The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [114]
“Maybe. But I’ve made up my mind.” She avoided Max’s glance. He was on her side, and she loved him for it, but she felt responsible for those who had journeyed to Broward’s Rock for The Christie Caper. She could no longer ignore danger to them, and it was only too clear after two murders and a wounding that a deadly predator was among them.
Even though it broke her heart to close down her wonderful conference.
Annie posted the last sign on the doors of Meeting Room D:
NOTICE
EMERGENCY MEETING
ALL REGISTRANTS
THE CHRISTIE CAPER
1 P.M. FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 14
MAIN BALLROOM
She reached out and touched the date. Tomorrow would be the one hundredth anniversary of the birth of Agatha Mary Clarissa Miller Christie Mallowan. Fleur Calloway was scheduled to speak at the closing luncheon of The Christie Caper in honor of the greatest mystery writer of all time. Wouldn’t Christie be astounded to know that a meeting to honor her had been cancelled because of murder?
No.
Annie felt certain that Dame Agatha wouldn’t be at all surprised. Miss Marple’s quiet observation in “The Bloodstained Pavement” rang in her head: “I hope you dear young people will never realize how very wicked the world is.”
Annie glanced at her watch. Thirty minutes and The Christie Caper would be history.
A collective sigh from her listeners rivaled the poignant cry of a Carolina dove. Annie steeled her heart. She avoided looking at the front row where Max sat. She might weep. As she scanned the audience, she couldn’t help noting particular faces:
Nathan Hillman no longer appeared genial. Tight lines bracketed the editor’s mouth, and his eyes were wary.
Derek Davis had shaved spottily and nicked an ugly gash in his chin. Dark glasses hid his eyes.
Natalie Marlow’s new hairdo framed a hollow-eyed face. Her mouth was a thin, straight, tight line.
Margo Wright gazed at Annie with utterly unreadable eyes.
Victoria Shaw sat with folded hands, eyes downcast.
Emma Clyde’s spiky hair glinted emerald in the light from the chandeliers. It did nothing to add charm to her square, blunt features.
Fleur Calloway stared toward the door, one hand at her throat.
Neil Bledsoe stood there, one heavily wrapped arm in a sling, his white suit jacket loose on his shoulders. The ashy grayness of his face emphasized the rage glittering in his penetrating eyes.
Oh, yes, time and time enough to end this. “I want to thank all of you for being such grand participants,” Annie said, “and I regret more than I can say the necessity for ending the conference at this time, but I’m sure—”
“Just one moment, please, dear Annie.”
The sweet, light yet authoritative voice would have caught the attention of a court full of justices, a forum filled with Roman senators, a gaggle of five-year-olds at a birthday party.
Annie’s immediate, “Now, Lady Gwendolyn …” was swiftly overborne as the elderly author bounded vigorously up the platform steps, moving so quickly her coronet braids seemed to dance atop her head.
Near the open doorway, Posey grabbed Saulter’s arm and pointed toward the stage.
Lady Gwendolyn faced the audience with a kindly smile. Her reddish hair emphasized the pink-and-cream of her complexion. Her gray silk dress shimmered like London fog in November. “I feel that we face a simple question here. What is our duty, yours and mine: to stay? or to go?” In her swift and vivid fashion, Lady Gwendolyn captured the hearts of her listeners. Gently shushing Annie’s attempts to interrupt, the silver-tongued author built her case, quoting from mystery greats of past and present. By the time she finished, she had the conference-goers on their feet.
Even Henny cheered. “Good show! Bully! Get the blighter!”
Annie made frantic motions at Max, but he lifted his hands to indicate helplessness—and tried not to grin.
“Are we crime experts?” Lady Gwendolyn demanded.
“Yeeees!”
“Shall we show the white flag?”
“Noooooooo!” Some in the back rows climbed on their chairs the better to see.
Annie thought miserably about broken bones and liability insurance.
“Shall we