The Christie Caper (31 page)

“Too bad he couldn’t have shared a little of that love with people,” Henny observed acidly.

“That provides a fascinating glimpse of the man,” Lady Gwendolyn commented placidly. “But, we should all remember, there is a special relationship between a man and his dog. Perhaps that day in the park, Bledsoe grieved for himself, not the dog. Now, it’s time for a most essential, determinative inquiry, one which I am very surprised that no one else has, as yet, called for.” She looked inquiringly at each in turn, then gave a slight shake of her head (the braids quivered but held). Annie was afraid Lady Gwendolyn was disappointed in her staff. Was she thinking back to the good old days of World War II intelligence when she had better aid than a fey, Johnny-come-lately Christie enthusiast, a rather grumpy mystery expert even though the best customer at Death on Demand, a mystery bookseller, and a very low-key counselor. (Max avoided the use of the term “private eye.” South Carolina was very particular in its licensing laws of private investigators.)

Of course, as Lady Gwendolyn well knew, one had to make do with what fell to one’s hand.

“The victim,” the old author said with a sly smile. “Therein, my dears, is sure to lie a tale.”

I
must say,” Lady Gwendolyn continued serenely, “some extremely interesting information has been turned up by our investigators.” She favored each with a warm smile. Laurel looked as though
she’d
been awarded the Croix de Guerre. Max rubbed his ear reflectively. Henny gave an all-in-a-day’s-work shrug. “I know, of course, that it isn’t unusual for people in the mystery field to be acquainted. It is, after all, a very small world. However, I think it is quite remarkable that the murder victim was personally acquainted with Bledsoe, Wright, Hillman, and Davis. This gives us much food for thought.” With scarcely a pause for her listeners to digest this offering, she added dramatically, “Moreover, it behooves us to recall Poirot’s dictum,
The seeds of death can be found in the victim’s life.

“John … Border … Stone.” The old author’s voice was as chilling as a footfall in a house thought to be empty.

Laurel gazed at Lady Gwendolyn adoringly.

Henny’s fox-sharp nose twitched in irritation.

Max listened with rapt attention.

No wonder that Lady Gwendolyn’s books sold so well, Annie thought grimly.

“His was a short life. It ended in violence.” Lady Gwendolyn spoke quietly, but there was, for an instant, a clear sense of her anger, anger at that kind of death, ever, for the young or the old. “Stone was born twenty-five years ago in Brooklyn, New York. Father, a real estate salesman; mother, a junior high-school English teacher. He was the youngest of four children. His older sister Mimi: ‘I
told
Johnnie he
should stay away from mystery writers. What a bunch of weirdos—people who write and think about nothing but murder. He went to a banquet once and you know who the speaker was? This ex-medical examiner from LA and he showed the most awful slides of the latest serial killings out in California. Slides of the victims! I told Johnnie people who liked to talk when they’re eating dinner about semen stains and the way bodies swell in water had to be whacko. He wouldn’t listen to me. The last time I talked to him, two weeks ago, he was all excited. He told me about his trip to this meeting and how it was going to make such a big difference in his career. He kept saying that it was going to make it possible for him to sell his book. Oh, yes, he’d written a mystery. He showed me the first chapter once and it was awful, all about this man who gets his foot chopped off when he’s a teenager, some kind of silly dare about a train overpass and he didn’t run fast enough and so he blamed the other guys with him. There was the girl who was hot for his body, but she can’t stand deformity, so the romance is all off. He sets out to get revenge, and he plans how he’s going to kill them one by one and chop off a foot each time. I didn’t tell Johnnie what I thought, but honestly, the writing was awful.’

“His older brother Bud: ‘So I should be surprised, right? Tell you Johnnie was a great guy, something like this should never have happened to him, right? Wrong. Dead wrong. Johnnie had a real talent for palling around with lowlifes. Johnnie would’ve cheated his own mother at cards. Johnnie was a sneak, mister, a real sneak.’

“I’m sorry to say,” Lady Gwendolyn said gently, “that Bud’s conclusion comes as no surprise to me. Look at these.” Lady Gwendolyn held up two photographs.

Annie’s folder contained the pictures, one in cap and gown taken at Stone’s college commencement, the second a somewhat out-of-focus snapshot. The formal picture gave little sense of personality, curly brown hair bunched beneath the mortarboard, a pudgy, self-important face striving for dignity. But the snapshot—John Stone was leaning back in a wooden chair, holding a stein of beer, laughing boisterously. He looked cocky, self-absorbed, and a little cruel. It was the irresponsible cruelty of the obtuse.

Lady Gwendolyn tapped that photograph. “When you
know how a man laughs, you know how he lives.” She glanced back to her papers. “A transcript of Stone’s undergraduate work at New York University shows a C minus average. After graduation, Stone attended the NYU Publishing Short Course. Among those on the faculty that summer were Neil Bledsoe, Margo Wright, and Nathan Hillman. Derek Davis was a classmate.” She let them think about this information for a moment, then she added, “I must stress that these are not the only people attending this conference who are known to us. Two more editors who are in attendance at this very conference served on the faculty of that same short course. However, neither of these people”—she peered at the paper—“Jean Reinhardt and Terry Abbott, has any apparent connection with Bledsoe, and it remains my conviction that Bledsoe is central to our present investigation. We won’t, of course, ignore any possibilities, but we’ll discuss those later.

“Stone worked as a messenger at CBS. He seems to have made no special impression on anyone. He was often late to work, and he was finally warned that he would be sacked if the pattern continued. His personnel folder reveals no other problems, no achievements.

“Stone had no special woman friend, and no close friends of either sex. He often dropped into a sports pub near his apartment house. The barman, Pat Russo: The guy loved the Knicks.”

“A friend of Stone’s mother said: ‘Johnnie was a little silly, you know, always thinking this time he’d win the lottery. I mean, not kidding about it.’”

Annie looked again at the graduation picture. Saturday night outside Death on Demand, after the shots were fired, his cheeks were cherry from exertion. He’d reported excitedly about what he’d seen, yet, boiled down, he had told them little of substance: a shadowy figure, a figure so indeterminate it could have been either a man or a woman.

What if Stone clearly saw the marksman?

What, indeed, would he do if he knew who shot at Bledsoe?

Would he lie?

Oh, he might, he might.

People so often lie, for good reasons or bad.

If
Stone knew who had shot that .22, might he have kept an eye on that person? If so, it would explain why Stone’s tennis shoes bore tar and gravel from the roof. If so, Stone’s presence on the roof owed nothing at all to chance. And, if he saw the vase levered loose to tumble down onto Bledsoe and didn’t inform the police—Annie sat up very straight—why then, what happened next was obvious indeed. A call to the culprit, a request for money, an agreement to meet Tuesday evening in his room.

“But, my God, that’s why it doesn’t make any sense at all!” Annie exploded.

Four polite faces awaited further comment.

“The sugar cutter!” she said forcefully. “Look at it—someone
had
to have brought it here specifically because it was the weapon in
Mrs. McGinty’s Dead.
Nobody hauls ornamental brass sugar cutters around like loose change. That would mean someone
came
to the conference with murder already in mind. So how could Stone’s death be the result of what he saw, either Saturday night or Tuesday morning?”

“Perhaps it isn’t such a conundrum.” Those brilliant blue eyes turned to Annie. “Yes, the cutter obviously was brought deliberately—but perhaps it was intended for a different victim.”

“Oh.” Annie was quieted. But not convinced.

“However,” Lady Gwendolyn beamed an encouraging smile at Annie, “your point is well taken, my dear. The possibilities are indeed complex.” A pudgy finger tapped the table as she enumerated.

“One—Stone’s murder was premeditated and the cutter intended for him. If this proves out then Stone was the killer’s objective all along.

“Two—Stone’s may have been an ancillary murder. If this is so, I very much fear that the primary murder will yet be attempted. Our present knowledge would suggest that Bledsoe is the primary victim.

“Three—There may be absolutely no connection between the murder of Stone and the attacks on Bledsoe.

“Four—Premise three suggests that a fanatical Christie fan may be responsible for Stone’s death and that a personal motive accounts for the attempted murder of Bledsoe.”

Those far-seeing blue eyes narrowed. “Or none of the
above. In any event, we must plumb the personal relationships of those who are involved—Hillman, Wright, Shaw, Marlow. And of course, Mrs. Honeycutt.”

They all looked at the old lady in surprise as she pronounced the final name.

“Mrs. Honeycutt?” Annie said faintly.

Lady Gwendolyn looked especially cherubic as she gently chided them. “As Miss Marple always stressed, never assume that surface appearances are correa. We must by all means include Honeycutt. Now, Henny, what do you have on Hillman?”

Of course, given the opportunity, Henny was incapable of not taking center stage, and her exquisitely modulated voice now milked every nuance from her material. “Nathan Hillman born 1940 in Kenosha, Wisconsin. Father, Elway, a high-school principal; mother, Martha, piano teacher. Only child. Excellent student. Editor high-school newspaper, outstanding student. Majored English at Princeton, BA in 1961. One of earliest Peace Corps members, two years Nigeria. MA in English, Columbia University, 1966. Joined small publishing firm, Loman Brothers, in 1966. Moved up through editorial ranks, executive editor 1978. Firm prospered. Upon death of founder, Joseph Loman, in 1986, employees bought company from heirs, elected Hillman president and CEO. Beneath surface, bitter battle between Hillman and another senior editor, Francis Morissey. Morissey was ousted in bruising stock battle.” Henny paused, then said, almost reluctantly, “Hillman is quite likable—but this gives us another view of him. He’s ruthless in business. Does that carry over into his personal life? It’s something to think about. Now, under Hillman’s leadership, the company’s percentage share of the market increased three-fold, accomplished primarily by expansion of its paperback arm. Hillman is well liked by most of his employees. Always genial, personable, pleasant. However, he expects total loyalty to the company, long hours, and books that make money. An editor with more than three money-losing books is encouraged to look for another job. Despite heavy managerial responsibilities, Hillman still edits a number of the house’s major authors. In personal life, he has had several serious relationships but only one seemed headed for marriage, that with Pamela Gerrard Davis. But
Davis, unexpectedly to those at the firm who knew her, instead married critic Neil Bledsoe. Since the abrupt end of that relationship, Hillman has been periodically involved in casual affairs. At work, Hillman is presently especially interested in the career of Natalie Marlow and—in-house—with the progress of Gerrard-Davis’s son, Derek.”

Lady Gwendolyn’s coronet braids held firm as she nodded to herself and made a notation on a pad. “Well done, Henny.”

Henny’s eyes slitted again, although Lady Gwendolyn’s tone wasn’t the least bit patronizing.

The old author checked her notes. “Ah yes, Laurel, what do you have on Margo Wright?”

“Such an interesting young woman. Such a
strong
personality.” Laurel beamed at her audience. “So marvelous the way women now can participate openly in every arena in the world. Although certainly it is a grave mistake on the part of today’s youth to assume women were
subjugated
in the past. Women have always had the faculty of exercising control in their lives but through
subtle, adroit, social
means. And truly,” her husky voice took on a confidential tone, “I think the millennia of experience gained by women in such skills as negotiation, diplomacy, and—”

“That is certainly an interesting thesis. There is much to it. But for the moment, perhaps we should confine ourselves to our subject.” Such was Lady Gwendolyn’s charm that the reproof actually sounded like a compliment.

“Of course,” Laurel replied happily, not in the least quashed.

Annie wondered how it would be to go through life not only gorgeous, rich, and ebullient, but armored with impenetrable aplomb.