The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [119]
The pleasure in baiting Posey abruptly fled. Annie all too clearly remembered Kathryn’s distress the previous night and the woman’s announcement that she would leave the island this morning. Had she packed her bags, readied herself for bed, and taken the tranquilizer to ease into sleep, thinking tomorrow would be better, that tomorrow she would be rid of Neil Bledsoe and the island?
Posey ignored Saulter’s efforts at peacemaking. He paced right up to the wall next to Henny. “Already know some stuff out of the autopsy, huh? Think you’re pretty smart. Well, we’ll see just how smart all of you people are.” Posey’s face rivaled a stormy sunset, interesting splotches of red vying with purple. Imperiously, he snapped at the unhappy Saulter, “Round them all up. Meeting Room C.”
Annie couldn’t help it. Like almost everyone in the meeting room—except Lady Gwendolyn, who sat perched on a front row chair, apparently in a state of suspended animation. “Thinking,” Laurel explained admiringly—Annie kept glancing covertly at Neil Bledsoe.
Bledsoe was well aware of the glances. His angry eyes challenged his foes. The critic’s usually ruddy complexion was ashen; he looked fatigued and crumpled. Unshaven, his jowls were almost obscured by bristles. The white suit jacket around his shoulders bunched over the bulky bandage beneath a polo shirt; his once crisp white trousers bore dark splotches and smears. His blood? Kathryn’s blood? Annie looked away, looked back. Whatever he had suffered, Bledsoe had lost none of his combativeness. As each person entered, he raked them with a harsh, questioning gaze, as if demanding, Are you the one? Did you try to murder me? Did you kill Kathryn?
Annie leaned over to Max. “Posey shouldn’t do this, he shouldn’t put all of them in one room together.”
“It’s deliberate,” Max said quietly. “Deliberate—and vicious.”
Startled, Annie looked toward the front of the room.
Posey waited behind the lectern, watching avidly as each of the suspects entered, his watery blue eyes darting from each face to Bledsoe and back again. Occasionally, he reached out, made a notation upon the legal pad on the lectern. Frank Saulter stood on the platform, too, but, hands clasped behind his back, the police chief stared down at the floor, repugnance evident in every rigid line of his body.
In they came, one by one.
Nathan Hillman’s squarish face bore no traces of geniality. The editor met Bledsoe’s gaze with a somber look of distaste.
Her scarlet caftan almost matching the high color in her cheeks, Emma Clyde stumped in, ignored Bledsoe, and marched directly to the front of the room. “Posey, I don’t like a deputy sheriff arriving at my house and ordering me to accompany him. I want you to know that under no circumstances would I be here unless served with a warrant except for Fleur Calloway. I intend to make very certain that you treat Mrs. Calloway with respect. Do I make myself clear?”
Emma was one of the island’s many millionaires. She was also a rabid Democrat with a multitude of personal contacts in the legislature.
Posey forced a conciliatory smile. “Mrs. Clyde, please, do take a comfortable seat. Certainly there is a misunderstanding. You are under no compulsion to be here. I merely thought you would want to be present in the interests of your friend, Mrs. Calloway.”
Emma wasn’t charmed. “Mrs. Calloway will answer no questions without the presence of an attorney.” Turning, she stalked back to the last row and plopped down. Her green spiked hair quivered.
Victoria Shaw edged open the door, saw the others assembled, and scuttled inside. The widow sank timidly into another back seat. But the faded eyes that fastened on Bledsoe were stern with hatred.
Natalie Marlow stopped in the doorway.