The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [103]
“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