The Christie Caper (30 page)

Clearly, both meant business.

Lady Gwendolyn sat at the head of the table. Laurel slipped into the seat beside her, after placing blue manila folders at each place.

Lady Gwendolyn flipped open the cover of her folder and scanned a page covered with spidery handwriting, while quaffing her tea.

Laurel drew pale blue glasses from her pocket and perched them on her nose. If, Annie thought, it was an attempt to appear businesslike, it failed miserably. Max’s mother looked about as businesslike as the elfin Lady Lucy Angkatell surprising her guest Midge Hardcastle before breakfast in
The Hollow.

Annie dropped into her seat, next to Henny and across from Max. Henny, she was glad to see, was sturdily herself, wearing an elegant pale lemon warm-up and a yellow calico headband.

“Bledsoe,” Lady Gwendolyn said pensively, surveying them in turn. “What role does he play in our drama? Villain? Victim? Smoke screen? And, of course, let us not overlook the late John Border Stone, who masqueraded as James Bentley.
Why was Stone murdered? Did he see more than he admitted outside the bookstore Saturday night? Was he present on the roof when the vase crashed down? What information had Stone planned to give to Annie? Can we prove a connection between Stone and any of our suspects? Or is Stone’s death a separate issue from the melodramatic attacks on Bledsoe?” A plump hand reached up to reinsert a dangling hair pin. The coronet braids still looked quite tidy. But it was, of course, early hours.

Lady Gwendolyn smiled sweetly. “But we must not think we have divined the truth, or that we even have a clear idea of our quest. We must be certain to look beneath the surface.
Something
is in the process of happening; something as yet obscure. So what can we do?”

As far as Annie was concerned, not even a delicious breakfast made up for a variation on Twenty Questions at this ungodly hour of the morning. Her vocal cords weren’t even up to a growl, much less insightful suggestions.

But Lady Gwendolyn, with a cherubic nod, was quite happy to provide an answer. “We have one major recourse—we can analyze our suspects. Like hardy trackers across the Serengeti Plain, we can use our skill and knowledge to pick up the spoor of our quarry. And here”—she lifted a blue folder—“is the fruit of our investigations.” She nodded at Max. “Our first report, please.”

Annie didn’t pay too much attention to Max’s report. She already knew about Bledsoe’s sorry past. As she finished the delectable toast, she struggled for clarity. Okay, it was early Thursday morning—God yes, it was early morning, not even a finger of dawn perceptible—and the vase had come tumbling down Tuesday morning. Tuesday night, she and Lady Gwendolyn discovered the body of John Border Stone, alias James Bentley. Was it important that the vase fell on Tuesday morning and Stone was killed that same evening? Annie made a note on the fresh notepaper that had thoughtfully been tucked into the inner front-cover pocket of the folder.

Max finished reading the bio on Bledsoe. He thumbed through several sheets. “Here’s some information that came through late yesterday about Bledsoe’s funding for
Have Gun, Will Travel.
I traced it back to a sham company: Allied Everest. The company used the address of a building that
belonged to Burke Spence. Spence wrote six books that earned him more than five million dollars. His readership was predominantly male. His series detective, private investigator Mick Bolt, operated out of Port Arthur, Texas. He carried a Colt Special .38, played rugby for fun, and had a woman in every coastal town on the gulf. Every five pages offer a grunt-and-gouge fight or a give-it-to-’em-quick sex scene. Spence, like his protagonist, was a rugged athlete, played tackle on his college football team. However, unlike his detective, Spence’s sexual preference was for other brawny males. According to a publishing figure who insisted upon anonymity, Spence was involved with a series of male lovers. He made a mistake—he went after Bledsoe. The informant said he’d bet the farm that Bledsoe came on to Spence. Anyway, Bledsoe hired a private detective, got the facts on Burke’s liaisons, and threatened to go public. Spence paid Bledsoe a half million. Once the magazine was underway and successful, Bledsoe published an article about Spence entitled ‘Tough-Guy Writer Dishonors Craft.’ Spence blew his brains out two days after publication.”

“That’s dreadful,” Annie exclaimed.

“Diabolical,” Lady Gwendolyn pronounced.

Henny shrugged. “So what else is new. This guy’s lower than a snake.”

“Yes,” Annie said quietly, “yes, he is,” and she told them about Fleur Calloway and her daughter, Jaime.

“God,” Henny said. “That explains a lot in her bio.” She found the right page, cleared her throat, and read:

“Fleur Romney Calloway was born in 1935 in Bogaloosa, Louisiana, the youngest of five children. Four older brothers. Father owned the local bank, mother a nature artist. Grew up on a plantation, Romney Hall, overlooking a marsh. Expert horsewoman. Excelled at fishing, loved canoeing. Graduate Randolph Macon, master’s in English from University of Mississippi. Upon graduation, she married Jack Calloway, former fullback at the university, the assistant football coach. Divorced three years later, shortly after the birth of daughter, Jaime Noel, in 1960. Never remarried. Returned to Louisiana and lived upon another small family plantation, Strawberry Hill. First mystery,
Death, My Sister,
published in 1964, received the Edgar for Best First Mystery. Seven mysteries, all
well received (except for reviews by Bledsoe and a few other antiwomen critics), published between 1964 and 1978. None since then. During her productive years, she was active in book circles in her hometown, a fund-raiser for the local library, member of the parents’ groups in Jaime’s schools.”

Henny paused for a sip of—Annie was glad to note—coffee. “Here’s what the head librarian said, ‘Such a gracious woman, always so kind and friendly to everyone. I tell you it’s a shame how hard she’s grieved for her girl. Closed her doors and hardly came out again. Most people in this town don’t know her anymore, just heard about her, the beautiful, quiet lady who lives at Strawberry Hill. My grandson works summers at the cemetery, says she comes every evening at dusk and puts a fresh rose on her daughter’s grave and stays there a long time, then walks home again. I tell you, it’s a crying shame how kids don’t realize they’re loved till it’s too late. Nobody can believe Jaime would jump off a bridge—and what was she doin’ in New York, anyway? There’s stories—but there’s always stories.’”

Henny turned the page. “Jaime’s best friend remembered, ‘We had so much fun growing up at Strawberry Hill. Barefoot all summer. Picnics at the lake. One summer it seemed like all it did was rain and we were in the house a lot and Jaime’s mom told us lots of stories ’bout when she was growing up and how she and her brothers played so many jokes. One time she and her brother Alex smuggled a bull frog into Sunday school and it almost caused a riot. We laughed ’til we cried. That was the summer before Jaime died.’

“Her agent, Evan Parker: ‘Oh sure, I’ve tried. But Fleur just says she can’t write anymore. I don’t know whether it’s grief or guilt. I don’t know what it is. But I could sell a book by her tomorrow. Hell, today.’

“Fleur’s lifelong friend, Consuelo Magrane: ‘Fleur—she was always so full of love, but it’s almost as if she’s been frozen, ever since Jaime died.’”

Henny pushed her wire glasses up on her nose. “There should,” she said crisply, “be a special place in hell for Neil Bledsoe.”

“Emma Clyde’s opinion precisely,” Annie interjected.

“Ah, yes, Emma Clyde.” Lady Gwendolyn shot a quick
glance at Annie. “I found it quite interesting that Emma Clyde has a biographical sheet already extant, from a prior investigation.” She found the proper page and began to sketch her fellow writer’s career. “Author seventy-six mysteries—”

Annie interrupted to keep the record straight. “Seventy-nine. The eightieth,
Sing a Song of Sorrow,
is due out in October.”

“Hmm. Emma has won two Edgars and a Grand Master Award.” Lady Gwendolyn nodded. “I enjoyed winning my Edgar. One.” Was there a tart ring to her voice? “I haven’t been named Grand Master.” Her tone indicated it was only a matter of time.

As she continued, Annie nodded. She knew all about the island’s celebrity author, creator of Marigold Rembrandt and rich beyond the dreams of most mystery writers. Her seventy-ninth book,
The Grinning Skull,
had been published only six months before. A competent, intense, domineering woman. Army nurse, World War II. Married briefly to a Tennessean she met on a troop ship coming home from North Africa. A second brief marriage not too long ago ended with her husband’s death (some believed murder) when he mysteriously fell from the stern of
Marigold’s Pleasure
and drowned. Emma hadn’t been pleased when she discovered he was cheating on her. A tough lady.

Emma was quite capable of any amount of devious planning, but surely Emma wouldn’t commit murder because of a friend’s mistreatment? And no author would commit murder over bad reviews.

Would they?

After some of the bitter comments she’d overheard during the conference, Annie wasn’t absolutely certain of that conclusion.

“Such
a wonderful writer.” Laurel fingered a khaki button on her shirt. “Contradictions, aren’t we all such a mass of contradictions! Surely a disquieting aura of suspicion clings to our dear Emma. And Henny’s view of Bledsoe is
so
understandable, but let me tell you of my research.” She turned several pages. “Let’s begin with Derek.

“Derek Davis was born in 1964, in Springfield, Illinois. Father, Donald Davis, an accountant; mother, Pamela Gerrard
Davis, a novelist. Parents divorced in 1981. Pamela met Bledsoe at her agent’s office the following year and married him only weeks later.” Laurel lifted an angelic head. “Marry in haste; repent at leisure.”

“There is surely much truth in old sayings,” Lady Gwendolyn agreed.

Annie stifled a catcall. Wasn’t it Laurel’s third marriage, to that Italian race car driver, Roderigo, that took place two weeks after she met him?

Laurel smiled beatifically and resumed her report. “Second marriage difficult for Derek. Bledsoe treated his stepson with open contempt, claiming that young Derek was girlish with his love of poetry and painting. Derek’s high-school grades were spotty. He excelled in English and art, barely passed math and science. He attended a noncompetitive Midwestern college. He was in his last year when his mother died in a fall. Three weeks later, he dropped out of school. Fraternity brother Bill Elliott: ‘Derek went bananas when his mom died. He always drank too much, but so do a lot of guys in college. But he stopped going to class, stayed drunk. The dean of men, though, is a good guy. He understood, got Derek out on withdraw/passing for the fall semester. Derek kept saying his stepfather killed his mom. I don’t know, maybe so. I went home with Derek a couple of times and that guy was a real asshole. Bullied Derek’s mom. She got drunk every night Maybe she did fall down the steps. Who knows?’”

Annie knew how hard it was to lose a mother. How much worse would it be if you blamed someone else for that death? And perhaps blamed yourself because you weren’t there to prevent it.

“Poor Derek,” Annie said quietly.

Laurel flashed her a warm and understanding glance, and Annie remembered once again why she loved her mother-in-law, despite her dingbat proclivities.

“Such an unhappy story,” Laurel commiserated. “Derek showed up intoxicated at his mother’s funeral. He tried to attack Bledsoe. Some of the funeral home employees hustled him outside. After that, the boy dropped out of sight. His mother’s editor, Nathan Hillman, found him four months later living on the streets of Chicago. In a holographic will
dated a week before her death, Pamela Gerrard Davis left her entire estate to Bledsoe with directions that he provide for Derek. As far as we can determine, Bledsoe never made a penny available to his stepson. Apparently Bledsoe used some of Pamela’s money to fund his latest venture,
Mean Streets,
but he lost most of it gambling.

“However,” Laurel continued more cheerfully, “Hillman paid Derek’s tuition the next fall. Derek graduated in the spring and moved to New York. He attended the New York University Publishing Short Course, then started to work for Hillman House.” Laurel looked over her glasses and reminded her listeners. “They had published his mother’s books. Derek’s done very well, recently receiving a promotion and a raise. The last few months, he’s been very attentive to a rising young star at Hillman House, Natalie Marlow.” Laurel sighed. “Until this week and his encounters with Bledsoe, Derek had had no further drinking problems.”

Laurel took off her glasses, dropped them in an outsize khaki pocket “Now, to be the devil’s advocate. I helped Max tie up some loose ends on his report on Bledsoe. So I tracked down an old friend of Bledsoe’s—Taylor Graham.”

Annie sat up straight at that name. “Graham’s wonderful! The best private eye writer since Chandler. He’s done for El Paso what Loren D. Estleman did for Detroit and Les Roberts for Cleveland and Carl Hiaasen for Miami and Sara Paretsky for Chicago and George V. Higgins for Boston. He’s just superb.” She smiled with remembered pleasure. “And such a sweetheart He did a signing at Death on Demand, and everyone fell in love with him.” Her smile faded. “He’s a friend of Bledsoe’s?” Disbelief tinged the disappointment in her voice.

Laurel looked ever so slightly reproving. “We must give everyone a fair appraisal. Not even Neil Bledsoe is
all
bad.”

“So Hitler loved children and dogs. Aryan children, of course. So what?” Annie muttered.

A swift glance from the vivid blue eyes at the head of the table quelled her. But she was glad to see a brief thumbs-up gesture from Henny.

“Bledsoe was Graham’s agent at one point. Graham said, ‘Neil’s a funny guy. Go to hell and back for a friend. A bad enemy. A guy has to measure up, you know. No leeway. But
he’s a hell of a lot of fun at poker. Takes you to the cleaners, of course. Goddam brave. Rode some rapids with him once that turn most people white-haired. He just laughed. Always felt sorry for him. First wife screwed around on him. Second wife a lush. He had a German shepherd that was his best buddy. He loved that goddammed dog. Used to see them jogging in Central Park. Neil jogged winter, summer. Never gave in to cold or heat. Always took Willie with him. Anyway, damn hot day. High nineties. High humidity. Willie dropped dead of a heat stroke. Neil picked him up, carried him off. Cried all the way. I never saw him at the park again.’”