The Christie Caper (42 page)

Posey had had enough. “You sure Clark Kent wasn’t out there that night?”

Annie ignored him. “We all saw Bledsoe go up the side of the building after the vase was pushed over. Without having seen that, I might never have figured it out But Bledsoe couldn’t resist posturing, demonstrating just how brave he was, and revealing just how athletic he was. That explains the bloodhounds, Posey. Bledsoe came down the side of the hotel, climbing down those ornate pillars (and that’s why the lady on the second floor was right; she
did
see the murderer go by), and then he jumped to the top of the wall and dropped onto the terrace. The bloodhounds picked up the murderer’s trail—Bledsoe’s trail—where he
started,
not where he stopped. He ran fast, throwing firecrackers and smoke bombs, hurrying to the closet where he pulled the breaker switches, then up the stairs—more firecrackers and smoke bombs—and here came Billy. Bledsoe knocked him out and the coast was clear. Running up to the third floor,
he opened his door, woke Kathryn. She would have been very muzzy, very sleepy. He got her up and as far as her door, then he sprinted a few feet to the foyer, turned, pinned her in the flashlight and shot her. Then he stripped out of his clothes, dropped them in his room, got a wet towel, returned to the living room—”

“You amateurs.” Posey luxuriated in his disgust “Think you’re so smart.”

Lady Gwendolyn sniffed. “Annie is absolutely correct on all counts.”

Posey directed a supercilious smile at the English author. “Your lack of knowledge about police work is astounding, madam. Any doctor knows the difference between a contact wound and one from a distance of six feet or more. And Bledsoe was shot from a distance of at least six feet.”

Lady Gwendolyn threw up her hands. “My dear man, obviously Bledsoe took this into account.”

“He didn’t forget that.” Annie shivered. “He didn’t forget anything. He dropped the towel by Kathryn’s body in readiness, wired the gun (he still wore gloves, of course) to the iron grillwork, attached a string to the trigger, carefully stepped off the distance, and pulled the trigger.”

“Shot himself?” Henny asked. Then, she answered herself. “Of course. So macho and a hell of an alibi.”

“It must have hurt like hell.” Annie remembered the little boy who’d refused to cry so long ago. “He didn’t have to hurry now. He picked up the towel, used it to staunch the blood, undid the string from the trigger and the wire from the gun, went out to the balcony and tossed the gun and wire and gloves into the night. You remember there were no lights in the hotel. People were screaming, running across the terrace. It was absolute chaos. Hurrying back to Kathryn, he picked her up, and stumbled out to the balcony.”

“The wire that was found on the terrace,” Saulter didn’t give further provenance, “tested positive for residue from gunpowder.”

“Neil had himself a damn good time, didn’t he?” Hillman said bitterly. “Except—what the hell happened to him?”

Annie looked at the editor in surprise. “But that’s already been made clear—thanks to our outstanding circuit solicitor.” She managed to sound admiring without gagging. “As
Mr. Posey insisted—since the door was chained and no one else was visible on the balcony—Bledsoe’s death was most certainly accidental.”

Max’s lake blue eyes narrowed.

Annie faced Posey. “Of course there
was
a reason why Bledsoe ran to his death. However, we may never know quite how or why it happened. My guess is that he found a picnic basket outside his door. He brought it inside and opened it and—”

Chief Saulter reached down behind the podium and picked up a finely meshed wire cage and dropped open the door. “Handsome fellow, isn’t he? A red rat snake. We found him curled up, fast asleep on top of the four-poster in Bledsoe’s room. Red rat snakes climb real good.”

Someone in the audience said, “Jesus, look at that bloody thing!”

Annie wasn’t fond of snakes. She didn’t look. “Yes, that snake was in the picnic hamper—and Bledsoe was pathologically terrified of snakes. When he opened the basket, the snake must have slithered over the side, and Bledsoe quite simply went into a state of blind panic, reeling away from the equally frightened snake, running, careening from wall to chair, across his bedroom and out the open French window and onto the balcony—to his death.”

Laurel gasped dramatically.

She stood up, pressed a hand to her heart.

Annie jolted to a stop. “Laurel, what—”

“Oh my dears, I am stricken.” Laurel closed her eyes, then opened them to look piteously about, tears brimming in her huge blue eyes. “To unwittingly cause a fellow creature such horror, such fear—to indirectly be responsible for another’s death—I don’t know if I can bear it.” She pressed a dainty lace handkerchief to her face.

Max jumped to his feet.

“Well, I’ll be double damned!” Emma Clyde exclaimed.

Annie darted across the room, pulled her mother-in-law into her embrace. “Dear Laurel …”

Her mother-in-law lifted her chin, stared bravely at the shocked faces turned toward her. “I had no idea that was Bledsoe’s room.” She pulled away from Annie. “Oh, Henny, why didn’t you tell me you’d changed rooms?”

“Oh my God, so that’s how it happened!” Annie exclaimed.

“Wait a minute.” Posey gaped at them. “You mean she”—and he pointed at Laurel—“put a damn snake in a picnic basket and put it there for this guy to get when he’s scared to death of snakes? Wait a minute!”

“How tragic,” Henny said somberly. “Laurel, I am so sorry.” She turned to Posey. “It’s so simple, really. You see, I was originally in the suite taken by Bledsoe and his aunt. They were assigned to 313, which has a mural with an alligator in it, and it threw Bledsoe into a state of panic. That’s when I offered to trade suites. I took 313 and gave my suite, 315, to Bledsoe. Unfortunately, poor Laurel didn’t know of the room change.” Henny reached out to take Laurel’s hand. “I’ll bet that lovely red rat snake was a present for me, wasn’t it?”

“A present?” A stunned Posey peered toward the cage where the red splotched snake coiled, head up.

Laurel dabbed at her moist eyes. “Moles. Red rat snakes are so effective with moles, and poor dear Henny, a new lawn just
filled
with mole tunnels. Those pesky little rascals. I took a little picnic over to the forest preserve Saturday afternoon, just for a few moments by myself with nature and I enjoyed it so much—chicken salad sandwich and kiwi—just a light repast …”

“And you got that
snake?”
Posey eyed her belligerently.

“One must seize opportunity,” Laurel replied with great dignity. “Red rat snakes are great climbers, you know, but this one must have been full, for he was curled up right on the first branch. I saw him and I immediately thought, ‘Henny!’” Laurel clapped her hands together. “It was but the work of a moment. I just scooped this dear fellow right into my basket and popped shut the lid.” She beamed, looking around for approval. Then her lovely face settled into sad and pensive lines. “Such a tragedy that I didn’t know Henny’s room had been changed.”

“So,” Annie concluded heartily, “Circuit Solicitor Posey was absolutely right—Bledsoe’s death
was
an accident”

Lady Gwendolyn rushed to Annie and gave her a quick hug. Then she turned to the circuit solicitor. “One has to wonder about fate—and the mills of the gods. Don’t you think?”

•   •   •

The phone rang.

Annie rose stiffly. Shelving books had to be the hardest work ever devised and she’d been at it for days now, replacing the books they’d offered at the book room during the conference. Sales had been excellent, but there were always plenty that came home.

She reached the phone as it rang again.

“Death on Demand.” It felt good once again to be at work in the finest mystery bookstore this side of Atlanta. The Christie conference—aside from the unexpected traumas, and she would be a long time forgetting some of them—had been a fabulous success. But Annie was ready for a little peace and quiet. Perhaps she’d have a chance to read some of the books just in, the latest from Julie Smith, James Yaffe, and Caroline Graham.

“I just keep having the most
marvelous
ideas for a new book.” The line crackled.

“Lady Gwendolyn, where are you?” No answer would have surprised Annie—in a commune, atop a fire lookout tower, nursing a gin gimlet at Raffles in Singapore.

“In flight. They have an air phone. I just couldn’t resist.”

Annie had last seen her visitor at the Savannah airport en route for New York.

“Are you going home?” With most people, it was a natural assumption.

“No.”

It was a beautifully modulated
Neow.

“I decided to visit your West Coast. I understand there are many writers there. I will be attending a retreat.” A burble of laughter. “I’ve already come up with the title for my next book—
The Christie Caper.
Do you think it has a certain ring?”

Static exploded on the line. Annie held the receiver away from her ear and faintly heard, “After that,
Death of a Fat Fool.
So I’m thinking of coming back by your island on the way home. A spot of research.”

It was not the most direct route to England. But Annie was thrilled. “As soon as you can,” she urged.

Annie was smiling when she returned to her task. Lady
Gwendolyn—brilliant, jolly, intrepid—a co-conspirator to be prized.

The front doorbell rang.

Still on her knees, Annie twisted around, then scrambled to her feet “Mrs. Calloway, how nice of you to come by.”

Fleur Calloway, slim and lovely in a lemon blazer, a cream blouse, and daffodil skirt, hesitated in the doorway. The late afternoon sunlight turned her gloriously red hair to flame. She said, abruptly, “I wanted to see you before I left the island.”

“Let’s have coffee,” Annie urged, and she led the way to the back of the store and the coffee bar.

As Annie poured almond mocha into their mugs, she said warmly, “Your speech at the luncheon was just wonderful. It was a perfect ending to the conference.”

“Lady Gwendolyn’s closing remarks,” Fleur said quietly, “were well received.”

Annie had been delighted to give the speaker’s role to Lady Gwendolyn so that she might make good on her promise to announce the name of the murderer at the luncheon’s end. The doughty author held her listeners spellbound with her account. Neil Bledsoe, murderer. And so the story ended, a murderer who escaped men’s justice in an odd twist of fate. “But,” Lady Gwendolyn had concluded, “can we doubt that the mills of the gods grind exceedingly fine?”

Annie looked directly into Calloway’s luminous, questioning eyes. “I’m very glad it’s over.” She knew that Fleur Calloway understood that she was not talking about the conference.

Fleur Calloway, who had loved her daughter so much and every day placed a single yellow rose on her grave.

Fleur Calloway, who grew up in the bayous of Louisiana with four rambunctious brothers.

A snake and a single yellow rose.

The author’s lips trembled. “How? How did you and Lady Gwendolyn and—is it your mother-in-law and—”

“It wasn’t difficult. Once I knew what must have happened—”

Fleur pressed a hand against suddenly trembling lips—“I talked to Laurel and Henny.” Annie paused. “Laurel has three daughters. She loves them very much. And Henny was
adamant that the truth would do no one any good. They agreed at once to my plan.”

Fleur stared at her with luminous eyes. “I still don’t see why you would take such a risk … for a stranger.”

“Because we felt it was right,” Annie said simply. She put down her mug. “Just a moment.” Hurrying up the aisle, she scanned her almost reshelved Christie section and found the title she sought. Returning, she placed it on the coffee bar. “I’d like for you to have this. It’s a story of people working together to see justice done. This is a first edition. To remember … Death on Demand.”

The author looked down at the cover, at the copy of Christie’s famed
Murder on the Orient Express,
the indescribably brilliant and touching novel in which Christie made it very clear that law and justice are not always synonymous.

Calloway’s eyes had the bright shine of tears when she looked up. “I see—and the three of you conspired—”

“Four,” Annie interrupted. It would never do to leave out Lady Gwendolyn. Then, briskly, she asked, “Are you on your way home?” To say too much would be a serious mistake.

“Yes.” The author took a deep breath, looked away, her gaze sweeping the back of the bookstore. “Oh, your water-colors. They are so well done. Who won the contest?”

“Do you know, we forgot to ask people to turn in their lists!”

Fleur Calloway pointed in order.
“The Mysterious Affair at Styles, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, And Then There Were None, Mrs. McGinty’s Dead,
and
What Mrs. McGillicuddy Saw!
Among Christie’s finest.”

Annie clapped her hands. “Now you’ve won. You get free coffee and a book.”

Calloway slowly picked up
Murder on the Orient Express.
“I
will
take this one.” She held it tight to her body. “I can never thank you enough,” she said softly, her voice breaking. She gave Annie a swift hug, then turned and walked away.