The Christie Caper (9 page)

“Certainly,” Laurel murmured, but before turning away, she shook her head commiseratingly. “Dear Annie, I have this sense”—a dramatic placement of hand over heart—“of gloom. And doom.” The husky voice dropped yet another register. “‘While from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down!’” The exclamation point was Laurel’s.

“Nobody died,” Annie replied crisply. She was proud of her cool, restrained answer because, within, she was seething. Somebody was going to pay for this—and she didn’t mean just the broken window. Nobody was going to shoot at her bookstore and get away with it.

Henny looked up from her study of the shattered window. “Somebody sure as hell could have died.”

Laurel was on her way to the coffee bar when she saw Edgar beak-down in the glass shards that littered the floor. “Oh, oh, oh.” Before Annie could intervene, Laurel darted
past her and scooped up the stuffed raven. “Edgar!” she wailed, holding the bird aloft.

Annie blinked. Oh, good grief! One of the bullets had lodged squarely in the center of Edgar’s feathered head. Annie was irresistibly reminded of Louisa Revell’s
The Men with Three Eyes.
Laughter bubbled up inside her, but the anguish in her mother-in-law’s plaintive cry was genuine, so she stifled a giggle and said hurriedly, “Laurel, after all, it’s just a namesake. I mean, don’t take it to heart. Besides, this will be good for the chief. Now he’ll have a bullet to trace,” and she briskly retrieved the battered bird and placed it on the counter.

Laurel pressed a graceful hand to her forehead and swept to the back of the bookstore, quoting—and Annie couldn’t help noticing how distinct and far-carrying was her diction—“‘What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore/Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”’”

Occasionally, as Annie took names and reassured her guests that murderous volleys were far from routine on Broward’s Rock, she heard snatches of “The Raven.” While dispensing coffee, Laurel was performing the whole damn poem! Annie refused to look toward the coffee bar. Lord, grant her patience. Grant her endurance. Grant her some means of deflecting Laurel from this latest obsession. Grant her also an end to this stream of anxious registrants whose names she must record. She chafed to be outside, in the thick of the investigation. What had Saulter discovered? Had he got a description of the gunman from the pudgy conference-goer and the excited boys? Had he settled Bledsoe down?

Bledsoe’s heroics had surprised her. So often in her experience, bullies turned out to be cowards. Certainly, no one could accuse the critic of cowardice. Not only had he tried his damndest to get to the gunman’s vantage point first, he had protected his companion, pushing her to safety, before going fearlessly after his assailant.

And where was she now, the elderly woman who looked so much like Miss Marple but had a distinctly American accent? Annie spotted her deep in conversation with Henny, gesturing with a now neatly bandaged hand. Annie hoped that Fleur’s cashmere shawl wasn’t ruined.

Max popped back inside twice, once to report no luck in the search for the gunman, a second time to assure Annie that the front window would be boarded over in a jiffy.

Annie whipped through her task as fast as possible without appearing rude. She understood the point, of course. Anyone who had been inside Death on Demand when the shots were fired was automatically
not
a suspect.

The corollary, of course, was equally apparent.

Every person outside was, perforce, a possible marksman.

That would include those who had earlier been at Death on Demand and who had departed before Bledsoe.

Especially those who obviously knew and disliked him.

Like Emma Clyde.

“Scotch and soda?” Max held the syphon in his hand and looked inquiringly at their guests.

Saulter declined. “Coke,” he said mournfully. Still on duty, of course.

Seltzer sizzled cheerfully as Max prepared the drinks. Although it was almost midnight, neither Laurel nor Henny showed any signs of flagging, and they’d stuck closer to Annie and Max than Nora to Nick Charles, especially when it became clear that the chief had no intention of waiting until tomorrow before quizzing Annie about that evening’s events. For the first time, Annie regretted having rented one of the Carolina suites at the Palmetto House for the duration of the conference. Unfortunately, there was plenty of room for everybody. Annie was in a hurry to get this behind her. Tomorrow was the first day of The Christie Caper. She didn’t want an investigation ruining the fun. And she had a million details to check before the fête opened at three.

Laurel slipped off three-inch green heels and tucked her size-five triple-A feet daintily beneath her on one couch. With her head tilted admiringly to one side, she smiled winsomely at the chief, looking like a fifties thriller heroine who had just sighted a ruggedly handsome man.

Rarely, Annie thought sourly, had she met any male who was immune to Laurel’s charm. The chief was certainly no
exception. There was nothing official about the smile he bestowed on her.

Henny was, for her, unusually unobtrusive. Death on Demand’s most passionate customer sat in a far corner of the room. The light shining through the Tiffany shade on a nearby lamp created an interesting multicolored
effect
on her face and her white blouse. Annie’s eyes narrowed. Surely Henny’s placement wasn’t fortuitous. Nothing was ever likely to be fortuitous with Henny. She was obviously up to her old tricks, assuming the guise of a fictional detective when embroiled in a mystery. Be interesting to see how long Henny could be satisfied with the rather passive role Mr. Harley Quin played in the series of Christie short stories featuring Quin and Mr. Satterthwaite.

Chief Saulter sipped his Coke and surveyed the Palmetto House suite. “Pretty fancy. Haven’t been inside since that lady decorator from Atlanta redid everything.”

Max smiled happily. “Some wonderful improvements.”

White wicker furniture gave the hotel suite an air of casual tropical elegance, which was enhanced by the Gauguin-bright cushions and lush potted ferns. The dramatic focus of the room was, of course, the full wall mural. Each suite boasted an original, one-of-a-kind island scene. In this one, a flat-bottomed wooden oyster boat lay abandoned, its bow jammed into a marsh hammock. Cordgrass rippled around the small tree island like a deck of cards in expert hands. Standing behind the forsaken boat, a black-masked raccoon watched as an elegant white ibis probed the murky water for crayfish. Not a cloud marred the soft blue of the summer sky.

Saulter cleared his throat. “Okay, Annie, I want the low-down on the stuff at the bookstore tonight Why was everybody hacked at this Bledsoe guy?”

“I don’t know about everybody,” Annie replied grimly, “but I know that Emma Clyde has it in for him. Do you know what she did this afternoon?”

Max handed her a drink, and she scooted over to make room for him to sit on the love seat beside her.

The chief put his glass down and flipped open his notebook. “I wanted to ask you about that Since you were in the car.”

Annie was impressed. How had the chief already heard about Emma’s car assault?

“Stopped on a dime, I heard,” Henny said admiringly.

“Barely,” Annie snapped. She’d been irritated with Emma at the time, but now she was furious. Shoot out her bookstore’s windows! “Listen, Chief, there’s bad blood between Emma and Bledsoe. I don’t know any details, but Emma deliberately tried to scare the hell out of him this afternoon, and I think that’s what happened again tonight”

“You think Emma shot at Bledsoe?”

“I sure do. This afternoon Emma stormed into Death on Demand, wanting to know why I’d invited him. I hadn’t, of course. He registered just like everybody else. According to Emma, he’s been vicious to the cozy writers and she couldn’t believe he would come to this conference.”

“Now, Annie,” the chief chided, “there has to be more to it than that. Emma damn near ran over the man.”

“But she
didn’t
hit him, Chief,” she emphasized. “Just like the bullets missed him tonight.”

Saulter looked at her sharply, then scrawled rapidly in the notebook. “Yep, I get you. But why the hell?”

“I have no idea.” Annie tried to look as limpid as Archie Goodwin defending a pretty girl to his orchid-loving, woman-hating boss. She didn’t want to drag Fleur Calloway into it.

The chief looked at her sharply. “Buck Hughes, the doorman, swears it was deliberate. He said Emma drove an ambulance in North Africa and she for sure knew how to handle that Jaguar.”

Max spoke indistinctly as he munched a handful of unsalted peanuts. “I’d say Emma’s always in control—of cars, herself, her world.”

“Dear Emma. Such a
strong
personality,” Laurel murmured.

Saulter rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Spite, huh?” Annie could see the tension easing out of his shoulders. After all, using a gun to scare someone was reprehensible, but it was a lot less worrisome than attempted murder. “It’s sure possible. Emma left the store before Bledsoe.”

Annie managed not to look as satisfied as she felt. She hoped Saulter went straight to Emma’s mansion and rousted
her out of bed for a third degree. This appealing vision didn’t last long. Saulter wasn’t that kind of lawman.

Annie couldn’t resist adding, “It almost
has
to be Emma. How could anybody else in the store have known Bledsoe was coming to the reception? And why would anybody come to a conference packing a twenty-two?”

Henny made a judicious
harumph.

Annie had an instant visual image of Mr. Justice Wargrave, the redoubtable hanging judge in the novel version of
And Then There Were None.

Henny added a dry little cough. “Necessary to look at all the evidence.”

Every eye was on her as Henny delved into her purse and brought out a sheaf of papers. Thumbing briskly, she said, “Aha! Important exhibit here.”

Annie snarled, “Barristers offer exhibits. Not judges.”

Everybody ignored her. All eyes were on Henny.

Annie immediately recognized the pale apricot sheet Henny thrust at Saulter. It was the third status report Annie’d mailed to all who had pre-registered for the conference. “Back side,” Henny instructed briskly. “List of authors expected to attend.”

Saulter looked at her inquiringly.

“Bledsoe’s listed.”

Annie started to protest.

Henny continued decisively, “Nonfiction authors are included. He has a book out on the hero in detective fiction.”

Annie subsided. To tell the truth, she hadn’t paid any particular attention to names unfamiliar to her when she checked the list that Ingrid had compiled from registrations.

“Point is,” Henny concluded in that dry, unemotional tone, “everyone coming to the conference got that sheet and could have known Bledsoe would be here—and brought along a twenty-two pistol. And since Bledsoe’s obviously intent on causing trouble, it was a safe bet he’d show up at the reception tonight.”

“Oh, dammit,” Annie exploded, “you’ve read too many mysteries!”

Everyone looked at her.

Annie bristled. “Well, for Pete’s sake, why come
here
to kill him?”

A thoughtful silence.

Annie could have reeled off a dozen reasons herself. She ignored her own question, plunged ahead. “A twenty-two,” she exclaimed disparagingly. “No serious murderer goes around shooting at people with a twenty-two!”

Her sarcasm didn’t impress Saulter. “Dead’s dead,” he said succinctly, “whether it’s a forty-five slug or a twenty-two.”

“Reopens question of probability,” Henny stated.

Even Max supported the opposition. He patted Annie’s arm gently. “Have to face facts, sweetheart.” She could have strangled him. After a sizzling look at her well-meaning but infuriating husband, Annie tried another tack. “You’re all just being stubborn. Look at what actually happened—
no one
got hurt! Obviously, it wasn’t attempted murder at all.”

“Because the shots missed?” Saulter asked.

Henny snorted. “Annie, that’s dumber than Shaitana inviting all those murderers to play bridge.”

So much, Annie thought, for the dry and unemotional approach of Mr. Justice Wargrave. Four sleuths appeared in
Cards on the Table.
As Henny leaned forward, chin in hand, eyes farseeing, Annie nodded. Colonel Race, of course.

Henny’s clipped, matter-of-fact commentary confirmed her suspicion.

“One person in front of window. Other already started down steps. Bullets hit six-foot level. Intended victim obvious.” Henny glanced at the chief for confirmation.

Max nodded vigorously. “I was facing the front of the shop, and I saw the glass break. Eye-level to me.”

The chief riffled back through the notebook. “Bledsoe is six foot two. No one else was on that portion of veranda. His companion—an aunt by marriage, Kathryn Honeycutt—was midway down the steps. The bullets struck Death on Demand south window six feet one inch from floor level.”

Annie refused to be quashed. “The bullets didn’t hit him!”

“Nope,” the chief agreed. “So you could be right. The shots could have been intended merely to frighten him. Thing is, we can’t ignore the possibility the shots missed from sheer bad luck. Bledsoe’d stopped to light a cigar. He dropped his lighter and bent to pick it up.”

“So that’s when Emma decided to shoot,” Annie insisted.

Laurel chose this moment to murmur in her unforgettable, husky voice, “There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart … an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime.”

There was, also, understandably, a pause in the conversation.

Henny grinned. “A woman’s intuition, that’s the ticket.”

Max smiled kindly at his mother, an admiring light in his dark blue eyes. Annie pretended she hadn’t seen it.

Saulter looked at Laurel politely.

Laurel swirled the ice cubes in her Scotch and soda. “Those heartfelt, wrenching words capture the throbbing essence of my tumultuous, inmost feelings when the moment of crisis occurred tonight at Death on Demand.”