The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [108]
“Sounds to me like Posey’s busy proving he was born without any little gray cells.” But Annie was thinking about Billy Cameron’s night duty. “So Saulter has Billy watching Bledsoe.” It was odd how relieved she felt. She might despise the man, but she certainly didn’t want to see him murdered.
“Yes. Posey approves, of course. He told Bledsoe someone would be watching him from now on—so they can break the drug ring when somebody tries again to kill him.”
Annie laughed out loud.
But Henny didn’t smile. “The problem is, Annie, Posey’s told the chief to concentrate on the hotel and question all the employees about possible smuggling activities.”
“That will drive the manager bananas.”
Henny brushed that aside. “It also means any investigation of the key suspects has come to a screeching halt.”
“So?”
“So that leaves it squarely up to us.” Henny gave a Bulldog Drummond salute and swung toward the door.
Annie glimpsed the other investigators—Lady Gwendolyn, Henny, Laurel, and, of course, Max—at odd moments during the day. Each was assigned one or two suspects. Their task was simple: To contact their suspects and confidentially, oh, so very confidentially, but with pointed looks suggesting the information might be very important to the listener, report it had been learned that the police knew the murderer’s identity and an arrest was imminent.
As the early morning meeting in their suite had ended, Annie couldn’t resist twitting Lady Gwendolyn—after all, this was one of the hoariest ploys in the history of fiction (Flee, All Is Discovered). “Do you really think anyone will fall for that?” Lady Gwendolyn had grinned impishly. “The point, my dear, is that the guilty flee even where no man pursueth. Of course, no one will quite believe it, but can anyone quite dare to disbelieve it? I don’t expect a sudden, guilt-revealing exodus from the hotel. But I do think it might—just might—discourage the murderer from acting again.”
Annie found Terry Abbott, the other editor who liad been on the staff when Stone attended the publishing course, coming out of the bar shortly before lunch. He glanced casually at Stone’s photographs. “Oh, the guy who got killed.” So he, at least, had read the Gazette. “I remember him; The kid really hounded us editors. He was sure he was the next Ludlum and he couldn’t wait to tell you about it. Only one problem: He had no talent”
Neil Bledsoe lounged at his ease in the Palmetto Court, at a table situated precisely where the vase had landed.
Annie held out the photographs of Stone.
His dark brows drew down in a frown. “Yeah. I know that face.”
In a now familiar gesture, Annie handed him that day’s Island Gazette.
“I’ll be damned. So that’s the chump who got bumped off. Oh, hell yes, I remember him. What a bore. Pestered me for months about his damn manuscript, thought I could get him an editor.”
True to her firm instructions from Lady Gwendolyn, Annie tried to analyze Bledsoe’s initial reaction. Irritation at being accosted? Yes. And disinterest. Until the realization that this was the murdered guest.
Margo Wright patted her perspiration-streaked face with the thick terry-cloth towel. The waters in the Jacuzzi swirled and foamed around her slender body. “Sure. I remember that creep. So what? I didn’t bash his head in.”
No trace of concern on Margo’s part. Only a sharp spasm of irritation at being questioned.
Derek Davis opened the door to his room, saw Annie, and slammed it shut. But it was hard for Annie to dismiss the haunted look in his red-rimmed eyes. Just what was Derek trying to forget?
Emma Clyde leaned back in the rattan chair on the terrace. The wind rustled the fronds of the palmetto behind her. She took her time studying the pictures. “Never seen him before in my life.” She handed the photos to Annie. “You keep on looking for trouble—someday you’re going to find it.”
Annie looked into the author’s pale blue, cool eyes. “Emma, are you threatening me?”
“No. Just warning you, honey. For old time’s sake.”
“A student at the short course,” Nathan Hillman