The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [127]
“A hell of a struggle,” Max said. “Who was big enough and strong enough to manhandle Bledsoe over the edge?”
“How did the murderer escape?” Annie looked back toward the living area. “The door to the suite was not only locked, it was chained.”
They looked through the suite. Annie had noted the signs of struggle in Bledsoe’s room. Otherwise, it was the room of a man who had packed his bags in preparation for checking out the next day, an open suitcase neatly filled, his shaving kit on the dresser, litter discarded in the wastebasket, a New York Times, a Business Week magazine.
Kathryn’s room—the room she had used—was bare and clean, as devoid of personality as all untenanted hotel rooms. There was no evidence anyone had entered it.
The kitchenette, too, was clean. A single glass, ice melting, sat on the counter. Max sniffed. “Scotch.”
In the bathroom, used towels hung from the rack. On the lavatory lay a toothbrush, paste, shaving cream, razor, stick deodorant.
Nothing was knocked over in the living room. Annie walked to the coffee table. The picnic basket was nothing out of the ordinary, woven brown wicker, rope handles, a red-and-white checked cloth inside and—she looked more closely. A single yellow rose lay on the somewhat rumpled cloth.
Behind her, Max said, his voice puzzled, “Annie, I don’t get it. Where the hell did the murderer go? And how?”
“Accident!” Annie erupted.
Posey rocked arrogantly back on his heels in the center of the suite’s living room, but his blue eyes bulged dangerously. “Mrs. Darling, I am fully capable of carrying out the duties of circuit solicitor for this county in the great State of South Carolina without assistance from either you or Mr. Darling, notwithstanding your sudden commission as deputies. In fact, Chief Saulter can now relieve you of this burden since I have arrived on the island with sufficient law enforcement personnel to complete our investigation into this unfortunate accident.”
“Accident!” Annie repeated furiously. Max would have to restrain her if she got much angrier. The man was an idiot. “Someone’s been trying to murder Bledsoe for almost a week, they finally succeed, and you call it an accident!”
“Mrs. Darling, you have been misled, intentionally misled, as it were, by the crafty and cunning perpetrator of these crimes. Have we a shred of proof that Mr. Bledsoe’s demise was ever the murderer’s goal?”
“The bookstore—the vase—Bledsoe shot first—”
Posey raised his hand imperiously. “Ah, the vase. A red herring, I believe that’s what crime writers call it. And should it surprise us that this particular crime should contain such an element of deception? I believe not. Further, there can be no other reasonable explanation of the unfortunate death of Mr. Bledsoe. The door to the suite was chained on the inside, as you yourself, Mrs. Darling, will have to testify. Moreover, we have an eye witness, a waiter stacking chairs on the terrace, who saw Bledsoe storm out onto the balcony, crash into the railing, and such was the force of that collision, he shot over the railing—‘almost like a dive’—and crashed down to the terrace. Headfirst. And there wasn’t another living soul on that balcony.”
Annie tried not to wriggle. But she couldn’t sleep; absolutely couldn’t. She thumped her pillow furiously. That pigheaded, idiotic, infuriating moron Posey! He was so determined not to be proved wrong in his arrest of Lady Gwendolyn that he wouldn’t even consider that Bledsoe had been murdered.
For it was murder, she knew it in her bones. Even if no one else was on the balcony when Bledsoe dived over it. Not even Posey had tried to suggest suicide. No one would ever believe Neil Bledsoe was a suicide. Annie’s thoughts continued to churn. Accident! Somehow that “accident” had been staged. But how? There wasn’t, and Annie wasn’t even