The Christie Caper (26 page)

Annie knew she wrestled with long-unanswered, long-unanswerable laments, the if-onlys that always bedevil survivors. If only Fleur had turned down the trip … If only she had responded to Neil, absorbed his desire … If only she had been able to find Jaime in time …

“She looks very nice,” Annie said lamely as she returned the picture. But what could she say that would be better? Nothing that she offered could ease a mother’s grief.

Fleur wasn’t listening. The author smoothed the worn cover of the book. “I’ve never shared this with anyone. But I will now.” She handed it to Annie, then turned away, but not before Annie saw her eyes, eyes burning with unquenched, unquenchable hatred. Her head was bent, her back rigid, her words oddly muffled. “When you finish with it, you may leave it at the desk for me.”

Annie blinked back tears as she turned to go.

Just a tiny discrepancy. Derek Davis began college in 1982, received his bachelor’s degree in 1987. It wasn’t too unusual for students to take five years to complete an undergraduate course. Perhaps a change in majors. Perhaps a five-year program. Max checked his fact sheet. An English major. So, not a five-year program. It was a tiny blip in what looked to be an altogether unremarkable, to this point, chronology. Max marked down a question. From tiny blips, enormously interesting personal facts could emerge.

•   •   •

Laurel was firm. “Of course, I understand your reticence, Miss Edwards. But certain accusations were made about Ms. Wright’s conduct as an agent, and it would be a shame if she missed receiving the Outstanding Agent Award of the Year on the basis of incorrect information….”

Annie felt like the smile on her face was pasted there as she darted from one panel to another, making sure the panel ists gathered and got underway. She moved with a brisk efficiency Anna Ashwood Collins’s Abby Doyle might admire. The sooner she finished, the sooner she could get back to her search for the truth about Neil Bledsoe and her sub rosa search for a murderer.

When the last panels of the morning were successfully underway—The Orient Express and Other Journeys with Agatha; Society Laid Bare by Christie, from the 1920s to the 1960s; Dorothy L. Sayers and Lord Peter—she would feel free to steal away and read the last entries in Jaime’s diary.

“Doctors Berry, Aarons, and Wallis.”

Max was brisk. “Federal Aqua Shield Health and Independent Physicians’ Reporting Service here. Agent Terence Hopgood from Washington, D.C.” It would certainly make his life more difficult if those number-calling machines came into wide circulation. As of now, he could assert that his call was originating anywhere from Bangor, Maine, to Canberra, Australia.

“Yes, Mr. Hopgood?”

“Let me see here. Ah yes. I see from our records that Bryan Shaw was a patient of Dr. Wallis’s. We’re checking on the length of some of these hospital stays. A question of whether they were in excess of Medicare guidelines.” Max picked up his coffee cup, realized it was empty, and poked his secretary’s buzzer.

“Please hold for just a moment, Mr. Hopgood. I’ll connect you with our hospital administrator, Mrs. Beverly.”

•   •   •

With the wind fresh on her face, Annie walked until the hotel was long out of sight. She settled on a huge log, driftwood from far away, and pulled Jaime’s diary from her purse.

The late morning sun bathed her in warmth but couldn’t dispel the cold horror evoked by the brief entries:

That was the last entry. There was an envelope tucked in the back of the diary. The direction on it was written in an almost indecipherable scrawl:
Please give this to my mother.

Annie smoothed the crumpled envelope. She didn’t open it.

She couldn’t.

Dear God, if ever there was motive for murder …

A
nnie, maybe you shouldn’t try to talk to those people.” Henny’s expressive face was worried. “I’ll do it.”

Annie was startled. “Why ever not?”

Henny looked around, but they stood in a deserted area between Meeting Rooms A and B. Behind the closed doors came the hum of low conversation punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter. The eleven o’clock panels were still in session.

The greatest mystery reader on the island avoided her eyes. “The conference. You’ve got so much to see to. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to—”

“Henny.”

Her favorite customer reluctantly met her inquiring gaze. “It’s not safe. Listen,” she pulled Annie behind a pillar and said grimly, “you run a wonderful bookstore. You are intelligent, organized, determined—and just about as subtle as Brother Verber in
Malice in Maggody.”

Annie’s eyebrows rose.

“Don’t take it personally,” Henny said quickly. “I wasn’t worried when you agreed to talk to the suspects, to see if you could pick up on unsavory aspects of Bledsoe’s past. But that was before the murder. We were just talking a broken window and a smashed vase. This murder changes everything. Nobody with any brains is going to believe that you’re
really
trying to save Christie’s reputation. They’re going to think—especially the murderer—that you’re investigating, not just trying to derail Bledsoe’s attack on Agatha. And you may blunder along—”

“Blunder?” Annie interjected icily.

“—and scare the murderer and—”

“Henny, slow down. All I’m doing is talking to people—in broad daylight, in safe places. What worries me more is our own wonderful Circuit Solicitor Brice Willard Posey, God’s gift to the bar of South Carolina Did you know he—”

“I know, I know. As if that little old lady could possibly bash anyone’s head in. Although it amazes me someone hasn’t bashed
her
sometime in the last seventy years!” Henny tossed her head defiantly.

“Why, Henny!” Annie admonished.

The bookstore’s best customer did look embarrassed, her cheeks reddening. “Well, I swear, Annie, she just thinks she knows everything!”

Annie thought of Agatha, her gorgeous bookstore feline, and Agatha’s fury and heartbreak when a new kitten, Dorothy L., temporarily invaded Death on Demand. Oh, dear. Henny was jealous of Lady Gwendolyn’s pre-eminence as a mystery authority.

“But Posey’s having second thoughts, painful as that is for him,” Henny said dryly. “I mean, he
really
doesn’t like Lady Gwendolyn, but he can’t ignore Stone’s tennis shoes.”

Annie stared at her blankly.

The murdered man’s tennis shoes?

Annie’s obvious lack of comprehension vaulted Henny back into a good humor.

“A competent investigator always has contacts within the police infrastructure,” she said complacently.

“C’mon, Henny,” Annie said briefly. “Give.”

Henny’s voice dropped conspiratorially, though, of course, every syllable was perfectly enunciated. “In his room was a pair of tennis shoes, and the bottoms of those tennis shoes have bits of gravel and tar from the roof of the Palmetto House.” Henny’s dark eyes glittered with intelligence. She savored the moment of revelation. “What does that tell us?”

Annie did not go to the head of the class.

Henny was as confident as Lord Peter Wimsey building a case. “The vase that missed Bledsoe—just barely missea him—was pushed from the roof parapet. What are the odds, Annie, that Stone was on the roof at the wrong time for the
person who knocked that vase down? And what are the odds Stone tried a spot of blackmail?”

It was a familiar story to any mystery reader. The murder necessitated by an injudicious use of too much knowledge.
A Caribbean Mystery
popped immediately into Annie’s mind. What would the person who shoved the vase do if Stone threatened to go to the police?
“I saw you …”

When threatened, a killer reacted swiftly, with deadly finality.

Annie saw her own unease mirrored in Henny’s eyes.

Henny said slowly, with no histrionics, “Annie, I’ve got a feeling something bad’s going to happen.” She glared defiantly at Annie. Henny was a pragmatist, not given to indulging in feelings.

And neither was Annie. But darned if she didn’t have a tiny prickle down her spine. However, she had no intention of admitting it. After all, she wasn’t a beleaguered Caroline Llewellyn heroine. Of course, that accomplished author’s protagonists would always be well advised to think twice before plunging into peril.

The prospect of lurking danger seemed absurd in the hotel’s elegantly appointed dining room. The curtains were dramatically draped from shiny gilt poles, replicas of those from the Greek Revival period. The deeply beveled mauve gray walls afforded a wonderful setting for the salmon pink hangings.

The dining room was a fit setting, too, for Margo Wright’s dramatic beauty. Beneath the glitter of the crystal chandelier, her smooth black hair had the sheen of a midnight sea and her pale face the richness of creamy porcelain.

Annie chattered, and realized she was chattering, about some recent mysteries she’d enjoyed
(Adjusted to Death
by Jaqueline Girdner,
The Chartreuse Clue
by William Love, and
Good Night, Mr. Holmes
by Carole Nelson Douglas) and knew she must come to the point. Their lunch had been excellent, Dover sole, potatoes with truffles and goose liver, and, for dessert, a delectable gooseberry fool, with whipped cream so rich it glistened. As they drank coffee and talked desultorily, Annie still couldn’t decide how to begin.

Margo added sugar to her coffee. “It’s always interesting to know which books the booksellers are enjoying.”

“If only we had time to read more,” Annie said, echoing the plaint of all bookstore owners.

The agent stirred her coffee, took a sip, then eyed Annie keenly. “I’ve enjoyed our lunch, Mrs. Darling. Now, what can I do for you?” Her tone was amused.

So much for subtlety. But, if Margo Wright wanted up-front, up-front she would get. “I intend to do everything I can to prevent Neil Bledsoe from publishing that scurrilous biography of Agatha Christie.”

Margo’s flamingo bright lips curved into a curious half-smile. “I doubt very much, Mrs. Darling, that Agatha Christie needs any assistance from you.”

The waiter refilled their coffee cups.

Margo Wright lifted hers in a mock salute. “Good hunting.”

“Hunting?” Annie repeated.

“For the murderer. That’s your real objective, isn’t it?” She sipped at her coffee but her eyes never left Annie’s face.

One up to Henny.

Annie picked her words carefully. “Actually, I’m not hunting for that person. If I discover his—or her—identity, I’ll tell the police. I’m interested solely in Neil Bledsoe. Look,” she desperately hoped she didn’t sound like a snake oil salesman, “I want to know all the dirt about Neil Bledsoe so I can discredit him. Maybe Christie doesn’t need any help, but I can’t stand by and see her slandered without trying to stop it. Besides, Bledsoe’s a louse, and it’s time somebody thwarted him.”

“I would like that.” For the first time, passion resonated in Margo’s deep voice. “I would like that very much.” Carmine-tipped fingers drummed on the table. “A louse? Oh, yes, my dear, Neil is certainly a louse. But he’s managed, one way or another, to become a very powerful force in the mystery field. Longevity, maybe. He knocked from house to house in the early seventies, editing pulp novels. If you can call that editing. Then he came out with that slimy mercenary rag.” Her eyes narrowed. “I always wondered where he got the money to start it. Magazines don’t come cheap, you know. Not even ten years ago. Anyway, he started it and hit it big.
Lots of weirdos out there in the hinterland get their jollies reading about plastic explosives, survival tactics, and how to blow up a train. The next thing I knew, he was out on the street. Maybe he just fronted for somebody all that time. Anyway, he was back to working for a living, like the rest of us.”

“And he got a job at the agency where you worked,” Annie encouraged.

“How did you know that?” Margo inquired quietly.

Annie widened her eyes ingenuously. “Somebody in the bar.”

“Talking about me?” Her voice was even quieter.

“No. About Neil.”

“Who was it?”

Since the chatty creature didn’t exist, it wasn’t difficult for Annie to profess ignorance. A shrug. “No one I know. I just overheard—”