The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [126]
Saulter swore in a tight, hard monotone, then, crisply, he issued orders: “Merritt, get some of your people out here, arrange the tables and chairs as a barricade—oh—ten feet each way. That’s first. Second, call the mainland, get word to Circuit Solicitor Posey, tell him we need the homicide crew and at least a half-dozen deputies. Max, with Billy in the hospital, I’m damn short on staff. Will you and Annie serve as deputies, secure Bledsoe’s room? Make sure no one enters, nothing touched or changed until I can get people up there. You know the drill.”
A white-faced bellboy turned the key in 301. As the lock clicked, Max, using his handkerchief, eased the knob to the left. The door opened an inch, then jolted to a stop.
“I’ll be damned,” Max murmured. “The chain’s on.”
It took time. A call to maintenance. The hinges removed, the door propped to one side.
To Annie, the suite smelled of death, though, to her surprise, almost all vestiges of the bloody shooting had already been erased, the carpet shampooed (damp splotches still evident). Of course, once the investigation of a site was complete—photographs made, surfaces dusted for prints, sketches done—there was no need to maintain the appearance of the crime scene. This was, after all, a hotel, and these rooms, after Bledsoe’s departure, would be routinely readied for new guests.
Bledsoe’s departure.
Via the balcony.
So the murderer had, after all, triumphed.
But, at the least, this should mean Lady Gwendolyn’s prompt release and perhaps even Derek Davis’s.
The bedroom door to the left of the living area was closed; the door to the bedroom to the right of the main portion of the suite was open. Max poked his head in that bedroom. “Bledsoe’s stuff’s in here. Let’s check out the balcony first.”
Annie paused in the entryway, picturing the scene the night Kathryn Honeycutt died and Bledsoe was wounded.
The physical layout of the suite was exactly that of Annie and Max’s.
A small square entryway, a closet to the right, the decorative wrought-iron room divider to the left, separating the entryway from the living room.
Straight ahead a short hall. A door to the right opened into, a bedroom. Bledsoe’s room, Max said.
To the left of the divider was the living room. A closed door in the far wall led to the second bedroom; Kathryn’s room.
The suites were arranged with a bedroom to each side of the living room. Balconies opened off of both the living area and the bedrooms.
Late Thursday night. The fire alarm. Smoke. No lights. Bledsoe had opened the door to the hall. A flashlight glared in his eyes. Shots. Hit in the left shoulder, he’d reeled backward, taken refuge behind the couch. Even wounded, Bledsoe could have covered that distance in one stride.
Kathryn must have turned her flashlight toward the door at almost the precise moment Bledsoe was shot. Otherwise the attacker could have pursued Bledsoe and pumped more bullets into him.
Instead, Kathryn aimed her flashlight at the attacker, and the gun was turned on her. Bledsoe was saved.
Annie knew where Kathryn had fallen. Just a foot or two past her bedroom door. The shampooed rug told the story.
By then the hotel was in an uproar. The killer fled, running down the stairs. Once on the terrace, mingling with other guests rousted by the alarms, the killer tossed the gun and gloves.
In the suite, Bledsoe staggered to his feet, found Kathryn, and carried her out onto his balcony. Annie could see the damp carpet splotches leading into his room.
As for tonight, there was nothing disarranged in the living room, and the only item not ordinarily in place was the open picnic basket on the coffee table. From here, it appeared—
“Hey, Annie, come on out here.”
As she walked