The Christie Caper (32 page)

Not, of course, that she had any desire at all to emulate her mother-in-law. The very idea made her dizzy.

“Margo Wright,” Laurel continued obediently. “Margo was born in 1956, the oldest of five daughters, to Harold Wright, a shoe salesman. Her mother, Mary Ann, was a home-maker. That word,” Laurel pointed at the text with a shiny pink fingernail, “holds a
world
of meaning. It signifies a kind of dependency quite foreign to—”

“Perhaps we might focus on Margo,” Lady Gwendolyn remonstrated gently.

“So
interesting
sociologically …” With a cheerful smile, Laurel capitulated. “Ah yes. Margo was a serious student, not especially popular with other students, but respected President of her class all three years in high school. A scholarship to college. Unfortunately, she had to turn it down because of her father’s terminal illness and her mother’s inability to earn enough money to support the family. Margo started at the Masters Literary Agency as the receptionist, but her quick intelligence soon won Robert Masters’s attention, and he gave her the opportunity to read manuscripts. She excelled, not only having a good sense of what makes books work but an excellent instinct for books the market would reward. In 1974, Margo married an advertising executive, Larry Bynum. He was almost twenty years older than she. They had no children and divorced eight years later. At the office, Margo prospered until—”

Bledsoe’s attempt to torpedo Margo’s career was old news to Annie. Though Laurel had picked up a bit of additional information which was fascinating indeed.

Her face solemn, Laurel confided to the little group in the suite, “Another agent working there at the time remembers the incident well. She said, ‘Margo never forgets an ill turn. I saw her later that year—after she learned it was Bledsoe who had set her up and driven her from her job. Margo told me, “Someday, someway, Neil’s going to pay for this. You can count on it.” The way she said it—if I were Neil Bledsoe I wouldn’t walk down a dark alley if I thought Margo was anywhere around.’ One satisfied author describes her as his New York barracuda. ‘Margo never forgets a favor, always repays a slight.’ She is an accomplished runner, twice finishing the Boston Marathon in less than three hours.” Laurel closed the folder.

Max looked at their leader. “I believe I’m next. But, first, could I get everyone some coffee. More tea, Lady Gwendolyn?”

Dear Max. How had he sensed her desperate need for an infusion of caffeine? Annie immediately held up her empty cup. With her fresh cup of coffee and the paling of the sky
beyond the balcony, she began to feel much more human.

“Victoria Shaw—” Max paused. “Honestly, I can’t believe this woman could ever hurt anyone.”

Lady Gwendolyn smiled at Max benignly. “Your gentlemanly response is certainly to your credit.”

Max’s ears turned pink. Annie: loved it.

“However,” Lady Gwendolyn continued, “we must remember that a genteel facade can mask murderous passion.” How could anyone who looked so much like a Dresden shepherdess speak so easily of passion and evil? But that was the fascination of Miss Marple, wasn’t it? A gentle nature so alive to the reality of evil.

Max avoided Annie’s glance and concentrated on his report. “Victoria Shaw was born in 1925 in Willow Spring, North Carolina. Her father, Edward Murray, was a Methodist minister. Her mother, Louise Winton, died when Victoria was four. Victoria was a sweet, good-natured child. She attended the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. She met a young teaching assistant, Bryan Shaw, and they married upon her graduation. Bryan pursued an academic career, teaching English, emphasis upon nineteenth-century novelists. He taught at the University of the South, Southern Methodist University, and the University of Georgia. Upon his success as a mystery writer, he retired from teaching in 1974 and they settled in Willow Spring. They had three daughters, all of whom are now grown. Victoria always encouraged her husband in his writing, and she edited and typed his manuscripts. Bryan Shaw died of cancer in 1983. Since his death, she has dropped out of most of her activities. A neighbor: ‘Poor Victoria. She used to be so bubbly, so energetic. Before Bryan died. She’s almost a shell of the woman she once was. And she’s sick so often. Pneumonia twice last year. She only goes to the doctor if her oldest girl badgers her. I was so happy to see her go to this mystery convention. Why, it’s the first time she’s seemed almost like her old self.’”

“And when Victoria got here, who did she see?” Annie said angrily. “The world’s first-class bastard, Neil Bledsoe.”

The old author pursed her lips. “Indeed. But, after all, my dear, Bledsoe’s name
was
listed in the material sent to
all conference attendees. It’s difficult to believe Victoria didn’t notice it. Don’t you think?”

Henny scowled. “But couldn’t that be said of all of them? Why, then, did Fleur Calloway come to the conference, if she hated him so much?”

A damn good question.

Laurel’s reverence wasn’t restricted solely to Lady Gwendolyn. “Oh, I can see how Fleur might have missed it. Why, she’s so famous, I doubt if she even bothered to read the list of those coming.
She
isn’t a fan.”

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

But every person coming to The Christie Caper had plenty of opportunity to see Neil Bledsoe’s name … and make any preparations they wished.

Including the purchase of a .22 pistol and an ornamental bronze sugar cutter.

And God only knew what else.

Annie shivered and quickly drank more coffee. It didn’t help this kind of chill.

“We must be certain to balance,” Lady Gwendolyn urged, “the information in the reports against events at the conference, including our own observations and conclusions. Character, after all, is the key.” A rustle of her papers. “Now, Natalie Marlow.”

Annie wanted to protest. Surely Natalie was the least of their suspects! After all, Natalie—until last night—had been so obviously infatuated with Bledsoe. And the first attack on the critic came last Saturday night. But Annie said nothing. Lady Gwendolyn would only point out that appearances can be deceiving. Annie settled back to listen.

“Natalie was born twenty-four years ago in Richmond, Virginia. She was an abandoned infant, found in a church foyer.” Lady Gwendolyn’s precise voice didn’t reflect the tragedy in that last sentence, but the words struck Annie with almost physical force. Oh, Lord. Oh, dear Lord. “She lived in the state orphanage until she was fourteen, then she ran away. She worked a series of low-paying jobs. She never finished high school, but became an omnivorous reader. When she wandered from town to town, she spent every free minute in the library. Befriended by a small-town librarian
who gave her a place to live in return for light housekeeping. Started writing
Down These Steps
when she was seventeen. The librarian sent a copy to an editor with whom she was acquainted. And the rest is publishing history.
Down These Steps
was the first book accepted over the transom by Hillman House in the past fifteen years. It became a major best-seller. And the whole movie industry is buzzing over the upcoming release of a major feature film of the book. Young Natalie is going to be a very rich young girl indeed.”

When she had read Natalie’s novel, Annie wondered how anyone could pack that much misery into three hundred pages. Now she knew. Knowing made her that much angrier at Bledsoe.

She thumped her fist on the table. “Bledsoe’s despicable.”

“You know,” Henny cupped her chin in one hand, “I don’t think I’d worry too much about Natalie. You saw her reaction last night?”

Annie had indeed. When Bledsoe insulted her, Natalie’s eyes had glowed with the wild look of an enraged animal. Unreasoning, unthinking, pulsing with hatred. That was bad. Worse was Annie’s memory of Moira, the protagonist in
Down These Steps.
Goaded into a frenzy, Moira snatched up a paring knife and stabbed a rapist repeatedly. It was an unforgettable reading experience. Natalie’s searing prose made the ragged edge of every wound a pucker of pain, the spurting of fictional blood a red glory, the stench of death unmistakable.

“Certainly she is a young woman to reckon with,” Lady Gwendolyn concluded, nodding. “Now,” and the high, clear voice took on an instructional tone, “I must point out that the prognosis of the situation is unclear. All may well be as it appears: Bledsoe is on bad terms with the individuals we’ve just discussed and on fairly good terms with his aunt. But, it may be that his and Honeycutt’s relationship is different indeed. What if
Honeycutt
came to this conference planning to kill her nephew? We cannot rule out that possibility.” A sharp nod to Henny. “Your report.”

It was hard for Henny, but she grudgingly admitted, “There are a couple of curious points that have arisen, although
certainly there is no overt evidence even
hinting
at any kind of vendetta against Bledsoe by Kathryn Honeycutt.”

Annie exchanged glances with Max. Something unexplained in a life that seemed so normal?

Henny did love the limelight. She spoke with a storyteller’s verve. “Kathryn was born in 1924 in Van Nuys, California. She met Sergeant Frederick Honeycutt at a USO dance in Hollywood when she was nineteen. They married four months later in September 1943, just before his unit shipped out to the Pacific.” In two simple sentences, Henny splendidly evoked the romance and excitement and fear of a young couple in love in wartime. “After Frederick’s discharge from the marines in 1945, she went with him to his hometown, worked as a secretary while he went to college on the GI Bill, continued working while he was in law school. Worked as his secretary when Honeycutt opened his own firm. Widowed in 1985. Active in the Christian Science Church. No children. A member of two local book clubs, the garden club, the Business and Professional Women’s Organization, the legal secretaries club, the bar auxiliary, a hospital volunteer. Past ten years served as treasurer for local philatelic club. Collects stamps, especially early American, and mysteries. Has first editions of all Patricia Wentworth mysteries—”

Annie was impressed. Wentworth wrote sixty-five mysteries, starting with
The Astonishing Adventure of Jane Smith
(1923) and ending with
The Girl in the Cellar
(1961). Her last book was published the year she died.

“—also all of the Agatha Christies, though not first editions. Especially enjoys the Marple books as Kathryn bears a remarkable resemblance to Christie’s maiden lady detective, tall, with fluffy white hair, and blue eyes.

“In recent years, Kathryn has worked one day a week at a food canteen for the homeless. Her health is fairly good, but she is losing her eyesight. Refuses to undergo cataract surgery. Despite her years of activity in her community, she is considered fairly retiring in the sense that she rarely discusses personal matters with acquaintances, or even with friends of long standing.”

Henny paused until every eye was on her. “Through artful interrogation of a bank manager’s rather indiscreet wife”—
the aforementioned artful inquisitor darted a glance at Lady Gwendolyn, who gave Henny a warmly admiring look, and even Henny looked pleased—“I have learned that Kathryn inherited a substantial estate upon her husband’s death. Something in the neighborhood of seven hundred thousand dollars. However—” another pause for dramatic emphasis, “that estate has dwindled drastically, with the withdrawal of substantial sums at erratic intervals. The bank manager’s wife sniffed, ‘My George tried to talk to Kathryn about it—he was afraid some fast-talking, unethical investment counselor might be taking advantage of her, and, of course, George is quite capable of advising the bank’s clients on good investments. But Kathryn got downright snippy, said what she did with her money was her business and no one else’s, so of course George didn’t say another word. But he told me it looks real funny, she goes along for months and has just her usual expenditures, then she’ll draw out a cashier’s check made to bearer for as much as sixty or seventy thousand dollars.’”

“That’s quite interesting.” Lady Gwendolyn’s eyes glowed. “It could be blackmail. It could be the purchase of anything from diamonds to drugs.”

“Drugs,” Max repeated. “Kathryn Honeycutt?”

Lady Gwendolyn chuckled. “You’d be surprised what old ladies can do, young man.”

This time, Max’s ears turned crimson.

“Why, it’s so simple,” Laurel suggested.

Everyone looked at her. Laurel so often struck the truth in an oblique fashion that it never paid to dismiss her ideas.

Laurel smoothed back a wisp of golden hair. “Neil Bledsoe’s certainly been accused of far worse. Perhaps he talks Kathryn out of the money, perhaps he demands it!”

Oddly, it was Annie who had to defend Bledsoe here. “No. I’ll admit that sounds likely, but Kathryn told me she always turns him down when he asks for money and he usually
does
need money. As for this conference, she thought perhaps that’s why he invited her, so she asked him. In fact, she offered him money. Bledsoe seemed very surprised by the offer. He even admitted to her that he was in a hole financially, but he told her he had a plan to get it; he didn’t need any from her.” Annie frowned. “And it turns out he
really does have a plan—that nasty biography about Christie!”

Lady Gwendolyn tapped the table thoughtfully.

“People do reveal themselves in conversation. That’s quite an important fact you gleaned, Annie.” She gave each of them an approving nod. “I wish to compliment all of you upon your excellent efforts. We’ve certainly made good progress.”

Her pink lips curved in an enigmatic smile. “Now, I do have a final note which isn’t included in our papers. Local authorities have set in motion an intensive investigation of myself. I spoke to an old friend at Scotland Yard prior to our meeting this morning.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “He had a bit of fun at my expense. He told your inquisitive circuit solicitor all about my recent book in which the victim, a young man, is bludgeoned by an old lady.” Almost as an aside, she added, “I don’t like age discrimination. Passion, sex, and vigorous activity should not be barred to the elderly.” A pause. “And I learned that Posey inquired most insistently about my health and was told that I continue to ride to the hounds.”