The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [120]
Both the editor and Emma Clyde stood when Fleur Calloway entered. Fleur was so remarkably lovely that even in these unpleasant circumstances there was, just for an instant, a sense of lightness and peace. The author’s finely modeled face was grave, her lovely eyes weary and touched with sadness. She smiled at Nathan but slipped quietly up the last row to join Emma.
Not once did Fleur give any indication that she was aware of Bledsoe’s presence.
Not by a turn of her head.
Not by a flicker of an eyelash.
Bledsoe’s face turned an ugly muddy color. The anger in his eyes was frightening.
Posey marked vigorously on the legal pad.
Margo Wright stood in the doorway. The agent was a regal figure, her midnight black hair smooth, her handsome face impassive, her bright red, full lips firmly set. She shot an openly contemptuous glance at Bledsoe.
“Don’t have too much fun, Neil.” There was no mistaking the taunting edge in her voice. “It might come back to haunt you.”
Posey pounced as she took a seat on the row in front of Annie. “Are you threatening Mr. Bledsoe, Ms. Wright?”
She regarded the circuit solicitor steadily. “Am I? Oh, certainly not,” she replied sardonically. “I always have Neil’s best interests at heart. Just as he does for all of us.”
Posey placed his hands on the sides of the lectern and leaned forward. “It has appeared that someone, Ms. Wright, most certainly does not have Mr. Bledsoe’s best interests at heart.”
The agent ignored him. Opening her purse, she pulled out a compact and began to freshen her vivid makeup.
Posey flushed. He glanced at his legal pad, tapped his pen against a list. “Frank, I want everyone here. Where’s Davis?”
The chief conferred briefly with a deputy at the door, then rejoined Posey on the platform.
The circuit solicitor surveyed his hostile audience with satisfaction. “I’ve called all of you here—”
“Rather unorthodox, isn’t it, Mr. Posey?” Henny’s player’s voice carried beautifully. “Aren’t you afraid that counsel ultimately may claim that you’ve prejudiced the defendant’s case, subjecting him or her to questioning without benefit of either the Miranda warning or any opportunity to seek legal representation?”
Annie promptly forgave Henny any and all annoying attributes. “Way to go,” she hissed enthusiastically. Carolyn wheat’s rough-and-tumble lawyer Cass Jameson couldn’t have said it any better.
Posey’s grip tightened on the lectern, but he kept his voice in check. “It may interest you to know, Mrs. Brawley,” he said with heavy sarcasm, “that no Miranda warning is required when the investigator questions individuals in an attempt to gain information and not with the objective of filing charges.”
Saulter stared at the tips of his boots.
“In fact, we have here an extremely unusual situation.” Posey’s voice took on the mellifluous, liquid, pompous tone of an orator enamored with the sound of his own voice. “We have an instance where murder is attempted, not once, not twice, but three times, and we believe we know the intended victim. Death strikes, yes, indeed, but each time the killer is thwarted, his true quarry escaping. What does this make possible?” His voice boomed with evangelical fervor. His pleasure in his own performance was not diminished in the least by the lack of response from his captive audience. Annie had seen alligators somnolent in the sun that displayed more interest than Posey’s listeners. “This makes it possible for an intelligent investigator to learn from the mouth of the victim who wishes him ill—and why.”
He had their attention now, all right.
One by one, every face turned toward Bledsoe. Even Fleur’s.
Slowly, Bledsoe stood. One hand, white to the knuckles, gripped the back of the chair in front