The Christie Caper (21 page)

Appreciative
ah’s
came from the preponderantly female audience. Some facts of gender are beyond dispute. A passion for chocolate and hormone levels correlate uncannily.

Annie reached beneath the table and brought up the gold-foil-wrapped box of chocolates. “Are there any questions?” she called out over cries of delight.

There were, of course, and some would have taxed the ingenuity of Jacques Futrelle’s brainy Professor Van Dusen. Annie avoided complications by stubbornly reiterating the ground rules and refusing to entertain even the slightest modification of the program. She knew only too well what could happen if she did.

“Now that the procedure is clearly understood, I’m going to pass out the Clue Sheets. Good luck and Godspeed.”

Annie really was rather proud of the Clue Sheets.

The treasure seekers split faster than John J. Malone could order cold beer for breakfast in
The Lucky Stiff.
One moment Annie was the focus of attention; the next she and Ingrid were alone in a suddenly frowsy hallway, littered with discarded Styrofoam cups, occasional cigarette stubs (this was South Carolina, and, honey, no-smoking bans are a communist plot), and candy wrappers (if God didn’t want women to eat chocolate, She’d never have arranged for Columbus to get that loan).

Ingrid grinned. “I’m glad I’m not a hunt attendant. Do you want to bet on some creative ploys to get at the Title Slips?”

“That’s one tough group—a couple of junior high school teachers, an IRS agent, a priest, a probation officer, a computer security expert. They’ve heard it all, Ingrid. They won’t be conned.” Annie spoke with a good deal more assurance than she felt. She’d tried to warn the hunt attendants—be suspicious of telegrams demanding immediate attendance at a loved one’s bedside, don’t let anyone get close enough to grab the Title Slips, ignore sirens, dismiss as absurd any rumor that a man-eating anaconda has escaped from a circus
train. Her brow crinkled. Had she remembered to warn against fainting fits and simulated heart attacks?

“Maybe,” Ingrid said doubtfully. “I’d say it’s about as likely as either of the Kellermans writing a jolly mystery. Anyway, it’s nice to have some breathing space.”

“Yes, indeed.” Startled, they turned and saw Lady Gwendolyn, almost obscured behind a palm. She stepped forward. “Certainly, you must agree that I
attempted
to merge the investigative efforts. I was, as you can attest, rebuffed. But never, never, never defeated. After all, we can do much on our own, can’t we, my dears?”

Annie lurked behind a huge potted palm, observing the rather glum group gathered outside the door to the Card Room. One of them wanted to be a murderer. That was apparent now. The shots at Death on Demand might have been intended to frighten; the vase crashing into the Palmetto Court was clearly intended to kill. Annie had crisp instructions from Lady Gwendolyn: Observe, report.

Nathan Hillman sat stolidly in a red wing chair, ostensibly immersed in a
Fortune
magazine. She could just glimpse his wiry hair and part of his horn-rims. She would have been more impressed if the magazine hadn’t been upside down.

Derek Davis, in contrast, was in constant motion, striding up and down. The young publicist’s freckled face was puffy. Too much alcohol, too little sleep? What had happened to him last night after his abortive attack on Bledsoe? And wouldn’t that be grist for Saulter’s mill.

Fleur Calloway, as always, was a book publicist’s dream, her finely modeled face hauntingly lovely, her flowing, emerald shirtdress a perfect foil for her tawny hair. She rested casually against the cane chairback, her hands loose in her lap. Her head was slightly bent, her gaze focused on her hands. She looked up briefly when Derek Davis bumped a coffee table. Her eyes were deep and melancholy pools of pain.

Emma Clyde glowered. She had the air of an irate and dangerous Chow looking for trouble. She stood beside
Fleur’s chair, as if daring anyone to approach. Annie didn’t envy Saulter his session with Emma.

Margo Wright sat beside a red-and-gold chinese dragon, and Annie found them both a study in inscrutability. The agent’s face was dead white, her brows dark slashes, her mouth a carmine line. An unreadable face. She could as easily have been composing a sonnet, planning an ax murder, or contemplating her karma. So the change was striking when her lips suddenly curved in a smile, her dark eyes softened, and her large hand gestured invitingly. “Victoria, come sit with me,” and Margo patted the love seat beside her.

Victoria Shaw took the proffered seat as though it were refuge. She looked especially small and wrenlike next to the imposing agent. And frightened. Her breath came in quick, uneven gasps. “Margo, will I have to tell the police about … about Bryan?”

The agent’s look was a mixture of pity and sorrow. And something darker, an underlying edge of cold, hard rage. Before she could answer, the door to the Card Room opened.

Every face turned.

Neil Bledsoe filled the doorway. Just behind him, one hand clutching his arm, stood the awkward young author.

As always, Annie felt the inescapable magnetism of the man. And fought it.

Bledsoe’s dark eyes surveyed those who had responded to Saulter’s call.

“Which one of you fuckers did it?” His tone was insinuatingly conversational. “Was it you, Nathan? You’re too soft and gutless to face me. Maybe it’s you.”

The editor lowered the magazine, closed it, carefully placed it on the side table. “Having fun, Neil?” he asked quietly.

But Bledsoe’s gaze was fastened on Fleur Calloway. Her hands came together in a tight, painful grip, but not a muscle moved in her face.

“Not you, Fleur,” Bledsoe drawled. “Ice water in your veins.”

She looked at him, through him. Once again, he didn’t exist.

For just an instant, his fury showed, his dark eyes molten, his scarred face a deeper, redder hue.

Emma Clyde stepped in front of Fleur. “Get the hell out of the way, Neil. We didn’t come here to see you.” She bent to look past him. “Chief, Chief! You’ve got some slime obstructing the passageway.”

Saulter came along then and broke it up, motioning for Bledsoe to move on, standing aside for Fleur and Emma to enter.

Bledsoe stared at the closing door.

Natalie Marlow tugged at his arm. “Come on, Neil, let’s go get a drink.”

Annie marveled, not for the first time, at how startling the contrast can sometimes be between an author’s persona and an author’s work. Natalie Marlow’s book quivered with sensitivity; the writing was somber yet as graceful and fluid and unforgettable as an Edith Piaf melody. Marlow herself had all the charm of a water beetle.

“Neil!” Kathryn Honeycutt rushed up to the critic. The more often Annie saw Bledsoe’s aunt, the less she resembled Jane Marple. Oh, the height and the dowdy clothes and the fluffy white hair were there, but she had neither the dignity nor the air of insightfulness so characteristic of the indomitable Miss Marple.

Bledsoe looked down impatiently.

Kathryn’s voice was pettish. “Neil, this charade has gone far enough. We must go home.”

For just an instant, Bledsoe stood immobile, his dark brows lifted in surprise.

But only for an instant.

“No. Never. I’ve never run in my life, Kathryn. I won’t run now.”

Natalie’s eyes glowed with admiration. “Oh, God, Neil. You make other men look like shadows.”

“Neil—” Kathryn’s voice was a despairing cry. “Please, you must listen to me, you must do as I say.” Her mouth trembled. “I
know
something dreadful’s going to happen. I feel it. It’s surrounding me. Evil, Neil. I swear before God, something dreadful will happen if we stay.”

Annie felt a ripple of foreboding, as distinct as a clap of
thunder, as hard to define as a scarcely glimpsed figure in the fog.

“I won’t run. Never.”

Kathryn Honeycutt pressed her hands to her face, then turned and stumbled away.

Bledsoe scowled, lifted a hand as if to call her back, then angrily shook his head. “Come on, Natalie. Let’s go get a drink. And have some fun. This is a vacation, isn’t it? We’re all having fun, aren’t we?”

A
nnie hesitated to leave her post behind the palm. After all, Lady Gwendolyn’s charge had been explicit: Observe, report. But Annie had a distinct feeling she’d better check on the treasure hunters, especially when she heard shouts and cries of “Not fair! Not fair!” emanating from the main lobby.

Skidding to a stop beside Hunt Station 6, she found a bookseller from Boston with her back to the wall. The bookseller, when accused of attempting to deface the poster, was unrepentant “Surely when the safety of conference attendees hangs in the balance, no one can complain if a poster received some damage when I attempted to squash that hideous centipede on it!”

That no one else had seen the centipede (“Horrible, actually. Orange feelers and a citron body!”), the bookseller attributed to poor eyesight and a widespread conspiracy to drive her out of the hunt.

Unmoved by her pleas, Annie disqualified her on the spot.

Lady Gwendolyn nodded in satisfaction at the scene of organized activity underway at Confidential Commissions.

Laurel’s husky voice oozed charm. “Mr. Ranklin—oh, may I call you Grant?—yes, Grant, I am a free-lance feature writer, specializing in the mystery field. I understand you are a longtime acquaintance of Neil Bledsoe?”

At the next telephone, Max wrote rapidly on his legal
pad. “Then who do you think might know the whole truth? One of the editors at Pomeroy Press?”

Lady Gwendolyn was pleased to see Henny deep in conversation, too. Henny was the least tractable of her researchers, quite miffed at leaving the hotel before the treasure hunt ended. Of course, when Lady Gwendolyn pointed out that Henny, as a conference organizer, couldn’t be
approved
as part of the competition … But now Henny was well into the spirit of inquiry. For an instant, Lady Gwendolyn was a bit puzzled. Surely that wasn’t a Brit accent Henny was affecting….

The treasure hunters ran the gamut. Many gamuts. From the reasonable to the absurd, the jolly to the morose, the intelligent to the obtuse, the perceptive to the paranoid.

At Station 4 Annie was forced to disqualify the Matheson sisters (sixty-five-year-old twins with matching Sherlock capes are no damn joke) when they tried a variation on the shell game in an effort to obtain the Title Slips.

There was a mass disqualification at Station 9. It was hard to believe a group of librarians from Baltimore would connive in such a base fashion (informing the hunt attendant that a Department of Energy inspector had declared this portion of the hotel a contaminated area and immediate evacuation was underway).

As for the melee at Station 18, the less said the better.

But finally, shortly after five o’clock, a triumphant claimant emerged, one Millicent Arrowby Truelove.