an early morning walk. Coffee … where was the coffeemaker …?

“Coffee,” she moaned, heading blearily for the kitchenette. As Annie yanked open cupboards, Laurel skipped to her side, eyes downcast.

“Truly a dreadful occurrence and a heartrending story. Even now, more than one hundred and fifty years later, it brings tears to my eyes.” A tear dutifully rolled down her lovely cheek.

Annie ignored the tear and her mother-in-law and grabbed the canister of French coffee. Brought from home, of course. She ignored the container of Kona. This morning she needed a sharp, heady, dark,
strong
brew.

“… almost seems beyond belief that there could be such wicked misrepresentation of a poet’s life. It is truly a scandal that generations of American schoolchildren should be taught that dear Edgar was a drug addict and a drunk, a wastrel and a degenerate! All because of Rufus Wilmot Griswold. That dreadful man.”

Annie lifted the pitcher of fresh orange juice out of the refrigerator. “Juice?”

“Thank you, darling. I’d love some.”

Annie filled two glasses, slumped into one of the kitchenette chairs, and downed half a glass at one gulp.

Laurel joined her. She dropped the folded sheets of paper on the table and picked up her juice. She sipped dreamily. “My heartfelt desire is that the world should know the truth about dear Edgar.”

“Opium,” Annie muttered, “all those horrid visions—”

“My dear, that’s
Griswold.”

Annie blinked. “I thought,” she said distinctly, “we were talking about Edgar Allan Poe.” She almost demanded to know
why
they were talking about Edgar Allan Poe and his opium proclivities at—it took character but she steeled herself and looked at the wall clock. God!—at six-fifteen in the morning.

“My dear, it’s just like Bledsoe with Agatha.” Laurel hitched her chair closer to Annie’s. “You see, when it started out, they were friends—”

“Bledsoe and
Agatha?”
Annie demanded. If the coffee would just perk …

“Edgar and Rufus,” Laurel explained patiently. “They met in Philadelphia in 1841 when Rufus was twenty-six and Edgar was thirty-two.” She clapped her hands together. “Poe at the peak of his genius! Not knowing he had only eight years left to live. Poor dear boy.” A lowering of her eyes and an instant of reverential silence. “Anyway, in 1841 Griswold was putting together an anthology. Young Poe gave him several poems and recommended some other poets. Griswold took Poe’s poems, but he ignored Poe’s suggestions. And he didn’t pay Poe a cent for his poems! When the anthology came out, Poe reviewed it—favorably—but he did say that some of the poets included were ‘too mediocre to entitle them to particular notice.’ Annie, can you believe it? Griswold never forgave Poe for that single line of negative comment!”

Having overheard authors discussing reviewers, Annie could believe it.

“It’s such a shame that Griswold could not have patterned himself after our dear Agatha. Although, of course, he couldn’t, since he was alive first. But you know what I mean …”

Annie had no desire at all to know what her mother-in-law meant.

“When you think of that really intemperate essay by Edmund Wilson—and how many people today recognize
his
name—but dear Dame Agatha never, to my knowledge, made any comment at all about the nasty piece. However, her sterling example came much too late to help Edgar. Although Griswold was so ‘literary,’ perhaps he wouldn’t even have read her. In any event”—Annie’s head definitely ached—“worse was to come. In 1843 an unsigned review sharply criticized Griswold’s anthology. Griswold was convinced Poe wrote the review, though no one’s ever known for certain.”

“So Griswold didn’t like Poe. So he said so. So what?” Annie asked, but her tone was more amiable because the coffee was ready. She poured each of them a cup and never in her memory had there been a scent to compare with the heady, heavenly aroma of the French roast brew.

“Oh, my dear. It is even worse than our present instance because dear Edgar
trusted
Griswold. Before they became enemies, Poe even asked Griswold to serve as his literary
executor, and Griswold accepted.” Laurel’s spectacularly lovely blue eyes flashed. “Griswold began his character assassination of Poe two days after the poor man died in 1849. He wrote an account of Poe’s life and career for the
New York Tribune
that began this way, ‘Edgar Allan Poe is dead. He died in Baltimore the day before yesterday. This announcement will startle many, but few will be grieved by it.’” A soulful sigh. “Annie, it was a vicious diatribe against the greatest poet America ever produced. Griswold wrote that Poe ‘had no moral susceptibility … and little or nothing of the true point of honor.’”

Annie swallowed a wonderful warming jolt of coffee and began to pay attention. It slowly dawned on her that Laurel was drawing a parallel between the past and the present. She looked sharply at her mother-in-law. “Are you saying all this stuff that’s hung on Poe all these years—drink, drugs, less than honorable relations with his mother-in-law—that none of it’s true?”

“None of it. Oh, it’s accurate that the poor boy didn’t handle liquor well. He had an extremely low tolerance for it. But according to many of his friends, he rarely drank. And certainly not when he was working. As for the rest, it is a fraud upon his memory.”

Laurel’s quiet words hung between them.

“He was a dear boy, and he tried so hard,” Laurel said softly. “Such a sad life. His mother deserted by his father when Edgar was but a year old. His mother, a wonderful young actress, dying of tuberculosis, when he was not quite three. A wealthy, childless Richmond, Virginia couple, John and Frances Allan, adopted Edgar. Oh, there are so many interesting stories about his youth. He was a handsome, athletic teenager, good at running, swimming, boxing. But he and his foster father were never close. A merchant, John Allan couldn’t understand a young man so interested in poetry. But Annie, the way Griswold twisted the facts …”

Laurel ticked the charges off on her fingers. “In his biography of Poe, Griswold claimed he had been expelled from the University of Virginia because of drinking. Not true. Griswold said Poe deserted from the army and was expelled from West Point. Not true. He insinuated Poe was an opium addict. Not true. He wrote—and this was utterly without
foundation—that Poe ‘had criminal relations with his mother-in-law.’ No one had ever suggested any such thing, until Griswold said that it was commonly understood and believed.

“Oh, Griswold was a man without character. He destroyed letters of Poe’s which would have contradicted his calumnies. He added sentences in letters to put Poe in a bad light.” Laurel’s eyes widened. “But worst of all, his biography was considered the
authorized
biography of Poe. For many years it was included as a preface in all editions of Poe’s work. So when Poe’s friends—and he had many—claimed Griswold’s attack was untrue, they were ignored. Griswold achieved his revenge. Even today many teachers believe all those dreadful accusations. Oh, Griswold was a scoundrel.”

“That’s really too bad.” Annie commiserated. It was certainly a shame. But it was a long time ago and she suspected Poe would care more that his work was still revered, especially by the European literati, and care less that his personal reputation was stained by Griswold’s machinations. Evil, after all, would come as no surprise to Edgar Allan Poe.

“Poe’s friends came to his succor too late. But Christie’s admirers shall speak now!” Laurel snatched up the folded sheets of paper and thrust one at Annie.

Annie’s slowly mounting sense of well-being, a product of the excellent coffee and a conscious decision to go with the flow (i.e., indulge Laurel), evaporated faster than Lady Frankie Derwent driving her large green Bentley down country lanes in
The Boomerang Clue.

Annie stared at the yellow flyer.

Annie was on her feet, brandishing the sheet and heading for the door when it swung in.

Max reached out and caught her. “Annie?” He looked beyond her at Laurel, who was smiling encouragingly at her daughter-in-law.

“So nice to see young people with so much spirit. I, for one, have not lost hope in the younger generation. There is indeed passion in—”

Annie was struggling to get to the door. “I’ll false-face
him. Wait until I get my hands on him. I’m going to obliterate that man.”

Understandably startled, his hands full with an enraged Annie, Max left the hall door open.

“My dears, forgive me for intruding at such an early hour.” The light, sweet voice spilled from the doorway. Lady Gwendolyn, in a baggy gray tweed suit and sturdy oxfords, looked like an academic out for an early morning stroll, except that her vivid blue eyes crackled with determination. She flung a crumpled yellow sheet to the floor with finality. “This is absolutely reprehensible. We cannot—we will not—permit such vile muck to be circulated. We must act immediately.”

Annie stood beside the pool and seethed.

It wasn’t quite ten o’clock on Tuesday morning, and the Palmetto Court resembled the ground floor of the R. H. Haymaker Department Store when silk stockings went on sale in
File for Record
by Phoebe Atwood Taylor writing as Alice Tilton. The only difference was one of tone. Rather than battling, as did the war-deprived women, these were good-natured, orderly line-standers, bathed in the warm September sunlight and fortified by the conference-provided hearty English buffet breakfast of eggs, bacon, kippers, cold grouse, and York ham. Those who had indulged in the English breakfast were relaxed to the point of somnolence. Obviously, many of the morning panels were going to be ignored in favor of Bledsoe’s appearance. He was throwing a monkey wrench into the flurry of investigating underway at Confidential Commissions, too. Not even Laurel would agree to forsake the hotel this morning until Bledsoe made his appearance. Lady Gwendolyn understood, and they all agreed that inquiries would resume as soon as possible at Confidential Commissions. Annie pointed out further that she needed everyone’s attendance that afternoon at the Agatha Christie Treasure Hunt. Lady Gwendolyn suggested that Annie could handle the hunt alone. “Have you ever,” Annie inquired, her tone strained, “participated in a mystery convention contest?” That won over Lady Gwendolyn immediately. “My dear, there was a Mystery Weekend in Wales, and
before it ended, there were three kidnappings, one case of amnesia, and two elopements. Such excitement. By all means, we must stand ready to assist you in your hour of travail.”