The Christie Caper (41 page)

“Sure. You rest up while we’re gone, Annie. You look mighty peaked. We’ll be in Meeting Room A,” he glanced at his watch, “no later than ten forty-five. I’ll bring Lady Gwendolyn, and I’ll have a deputy get in touch with everyone.” Saulter’s lips twitched. He might have been hiding a smile. “Including Posey, of course.”

As the car pulled out of the hotel drive, Annie waved good-bye. She maintained her weary, going-to-take-a-brief-nap demeanor until the car was out of sight. Then she set off at a trot. Tired, sure. A nap. No way. There was much to do before Max and Saulter returned.

As she let herself into the suite, she wondered briefly if they’d not thought beyond the proof they were going to validate. Didn’t they see what a Pandora’s box it opened?

She saw.

And she wanted to think it through.

The picnic basket. A single yellow rose.

The field was wide open:

Nathan Hillman. He still berated himself for not snatching Pam to safety.

Fleur Calloway. Bledsoe’s treatment of Derek and Natalie inflamed a never-healed wound.

Emma Clyde. How deep could a critic’s barbs go? A dangerous woman to cross.

Margo Wright. She had good reason to loathe Bledsoe—and a reputation for toughness.

Natalie Marlow. She lacked social graces, but she’d been many dark places.

Victoria Shaw. Even the meek can be pushed only so far.

Once again Annie looked through the bios. Only one really fit. Only one.

Annie buried her face in her hands.

What now?

Derek Davis was shackled to a deputy. The young publicist looked almost frail in the too-big pair of orange jail coveralls. He stared at the room full of people with scared, defiant eyes.

Natalie Marlow jumped to her feet when he entered. “Derek, Derek, it will be all right. It will be.”

Davis blinked uncertainly, then, reluctantly, irresistibly, his face softened.

Lady Gwendolyn stepped as elegantly as if she were garbed in mink and not an orange jail shift. She flashed a brilliant smile at Annie and winked one large blue eye. She was not, Annie was glad to see, shackled to a deputy, although
she walked behind the deputy and in front of Posey. As they passed, she gave Annie a thumbs-up salute.

The deputy looked at Posey, who was a walking thundercloud, shoulders tightly hunched, face drawn in a scowl. “Yeah. Anywhere,” Posey snapped.

Annie couldn’t imagine how the chief had wangled Posey’s presence, but he had.

Posey and his entourage had been the last to arrive.

Annie wanted to grab hold of the podium and hang on for dear life. So much depended upon how she marshaled the facts, and how persuasive she was.

Annie cleared her throat. Not for silence. It was very silent in that small meeting room. Nathan Hillman eyed her warily, no trace of the editor’s usual charm in his manner. Margo Wright was as impassive as a statue. Victoria Shaw nervously opened and closed the clasp of her purse. Emma Clyde reminded Annie of an alligator at rest, watchful, observant, and very, very dangerous. Fleur Calloway’s lovely face was worn and pale. Derek Davis watched Natalie Marlow. Natalie hunched forward, her face intent Henny’s vivid eyes flicked from face to face. Only Laurel and Lady Gwendolyn appeared serene.

She began: “I appreciate everyone coming this morning. I thought all of you would want to know the truth about the deaths of John Border Stone, Kathryn Honeycutt, and Neil Bledsoe.” Annie was proud of her even, unemotional tone. “This is a complicated story, one composed of a great deal of hatred and viciousness allied, oddly enough, with discipline and brilliant planning. I’d like to go back a few months, if you will. Neil Bledsoe was in financial trouble. I suspect, when the investigation is done, it will turn out that he was in very serious financial trouble. Bledsoe learned of the conference planned for this fall—our conference—to celebrate the centenary of the birth of the world’s greatest writer of detective stories, and Bledsoe conceived an audacious plan to make himself rich. He knew when he signed up for this meeting that it would draw many people who hated him. He knew, in fact, that Fleur Calloway”—the author stared down at her tightly clasped hands—“was to be the featured speaker. He knew that Lady Gwendolyn Tompkins was serving as co-hostess. Lady Gwendolyn is one of today’s most
famous mystery writers. Bledsoe knew that. He read her latest book,
Death of a Nabob.
He made plans to come to the conference, inviting his aunt by marriage, Kathryn Honeycutt, a true Christie fan, to accompany him. His troubles started soon after his arrival on the island. Emma Clyde came within inches of running him down. Gunfire erupted when he left my bookstore Saturday night. On Sunday, he made an obvious play for a new young writer, Natalie Marlow.” Natalie turned brooding eyes toward Annie. “On Monday after Lady Gwendolyn’s address, he disrupted the conference by criticizing Christie. On Tuesday, he unveiled his plan to publish a vicious biography of Christie. Later that morning a vase was shoved from the roof. It narrowly missed Bledsoe.”

No one could have asked for a more intent audience. They knew the story—but not the end of the story.

“Death struck Tuesday night—but Bledsoe was not its target. Dead, murdered, was a young man attending the conference. He had registered as James Bentley, a name drawn from Christie’s
Mrs. McGinty’s Dead.
His real name: John Border Stone. Stone desperately wanted to be a mystery writer. Saturday night, he ran up to the bookstore to say he’d seen the gunman. When he was subsequently killed, everyone assumed he’d recognized the person who shot at Bledsoe and that Bledsoe’s assailant murdered Stone to prevent disclosure.

“There were many here who could be suspected of wishing Bledsoe dead: Fleur Calloway, whose daughter lost her heart and her life because of Bledsoe.” Annie saw Emma reach out to grip Fleur’s arm. “Nathan Hillman, who loved the woman Bledsoe married and whom Bledsoe may have pushed to her death. Derek Davis, Pamela Gerrard’s son. Derek hated Bledsoe, blamed him for his mother’s disintegration into alcoholism and her death. Moreover, Bledsoe had attracted a young woman whom Derek was beginning to care very much about.” Natalie Marlow’s hands clenched. “Victoria Shaw. Bledsoe took away Shaw’s reason for living. And,” Annie looked into hostile cornflower blue eyes, “Emma Clyde. A great many people,” Annie said deliberately, “think it’s quite unwise to anger Emma.”

A tiny smile touched the lips of Emma Clyde.

Max shot Emma a wary glance.

“All the suspects. But,” Annie’s tone sharpened, strengthened, “not quite all. Because everyone here, all of us, from the people I’ve mentioned to Chief Saulter to Circuit Solicitor Posey, who followed yet another false scent—the murderer as a crazed Christie fan—have had our eyes focused on the wrong elements. Instead, here is what mattered.”

Turning, Annie grabbed up chalk and rapidly wrote on the blackboard available for business meetings:

1. The shots at Death on Demand. Bledsoe goes after the assailant.
   

2. The vase misses Bledsoe; he climbs up the ornate columns of the balconies to the roof.
   

3. Stone’s murder. Killed because he knew too much.
   

4. Roof tar on John Border Stone’s tennis shoes.
   

5. Kathryn Honeycutt’s murder; Bledsoe wounded.
   

6. The bloodhounds baying at the wall on the terrace.
   

7. Valium taken by Kathryn Honeycutt.
   

8. Bledsoe opens a picnic basket left at his door.
   

“Now when you study this list, you will see that the murderer doesn’t accomplish anything—oh, a lot of noise and confusion and semblance of threat—until Stone is murdered. Why was Stone murdered? The police determined that Stone’s tennis shoes have roof tar on them. He was the person who claimed to have seen the gunman outside Death on Demand. The assumption was made that Stone got a better look than he admitted, that he watched the gunman and was also present when the vase toppled.”

A high, clear voice intervened. “Good show, young miss.”

Annie felt a surge of elation—and gratitude. “You tell them, Lady Gwendolyn. You set me on the right track.”

The British author bounced to her feet. Every eye turned to her.

“We so often do
not
see the forest for the trees.” Lady Gwendolyn turned bright blue eyes toward Posey. “Think of this—who was on the roof when the vase came down? Young Mr. Stone. So who pushed the vase?” Lady Gwendolyn began to nod. “Why, yes, the answer has stared us in the face all this time. John Border Stone pushed that vase.”

Posey jumped up, his face reddening. “Wait a minute. This is a whitewash, and it won’t work. If Stone was trying to kill Bledsoe—which I don’t believe for a minute; I know the truth and it’s all tied up with this crazy mystery business—well, if Stone was the one trying to kill Bledsoe, he sure couldn’t have shot Bledsoe and Honeycutt. Because Stone was already dead by then!” he concluded triumphantly.

But Lady Gwendolyn gave him a cherubic smile. “My dear chap, most certainly that is quite true. You see, Bledsoe murdered Stone.”

The circuit solicitor rolled his eyes. “First you got Stone trying to kill Bledsoe, then you got Bledsoe killing Stone. Next thing I know you’ll have Bledsoe killing himself!”

Annie said firmly, “No. Bledsoe
wounded
himself. He killed Kathryn Honeycutt.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Posey exclaimed.

With Lady Gwendolyn nodding her approval, Annie laid it out: “Bledsoe played a role from the very beginning. There was no reasonable excuse for him to attend this kind of conference so he provided himself with an impeccable purpose—the character assassination of the world’s most beloved mystery writer. He knew a great deal about Christie. At some time in the past, he’d run across a sugar cutter like the weapon used in
Mrs. McGinty’s Dead.
He probably bought it just for his own amusement, but when this plan came into his mind—”

“This plan, this plan!” Posey expostulated. “You claim a man went through this elaborate ruse—attending the conference, faking attacks on his life—for what? Why? There’s no rational reason in the world—”

“Money.” There was a world of sadness in Annie’s quiet response.

Posey clamped his hands to his hips. “Whose money?”

“His aunt’s. Kathryn Honeycutt’s.”

The circuit solicitor looked like he’d just picked up a hand with thirteen spades. “Would it interest you to know,” he inquired sarcastically, “that Mrs. Honeycutt
wasn’t
a rich woman? Oh, she had been at one time. But we’ve talked to her bank, checked out her estate”—condescendingly he looked around the room—“amateur detectives lack the resources to fine-comb a victim’s background—”

“Stamps.” Annie spoke with finality.

Posey sensed trouble. “Stamps?”

“American mostly. She collected. Bledsoe knew it I have no doubt that when the contents of her home are evaluated, there will be a fortune in stamps. She once told me, ‘It’s my money. I can spend it any way I want to.’ And a fortune in stamps was even better for Bledsoe’s purposes. What are the odds those stamps would have quietly been lifted and no account given of them in the estate proceedings? Oh, there’s money there. And Bledsoe very deliberately, very cold-bloodedly went after it. He brought the sugar cutter to the conference, knowing that its use as a weapon to kill Stone would confuse the police and perhaps divert the investigation entirely toward Christie fans. He came to this conference knowing that his criticism of Christie would infuriate everyone here. He knew another natural line of inquiry would be directed at his enemies, and he knew that many of those he’d injured in the past would be at this conference. Good, more motives. He persuaded Stone—and I’m sure it will turn out that he took advantage of Stone’s hunger to be published—to fake the ‘attacks.’” Annie’s face tightened. “I imagine it was easy for Bledsoe to convince Stone that the attacks on him were part of a publicity build-up, certain to enhance interest in Bledsoe’s upcoming biography of Christie. Bledsoe must have promised to help Stone meet an editor. So the attacks occurred—and Bledsoe was clearly the object of two murder attempts. All attention was focused on Bledsoe, who was so obviously the killer’s target. At that point, Stone’s fate became certain. He must not be alive when Honeycutt is murdered and Bledsoe wounded. Because Stone alone knew that the first two attacks were bogus. So Bledsoe arranged to meet Stone in his room Tuesday night. Bledsoe knew his own room was being watched—a protective measure—so he went out via the balcony. He detoured by way of Lady Gwendolyn’s room (she’d left her balcony doors open), on an impulse took her cape, then climbed down to the next floor, and hurried to Stone’s room. He had the sugar cutter with him. Probably he made some kind of joke about it. He offered Stone cocaine, then struck him down with the cutter, using the cape as protection against bloodstains. He then smudged the bloody cape against the
wall in a trail leading back to Lady Gwendolyn’s room. He’d unlocked her door earlier—what could be easier than tossing in the bloodied cape? Then he regained his own room via the balcony.”

“He was an agile, clever fellow, but altogether a blackguard,” Lady Gwendolyn commented. “At that point the stage was set for the main murder—the death of his aunt.”

“That was quite a production,” Annie said soberly. “Bledsoe was busy as hell the night he killed Kathryn. From the autopsy report, we know that she had spaghetti, a green salad, and ginger ale for dinner. Bledsoe slipped a Valium into her ginger ale. She was a Christian Scientist, had no prescription for Valium, and in fact never took medicines of any kind. But Bledsoe had to be sure she slept deeply that night. It was that single dose of Valium that started me on the right trail. Because it was wrong. And if that was wrong, how wrong were we about everything else? Bledsoe dressed in dark slacks, pullover, sneakers, and the brown cotton gloves that were found on the terrace. Again he left his room by the balcony, without being seen by Billy Cameron, who was on protective watch duty in the hall. That suited Bledsoe fine; Billy would provide him with an unimpeachable alibi. He climbed down the side of the hotel—”