The Christie Caper (22 page)

As the crowd—and the narrowed eyes, jutting jaws, and dark frowns reminded Annie anew that Americans are not the best of losers—gathered at the registration table, word having spread with the rapidity of Mike Hammer surveying a buxom blonde that an announcement was imminent, Annie studied the name carefully.

Truelove.

Oh, sure, she almost said.

Truelove was the name of the child’s cart in
Postern of Fate,
the last novel Christie wrote, and was from the author’s memories of playthings at Ashfield, her beloved childhood home.

“Millicent Arrowby …” Annie hesitated, looking at the incipient winner, whose fulsome smile rivaled a horse’s death grimace. “Truelove?”

Willowy Ms. Truelove simpered.

Annie had never actually seen anyone simper. But no other word could better describe Truelove’s modestly downcast eyes, inordinately self-satisfied smirk, humbly tilted head, and arms and hands intertwined like ivy run amok. The entire effect was enhanced by her period clothing, a full-skirted brown poplin dress with a lace-edged bodice and an enormous mauve hat with one portion of the brim pinned to the crown.

“I understand, Ms. Truelove, that you are the very first person to turn in a complete set of Title Slips to the desk.”

Truelove writhed demurely.

Annie wondered if it was too late to lace the candy with paprika But it wasn’t necessary that she
like
the winner. Clearing her throat, Annie read the Title Slips with the correct posters and clues in order.

Annie reached out to shake hands. “Congratulations, Ms. Truelove.”

Truelove untwined sufficiently to lay limp fingers delicately on Annie’s palm.

Her smile a trifle strained, Annie picked up the box of chocolates.

All hell broke loose.

“Disqualification! Disqualification!” The virago-faced redhead screeched like the Simplon-Orient Express rounding a Turkish mountainside.
“Book
titles.
Book
titles!”

Truelove shed her amiability faster than Miss Marple knitted in
The Tuesday Club Murders.
Snatching the box of candy from Annie, she clutched it to her bosom and snarled a vulgarity at the redhead. Not a term in common use by ladies in period costumes.

It was at that point that a bellhop edged near with a message for Annie. Grabbing it, she stuffed it in her pocket and turned back to the fracas, which had escalated into body contact that would have shamed a hockey goalie.

When Annie, with Ingrid’s help, separated the two women, the box of candy was split open, the redhead was nursing a black eye, and Truelove’s display of gutter language surprised even Ingrid, who read the hardest of boiled (Valin, Izzi, Ellroy, Thompson).

The redhead wasn’t a quitter. “You said book titles. I distinctly heard you say book titles. ‘The Nemean Lion’ is
not
a
book
title. I turned in the book title,
The Labours of Hercules.”

“Title, smitle,” Truelove snapped. “The clue and poster represent the story ‘The Nemean Lion.’ I figured it out first. I turned it in first. The candy is
mine.”

“The
book
title is
The Labours of Hercules,
” the redhead replied stubbornly.

The cry was taken up, people separating into for and against, pro Truelove or pro Redhead. Shouts reverberated as opinions clashed.

“A pottery store,” Annie muttered. “Why don’t I run a pottery store?”

The redhead lunged again for the candy.

“Mine!” squealed Truelove.

“Mine!” proclaimed the usurper.

Or perhaps a shoe store, Annie pondered.

The claimant lowered her head and butted Truelove in the chest.

Truelove screeched, “Murder! Help!”

“Point of order,” Annie bellowed.

The two women turned to look at her.

That had been so successful, Annie wished she knew more parliamentary terms, but her repertoire was exhausted.

Her forefinger extended, Annie stalked to the redhead. “No one,” she intoned, “who commits forgery can be eligible to win.”

“Forgery? I? Forgery? Are you blackening my good name?”

Annie almost told her, à la Miss Marple, that she was a dead ringer for the biggest cheat in Annie’s high school, Cinda Mae Coldspot, but bypassed that pleasure for the blow-away.

“You turned in a slip with the title
The Labours of Hercules?”

“I certainly did and …” The redhead realized her peril, and changed course. “You can’t ignore the fact that you said book titles, and ‘The Nemean Lion’ isn’t—”

Annie faced the crowd. “Forgery in the first degree. There is not, never has been, and never shall be an official Christie Treasure Hunt Title Slip by that name. The
official
slip, available only at Hunt Station Number Thirteen, reads ‘The Nemean Lion.’” Whirling around, Annie yanked up Truelove’s arm and waggled it in the air. “The winner, the champion, the world-class treasure hunter, Miss Millicent Arrowby Truelove.” A pause. There were, of course, some catcalls and an ominous rumble of dissent. “Tea and crumpets,” she yelled, on a desperate impulse, “in the lobby. Courtesy of Death on Demand.”

A battle station call on Alistair MacLean’s
H.M.S. Ulysses
couldn’t have cleared the decks any faster. Once again, Annie and Ingrid held dominion over a deserted land.

Avoiding Ingrid’s pitying gaze, Annie busily righted a chair that had been knocked over in the excitement, then began scooping up the Clue Sheets littering the floor. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Okay, so it will take a month’s gross to pay for what that ravening herd is going to consume. What the hell else could I have done?”

Annie ordered a chocolate soda by the swimming pool and dropped wearily into a deck chair. What a day, from Bledsoe’s triumphant subscription sale to the treasure hunt. Ever afterward in her mind, the afternoon would be remembered simply and eloquently as the Hunt. The lengths to which people would go to win! As for Bledsoe, what was she going to do? It was unthinkable that he should succeed in his plan to fabricate ugliness about Christie. But what in the world was she going to do about it?

As she sipped the luscious concoction, a tiny wriggle of energy returned. She sat up straighter and felt a sharp edge of paper in her skirt pocket.

It was the message the bellboy had handed her before the treasure hunt erupted. The signature was indecipherable, looking somewhat like a beetle wearing a crown, but scanning the spidery, ornate handwriting, much like that of Emily Arundell in
Poirot Loses a Client,
Annie had no doubt as to the author of the missive.

The message was quite direct:
REPORT TO YOUR SUITE UPON RECEIPT.

If Annie hadn’t been so weakened by the treasure hunt fray, she might have ignored it. But she needed help. Maybe Lady Gwendolyn would have some ideas on how to combat Bledsoe. Though it did seem to Annie, as she punched the elevator button, that perhaps Lady Gwendolyn had presumed a bit on Anglo-American relations in setting up shop in her and Max’s suite.

“There you are!” Lady Gwendolyn announced cheerfully. “We can’t start without
you,
my dear.”

Annie’s resentment fled in the face of such good humor
and obvious good intentions (not to mention such consummate tact).

Max popped up, smiling.

Dear heart, Annie thought fondly.

Laurel waved an abstracted hello, then bent again to the notebook in her lap.

Henny merely flicked her a grumpy look.

Lady Gwendolyn nodded encouragingly toward the couch. Annie sprawled on it gratefully. Her head was pounding. She was too tired to perk up even when Max joined her.

Lady Gwendolyn rustled her sheaf of papers. “I won’t call our meeting to order until everyone has gathered. But this is a good opportunity to organize our thoughts. Annie, if you will, dear, please recap the Wednesday schedule.”

Although Annie’d never had any trouble keeping up with Pam North in her thought processes, Lady Gwendolyn sometimes stumped her.

“Wednesday schedule?” She tried not to sound plaintive. “Whose schedule? What schedule?”

“Tomorrow’s conference schedule.” Lady Gwendolyn’s sapphire ring flashed as she poured steaming tea that looked gunmetal gray as it curled out of the spout.

That
Annie knew. “There are six panels on Wednesday and a Christie film festival.
The Passing of Mr. Quirin
—1928,
Alibi
and
Black Coffee—both
1931,
Lord Edgware Dies—
1934, and
Love from a Stranger
—1937.”

“Nineteen thirty-seven.” Lady Gwendolyn’s eyes softened. “Ah yes, that was a very good year.
I
played at Wimbledon and met quite a handsome chap. Nigel—” A tiny sigh. Then, briskly, “The schedule sounds smashing. Moreover, it frees you for deployment.”

Annie stiffened as much as her tired spine would permit. There was something in the sound of “deployment” that she did not like.

A sharp knock rattled the door.

Lady Gwendolyn nodded at Max.

Max opened the door (generous of her to permit Max that privilege) and Frank Saulter looked in.

“Inspector!” the high, clear voice proclaimed.

“Chief,” he replied wearily.

The brilliant blue stone flashed through the air as Lady Gwendolyn waved dismissively. “Inspector … chief—a rose by any name. You are, indubitably, in charge. I prefer to be open and aboveboard with those in authority. I wish to stress that we in no way intend to obstruct, hinder, or interfere with the due processes of the law. Indeed, our aim is to support, reinforce, and supplement your efforts. But it is always important to coordinate.” An
encouraging
smile. “We have much to discuss.”

Saulter glanced briefly at Annie, and she could read his thought. He was damn tired, it’d been a long day, and was this woman one of those nutty authors?

The canny writer’s quick blue eyes didn’t miss a trick. She chuckled. “I quite understand your hesitation, Chief. You are by no means interested in the cogitations of barmy old ladies. Nor am I. I promise no nonsense. And, as we join forces, perhaps you might join us for a spot of supper? Steak and kidney pie.” Her pudgy hand gestured toward the buffet.

Annie’s mouth began to water. She was starving!

Lady Gwendolyn observed happily, “It does look appetizing, doesn’t it? Though I must confess room service was initially recalcitrant. It was necessary to have a bit of a chat with the chap in charge. But we’re all mates now.”

Was it the old author’s self-possession that attracted Saulter? Or the enticing scent of dinner?

As they settled around the table (Lady Gwendolyn at the head), Saulter even accepted a glass of burgundy with his dinner. Thanks to Lady Gwendolyn’s artful questions, he sketched the results of the day’s investigations.

Laurel stopped eating and listed the chief’s information:

1. There were no clear fingerprints on the remnants of the vase. Smudge marks indicated gloves.
   

2. No one was seen on the roof just before the vase came down.
   

3. A new crowbar was found on the roof. There were no fingerprints on it. It had obviously been rubbed clean.
   

4. The presence of the crowbar indicated that the attack had been planned in advance. The vase which had
   nearly crushed Bledsoe had been secured by four iron clamps. It had been prised up with the bar.
   

5. Four stairways gave access to the roof. All were unlocked.
   

Henny sighed. “The culprit had a ridiculously easy time of it.”

Annie looked to see if there were any more of the meat dish. It was all gone. Pigs. Disconsolately, she took another serving of boiled potatoes. Unsalted? Maybe room service was having a subtle revenge.

Perhaps a little irritable at not receiving what she saw as her fair share of the steak and kidney pie, Annie mumbled through an interminable mouthful of bland potatoes, “Don’t see how anybody could count on hitting Bledsoe with that vase. Maybe it had nothing to do with him.”

“No, no, no.” Henny came to life. She jumped up, riffled through her purse, pulled out a drawing, and put it on the table between them.