The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [15]
Annie knew it well. She always called Emma when the latest Sarah Caudwell arrived. She exclaimed, “Emma, listen, you can’t do this to me.”
Emma paid no heed. Thanking the clerk, she turned and headed directly for the bank of telephones.
Annie continued her dogged pursuit. “Emma, wait a minute. This is rash. This is stupid. After all, Fleur Calloway’s a grown woman. She’s promised to appear.”
Emma was rummaging for her telephone calling card through a purse that looked like a portable landfill. “Bug off, Annie.”
Annie started to speak, but an icy glare made it clear that nothing would dissuade Emma.
Annie stood uncertainly for a moment, then hurried back to the desk and left an urgent message for Mrs. Calloway to get in touch with the conference registration desk immediately upon arrival.
For the first time, she realized why Victorian heroines often stood in perplexity, wringing their hands. She’d never before in her life felt like wringing her hands and was horrified to find that was exactly what she was doing. Jamming the offending members into the pockets of her cotton skirt, she tried to map out a plan of action.
What in the hell was she going to do?
Get to Fleur Calloway first. That was the ticket.
Annie looked back at the bank of phones. Emma was gone. Dashing across the floor, barely avoiding collision with a pair of chattering conference attendees who sported I AGATHA buttons, she grabbed a phone, scrabbled for a quarter in the bottom of her purse where her change always migrated, and dialed home.
“Hello.”
Thank God he was home. Never had she been so glad to hear that relaxed, amiable, unflappable, wonderful masculine voice.
“Max!”
She hadn’t intended to wail.
“Hey, Annie, what’s wrong!”
“Oh, Max, Emma’s going to ruin the conference!” She got it all out finally, overrode Max’s attempts to soothe, and declared, “Look, here’s what we’ve got to do….”
She hung up feeling better, if not completely confident. Now for the next step.
She hurried toward the south wing, passing occasional clumps of conferees, huddled in tight circles and talking at the tops of their voices:
“… the thrillers aren’t her best books, I’ll grant you that. But I’ve always adored The Man in the Brown Suit.” (Aggressively.)
“The false face. That’s the key to understanding the entire body of Christie’s work. Always be on the lookout for the false face.” (Insightfully.)
“Read Mary Westmacott if you really want to know Christie.” (Didactically.)
“It was cheating. I don’t care what anybody says. It was cheating.” (Pettishly.)
Annie was almost grinning when she reached the south wing. Her eavesdropping reassured her. The conference was going to be a smash. That made her even more determined to deflect the forces so firmly intent upon derailing it.
Although the week-long conference didn’t officially begin until Sunday afternoon with the Grand Garden Fête, the registration desk was open for the convenience of the early arrivals. It was situated in the south wing foyer, convenient to both the elevators and stairs. This afternoon the desk was staffed by Henny Brawley, Annie’s very best customer and a world-class authority on Christie. She was, Annie thought gratefully, also a world-class authority at this point on the Palmetto House, so great had been her involvement in putting the conference together. Annie didn’t know how she could have managed without Henny’s assistance, encouragement, and stalwart support. As Annie approached, Henny was energetically stuffing some small object into each of the book bags stacked on a nearby table while talking animatedly to a sandy-haired young man with hazel eyes and a sprinkling of freckles across an attractively snub nose. He wore an orange rosette in the lapel of his blazer. Surely he was too young to be an editor! Not a day older than she, Annie was certain.
The black book bags, provided by Death on Demand, flaunted a silver dagger, the store