The Christie Caper (11 page)

ATTENTION!
TREASURE HUNT PARTICIPANTS
Clue Sheets Distributed
1
P.M
. Tuesday

M
ax Darling stepped back to survey his handiwork. Just a little uneven. He straightened the poster board on the easel next to the registration desk. Good thing he’d planned on being up early. He’d already been accosted by four conference-goers demanding to know when the treasure hunt would begin. Perhaps Annie should have scheduled it for this morning. But she wanted this afternoon’s Grand Garden Fete to be the official beginning of the conference. And the emphasis Monday would be on Lady Gwendolyn’s presentation about Christie, so Tuesday had seemed best. Certainly, Annie would be thrilled to know how eagerly some of the conference attendees were looking forward to the treasure hunt. Such intense interest was—Max blinked. The portfolio containing the twenty-five treasure hunt posters toppled to the floor and began to inch away from the registration desk.

Assuming it was not being propelled by a poltergeist, the portfolio was exhibiting a mode of independent locomotion foreign to inanimate objects.

Max took three swift steps and grabbed it. Then he saw the almost invisible line and the barbed fish hook.

A tug.

Max tugged, too.

The line was taut and straight for a long moment, then the tension relaxed and the line shimmied to the floor.

Max plunged toward the end of the hall and careened around it.

Halfway down the hall, the door to the ladies’ room was slowly closing.

Max grinned, but he also made an instant decision to put the posters in the trunk of his Porsche for safekeeping until Tuesday.

The phone shrilled.

Annie struggled awake. Why in heaven’s name was the phone so close, almost exploding in her ear? As she flailed blindly, she realized she wasn’t at home, where the phone was a decent twelve feet away from their bed, atop a table next to the chaise longue. Oh, no. She was in a strange hotel room. Although, memory returning, a hotel room with unexpected charms. One eye opened. Where was her playful companion of the night? Probably out for a morning ramble. Lovely, the way the English described a country walk. Not that she was interested in dawn strolls at any time. A successful marriage didn’t require Tweedledum-and-Tweedledee coordination of pleasures. Not so long as primary pleasures received due attention. Another piercing ring. She tumbled with the receiver, mercifully cutting off that strident peal.

“Hllmph.”

“So sweet of you, Annie, to set the hounds baying at my heels.”

Emma Clyde’s icy gibe, sans salutation, shocked Annie to full wakefulness. She sat up in bed.

“But I give you a warning, my dear.”

Annie’s hand clenched on the receiver.

“Although God knows why I’m bothering. I don’t feel I owe you anything. But I liked Ambrose. Your uncle was a good man.”

Annie tensed. For God’s sake, was Emma threatening her? After scaring her to death in that Jaguar and ruining what was left of the reception at the store!

Emma snorted in disgust.
“He
was never a damn fool. Too bad you aren’t more like him.”

That was too much. “Listen, Emma, Uncle Ambrose would’ve been ticked off, too, if you shot out his front window.”

A weary sigh. “The point, my dear young fool, is that I
didn’t
shoot out your front window. I am not the mysterious marksman stalking that odious creature. If you have any sense at all, you’ll stop setting the cops after me and start looking for the culprit—or you may truly have a dead body on your hands.” A mirthless chuckle. “Not that I wouldn’t enjoy seeing that son of a bitch deader than last year’s bestseller.”

“Oh my God, a 1930 Duesenberg Model J,” Max exclaimed in awe. “Just think,” he implored Annie, “it has a six-point-nine-liter twin-overhead-camshaft power unit of eight cylinders and a top speed of one hundred sixteen miles per hour!”

Annie had never understood the male passion for automobiles, although a male writer had once explained to her that beautiful cars were like lovely women: fast, laid back, and free as the wind. But this time, she, too, felt the stirrings of enormous excitement and joined heartily in the cheer that rose from the waiting crowd. Nineteen thirty—oh, that was a glorious year for Christie readers, their first book-length view of St. Mary Mead in the incomparable
Murder at the Vicarage.

As the low-slung, scarlet, open touring car slid to a majestic stop in front of the beribboned poles that marked the entrance to the Grand Garden Fete, Annie blinked back tears of joy.

The Christie Caper had begun.

In glorious fashion.

South of the main entrance to the Palmetto House spread an expanse of lawn. Admittedly it was covered with wiry crabgrass tenaciously triumphing over the island’s sandy soil rather than the thickly green, close-cropped grass of an English country house, but it was as close an imitation of the
grounds of Nasse House in
Dead Man’s Folly
as Annie could manage, and today it looked wonderfully festive with the array of brightly colored tents and assorted games.

The elegant car drawing up to the beribboned poles, often seen on Hollywood Boulevard with Clark Gable at the wheel, was the flagship for a shining line of vintage greats:

An 1897 two-cylinder, four-horse-power Daimler Phaeton. In 1897, Agatha was a well-loved, happy seven-year-old who could entertain herself for hours with imaginary playmates.

A 1902 black Curved-Dash Olds, which looked like a baby carriage on wheels. A wonderful year. Sister Madge married, and Agatha met a friend for life, the bridegroom’s younger sister, Nan.

A pale green 1908 Hutton. While recuperating from the flu, a bored Agatha was encouraged by her mother to try her hand at writing. The result: “The House of Beauty,” a six-thousand-word short story that contains, as her biographer Janet Morgan points out, a little bit of everything, including death, delirium, the jungle, madness, music, and a black-robed nun.

A gorgeously blue 1910 Alfa with bright red leather upholstery. Agatha’s coming-out year. She and her widowed mother traveled to Cairo and spent three months at the Gezirah Palace Hotel, a wonderful season of dances, croquet, and polo matches—and plenty of attentive young men.

A 1924 gray snub-nosed Morris-Cowley (progenitor of the MG), identical to the one Agatha bought with her five hundred pounds in serial rights money for
The Man in the Brown Suit.
In her autobiography, she recalled the purchase of that car as one of the two most exciting events in her life. The second was dining with the queen at Buckingham Palace forty years later.

A jaunty green 1925 Opel Laubfrosch. Agatha patterned the Berkshire estate in
The Secret of Chimneys
after Abney, the ancestral home of her brother-in-law, Jimmy Watts.

A flashy red 1927 Vauxhall. A year of life-altering events, public and personal. The Communist party expelled Trotsky. Lindbergh soloed across the Atlantic. Agatha’s marriage to Archie Christie failed.

A luxurious 1928 six-seater Nürberg Mercedes-Benz. Agatha made her first journey aboard the Orient Express that fall.

A classy red 1934 six-cylinder Riley M.P.H. sports two-seater, which could easily be envisaged parked at the Blue Boar. This was a wonderfully productive year, three novels written.

The door to the Duesenberg clicked shut with the precision of a Christie plot. A liveried chauffeur—mauve uniform with gray spats—moved with quiet dignity to open the rear door of the gleaming lead car.

Lady Gwendolyn Tompkins, a petite woman as softly rounded as a rococo cherub, erupted from the car, faster than a jack out of the box. Her pale reddish hair was bound up in a somewhat lopsided coronet braid. Bright blue eyes, vivid with good humor and eagerness, settled on Annie. “Annie Laurance Darling, at last. What a
pleasure
to be here. Oh, what
glorious
tents. Pink-and-white striped! Just like peppermint. And such a marvelous turn-out. My dear, you’ve launched us in the most delightful fashion.”

Annie was pulled into a soft embrace, overcome with a heady dose of Evening in Paris perfume, and, at the same time, expertly turned to face the waiting crowd.

“Stage front,” the author whispered gaily. “Time to shine.”

Annie plunged into her speech of welcome. “Lady Gwendolyn, welcome to Broward’s Rock. We are honored that you have come so far to serve as the official hostess of our centenary celebration of the birth of Agatha Christie.”

A deafening explosion of applause, shouts, huzzahs, and bravas.

Annie began her introductions. The leading lights of Broward’s Rock were out in force today, from the mayor to the municipal judge to the entire school board, in addition to the several hundred conference participants. Annie intended to introduce only a few, then get right to the program.

But she knew better than to ignore Laurel.

“Lady Gwendolyn, may I introduce my husband’s mother, Laurel Roethke.”

“Your Ladyship,” Laurel breathed ecstatically.

Annie shot her mother-in-law a look of surprise. It was
quite unusual for worldly wise Laurel to evince even a modicum of awe, no matter who the celebrity.

“I’ve long been an admirer of yours, Lady Gwendolyn,” Laurel continued warmly. “Your camel trip into the interior of Arabia Your expedition to the head waters of the Zambezi. Your war years, parachuting into occupied France—”

Those lively blue eyes sparkled. “My husband always told me I was a world-class fool. Especially as a young woman. I’m afraid I’ve never been able to resist a challenge—from a mountain to a man. Actually,” and she winked at Laurel, “I’ve never wanted to resist.”

“Your modesty does you great credit. But the Legion of Honor—”

Tiny spots of color marked her plump cheeks. “Oh, you are too kind, and you give me far too much credit. My motto is, Do, Don’t Think. It’s put me in some tight spots a few times. But what’s life without challenges? I say,” a plump hand, sapphire rings winking from two fingers, gestured toward the crowd, “this
is
a holiday bunch. Shall we start?”

Ingrid, bless her, waited beside the poles with a pair of scissors at the ready. Annie took the scissors and held them out to the official hostess.

“If you will cut the ribbon, Lady Gwendolyn, the fête will open and The Christie Caper will begin.”

Lady Gwendolyn waggled the razor-sharp scissors in the air. “I am deeply honored to do so.” Her clear, light voice rang out. “Today the peoples of the world are linked from the Himalayas to the Australian Outback. It is quite easy to turn on the telly and see a riot in Rumania, starvation in Zimbabwe, poison gas spewing in Afghanistan. We are bombarded with information and bewildered by choices. Worst of all, so many are adrift from moral bedrock. What then can we deem to be constant?”

The small, blue-eyed woman surveyed her listeners, her plump face puckered with concern.

“There is one constant of which we can be certain and which we can ignore only at the peril of our souls—the nature of the beast. Evil exists. We must combat it … always. Here on this island we gather today to recall the life and works of one woman who spoke to every man everywhere. Do we want to understand today’s world? Read Agatha Christie.
Find bedrock again. In her works, right is right, wrong is wrong. She warns us again and again never to sugarcoat life. And she reminds us that the situations we face, whatever they are, may not be as simple as they seem.”

Lady Gwendolyn shaded her eyes against the sun. “Today is a good example, you know. Here we are at a holiday gathering, everyone dressed in their finery. A cheerful scene, much like a winding lazy river on a summer day. But Christie would have us remember that even though water gleams like silver in the bright sun, slime and sewage may undulate beneath the surface. Beware.”

Scissors flashed in the sunlight, and the crimson ribbon between the beribboned poles parted.

The happy crowd surged within the cordoned-off area. Lady Gwendolyn trotted up the steps of the gazebo, trailed by admirers. Annie anxiously awaited the verdict as the official hostess eagerly surveyed the area: the bright orange marquee over the tea tables, a hoopla, a skittle alley, a coconut shy, a lucky dip, a fortune teller’s tent, and many, many stalls. (Annie had found it impossible to persuade the members of the store’s Murder-Most-Read Club to call them stalls. Just a fancy name for booths at a bake sale, one had muttered.) In Annie’s own mind, however, stalls they were, and she’d insisted upon proper offerings, including Madeira cakes, bakewell tarts with jam and almond fillings, Eccles cakes (puff pastry with raisins), bottled pickles and onions, rock buns, and fancywork.

Turning to Annie, Lady Gwendolyn beamed. “Smashing, my dear, absolutely smashing.” A sigh of pure pleasure. “I’ve always loved fêtes. I can’t wait to try the coconut shy, but I suppose it’s time for the performing seal to bark.”

“Do you mind?” Annie asked swiftly.

Lady Gwendolyn smoothed back the hair straggling from her braids. “Have you ever met a writer who didn’t enjoy meeting her readers?”

The diminutive author settled behind the table that had been placed in the gazebo and began to welcome her fans.

Confident that the official hostess was quite capable of handling her tasks, Annie sped from tent to stall to entertainment, making certain all was well. There were oceans of tea, a choice of elegant and light Earl Grey, delicately scented
Jasmine Oolong, or classic Darjeeling. All served from china teapots. There had been a veritable deluge of impassioned suggestions when Annie had proposed silver. “Brackish.
Not
for true tea drinkers. Pottery at the very least, and, of course, preferably china.” As for the tea table, ah, what largesse: herbed cheese-custard tartlets, cheese straws, chicken-liver pâté rounds, caviar puffs, harlequin fingers, smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches, piquant tuna sandwiches, crumpets, Chelsea buns, fruit scones, Shrewsbury biscuits, Cornish fairings, and classic shortbread. At the game booths, Annie made certain there were prizes enough. She had to replenish the Bob-in-Water prizes twice. As for the stalls, Annie was amused to spot Frank Saulter with a Madeira cake in one hand and a clutch of potholders in the other.