The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [131]
Ingrid, of course, had directed the careful deposit of the materials along with the accompanying notes on the tables.
Annie glanced at her watch. It was early, to be sure. Annie had awakened Max with the news of her conclusions, and together they’d planned their approach, then called Saulter. Max insisted upon breakfasting first (he and Inspector Dover scrupulously believed in regular mealtimes), but Annie had scarcely been able to eat. There was so much to do and so little time. The conference ended today with the noon luncheon. Their little comedy must be played out by then. But the evidence came first. That was essential.
It took time, so damn much time. Max started at the back of the room, Saulter in the middle. Annie was still on her first table: cigarette packages and butts, crushed drink cans, wadded tissues, pennies and nickels and dimes, buttons, combs, slips of paper, fishing weights, a subway token, lipstick case, chewed gum, a paperback mystery (Graham Greene’s Stamboul Train), five assorted bookmarks (where authors gather, bookmarks appear as if by magic), an empty condom package, a man’s ornate class ring (Annie must remember to announce its finding at the luncheon), a pair of broken sunglasses, a thimble, a single silver hoop earring (ditto), a pocket-size New Testament, a pair of tweezers—
“By God, here it is. Here it is!” Saulter boomed.
Annie and Max reached him at the same time.
The loose coil of wire was among the more nondescript items on that table. It was a dark gray, perhaps a quarter-inch thick, flexible.
Saulter leaned over to read the notation on the three-by-five card. “Found 9/14/90 atop shrubbery in center of the Palmetto House Hotel terrace. Alleyn J. Forman, 1733 North Eighteenth Street, Little Rock, Arkansas. Annie, damned if I don’t think you’re right!”
“Don’t you want to come?” Max asked in surprise, standing by the chief’s car.
Annie yawned and rubbed her eyes. “You and the chief can take care of it. I know what the results are going to be.” She glanced at the paper sack on the front seat of the car. In it reposed the treasured wire, on its way to the mainland and tests for nitrate residue. She bent to look in the driver’s side. “Chief, you will bring it back for the meeting, won’t you?”
“Sure. You rest up while we’re gone, Annie. You look mighty peaked. We’ll be in Meeting Room A,” he glanced at his watch, “no later than ten forty-five. I’ll bring Lady Gwendolyn, and I’ll have a deputy get in touch with everyone.” Saulter’s lips twitched. He might have been hiding a smile. “Including Posey, of course.”
As the car pulled out of the hotel drive, Annie waved good-bye. She maintained her weary, going-to-take-a-brief-nap demeanor until the car was out of sight. Then she set off at a trot. Tired, sure. A nap. No way. There was much to do before Max and Saulter returned.
As she let herself into the suite, she wondered briefly if they’d not thought beyond the proof they were going to validate. Didn’t they see what a Pandora’s box it opened?
She saw.
And she wanted to think it through.
The picnic basket. A single yellow rose.
The field was wide open:
Nathan Hillman. He still berated himself for not snatching Pam to safety.
Fleur Calloway. Bledsoe’s treatment of Derek and Natalie inflamed a never-healed wound.
Emma Clyde. How deep could a critic’s barbs go? A dangerous woman to cross.
Margo Wright. She had good reason to loathe Bledsoe—and a reputation for toughness.
Natalie Marlow. She lacked social graces, but she’d been many dark places.
Victoria Shaw. Even the meek can be pushed only so far.
Once again Annie looked through the bios. Only one really fit. Only one.
Annie buried her face in her hands.
What now?
Derek Davis was shackled to a deputy. The young publicist looked almost frail in the too-big pair of orange jail coveralls. He stared at the room full of people with scared, defiant eyes.
Natalie Marlow jumped to her feet when he entered. “Derek, Derek, it will be all right. It will be.