The Christie Caper (34 page)

“I’ll be damned. So that’s the chump who got bumped off. Oh, hell yes, I remember him. What a bore. Pestered me for months about his damn manuscript, thought I could get him an editor.”

True to her firm instructions from Lady Gwendolyn, Annie tried to analyze Bledsoe’s initial reaction. Irritation at being accosted? Yes. And disinterest. Until the realization that this was the murdered guest.

Margo Wright patted her perspiration-streaked face with the thick terry-cloth towel. The waters in the Jacuzzi swirled and foamed around her slender body. “Sure. I remember that creep. So what? I didn’t bash his head in.”

No trace of concern on Margo’s part. Only a sharp spasm of irritation at being questioned.

Derek Davis opened the door to his room, saw Annie, and slammed it shut. But it was hard for Annie to dismiss the haunted look in his red-rimmed eyes. Just what was Derek trying to forget?

Emma Clyde leaned back in the rattan chair on the terrace. The wind rustled the fronds of the palmetto behind her. She took her time studying the pictures. “Never seen him before in my life.” She handed the photos to Annie. “You keep on looking for trouble—someday you’re going to find it.”

Annie looked into the author’s pale blue, cool eyes. “Emma, are you threatening me?”

“No. Just warning you, honey. For old time’s sake.”

“A student at the short course,” Nathan Hillman said immediately. “But I had no more contact with him than with any other student.”

The waiter skirted Annie to offer Hillman and Natalie Marlow more coffee.

Annie didn’t feel especially welcome. Hillman’s pleasant face was set in rigid lines, and the young author was clearly disinterested.

Annie held out the photographs to Natalie.

The writer didn’t take them. She shook her head. “The guy who was killed? I didn’t know him.”

Kathryn Honeycutt stopped outside Meeting Room C. She bent her fluffy white head and listened politely.

“Oh, that young man who was killed.” She took the pictures, held them close to her eyes, squinted. Then she shook her head dolefully. “I’m so sorry, my dear. I just can’t see well enough anymore. But I don’t
think
I ever met him.”

It was late afternoon when Annie found Fleur Calloway. The writer was coming in the main entrance of the hotel, a sun hat in her hand. Her face was flushed with exertion. She stopped by the bank of telephones and listened patiently to Annie’s question, then studied Stone’s photographs.

“Oh, yes. Yes, I signed a book for him Tuesday afternoon.” She shivered. “It seems cold in here after the heat outside. I took a long walk in the forest preserve.” She gave the pictures back to Annie. “It’s so dreadful, isn’t it? Hatred and anger, twisting the world, destroying lives. Why does it have to be this way?”

•   •   •

Lady Gwendolyn was the primary speaker at that evening’s after-dinner session. As the conference-goers wandered in:

“I always loved Poirot’s description of Ariadne Oliver, ‘an original if untidy mind.’”

“Honestly, this guy poisoned six people with thallium and would have got away with it if a forensic specialist hadn’t read
The Pale Horse
and recognized the symptoms!”

“Joan Hickson is simply the best Miss Marple in the world.”

“I like the symmetry of it,
The Mysterious Affair at Styles
and
Curtain.”

“She wrote the short story, ‘Three Blind Mice,’ before she wrote
The Mousetrap.
God,
Mousetrap’s still
running in London!”

Annie spotted Victoria Shaw.

The author’s widow introduced Annie to several women, “fans of Bryan’s.” She looked happier than Annie had ever seen her. But when she took the photographs from Annie, her smile fled.

“Oh, that poor young man. I still can’t believe something like that happened here, so close to all of us!” Victoria shook her head. “No, I’ve never seen him … so far as I know.”

Laurel clapped her hands. “I’ve ordered champagne. Such a
superb
speech, Lady Gwendolyn.”

Henny ignored Laurel. She had managed a moderately graceful compliment to Lady Gwendolyn on their way upstairs in the elevator. She took her place at the table. “So far, so good today. I mean, no more bodies. But honestly, I can’t say I think we made any progress.”

Annie handed Max a couple of bowls of nuts to place on the table in the living room, then hurried to take her place. She wondered if the honeymoon suite had ever before served as consultation headquarters in a murder investigation. Not that the amenities of the suite were being—at appropriate times—completely ignored.

Lady Gwendolyn plumped into her chair. She didn’t respond directly to Henny’s challenge. “Today our ostensible
mission was to remind suspects that the investigation is continuing, to imply that an arrest is imminent, and to explore the links between Stone and those attending this conference.”

The champagne arrived and Max presented a foaming glass to each.

Lady Gwendolyn lifted her glass. “I commend each and every one of you. Our duties were discharged with élan.” She tipped her glass and all followed suit

Annie sputtered. Champagne always made her nose tickle.

Undeterred by the bubbles, the famed author drained her glass. “You will note that I referred to our ‘ostensible’ mission. Henny was quick to question the effectiveness. Now, the question arises, what is our
real
mission?” Those bright blue eyes moved from face to face. “We must fight with the weapons at hand from a perilously ill-equipped arsenal. Since the fat fool has focused on me and on a spurious cocaine ring, I am certain our murderer is positively elated. So, we have attempted subtle intimidation and harassment. Were we successful?” The coronet braids wobbled as she shrugged and held her glass out to Max for a refill. “Actually, that success or failure is irrelevant. Our real mission today was to prevent another murder. In that, we have succeeded gloriously. We engaged the attention of all the suspects throughout the day. Tonight we may rest easy. Bledsoe will be under the direct scrutiny and, therefore, the protection of the constabulary. Tomorrow is the last full day of conference. Once again we must serve as guardian angels—and this will be the critical period. If we fail, someone will unquestionably die.”

Annie shuddered at the grimness of her tone.

S
he was a hapless egg in a blender, being whipped around and around. She burrowed deeper into the pillow, but the shaking continued. She had been enjoying a lovely dream, a stroll through a Godiva factory. The smell of chocolate permeated the air, thicker than attar of roses. She wanted to go back to that wonderful aroma. She didn’t
like
being an egg. Who could possibly like being an egg? Beaten. Discriminated against. Certainly not treasured for scent. The dream segued into a Fourth of July sequence, exploding fireworks and the acrid smell of smoke—

“Annie, Annie, wake up!” She was being pulled roughly out of bed.

The
pop-pop-pop!
of fireworks continued.

As Max swept her off her feet and into his arms, she came thrashing to wakefulness. Her nose wrinkled at the sulfurous odor.

“Fire,” he said grimly. As he spoke, another flurry of pops sounded, then were overborne by the piercing shrill of a fire alarm. Max kept a tight grip on her elbow and hustled her toward the bathroom. Inside, he yanked down towels with one hand, held to her with the other.

Annie wriggled free. “I’m awake.” She pushed the light switch. No light.

“Great,” she muttered. A sopping towel was thrust into her arms.

“Hold on to my shorts,” Max ordered. “Stay down. We’ll try the door.”

It was blindman’s bluff with a vengeance and darker than
the shades of hell (one of Annie’s favorite mental images—she could just see gray forms writhing in a stygian dark). Max swore when he bumped into the wrought-iron railing that separated the foyer from the living area.

“The door isn’t hot,” he announced. “That’s a good sign.”

But when he edged it open, a stinging cloud of smoke wafted in. He slammed the door shut.

“We’d better try the balcony.”

By the time they reached the balcony, the scent of smoke seemed lighter. Cries for help echoed in the night. “Stay right here.” Max shouted to be heard over the cacophony of sounds, sirens, cries, calls for help, and the continuing sputter of firecrackers. “I want to see if Laurel’s okay,” and he turned right.

She still clung to his shorts, “I’ll come, too,” she yelled.

“Annie, Max, my dears—” The voice sounded almost beside them, husky, disembodied. A beam of light from a small flash shone from the adjoining balcony. It settled briefly on Annie, who was wearing a very see-through shorty nightgown, leapt discreetly to Max. “Such excitement. Why, it reminds me of the fireworks at Cannes. I met such a darling young man there—Georges—the fireworks blazing in the night sky in accompaniment to—” a pause—“oh, look, here are the lights.”

They came on in abundance.

Annie had a confused picture of the scene.

In the courtyard below, hotel guests stopped in midflight to look up fearfully.

Guests in assorted kinds of sleepwear, clutching wet towels, crowded to the edge of their balconies on the upper floors.

The night manager, the only person fully dressed, clashed into the courtyard, shouting, “False alarm! False alarm! No fire! Remain in your rooms!”

“There’s smoke in the hall!” screeched a woman from a balcony near theirs.

The manager, panting, yelled, “Vandals. Vandals. Smoke bombs. No danger. Stay in your rooms!”

Another siren pierced the air.

The manager lifted his hands. “The police are coming.”

“A doctor! Help! A doctor,” a deep voice called out raggedly.

Annie turned and reached out to clutch Max’s arm.

Three balconies away, Neil Bledsoe wavered unsteadily, visible in the wash of lights from the courtyard. Blood streaked the thick mat of black hair on his heaving chest and the limp form he cradled in his arms.

Annie paced angrily up and down the living room. “Who do they think they are”—her hand waved toward the hall door—“the cops in
Fletch?”

“Now, Annie.” Max yawned. “Crime scene,” he observed wearily, stretching his long legs out before him. “How can they investigate if frantic hotel guests are swarming around like lemmings?” He patted the couch beside him. “Come on, honey. Relax. Saulter’ll let us out as soon as they finish. Besides, what do you want out for?” he asked practically. He pointed at the shell clock over the wet bar. “It’s only a quarter to four.”

She plopped onto the couch and stared morosely at the door. “Oh, Max, it’s so dreadful. Poor Kathryn Honeycutt. She was so proud of looking like Miss Marple.” Tears stung her eyes. “Oh, God, if only she’d really
been
like Miss Marple, able to see and understand evil around her. And we tried, we all tried, didn’t we? But we lost. We should have known it wasn’t enough, just to have Billy Cameron guarding Bledsoe’s door. And, dammit,” the tears streaked her cheeks, “even if someone went after Bledsoe, why did they have to shoot
her?
Oh, Max.”

He pulled her close to him, and she buried her head in his shoulder.

Max poured the freshly brewed coffee into a thermos and glanced at the honey-blond head bent over a notebook. Dear Annie. She always tried so hard. And she was determined, somehow, someway, to find Kathryn Honeycutt’s killer. He poured out two cups of coffee, set one beside her. Without looking up, she nodded her thanks. Max took his
cup and returned to the divan. The coffee gave him energy. He picked up his pen and began to write: