The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [122]
Bledsoe’s head jerked up, his eyes widened in naked surprise.
The deputy launched himself into a brutal tackle. Derek came crashing down into the aisle, his head striking the seat of a chair. The gun clattered harmlessly to the floor.
For a moment no one spoke.
Margo Wright was the next to stand as she drawled, “I think I can bypass this little comedy.”
“A comedy,” Posey repeated loudly. “That’s what all of this has been, because the murders have nothing to do with Neil Bledsoe.”
If Posey’s intention was to shock, it was an unqualified success.
Everyone gaped at him in stunned silence. Including Neil Bledsoe.
“When every path leads to the same door, the intelligent detective becomes suspicious.” Posey smoothed his thinning blond hair. Was he imagining the whirr and clatter of news cameras? “But what is the sole relationship between the two victims?”
The only response was a heavy sigh from Saulter.
Posey smiled avuncularly at the police chief. “I am indebted to my co-officer of the law for unwittingly having shown me the way.”
Saulter stared grimly at the floor.
“John Border Stone and Kathryn Honeycutt”—Posey intoned the names like a bailiff—“were guilty, in the eyes of the murderer, of a heinous crime: daring to take on the appurtenances of Agatha Christie characters! John Border Stone registered at this convention as James Bentley, the lodger in a book entitled Mrs. McGinty’s Dead. Kathryn Honeycutt had the temerity to emulate Christie’s most beloved detective, Jane Marple. A grave mistake on their parts. The result: a sentence of death.”
Max stood, and there was nothing easygoing about him now. “Hold it, Posey. This sounds crazy, and it sounds—”
“Not crazy, Mr. Darling. Arrogant. Supercilious.”
Posey jumped down heavily from the platform and strode to the front row. His finger stabbed at Lady Gwendolyn. “Who is the world’s foremost authority on Agatha Christie? Who became incensed when Bledsoe threatened to write a nasty biography? Whose cape was stained with the blood of a young man who should have had many years yet to live? Whose latest book, Death of a Nabob, includes firecrackers thrown as distraction and a light pistol as the murder weapon?”
Annie glanced frantically at Henny, who reluctantly nodded.
“Who—” Posey paused dramatically, “threatened Mr. Bledsoe last night? Came up to him after the program and all but informed him his days were numbered?”
“No. Never.”
Annie had never thought neow, nevah could sound so valiant.
The aged author slowly rose. She hardly came to the prosecutor’s imposing midriff. “There is an interesting parallel between Death of a Nabob and this crime.” Her tone would have been appropriate at a symposium.
Annie had had enough. “Wait a minute, Posey. This is crazy. For starters, Lady Gwendolyn wasn’t even on the island Saturday night—”
A mischievous grin lit the pink-and-cream face. “Actually, Annie dear, I did happen to be here. You see, I always avoid cocktail dos: Besides, I was determined to have an absolutely smashing arrival at the fête. In fact, I was in the vicinity of your bookstore during the attack. It quite took me back for a moment to my days in France during the war. However, I must announce that I am the victim of circumstantial evidence. Don’t you know, that’s such an intriguing situation for a mystery novelist!”
“Lady Gwendolyn Tompkins, you are under arrest. Before we ask you any questions, you must understand …”
The Miranda warning. Annie had never expected to hear it like this.
AGATHA CHRISTIE TITLE CLUE
Just a contest, but money tempts;
A hearty man’s closet tells the tale.
Early on in the planning for The Christie Caper, Annie realized that the committee for the Agatha Christie Come-as-You-Wish-You-Were Ball (composed of Henny, Laurel, and Ingrid) was out of her control.
Out of all control.
At that point, besieged for decisions regarding