The Christie Caper (25 page)

Annie looked in on the morning’s first panel, Christie and Hammett, Who Wrote about the “Real” World? and Henny pounced on her.

Out in the hall, Henny shot a wary glance in both directions, then hissed, “They’ve identified the victim!” Henny was vivid in a bright yellow cotton dress. Her dark eyes glowed with excitement. “John Border Stone from New Jersey.”

“Who was he?” Annie asked quickly. “A writer? A fan?”

“Don’t know. Max said he’d add him to his list to investigate. Anyway, thought you should know. I’ll get back to you,” and Henny sped off down the corridor. Inspector Slack never moved faster in
The Murder at the Vicarage.

Annie grinned, but her smile quickly slipped away. Henny meant well, but her fascination with crime suddenly seemed callous. Annie remembered only too clearly that brutal wound which had ended John Border Stone’s young life. Each time the image returned, another horrid detail burned in her mind—the class ring on a pudgy, lifeless finger. Annie shook her head and scolded herself. Good detectives kept their emotions in check; they distanced themselves from the horrors they confronted. Witness Bill Knox’s Glasgow Detective Chief Inspector Colin Thane and his partner Inspector Phil Moss, and Laurie Mantell’s New Zealanders, Detective Sergeant Steven Arrow and Inspector Jonas Peacock. That’s why Henny was scouring the surroundings for clues.

Annie walked slowly toward the main lobby.

The unexpected corpse.

If Bledsoe had been found, battered to death…. But it wasn’t Bledsoe. However, the murder must be linked, somehow, someway, to the attacks on Bledsoe; Annie felt confident of it. All the violence had been directed at the critic. John
Border Stone had glimpsed the gunman on Saturday night. He’d been unable to give a clear description.

Had he truly been unable?

Or had he seen only too clearly—and, for reasons of his own, kept quiet? Until someone permanently quieted him.

That made all kinds of dreadful sense.

And validated Annie’s quest.

Annie checked the autograph room. Yes, Emma Clyde was there, as scheduled. A long double line of fans inched forward to have their books signed. So, while the big cat was engaged—

Annie searched every likely spot in the hotel. She was ready to give up, when she decided to check the beach. She spotted her quarry at the end of the pier.

Annie walked forward swiftly on the wooden planking.

Perhaps it was the hurried cadence of her shoes that made Fleur Calloway jerk around to watch her approach. Perhaps it was that and nothing more which gave an anxious cast to that lovely face. Yet, even half frowning, the delicate tracery of lines on Fleur’s face echoed laughter and sunshine and warmth. She sat on the weathered wooden bench at the end of the pier, shading her eyes from the morning sun.

“Good morning, Mrs. Calloway.”

“Please, call me Fleur.” A moment’s hesitation, then, the author said, her voice troubled, “I understand a young man was killed last night.”

“Yes.”

“Do the police have any idea what happened?” Was Fleur’s question just natural curiosity, or was there an undertone of fear?

“I don’t know much about it. He was attending the conference. Someone killed him with a sugar cutter.”

“A sugar cutter? How odd. I haven’t seen one of those in years.” The author smiled wryly. “Yes, Annie, I do know what one is. I grew up in Louisiana”

Annie wished she had the nonchalant demeanor so natural to private eyes. Surely Spenser would have revealed nothing at this disclosure. Obviously, her expression—shock? uneasiness? surprise?—had been too easily read.

“Fleur, I know there has been some unpleasantness between you and Neil Bledsoe.”

The wry smile dissolved. Fleur Calloway suddenly looked pinched and old.

“I’m asking because I hope to get a full picture of the man and use it to combat his plan to smear Christie. I hope you’ll agree to help me. I know you don’t want to see her reputation destroyed. If you could just tell me what happened between you and Neil—”

Fleur pressed a hand against her lips. She wasn’t looking at Annie; her eyes were focused on the shore.

Annie felt like a paparazza. And hated it. “I’m sorry. I hate prying.” She did. She hated it like fury. “Obviously, this isn’t pleasant—” She broke off. Not pleasant! The pain in Fleur’s eyes was so deep, the anguish so apparent.

Shock widened Fleur’s eyes.

Annie followed her gaze.

Natalie Marlow and Neil Bledsoe, hand in hand, strolled barefoot in the shallows. Her face alive with happiness, the author gazed up adoringly at her companion. She was almost pretty, despite her stringy hair and pale face.

Annie wished she had an afternoon, a beauty shop, a dress store, and Natalie by the scruff of the neck. The author could be attractive. She had a strong, intelligent face, a determined chin. Why did she go around looking like Megan Hunter in
The Moving Finger?
Could it be that Natalie, too, lacked confidence, felt so unloved, so unworthy that she hid her femininity in artful self-defense? Annie didn’t quite think in terms of “Oh, pshaw!” But her immediate response was, “The author of
Down These Steps?
No way.”

Nevertheless, the writer who had brilliantly plumbed the depths of tortured love and hate in her first novel was clearly besotted with a man almost any woman, from six to sixty, would spot as bad news, despite his undeniable sexual magnetism.

“That’s the way Jaime looked at him.” Fleur’s voice was oddly flat and thin, unlike her usual rich contralto.

Bledsoe pulled Natalie into his arms, her face against his chest, her body tight to his.

He lifted his head and stared out at the end of the pier where they sat. For a long, long moment, across the shimmering
water, the critic’s eyes taunted Fleur. A triumphant smile curved his lips, then he loosened his embrace, tucked his hand beneath Natalie’s chin and lifted her face to kiss it, a long, lingering, passionate kiss.

“Oh, Jesus God.” The blood drained from Fleur’s face.

Annie reached out in alarm to touch her arm.

Ignoring Annie, Fleur stumbled to her feet and turned away from the shore. She reached out to hold onto the wooden railing of the pier. Her body trembled and her face was ashen.

“Fleur! Mrs. Calloway, … are you ill? Please, let me help.”

“Have they gone?” It was a tortured cry.

Annie glanced back toward the beach. “Yes. Yes, they’ve gone.” She stared at Fleur. Incredible as it seemed, this beautiful and accomplished woman was physically stricken by the sight of Bledsoe loving another woman. Had Fleur Calloway once loved Bledsoe? Annie stumbled into speech. “I’m sorry.”

Fleur looked at her strangely.

“I didn’t know—I had no idea you’d ever cared about him.”

“Cared about him?” The author’s face crumpled. Tears began to spill down her cheeks. “Oh, God, if only I had. If only I had.” Her face sharpened, hardened. “I won’t see it happen again. I can’t bear to see it happen again.”

Max once again was king of his domain. Not that Lady Gwendolyn wasn’t heartily welcome at Confidential Commissions, but he was just as happy she’d stayed at the hotel today. He studied the number his secretary had found at the telephone company office in Beaufort, the telephone number of Bruno Calavecchia, next-door neighbor to Mrs. Grace Wilton Stone in Brooklyn, New York.

It was ugly indeed, just as Emma had warned.

Fleur told Annie haltingly. Some of it she didn’t say, but Annie, looking at faded snapshots, understood.

“This is Jaime in Laguna. She was fifteen.”

A vacation shot, obviously. Fleur appeared little different
from today, slim and lovely in tennis whites. The girl standing beside her would never, no matter how she might diet or exercise or try, have her mother’s grace and beauty. Jaime was big: bulky shoulders, a solid girth, thick almost shapeless legs. She wasn’t ugly. In fact, her broad, open face had a wholesome prettiness and radiated good humor. Neither was she overweight, but she had the body build of a fullback, and she was very tall for a woman, a good head taller than her mother. The way Jaime stood revealed so much, head tucked to lessen her height, shoulders slumped to minimize their breadth.

“I wanted her to be proud.” Anguished eyes looked out over the water. “But ours isn’t a society that values strength in women. The first day at school, she came home crying. They’d made fun of her, called her the Elephant Girl.”

It worsened as time passed and Jaime grew, always grew. She was not only big, she was clumsy, not good at sports.

“Her father and I were divorced.” The tone was cool, but her eyes were not. “He’d been good at sports. That’s all he ever cared about. Remembering how wonderful he’d been. He had no interest in Jaime. Just a girl. Just a big, awkward girl.”

Fleur’s fingers pulled at the neck of her sweater, as if it choked her. “But Jaime was a wonderful musician. I was so proud of her. I thought perhaps music could make the difference in her life.”

A pianist. Some thought a pianist with a brilliant future.

“She was so happy at the piano.”

But not away from it. And always and ever, the comparisons by the thoughtless, apparent even when unspoken, to her lithe and lovely mother.

“It ate away her confidence.” Tears filled emerald-green eyes. “I kept telling Jaime that when she was all grown, that she would be lovely in her own way. That she should walk tall and be proud. And she should have been proud because she was a glorious, wonderful, grand person,” her mother said fiercely. “She could always see the funny side to everything—except her size.”

The author lifted a hand, wiped away tears, and shook her head. “We had so much fun together. And that last trip,
I talked her into it She had intended to go to summer school, but I persuaded her to come with me. I thought it would be a glorious experience, a three-week mystery tour of England. I was invited to be the celebrity author.” Her cheekbones sharpened, her lips thinned. “A tour planned and directed by Neil.” Her voice was steely. “I didn’t know anything about him. But he was the same then as now. He despises the kind of books I—” a pause “—I used to write. Thinks they’re stupid and feminine and silly. Not serious. Not real. But he still went after me to be the traveling author because I was a better draw than a hard-boiled author.” Her mouth twisted. “I didn’t know that when I accepted, of course. But it didn’t take long for me to figure out what an unattractive man he was.”

It started out as only an annoyance, one that she had perhaps often faced, unwanted, persistent attention from a man. “Oh, I could see his appeal. But I wasn’t interested. I’d been married once to such a man. Once was enough.”

Neil Bledsoe wasn’t accustomed to rejection.

Wouldn’t accept it.

Didn’t accept it.

“I tried to handle it lightly, but, finally, I had enough. I told him he was about as appealing as one of those stupid and childish private-detective heroes. That no woman in her right mind would have anything to do with him.”

There were two weeks of the tour left.

“So he left me alone. I felt so relieved. I concentrated on the seminars, on the fans. Behind my back, he was focusing all his attention on Jaime. By the time I knew what was going on, it was too late. Jaime was crazy about him. He was the first man who’d ever noticed her, except as an object of ridicule. And here was a man, not a boy, telling her she was desirable … and making love to her.”

Annie looked away. She couldn’t bear to see Fleur’s face.

“So …”

A long and dreadful pause.

“I tried to tell her.” The tears fell unchecked now. “My baby. I tried to tell her. She was so angry, so hurt, she thought I was jealous. That’s what he told her.”

This was a girl with no experience, caught up in the first passionate relationship in a male-starved life.

“She flew home with him. Nineteen years old. I never saw her again … alive.”

“Harvey, I certainly appreciate your taking time to talk to me. But we don’t want to focus on anything in Nathan Hillman’s life that would cause him pain. That’s why I want to check with someone who has known him well and for a long time. You know how these charity dos are, well-intentioned but sometimes not well thought out.” Henny sounded like a lifelong member of the Junior League. “Once I was involved in a
This Is Your Life
program and no one had told the producer that the woman being honored had lost a baby in 1978 and he went on and on about what a wonderful year 1978 had been for her and, of course, she completely broke down. It was a fiasco. So, in strict confidence, if you could alert me to any danger areas in Hillman’s life—”

“He was such a gentle man. And always ready to help out a friend. Give you the shirt off his back.” Victoria Shaw’s neighbor was excited to be talking to a real live New York reporter (aka Max Darling to his intimates). “Seemed happy all the time. Until those publishers stopped buying his books. That’s when he stopped smiling. One day Bryan was fine, the next he looked like death. And old. Overnight, almost.” The voice dipped confidentially. “It was cancer. Came on him about six months after his last book didn’t sell.” Her voice had dropped so low that Max could scarcely hear her. “When people get real upset, sometimes that’s when they get cancer. And they say whether you ever get well depends a lot on how hard you fight.”

At least a half-dozen florists’ bouquets were scattered around Fleur Calloway’s suite. Annie admired the lovely flowers as she waited beside the door. Obviously, Fleur was an author still beloved of her fans even though she had no new books to offer. Annie had time to study the bouquets in detail, time enough to observe every nuance of this suite’s mural, a languid lagoon scene: the dark snout of an alligator
barely discernible in the murky water, a white ibis with bright red bill and legs, a beautifully plumed Louisiana heron—the bird Audubon called the Lady of the Waters—a diamond-back terrapin, and a sleek brown river otter. Time enough to wonder whether the author had changed her mind. Annie would understand. The offer had surprised her. Annie was reaching for the doorknob when Fleur came out of the bedroom, a faded, tattered cloth book in one hand, a framed portrait in the other. She held out the picture. Annie took it and looked into a smiling face. Such a young, unlined, yet-to-be-marked-by-time face, wide-set cheerful brown eyes, rosy cheeks, thick chestnut hair. Dead-and-gone Jaime Calloway smiled out of the frame. “It was made the week before we left for England.” Fleur’s voice was brittle.