The Christie Caper (29 page)

“Or someone wants us to think the circumstances are crazy.” He squeezed more lemon on his red snapper. “After all, mystery nuts aren’t really nuts.”

Annie didn’t comment. The memory of the treasure hunt was too fresh and her forebodings about the trivia quiz too intense.

“The discouraging thing is, I talked to everybody—” she paused. Actually it had hardly been a conversation with Derek Davis. “I saw all of those people today, the ones who have reason to hate Bledsoe, and, Max, they all hate him so much, it is frightening.” She put down her fork, pushed away her plate.

That’s when the maître d’ interrupted. “Mrs. Darling, I have a message for you.”

Annie felt a painful constriction in her chest. The last time she received a message…. She ripped open the envelope:

“Dear Hearts,”
she read aloud,
“do enjoy your evening, for I fear we must gird for intense effort. I’ve scheduled a meeting in your suite Thursday morning. Breakfast is already ordered. Ciao, Lady Gwendolyn.”

Annie looked at her husband in utter astonishment. “How the hell did she find us?”

Nathan Hillman politely stood aside for Fleur Calloway and the bookstore owner from Honolulu, Sherry Wilson, to climb the steps to the platform. Fleur Calloway paused midway
up the steps, hesitated for just a moment, then, chin up, walked on.

In the front row, Neil Bledsoe watched Fleur’s every move. His aunt, Kathryn Honeycutt, flashed him a sidelong glance, then gave a tiny sigh. She pushed her glasses higher on her nose and moved slightly in her seat, as if disassociating herself from Bledsoe.

Annie started toward him, but Max reached out and stopped her. “He’d love it, Annie.”

Max was right. If she tried to evict Bledsoe from the Christie Trivia Quiz, it would only give him another opportunity for public notice.

She realized, too late, that she should have found a replacement for Fleur. Bledsoe had no intention of easing his pressure on her. But Annie had to admire the author’s élan as she bent her head to listen attentively to the bookstore owner as if this were the loveliest of evenings and the most perfect of audiences.

Lady Gwendolyn hadn’t missed that byplay either. The old author’s shrewd eyes studied Bledsoe with undisguised contempt. As she settled into a seat next to Annie in the first row, just a few seats away from Bledsoe, she commented in her aristocratic, carrying voice, “Bad manners spring from a corrupt heart.”

Bledsoe continued to spread blight wherever he went. Margo Wright sat at the far end of the ballroom, her attention resolutely focused on the platform. But she knew Bledsoe was there. It was so apparent in the impassivity of her face, the tension in her slim shoulders.

Victoria Shaw was a few rows behind Bledsoe. She glared at the critic angrily. God, she hated that man.

And Nathan Hillman and Fleur Calloway, sitting on the platform, so carefully did not look at the front row.

Annie scanned the audience. She didn’t see Derek Davis. One plus for the evening. The publicist couldn’t possibly have sobered up yet. Talk about trouble waiting to happen….

Almost all the seats were taken now. Annie glanced back at the platform. Yes, the contestants were there for the amateurs. Oh Lordy, the sixty-five-year-old twins from Minneapolis,
Ursula and Selina Matheson! After her earlier encounter with them, Annie now regarded them with a healthy respect. The amateur trio was completed by Ivan Lungard, a librarian from Provo, Utah.

As the auditorium filled, Annie noticed absently that Bledsoe was waving inquirers away from the empty seat next to him. It was almost time to start when a young woman walked slowly up to him. Annie noted the peacock-blue silk noir slacks with a matching jewel-neck blouse, accented by a navy and red scarf over one shoulder and a dramatic silver shell belt.

“Seat taken,” Bledsoe grunted.

“Neil.” Even her voice was different, lower, a little breathy.

Realization struck Annie and Bledsoe at the same time.

Annie poked Max in the ribs. “Wow, look at Natalie!”

Bledsoe stared up at the transformed author. Her chestnut hair now clung to her head in chic sophistication. Artfully applied makeup emphasized her luminous dark eyes and high cheekbones.

She waited for his response, a shy, eager pride in her eyes.

His face hardened, his lips turned down in a furious scowl. “Who tarted you up? That little prick, Derek?”

Beside him, Kathryn Honeycutt gasped, then pressed a hand against her lips.

Natalie’s face flushed, then paled. Her eyes changed as Annie watched, the softness consumed by white-hot anger.

Annie was on her feet. She rushed to Natalie’s side. “You look lovely,” Annie said furiously. “Absolutely lovely,” but the author turned away. Head down, she strode toward the exit, eyes blinded by tears of rage.

Annie had had enough. “You’re the most despicable man I’ve ever met. Murder’s much too good for you.” She realized that those sitting nearby, which included the redhead Annie had disenfranchised from the treasure hunt, were listening avidly while feigning indifference. She was too mad to care. “I wish one of those serial murderers you’re so crazy about would trap you in an attic and chop you into little pieces while recording the screams. Try that on for size, big boy.”

She wouldn’t have stopped at that. She had a few more
choice bits in mind until she realized a discomfiting fact: Bledsoe was enjoying this scene. Getting a hell of a bang out of it, actually. His greedy eyes gleamed with satisfaction; his pouty lips curved in a half smile. Well, damned if she’d give him any more pleasure. Whirling on her heel, she called to Max, “Hold my seat for me!” then dashed up the aisle, moving against those arriving. But once outside the ballroom, she looked in vain for Natalie Marlow.

Promptly at eight o’clock, Henny stepped to the center microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the World’s Most Challenging Agatha Christie Trivia Quiz, the ultimate encounter between amateurs and professionals. Who knows the most about Agatha and her works? Tonight will determine the answer to that question.”

She introduced the Professionals (loud clapping) and the Amateurs (vigorous cheers, aided by shrill whistles from the Matheson sisters).

Henny explained the rules: the first contestant to punch his buzzer and provide the right answer would receive twenty-five points and a chance at a bonus question.

Annie tugged at Max’s sleeve. “Listen, if the jerk tries anything, we’ll give him the bum’s rush, right?”

“Right.”

Annie tried to relax. She was unwilling to meditate upon a mantra, Laurel’s solution to stress. And Max’s attempts to soothe were well meant but ineffectual. She was
mad.
And irritated with herself. She should have moved more quickly. Annie wished she’d been able to find Natalie Marlow. But, finally, she felt her face cool, and she was able to watch the proceedings with pleasure.

Ruling with an iron hand when disputes arose, Henny skillfully controlled the pace. Ingrid stood at the back of the stage, posting the scores on a blackboard. It was neck and neck between the Amateurs and the Pros until the amateurs bobbled a query on Ariadne Oliver. The Pros came through: Oliver had only one solo appearance without Poirot and that was in
The Pale Horse.

Fleur took the bonus question: What was the origin of that title?

“From the sixth chapter, eighth verse of the Revelation of Saint John the Divine: ‘And I saw, and behold, a pale horse, and its rider’s name was Death, and Hades followed him …’” Fleur continued,
“The Pale Horse
was a wonderful book. Christie considered it one of her best.” A tiny smile. “Her sixty-seventh book. She put us all to shame, didn’t she?”

In the audience, fans applauded.

Bledsoe made a thumbs-down gesture and hissed.

Boos rocked the room.

Henny lifted her voice, ignoring the interruptions. “Who does George Barton consult when he receives two poison pen letters about the death of his wife, Rosemary?”

The Matheson sisters, Ursula and Selina, still in their Sherlock capes, smacked their buzzers at the same time. They spoke in unison, too. “Colonel Race!”

Ingrid marked the scores. It now stood at Amateurs—250, Pros—275.

The sisters answered the bonus question correctly: Parker Pyne was the Detective of the Heart who advertised his aid to the unhappy in the personals column of the
Times.
But the Pros scored on the next question, identifying
Third Girl
as the Christie title which explored the druggy, unkempt culture of the sixties.

The quiz ended on a note of high excitement.

Amateurs—325, Pros—325.

“A toss-up,” Henny challenged. “Whoever answers the next question first and correctly will be declared winner and all-around Agatha Christie Trivia Champion!

“For fifty points: What wealthy, crochety old man makes a posthumous—”

The Matheson sisters’ buzzers shrilled.

“Jason Rafiel in
Nemesis!”
they chorused.

“Correct.” Henny waved three envelopes above her head. “And each of our knowledgeable fan participants will receive a very special gift—a free tour of five Low Country houses which are reputed to be haunted.”

“Haunted houses.” Bledsoe’s sardonic drawl carried over the scrape of chairs and buzz of conversation. “Not so goddammed much fun when you live in one.”

That, of course, caught the attention of those nearby. One
of the Matheson sisters hurried to the edge of the platform. “Is your house haunted? Tell us about it.”

“Sure is. Every Sunday night you can hear the scream. Real eerie.”

“Whose scream?” the other twin demanded excitedly.

Annie knew what was going to happen just an instant before he spoke. But it was too late. There was no way to stop Bledsoe.

Kathryn Honeycutt knew, too. She held up both hands, as if to block her nephew’s words.

“My second wife, Pamela. Fell down and broke her crown—actually, her neck—about ten o’clock one night. She was expecting company.” Bledsoe’s eyes flicked over the platform steps where Nathan Hillman stood. “Cops think maybe she was going to meet a lover and hurried too fast down the stone steps. And now, all that’s left of Pamela is this spooky scream on Sunday nights. Hell of a deal.”

People looked toward him, uncertain whether to commiserate or laugh. A tragic tale, if true. But surely, the tone in his voice—

Kathryn Honeycutt’s lips quivered. She didn’t look like Miss Marple now. Instead, Annie thought again of poor Dolly Bantry, distraught over the ugly rumors swirling around her dear Arthur, suspected of murdering the blonde in their library. “Neil, Neil—I wouldn’t have thought even you could be so heartless. I’ve just had enough. You’ve ruined my holiday. I’m going home in the morning.” Tears spilled down her pale cheeks. She turned and hurried away.

Bledsoe reached out, as if to stop her, then dropped his hand and shrugged. His dark eyes glittered.

Lady Gwendolyn swept toward him. People parted to make way for the small, plump, determined figure. Her hand swept up, the sapphire flashing on a pudgy finger as she tapped Bledsoe on the chest. The old author’s bell-like voice carried throughout the room. “Young man, the mills of the gods grind slow, but they grind exceedingly fine.”

“No wonder people are trying to kill that man!” Annie exclaimed. “I may lead the pack before long.” She dropped
into a wicker chair in their living room and stared without favor at the two blue-backed folders on the coffee table. “Lady Gwendolyn strikes again,” Annie muttered. She picked one up. “Honest to God, if it were just Bledsoe, I wouldn’t even try to find out who wants to kill him.” She opened the folder. A five-by-seven class photo of John Border Stone looked up at her. Annie bit her lip. Stone’s plump cheeks spread in a happy smile. But it wasn’t just Bledsoe. Not anymore.

“Time to get to work,” she said crisply, thumbing through the bio on Bledsoe.

Max nuzzled the back of her neck. “All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.”

Annie shook her head. “Max, we need to read these before—”

His hands slipped over her shoulders.

Annie held onto the folder for a moment more. Duty called.

But so did love.

The folder slipped to the floor.

Five
A.M.
was not an hour Annie enjoyed.

Max kept tugging at the sheet. “Annie, Lady Gwendolyn called. They’re all arriving in just half an hour.”

“Ughmmph.”

“Annie, we didn’t read the bios last night.”

She was too sleepy to point out the responsibility for that.

Another fifteen minutes, two cups of coffee, a glass of orange juice, a too-brief shower, and she was awake enough to glower at the door as the busboy arrived, a contingent of disgustingly bright-eyed investigators right behind him.

It was a hearty feast spread on the buffet. Annie studied one dish with especial care.

“Kedgeree,” Laurel said carelessly.

“What?”

“Kedgeree, of course.” Laurel with a Brit accent was nauseating before breakfast. “A mixture of smoked haddock, hard-boiled eggs, and rice. A glorious by-product of our colonial days.” Those dark blue eyes widened ingenuously.
“From India.” She scooped a heaping serving onto her plate. Annie hoped it resulted in deserved indigestion. “And these Singin’ Hinnies are especially delicious,” Laurel murmured.

Annie had to admit there was plenty for everyone to enjoy. She opted for the grilled tomatoes, French toast served with raspberries and cream, and a sausage turnover, and if anyone thought that a curious assortment, so be it. At five
A.M.,
both body and soul required substantial sustenance.

Lady Gwendolyn beamed at the heaping plates. Her own bore a barely balanced mound of golden brown crumpets, which almost made Annie rethink her choices. But she wasn’t tempted in the slightest by the old lady’s strong amber-colored breakfast tea.

Annie wondered if Lady Gwendolyn and Laurel considered themselves to be
pukka sahib
representatives at an outpost of the empire (pronounced
em-pah,
of course). Their khaki shirts and slacks would be perfectly appropriate on a safari in Rhodesia (now Zambia and Zimbabwe), but perhaps a bit much for a rather elegant hotel suite, notwithstanding the ceiling fans and shuttered doors.