The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [106]
So, somehow, between sessions, Annie must discharge the task Lady Gwendolyn had assigned. Although it was flattering to be chosen, she still wondered at the reason why. Lady Gwendolyn’s brisk comment—“Annie, my dear, you won’t be misled by nuances”—mystified her.
What nuances?
Jean Reinhardt’s tight blond curls quivered as she shook her head. “No, I don’t think I know …” She turned the graduation photo of Stone to better catch the light in the foyer outside Meeting Room B. “Wait a minute. Yes, yes, yes … at the publishing course. Oh, Jesus. The guy with the manuscript with all the missing feet.” Her nose wrinkled. “Honest to God, you wouldn’t believe some of the manuscripts we get. No expletives deleted, and the way some writers confuse reality with descriptions of body functions …” A sigh.
“Have you seen this morning’s paper?” Annie asked.
The editor nodded. “Sure.”
“You missed his picture?” Annie asked, surprised.
The editor was surprised in turn. She looked at Stone’s photo again. “In the Times?”
“Oh, no, the local paper. The Island Gazette.” Annie whipped a copy from under her arm. Stone’s murder, of course, had run in the Wednesday paper, but it was still the top story in today’s.
Reinhardt took the paper. “Well, I’ll be damned. So this is the guy who was killed. Small world.”
“What did you think about him?” Annie asked.
A shrug. “Not much. Harder to shake than plaster of Paris. Seemed to think taking the course gave him every right to try and waylay you after work to talk about his book again.”
“Did you know he was here at this conference?” Annie asked.
“Lord, no.” She scanned the story at an editor’s whipflash reading rate. “Funny. I would have classed him as an obtuse jerk. Who would ever have thought he would end up murdered?”
In the dealers’ room, Annie stopped at the Death on Demand booth which Ingrid’s good friend, Duane Webb, was minding. Annie hoped that Duane, a former newspaperman, an ex-drunk, and not a sufferer of fools, was also minding his tongue.
“How’s it going?” She straightened the front row of second-hand paperbacks, all in good condition and priced at three dollars each, noting a few titles: Dead Letter by Douglas Clark, Too Hot for Hawaii by Thomas B. Dewey, Bitter Finish by Linda Barnes, and Somewhere in the House by Elizabeth Daly.
“Gangbusters.” There was a note of bravado in Duane’s gravelly voice. “Except … uh …” He smoothed his balding head sheepishly. “Could’ve sold all the Shaw books.” He pointed at the top row of the case to his left. Annie had displayed separately books by conference attendees or those being especially honored. “Told the guy to fuck off.”
Annie waited. She couldn’t read Duane’s eyes behind the thick lens of his glasses.
“The jerk that’s causing all the trouble, threatening to slander Christie,” Duane explained.
“Oh, Duane.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “You wonderful S.O.B.”
She was still grinning when Henny pounced on her as she came out the door.
Grabbing Annie’s arm, Henny tugged her behind a pillar. “Annie, you’re not going to believe this!” Outrage warred with amusement in her tone.
Such words could only herald information about a particular circuit solicitor. “Let me guess. Posey’s arrested Fleur Calloway!” Among those known to dislike Bledsoe, Fleur alone had to be considered free of suspicion. She and Annie were standing at the coffee bar in Death on Demand