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she was given to wearing sweeping, bright-colored caftans, summer and winter. Today’s orange-and-pink vertical-striped caftan was accented by improbably varicolored hair (pink, green, and orange) bristling in spikes. Anyone else would have looked like a garden party tent topped by peacock feathers, but Annie didn’t find Emma the least bit absurd. She found her scary. Annie knew that Emma had been suspected of shoving her nonswimmer, much younger, unfaithful second husband off the stern of Marigold’s Pleasure, her luxury yacht, several years before. The incident was carried on the police blotter as an accident. Deep in her heart, however, Annie felt certain that the mistress of fictional murder was just as adept at the real thing.

Annie eyed the bigger woman warily. “What’s wrong, Emma?”

“As I understand it, as you represented it to me,” there was no mistaking the accusation in Emma’s raspy voice, “The Christie Caper is intended to be a gathering of traditional authors, an opportunity to honor people who write and enjoy the Classic Mystery.”

Annie’s shoulders relaxed. “That’s what it is! For heaven’s sake, Emma, what’s upset you? You’ve seen the program. It’s going to be wonderful.”

“Wrong.” The author’s lips twisted angrily. Her bright orange lipstick almost matched the vivid spots of anger on her cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell me—tell any of us—that Neil Bledsoe was coming? I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw his name on one of the folders at the registration desk.”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute! Emma, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who’s Neil Bledsoe?”

Emma’s pale blue eyes examined Annie like a scalpel searching for nerves. Slowly, the ugly flush began to recede from her square face. “You didn’t invite Neil Bledsoe?”

“Emma, it doesn’t work like that. You know that. This conference is being run just like all the rest. I snagged a big name to serve as official hostess.” Lady Gwendolyn was, for sure, a Big Name. “I sent out flyers to all the writers’ groups and mystery clubs and mystery bookstores. The registration fee was fifty dollars, and on the application blank people marked whether they were fans, authors, editors, agents, whatever. Henny took the forms and wrote letters asking writers who had registered if they would like to appear on panels. Oh, and she also asked Bryan Shaw’s widow, Victoria, to be on a panel. The only person who received a special invitation is our guest of honor, Fleur Calloway.” Annie couldn’t keep the reverence from her voice, though she knew it wasn’t cool to engage—at her advanced age (twenty-six in June)—in hero worship. But Fleur Calloway—oh, how Annie had loved her books, ever since she’d first discovered them when she was just fifteen. But this wasn’t the time to think how thrilled she’d been several weeks ago when Fleur Calloway—Fleur Calloway—called Death on Demand to say, in a soft and gentle voice, that she was so delighted to be remembered, even though she hadn’t published in some years. Annie had interrupted breathlessly and said, “Oh, Mrs. Calloway, everyone loves your books. They are all in print. You are one of my best sellers.”

“Fleur Calloway.” Emma’s tone was odd. “God, I’d forgotten she was coming. Oh, sweet Jesus.”

AGATHA CHRISTIE

TITLE CLUE

Henrietta did her best,

And almost lost her life.

Emma’s stubby, capable-looking hand rested on the steering wheel of her Jaguar, but she made no move to turn the key in the ignition.

Annie wriggled on the hot leather. September on Broward’s Rock had its charm, a lessening of summer’s hectic pace, but until the winds shifted westward, usually during the third week, the island was as soggy with humidity as Houston or Calcutta. Emma had left her windows rolled down, but it was still muggier than a steam bath in the front seat. Annie could feel trickles of sweat on her face and back.

Emma watched a flight of monarchs. The butterflies drifted lazily over the gleaming emerald-green hood, their black-veined russet wings magnificent in the sunlight. “Beautiful. And so vulnerable. I don’t understand people who catch