The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [128]
Annie sat bolt upright.
Max stirred. “Hmmph.”
Annie evaded his touch. Talk about waking Max up, that’s all it would take. She edged out of bed, dropped to the floor (the height of old-fashioned four-posters always surprised her), and padded softly into the living area, easing the bedroom door shut.
Annie paced.
The chained door.
The picnic basket.
Bledsoe careening over the railing.
Was it possible that the secret to Bledsoe’s death might even yet be in that suite?
She frowned at the wall clock. Twenty minutes after two o’clock in the morning. A hell of a time to call someone she didn’t know well.
But time might be critical.
She fumbled with the telephone directory, flipping the pages until she found the name she sought. She didn’t need to look up the second number; she knew it by heart.
Saulter got there first. A Leica hung from a leather strap around his neck. His eyes were bright and eager. “I think you’re onto something. Damn clever.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Posey’d have my ass if he knew I was here.” The chief didn’t sound overly worried at the prospect. “So, might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.” He dug into his khaki pants pocket and pulled out a wrinkled, many-folded sheet of notebook paper and handed it to Annie.
Annie stopped her nervous pacing—what if Rhonda Kinkaid didn’t come?—and took the small square of paper. She unfolded it and strained to read the spidery, oft-underlined message:
The solution is clear. Apply logic. What did the murderer ACHIEVE with shots, vase, Stone, Honeycutt?
Achieve was underlined three times.
There was a scrawled postscript:
Bledsoe dead! The mills do grind—
It didn’t matter how many times Annie reread the simple missive, she couldn’t fathom Lady Gwendolyn’s intent, yet she felt certain that she held in her hand the signpost to a murderer. “The solution is clear….”
The elevator door opened. Annie stuffed the note in the pocket of her white pants.
A skinny, high-energy redhead in faded Levis, sneakers, and a ratty old army sweatshirt charged up the hall, her arms full of paraphernalia She skidded to a stop in front of Annie and Saulter. “You did call me, didn’t you? I haven’t dreamed this?”
Annie and Saulter watched as Rhonda Kinkaid dismantled the heating-cooling unit in the living room, then put it back together. They followed her into each bedroom. Kinkaid worked swiftly. Annie envied her dexterity. It took less than five minutes to search those units. The kitchenette offered more scope. Beneath the refrigerator. Behind it. Even a quick survey of the cabinets. “Sometimes there are holes you don’t notice,” Kinkaid explained. It took longer to disassemble and restore the stove.
Saulter had hung close at the beginning, but finally, yawning wearily, he stretched out on the couch in the living room.
Annie glanced at her watch. A quarter to four. Maybe there wasn’t anything to find.
Kinkaid started on the living room curtains next, then both bedrooms.
Annie leaned against the doorjamb to Bledsoe’s room. Almost every square inch of the suite had been covered.
Kinkaid stood in the middle of the bedroom floor, hands on hips, her eyes flicking about the room. She looked up, and her mouth curved in a grin. Moving with frenetic energy, she dragged a desk chair next to the canopied four-poster. Hopping up, she stood on tiptoe. “Oh yeah,” she cried. “God, what a beauty.” She glanced down at Annie who’d hurried to the bedside. “Would you get the cage, open it, please.”
Kinkaid swung a pronged stick over the top of the canopy and in one swift, competent move transferred the sleek reptile into the opened box and immediately slid shut the top. She grinned with delight. “Sometimes it’s neat to be the island’s best-known herpetologist. Now, tell me—what the hell is that red rat snake doing here?”
The adrenaline pumped. Annie didn’t even consider going back to bed. So she’d guessed right. Murder by snake. Chancy, to be sure, but it had succeeded superbly.