The Christie Caper (37 page)

Lady Gwendolyn stood, hands apart on her balcony railing, surveying the scene below.

Trust the canny old author to find a superior vantage point.

“Lady Gwendolyn.” Posey almost sounded like he was purring.

Startled, Annie glanced at the circuit solicitor and was immediately unnerved by his expression, a combination of satisfaction, stubbornness, and perverse anticipation.

“Enough nonsense. I can’t be fooled.” Posey turned, still with that air of immense self-satisfaction. “A concerted effort
has been made by some to encourage authorities to concentrate their attention upon individuals
presumed
to have reason to kill Bledsoe.”

“Oh, the drug runners?” Annie asked innocently.

Posey gave her the kind of look Fletch reserved for cats and ex-wives. “In a multipronged investigation, it is quite obvious that various theories will be considered and discarded before the ultimate focus is made.” In other words, the circuit solicitor’s hopes of aping the success of the Hilton Head police by uncovering a huge cocaine operation had been dashed by a murder committed with a .22 pistol and the aid of fireworks and smoke bombs. It was embarrassingly obvious, even to Posey, that Kathryn Honeycutt’s murder, whatever its origins, certainly didn’t involve ordinary, run-of-the-mill street criminals. Annie could imagine the incredulous response of a drug runner handed a .22 and a handful of firecrackers. Anyone who regularly read about the exploits of hoods such as Banana Bob and Ferocious Frankie knew the artillery was heavier and the action—grunt, slash, slam, and boom—straightforward.

However, since the suggestion of drug-related violence had been headlined in the
Island Gazette
after Stone’s body was found, Posey couldn’t disavow his initial statement.

Henny, who often displayed the compassionate instincts of a shark, now positioned herself for the kill. “Autopsies are such an aid to investigators, aren’t they? Cocaine in Stone’s bloodstream, Valium in Honeycutt’s. Do you think a gang that handles both street and prescription drugs is involved?” Her smile rivaled that of a sand tiger shark when sighting its next meal.

Annie turned toward Henny in surprise. “The autopsy’s already been done on Kathryn?”

“Underway.” Henny tried not to sound overly pleased with herself. “The blood tests have been completed. Other work’s continuing.”

Annie had to hand it to Henny. Talk about contacts. Probably the tip had come from Vince Ellis at the
Gazette,
and Vince must have a real pipeline into the medical examiner’s office.

Saulter tried to deflect an outburst from Posey. “If you’ve
heard some of the autopsy results, Mrs. Brawley, you’ll know Mrs. Honeycutt had ingested approximately five milligrams of Valium, which is well within the ordinary dosage prescribed by physicians. And as you may recall, Mrs. Honeycutt was considerably upset at the close of the Christie Trivia Quiz last night. She may reasonably have taken the Valium for a better night’s sleep.”

The pleasure in baiting Posey abruptly fled. Annie all too clearly remembered Kathryn’s distress the previous night and the woman’s announcement that she would leave the island this morning. Had she packed her bags, readied herself for bed, and taken the tranquilizer to ease into sleep, thinking tomorrow would be better, that tomorrow she would be rid of Neil Bledsoe and the island?

Posey ignored Saulter’s efforts at peacemaking. He paced right up to the wall next to Henny. “Already know some stuff out of the autopsy, huh? Think you’re pretty smart. Well, we’ll see just how smart all of you people are.” Posey’s face rivaled a stormy sunset, interesting splotches of red vying with purple. Imperiously, he snapped at the unhappy Saulter, “Round them all up. Meeting Room C.”

Annie couldn’t help it. Like almost everyone in the meeting room—except Lady Gwendolyn, who sat perched on a front row chair, apparently in a state of suspended animation. “Thinking,” Laurel explained admiringly—Annie kept glancing covertly at Neil Bledsoe.

Bledsoe was well aware of the glances. His angry eyes challenged his foes. The critic’s usually ruddy complexion was ashen; he looked fatigued and crumpled. Unshaven, his jowls were almost obscured by bristles. The white suit jacket around his shoulders bunched over the bulky bandage beneath a polo shirt; his once crisp white trousers bore dark splotches and smears. His blood? Kathryn’s blood? Annie looked away, looked back. Whatever he had suffered, Bledsoe had lost none of his combativeness. As each person entered, he raked them with a harsh, questioning gaze, as if demanding, Are you the one? Did you try to murder me? Did you kill Kathryn?

Annie leaned over to Max. “Posey shouldn’t do this, he shouldn’t put all of them in one room together.”

“It’s deliberate,” Max said quietly. “Deliberate—and vicious.”

Startled, Annie looked toward the front of the room.

Posey waited behind the lectern, watching avidly as each of the suspects entered, his watery blue eyes darting from each face to Bledsoe and back again. Occasionally, he reached out, made a notation upon the legal pad on the lectern. Frank Saulter stood on the platform, too, but, hands clasped behind his back, the police chief stared down at the floor, repugnance evident in every rigid line of his body.

In they came, one by one.

Nathan Hillman’s squarish face bore no traces of geniality. The editor met Bledsoe’s gaze with a somber look of distaste.

Her scarlet caftan almost matching the high color in her cheeks, Emma Clyde stumped in, ignored Bledsoe, and marched directly to the front of the room. “Posey, I don’t like a deputy sheriff arriving at my house and ordering me to accompany him. I want you to know that under no circumstances would I be here unless served with a warrant except for Fleur Calloway. I intend to make very certain that you treat Mrs. Calloway with respect. Do I make myself clear?”

Emma was one of the island’s many millionaires. She was also a rabid Democrat with a multitude of personal contacts in the legislature.

Posey forced a conciliatory smile. “Mrs. Clyde, please, do take a comfortable seat. Certainly there is a misunderstanding. You are under no compulsion to be here. I merely thought you would want to be present in the interests of your friend, Mrs. Calloway.”

Emma wasn’t charmed. “Mrs. Calloway will answer no questions without the presence of an attorney.” Turning, she stalked back to the last row and plopped down. Her green spiked hair quivered.

Victoria Shaw edged open the door, saw the others assembled, and scuttled inside. The widow sank timidly into another back seat. But the faded eyes that fastened on Bledsoe were stern with hatred.

Natalie Marlow stopped in the doorway. The young writer was once again dressed in faded dungarees and a mended khaki man’s shirt, but Annie was pleased to see that her hair was smoothly brushed and her new makeup in place. She gave Bledsoe one scathing glance, then moved—and Annie almost smiled—with her shoulders up and her head high to sit next to Hillman, who reached over to squeeze her hand.

Both the editor and Emma Clyde stood when Fleur Calloway entered. Fleur was so remarkably lovely that even in these unpleasant circumstances there was, just for an instant, a sense of lightness and peace. The author’s finely modeled face was grave, her lovely eyes weary and touched with sadness. She smiled at Nathan but slipped quietly up the last row to join Emma.

Not once did Fleur give any indication that she was aware of Bledsoe’s presence.

Not by a turn of her head.

Not by a flicker of an eyelash.

Bledsoe’s face turned an ugly muddy color. The anger in his eyes was frightening.

Posey marked vigorously on the legal pad.

Margo Wright stood in the doorway. The agent was a regal figure, her midnight black hair smooth, her handsome face impassive, her bright red, full lips firmly set. She shot an openly contemptuous glance at Bledsoe.

“Don’t have too much fun, Neil.” There was no mistaking the taunting edge in her voice. “It might come back to haunt you.”

Posey pounced as she took a seat on the row in front of Annie. “Are you
threatening
Mr. Bledsoe, Ms. Wright?”

She regarded the circuit solicitor steadily. “Am I? Oh, certainly not,” she replied sardonically. “I always have Neil’s best interests at heart. Just as he does for all of us.”

Posey placed his hands on the sides of the lectern and leaned forward. “It has appeared that someone, Ms. Wright, most certainly does not have Mr. Bledsoe’s best interests at heart.”

The agent ignored him. Opening her purse, she pulled out a compact and began to freshen her vivid makeup.

Posey flushed. He glanced at his legal pad, tapped his
pen against a list. “Frank, I want everyone here. Where’s Davis?”

The chief conferred briefly with a deputy at the door, then rejoined Posey on the platform.

The circuit solicitor surveyed his hostile audience with satisfaction. “I’ve called all of you here—”

“Rather unorthodox, isn’t it, Mr. Posey?” Henny’s player’s voice carried beautifully. “Aren’t you afraid that counsel ultimately may claim that you’ve prejudiced the defendant’s case, subjecting him or her to questioning without benefit of either the Miranda warning
or
any opportunity to seek legal representation?”

Annie promptly forgave Henny any and all annoying attributes. “Way to go,” she hissed enthusiastically. Carolyn wheat’s rough-and-tumble lawyer Cass Jameson couldn’t have said it any better.

Posey’s grip tightened on the lectern, but he kept his voice in check. “It may interest you to know, Mrs. Brawley,” he said with heavy sarcasm, “that no Miranda warning is required when the investigator questions individuals in an attempt to gain information and not with the objective of filing charges.”

Saulter stared at the tips of his boots.

“In fact, we have here an extremely unusual situation.” Posey’s voice took on the mellifluous, liquid, pompous tone of an orator enamored with the sound of his own voice. “We have an instance where murder is attempted, not once, not twice, but three times, and we
believe
we know the intended victim. Death strikes, yes, indeed, but each time the killer is thwarted, his true quarry escaping. What does this make possible?” His voice boomed with evangelical fervor. His pleasure in his own performance was not diminished in the least by the lack of response from his captive audience. Annie had seen alligators somnolent in the sun that displayed more interest than Posey’s listeners. “This makes it possible for an intelligent investigator to learn from the mouth of the victim who wishes him ill—and why.”

He had their attention now, all right.

One by one, every face turned toward Bledsoe. Even Fleur’s.

Slowly, Bledsoe stood. One hand, white to the knuckles, gripped the back of the chair in front of him.

“Fucking murderer.” His voice rasped like metal against stone. “One of you is a fucking murderer—you killed Kathryn.” A spasm of pain twisted his truculent face. He stopped, head down for a long moment, then looked up, his eyes again moving accusingly from person to person. “Tried to kill me. When I know who it is—” The threat hung in the air, glinted in his malevolent eyes.

“Mr. Bledsoe,” Posey intervened pompously, “the law will see that justice is done.”

Bledsoe’s spiteful eyes touched briefly on Posey. “When I know—”

Posey’s hand swept the room. “Here they are, Mr. Bledsoe, each and every one of our suspects. Who hates you, and why?”

Bledsoe used both hands now to brace himself against the chair in front of him. He was breathing heavily. As his chest rose, his shirt pulled taut against the bulky bandage. Annie marveled at the man’s enormous control. Obviously, he should be in the hospital. Obviously, he would never give in to pain. She felt a grudging admiration, even though he was a man who more truly than most was reaping what he had sown.

“Could it be you, Nathan?” Bledsoe jeered. “I don’t think so. No guts. You never had any guts. Crazy about Pamela, but too gutless to do anything about it. I can tell you one thing, you didn’t miss much. She had about as much spirit as a wet rag. That’s what going to bed with her was like—”

“Stop it, goddam you!”

Hillman was on his feet. His face stripped of every defense, pain and anguish and heartbreak plain to see, Hillman turned maddened eyes to Posey. “You’ve got to stop this. I don’t have to listen to—”

“Sit down, Mr. Hillman,” Posey ordered, “unless you want to go to jail for obstructing an investigation.”

“Go to hell,” the editor said shakily. “I’d rather go to jail,” and he started up the aisle toward the exit.

The deputy at the door glanced questioningly at Posey, who slowly shook his head.

“Maybe a few guts.” There was almost a tone of admiration in Bledsoe’s voice. “Maybe we can’t scratch Nate boy yet.”

“We can scratch this entire unsavory and disgusting episode!” Emma rose swiftly, with surprising agility for a woman of her bulk. “Come on, Fleur. We’re leaving.”

Fleur stood, too, and the two writers started toward the aisle.

“Now you two just wait—”

Emma swung on him venomously. “Be careful, Posey. Be very, very careful.”

As the two women continued up the aisle toward the exit, Bledsoe’s goading voice followed implacably. “Emma’s got spirit, all right. Emma’s a dark horse. Made her mad when I said Marigold Rembrandt was just a tired retread of Miss Marple. As for Fleur, she didn’t like it when I screwed her daughter.” His hateful voice boomed off the walls. Annie shuddered. Never had she been in a room that contained so much emotion, so much evil. “Her great big horse of a daughter. But Jaime liked the hell out of it.”

The door closed on his poisonous insinuations. Emma and Fleur were gone. Bledsoe’s mouth thinned, and hard white patches at the corners told of pain. Then, abruptly, the door burst open and a deputy shoved Derek inside. “Found him in the bar, sir. Tried to resist. Arrested him for drunk and disorderly conduct.”

Derek swayed unsteadily.

Natalie jumped up. “Derek, are you all right?”

Derek obviously was far from all right. His eyes were glassy, his face was slack.