The Christie Caper (2 page)

This conference, after all, was at least in part a tribute to Bryan’s greatness. Of course, its focus was upon Agatha Christie’s legacy to the world of the mystery, but Bryan was one of several authors of classic mysteries who were scheduled to be recognized in a retrospective for their contributions to the traditional mystery.

Bryan would be admired, praised. Once again his books would be talked about, valued.

She could hear the chug of the postman’s car, coming up the lane. Quickly, her heart pounding, Victoria yanked open the mailbox, thrust the letter inside.

H
enny Brawley paced her study. Where was that damn book? She’d had it in hand just a minute ago! Innumerable sheets from a yellow legal pad, covered with her neat, precise printing, were strewn from one end of the book-lined room to the other. Despite the hour—it was just past midnight—she whistled over and over a rollicking rendition of “Three Blind Mice.” She hadn’t had this much fun in years! Oh, there it was! Shifting a pile of Christie novels, part of her lovely new bound collection of the Crime Queen’s works, Henny flipped open the revised edition of
The Agatha Christie Companion
by Dennis Sanders and Len Lovallo. Yes, yes, yes, here it was, marked by her newest bookmark from Death on Demand, the island’s mystery bookstore.

She whistled now in sheer delight. Oh ho, nobody would ever answer some of these questions!

Racing back to the desk and her legal pad, she wrote briskly:

What gave Christie the idea for
Thirteen at Dinner?

On a separate sheet entitled Answers to the Agatha Christie Trivia Quiz, Henny added:

Sighing happily, Henny reread her list of questions. Certainly this would be a popular pan of the upcoming conference. Be interesting to see how well Emma Clyde would fare. Not that Henny was trying to show that she knew more about Christie than the island’s most famous mystery author—although of course she did! As for that British writer—Henny’s eyes slitted—Lady Gwendolyn Tompkins, what made her such an authority on Christie? Not that Henny was jealous of Lady Gwendolyn’s prominence as a co-sponsor of The Christie Caper. Certainly not. Jealousy was beneath her.

But, dammit, who’d done all the work? Henny Brawley, that’s who!

K
athryn Honeycutt didn’t believe in astrology, of course. But sometimes, you had to admit, it was nothing short of uncanny. She read the horoscope column only occasionally, but this morning’s said, plain as day, “An unexpected message will come your way.” And here was the letter from Neil, inviting her to come as his guest to a celebration of the one hundredth anniversary of the birth of Agatha Christie. Kathryn would never have expected Neil to be interested in that kind of conference. Why, he’d always sneered at the Christie books, even said they were written with all the pizzazz of a Quaker Oats cereal box. Neil only liked those nasty, gory, brutal novels. Who wanted to read books like that? Kathryn could pick up her morning paper and wallow in rape, incest, and wife abuse, if she wished. She certainly
didn’t
wish. But Christie—that was another matter altogether.

Kathryn hurried across the bricked floor of the den to the bookshelves filled with Christies. She reached up and touched the gilt letters on the black spines. Her brand-new set! Neil’s Christmas present to her. Sometimes, he could be thoughtful even though she was just a little bit cynical about his motives. Such a beautiful set. Of course, she’d kept her old ones. They were friends from the past. So many favorites.
Remembered Death
—how could anyone ever have thought Rosemary Barton would commit suicide!
N or M?
—look what happened when they tried to put Tuppence out to pasture. Christie loved to make the point that older women
saw much and understood much, and the world should take heed of their wisdom.

Kathryn reached up and fluffed her soft white hair. Surprising how many people had commented on her resemblance to Jane Marple. Just because Kathryn, too, was tall and thin with snowy white hair, faded blue eyes, soft pink skin, and enjoyed knitting fleecy baby sweaters. So, of course, she took rather a proprietary interest in all of dear Jane’s titles. Especially the first,
The Murder at the Vicarage.

She opened the brochure Neil had tucked in the envelope and held it close to her eyes. Oh, my goodness, what a wonderful program. And yes, there was a costume party. She would go as Miss Marple, of course. Her white brows crinkled. Too hot yet for tweeds. A summery frock would be perfect. Tea and panels and famous authors—a full week in the company of others who loved Agatha Christie and all her works—oh, it sounded like heaven!

Even if it meant being with Neil.

“Kathryn, I’m ashamed!” She was in the habit of addressing herself aloud. It happened to people who lived alone. “Poor Neil. He really can’t help being the way he is.” A sweet smile budded on her placid face. “Perhaps,” she murmured, “he’s changed.”

Kathryn did like to look on the bright side.

Though she’d always found that hard to do with Neil. She had always suspected that he’d deliberately left the gate ajar that spring day when Foster ran into the street and was hit by a car. But surely not even Neil was that horrid! It was just that he looked mean, with that scowling, ruddy face. It was certainly unfair of her to judge him by his appearance. Though Jane Marple would surely have done so. Kathryn sighed. Yes, she looked like Jane, but in her heart she knew she was much closer to Dolly Bantry, Jane’s closest friend in St. Mary Mead. Jane Marple appraised life in such a Victorian way—rather harsh really. Now, Dolly, she was too immersed in her garden to know as much about the dark side of human nature.

Kathryn’s mouth puckered. It had come as such a shock to her last year when that nice young man—really such a charming young man—sold her that counterfeit stamp. Neil had been furious, said she deserved to lose the money. Well,
once burned…. This last time she’d insisted upon authentication.

She stood on tiptoe to squint at the stamps behind glass that filled the row above her Christie books. The lines and colors, without her magnifying glass, were smudged and indistinct. But there was her latest. She could see the rich violet background. Henry Clay—a premium quality never-hinged stamp. It was another jewel in her nineteenth-century American collection. She’d spent many a tranquil hour these past few weeks studying it through her glass.

Kathryn clapped her hands. How much happiness she enjoyed with her stamps and her books. They both afforded her so much pleasure. Then, her thoughts darting about like goldfish in a summer pond, she peered blearily at the bookcase. Reading wasn’t easy now, not even with her trifocals. But she smiled as she reached for
Sleeping Murder.

J
ohn Border Stone leaned close to the window as the plane circled the field. Palm trees. He’d never actually seen a palm tree before. He couldn’t believe his luck. A free trip, entrée to a world he’d only read about. God, it was wonderful. And it was just the beginning. As soon as he did his part—and what a clever piece of promotion—he would be introduced to some top editors, and he would be on his way to success and fortune. Because that was all he needed, a chance for his manuscript to be read.

If he could get his book to the right editor, he had it made. It was ridiculous the way you had to have an agent even to be considered. How did you get an agent if you weren’t already published? Oh, he’d heard the same story over and over, “Go to writers’ conferences, sign up to talk to agents, tell them about your book.” He’d done it and done it. And nobody ever asked to read “The Ashen Prince.”

He sat lost in daydreams for a moment, the
New York Times
Best Seller List, higher than Tom Clancy—appearances on the top talk shows, on a first-name basis with Geraldo, Oprah, and Phil—admiring fans following him, timidly seeking
his
autograph.

The jolt as the plane hit the runway brought him back to the present, the wonderfully, incredibly, magically exciting present.

A
nnie counted the magnums of champagne. Four. Five. Six. Surely that would be enough. She whirled on her heel and dashed out of the storeroom.

“Ingrid!”

“Yo.” Her faithful clerk was nimbly transferring plastic wineglasses from a box perched atop the coffee bar to the tablecloth-draped trestle table in the center of the coffee area and trying at the same time to persuade Agatha, the bookstore’s resident feline, to leave the centerpiece alone. Despite its expensive price tag ($240), Annie had been totally unable to resist a wax replica of the dining table centerpiece used in the 1945 American film version of
And Then There Were None,
starring Barry Fitzgerald as Judge Quincannon. Agatha swiped one whip-quick black paw at the nearest figurine. Ingrid, careful to avoid the snaking claws, scooped up the cat and placed her atop the coffee bar. “Look at the nice box, Agatha. It’s a beautiful box. You love boxes.” The elegant black cat made a sharp, chuffing sound, an unmistakable indication of displeasure.

The tables usually in place in the coffee area of the bookstore had been shoved toward the back wall and utilized to display copies of Agatha Christie’s books in order of publication
(The Mysterious Affair at Styles,
1920, the first, and
Sleeping Murder,
1976, the last) and assorted memorabilia reflecting the exciting course of the Crime Queen’s long and productive life. The coffee area chairs were stacked out of the way in the storeroom, behind the ice-filled tubs holding the champagne magnums.