The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [118]
The handler didn’t even break stride as he flipped one at Posey.
On the wall, the four tried to smother whoops of laughter.
They didn’t quite manage.
Ponderously, Posey swung toward them. He glared for a long moment, then lumbered over to them.
Annie resisted the impulse to wish him a good day.
“Mrs. Darling.” To say his tone held little warmth was to put it very nicely indeed. Since Annie was atop the wall, looking down, Posey had lost his usual psychological advantage of height. “I understand you had an altercation with Neil Bledsoe over the book he’s going to write about Agatha Christie.”
Annie’s jaw jutted out. “You bet I did.”
“Are you interrogating my wife, Posey?” Max dropped lightly down to the ground. His tone was pleasant.
Posey was taking a deep breath, preparatory, Annie felt sure, to a grand pronouncement of the duties and obligations of the circuit solicitor for this particular circuit in the sovereign State of South Carolina, when Frank Saulter, his crumpled uniform in sharp contrast to Posey’s still crisp blue suit, hurried up. “Brice, a guest on the second floor thinks she saw the murderer last night, says he went past her balcony—”
“Did she say what size wings he had?” Posey’s thick lips split in a derisive smile. Looking up, he gestured toward the hotel facade.
Annie looked up, too.
Lady Gwendolyn stood, hands apart on her balcony railing, surveying the scene below.
Trust the canny old author to find a superior vantage point.
“Lady Gwendolyn.” Posey almost sounded like he was purring.
Startled, Annie glanced at the circuit solicitor and was immediately unnerved by his expression, a combination of satisfaction, stubbornness, and perverse anticipation.
“Enough nonsense. I can’t be fooled.” Posey turned, still with that air of immense self-satisfaction. “A concerted effort has been made by some to encourage authorities to concentrate their attention upon individuals presumed to have reason to kill Bledsoe.”
“Oh, the drug runners?” Annie asked innocently.
Posey gave her the kind of look Fletch reserved for cats and ex-wives. “In a multipronged investigation, it is quite obvious that various theories will be considered and discarded before the ultimate focus is made.” In other words, the circuit solicitor’s hopes of aping the success of the Hilton Head police by uncovering a huge cocaine operation had been dashed by a murder committed with a .22 pistol and the aid of fireworks and smoke bombs. It was embarrassingly obvious, even to Posey, that Kathryn Honeycutt’s murder, whatever its origins, certainly didn’t involve ordinary, run-of-the-mill street criminals. Annie could imagine the incredulous response of a drug runner handed a .22 and a handful of firecrackers. Anyone who regularly read about the exploits of hoods such as Banana Bob and Ferocious Frankie knew the artillery was heavier and the action—grunt, slash, slam, and boom—straightforward.
However, since the suggestion of drug-related violence had been headlined in the Island Gazette after Stone’s body was found, Posey couldn’t disavow his initial statement.
Henny, who often displayed the compassionate instincts of a shark, now positioned herself for the kill. “Autopsies are such an aid to investigators, aren’t they? Cocaine in Stone’s bloodstream, Valium in Honeycutt’s. Do you think a gang that handles both street and prescription drugs is involved?” Her smile rivaled that of a sand tiger shark when sighting its next meal.
Annie turned toward Henny in surprise. “The autopsy’s already been done on Kathryn?”
“Underway.” Henny tried not to sound overly pleased with herself. “The blood tests have been completed. Other work’s continuing.”
Annie had to hand it to Henny. Talk about contacts. Probably the tip had come from Vince Ellis at the Gazette, and Vince must have a real pipeline into the medical examiner’s office.
Saulter tried to deflect an outburst from Posey. “If you’ve heard some of the autopsy results, Mrs. Brawley,