The Christie Caper (35 page)

Max chewed thoughtfully on his pen. First, cross out the impossibles. Quickly, he marked through Kathryn Honeycutt and Fleur Calloway. That left Emma Clyde, Margo Wright, Nathan Hillman, Derek Davis, Victoria Shaw, and Natalie Marlow.

Okay, here were the suspects. Now to rank them in order of probability—

The phone rang.

Annie reached for it and glanced at the clock. It was shortly after four
A.M.

“Outmaneuvered. Outflanked. Outfoxed,” Henny announced. “But not outdone.”

“Are you out of your room?” Annie demanded, ready to demand her rights.

“Everyone’s been sequestered,” Henny retorted.

At Max’s inquiring look, Annie put her hand over the receiver and mouthed, “Henny. Intrepid sleuth. Tuppence, I think.”

“It always helps to know people,” Henny continued rapidly. “Good thing I’m on the town council and also chairman of the hospital board.”

“Oh. Who did you wake up?” Annie was well acquainted with Henny’s methods.

“Vince Ellis. According to him, Bledsoe’s already been treated and released. He refused hospitalization and is back at the hotel, talking to Posey and Saulter. Bledsoe’s threatening revenge for his aunt’s murder.”

That was good thinking on Henny’s part. The editor and publisher of the
Island Gazette
would be grateful for the news tip and honor-bound to share his gleanings.

“Then I talked to the head night nurse. Bledsoe’s injury is painful and he’s lost a good deal of blood, but it isn’t serious unless infection sets in. He was shot once in the shoulder, but the shot missed the bone. Kathryn Honeycutt
was shot three times.” Henny paused and added gruffly, “Once in the face, twice in the chest. She was dead on arrival.

“According to the head nurse, Bledsoe gave this account: He was awakened by the fire alarm. He smelled smoke and heard pops, which he recognized as firecrackers. That puzzled him, but he felt the alarm must be responded to. He wet some towels and awakened his aunt. She had a traveler’s flashlight. He was opening the door to check the hall when the door was shoved hard against him. Caught by surprise, he stumbled backwards. A flashlight turned on him from the doorway and then a gun fired. He was hit in the shoulder. He dived instinctively for cover. Honeycutt apparently aimed her flash at the doorway, screamed, ‘Oh, you—,’ there was a flurry of shots and Honeycutt fell. Bledsoe staggered to his feet, dizzy and weak from blood loss, found Honeycutt—her flash was lying by her, still on—picked her up, stumbled out to the balcony and yelled for help.”

“Did Bledsoe get a look at their attacker?”

“No. Apparently he dived behind the couch, and the rest of it just took seconds, then he was concentrating on Honeycutt.”

“Did anybody see someone running?”

A pause. Henny said kindly, “Dozens, my dear. You’ve forgotten the fire alarm and the smoke bombs and the firecrackers and the tripped breakers.”

“Smoke bombs and firecrackers and an electrical blackout—you know, we need to think about this, really think about it.” Annie shoved a hand through her unruly hair. “What kind of person would go to such elaborate—”

Henny interrupted impatiently. “Billy Cameron, of course.”

For an instant, Annie thought her best customer had taken leave of her senses. Billy Cameron, Chief Saulter’s assistant, was about as imaginative as a Doctor Watson, though incredibly athletic and—“Oh, God, Billy was watching Bledsoe’s suite. Wasn’t he?”

“You got it. He was pretty relaxed. I mean, nobody’d been out in the hall for a couple of hours. Billy was reading the latest George V. Higgins. Quiet as a graveyard. Then some firecrackers—Billy thought some pretty big ones—went off
about a quarter to three. Sounded like it was out near the pool. The lights went out. Billy decided he’d better check it out. He started down the stairs and somebody cracked him over the head. He recovered consciousness at the hospital. Doesn’t remember a thing after he started down the stairs.”

“Billy’s going to be all right?” Annie asked anxiously.

“Fine. Nurse said he’d have a lousy headache for a couple of days, but otherwise he’s okay.” A pause, and, for a moment, Henny dropped her investigator’s persona. “Poor Billy. He figures it’s his fault Bledsoe got wounded and Mrs. Honeycutt killed. Billy said he should have realized he was being decoyed, but his first instinct, at the possibility of fire, was to check, to see if he needed to raise an alarm. The chief told him he’d done his best and he was right to think of all the hotel guests and their safety. But Billy’s lower than a hound dog’s belly.”

“Oh, Henny, please tell Billy we’re all proud of him. We know he did his best. And listen, he’d better be glad he went downstairs to see if he was needed. If he hadn’t, what’re the odds he would be dead now, too? This killer doesn’t care who gets hurt.”

But Annie knew just how Billy felt. To think you might have made a difference was painful, no matter how good your intentions.

Annie’s fingers drummed impatiently on the tabletop. “Dammit, Henny, we need to get out of our rooms and find out how the killer did it. Where the fireworks—”

“Nero Wolfe never left the brownstone. At least, hardly ever. And I haven’t left this room, but I’m making progress. You can expect a complete report on the deployment of the fireworks within the hour.” The line went dead.

Annie stared curiously at the phone, then hung it up. “Henny says she’ll call back within the hour and tell us how the killer engineered the firecrackers and smoke bombs—all without setting foot outside her room.”

Max chuckled. “If she manages that, we’ll have to admit she’s the best detective of all.”

Annie didn’t bother to answer. Certainly,
she
knew who was the best detective—and it was neither Henny nor Laurel nor Emma Clyde nor Lady Gwendolyn, however much each
might aspire to that role. Who but Annie was on such intimate footing with the greatest detective of all time? Now, if she were Hercule Poirot, what would she do?

Employ the little gray cells, of course.

But she was already doing that.

Poirot, Poirot—he always enjoined Hastings to study the personality of the victims. Because in their lives were the seeds of their deaths.

But not, she thought dispiritedly, this time.

She picked up the blue-backed folder with the bios. No, it wouldn’t help to reread them. Still, she opened it up, flipped through the pages, glancing at the names. Behind some familiar face, hidden behind everyday expressions of anger or concern or despair, was a ravening hunger for revenge. Someone whose name was in this folder was determined to see Neil Bledsoe pay for the evil he had wrought. Who was the wolf among the sheep or, as Christie put it so well, the cat among the pigeons?

S
heriff’s deputies were everywhere. Hotel guests were permitted to leave their rooms only after the police completed a room-by-room survey, setting up interviews at ten-minute intervals in Meeting Room A, beginning at nine
A.M.

The atmosphere in the Palmetto Court that morning was subdued. Low-voiced conversations, furtive glances, and somber faces created a funereal atmosphere. Every eye watched as Saulter and Posey strode through the court shortly before nine. Saulter’s khaki uniform looked crumpled and creased; his lean face sagged with fatigue. Posey lacked his usual sartorial splendor, his tie loose at his opened collar, his unshaven cheeks covered with stubble.

Lady Gwendolyn’s plump, pink face creased in an unaccustomed frown. “I was so confident. And yet our efforts failed. With the tragic addition of an innocent victim. What did I overlook?” She propped her chin in a pudgy hand and sank into a reverie.

Annie started to speak, but Laurel quickly held a finger to her lips. “Thinking,” she whispered huskily.

Henny looked up irritably from her sketch pad, sniffed sardonically, then returned to her work. When Annie’d inquired earlier, Henny had briefly replied, “Fireworks placement.”

Max gave his mother a quick smile.

Annie finished a last sip of coffee, but she didn’t feel her customary morning zing. She sighed heavily. She had come to a decision, and a painful one it was.

“I’ve made up my mind. The conference is over. Ended.
No more.” She tried hard to keep the tremor out of her voice.

“Annie, why? Tomorrow’s the last day anyway,” Max pointed out.

Lady Gwendolyn, deep in thought, ignored them.

Laurel’s blue eyes darkened in distress. “Shh, my dears. We must give Lady Gwendolyn every opportunity to exercise her brilliance.”

Annie wasn’t deflected. She pushed away the plate with its untouched waffle. “I’m not going to be responsible for anyone else being hurt—or killed. If I had cancelled the conference when somebody tried to shoot Bledsoe at Death on Demand or after the vase almost hit him, Kathryn Honeycutt would be alive. Maybe Stone, too.”

“Look, Annie,” Max said reasonably, “you’re not a psychic. Anyone who found those incidents upsetting—including Kathryn—could have left the island. These murders didn’t happen
because
of The Christie Caper, and it’s unfair to blame yourself.”

“Maybe. But I’ve made up my mind.” She avoided Max’s glance. He was on her side, and she loved him for it, but she felt responsible for those who had journeyed to Broward’s Rock for The Christie Caper. She could no longer ignore danger to them, and it was only too clear after two murders and a wounding that a deadly predator was among them.

Even though it broke her heart to close down her wonderful conference.

Annie posted the last sign on the doors of Meeting Room D:

She reached out and touched the date. Tomorrow would be the one hundredth anniversary of the birth of Agatha Mary Clarissa Miller Christie Mallowan. Fleur Calloway was scheduled to speak at the closing luncheon of The Christie Caper in honor of the greatest mystery writer of all time. Wouldn’t Christie be astounded to know that a meeting to honor her had been cancelled because of murder?

No.

Annie felt certain that Dame Agatha wouldn’t be at all surprised. Miss Marple’s quiet observation in “The Bloodstained Pavement” rang in her head: “I hope you dear young people will never realize how very wicked the world is.”

Annie glanced at her watch. Thirty minutes and The Christie Caper would be history.

A collective sigh from her listeners rivaled the poignant cry of a Carolina dove. Annie steeled her heart. She avoided looking at the front row where Max sat. She might weep. As she scanned the audience, she couldn’t help noting particular faces:

Nathan Hillman no longer appeared genial. Tight lines bracketed the editor’s mouth, and his eyes were wary.

Derek Davis had shaved spottily and nicked an ugly gash in his chin. Dark glasses hid his eyes.

Natalie Marlow’s new hairdo framed a hollow-eyed face. Her mouth was a thin, straight, tight line.

Margo Wright gazed at Annie with utterly unreadable eyes.

Victoria Shaw sat with folded hands, eyes downcast.

Emma Clyde’s spiky hair glinted emerald in the light from the chandeliers. It did nothing to add charm to her square, blunt features.

Fleur Calloway stared toward the door, one hand at her throat.

Neil Bledsoe stood there, one heavily wrapped arm in a sling, his white suit jacket loose on his shoulders. The ashy grayness of his face emphasized the rage glittering in his penetrating eyes.

Oh, yes, time and time enough to end this. “I want to thank all of you for being such grand participants,” Annie said, “and I regret more than I can say the necessity for ending the conference at this time, but I’m sure—”

“Just one moment, please, dear Annie.”

The sweet, light yet authoritative voice would have caught the attention of a court full of justices, a forum filled with Roman senators, a gaggle of five-year-olds at a birthday party.

Annie’s immediate, “Now, Lady Gwendolyn …” was swiftly overborne as the elderly author bounded vigorously up the platform steps, moving so quickly her coronet braids seemed to dance atop her head.

Near the open doorway, Posey grabbed Saulter’s arm and pointed toward the stage.

Lady Gwendolyn faced the audience with a kindly smile. Her reddish hair emphasized the pink-and-cream of her complexion. Her gray silk dress shimmered like London fog in November. “I feel that we face a simple question here. What is our duty, yours and mine: to stay? or to go?” In her swift and vivid fashion, Lady Gwendolyn captured the hearts of her listeners. Gently shushing Annie’s attempts to interrupt, the silver-tongued author built her case, quoting from mystery greats of past and present. By the time she finished, she had the conference-goers on their feet.

Even Henny cheered. “Good show! Bully! Get the blighter!”