The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [21]
Bledsoe gave an exaggerated shrug. “Sure, boss lady. Stupid to buy this kind of tripe anyway.” He tossed the volume toward the cash desk. It struck the rim and tumbled, yellowed pages shaking loose, to the floor.
The older woman, tears sliding silently down her cheeks, scrambled forward. She swiftly gathered the loose pages and the battered book and rose. “Please,” she said to Annie timidly, “I’ll buy this.”
Annie surprised herself. She was never especially demonstrative (except with Max and that was another, private matter entirely). In fact, she had found it hard to master the casual embrace and brush of lips so fashionable among women she knew when greeting friends. But she was touched by the tragedy she saw in that wan face and in the trembling hands that offered the book. Impulsively, she slipped her arm around those too-thin shoulders. “That’s Bryan Shaw’s last novel, isn’t it? I liked it so much. His misdirection is brilliant. Of course, that’s no surprise. He was a wonderful writer, and it’s going to be such a pleasure to talk about his books at the conference and discuss the contributions he made to the mystery.”
It was like seeing the sun burst through clouds and where there had been fog and dreariness there was now a verdant, glowing landscape. Victoria’s face glowed. Her eyes glistened; twin spots of pink touched her gaunt cheeks. “Did you read Chimera?” she asked eagerly. “That was his favorite of his own books.”
“Oh, of course,” Annie rejoined eagerly. “Everything hinged on what the dentist didn’t see. And his characterizations were superb—the banker, the housewife, the sheriff’s daughter.”
“Ohh.” It was a little cry of sheer happiness. “You really did read Bryan…. Bryan was my husband.”
There was such pride, such devotion in that quiet declaration. Sudden tears stung Annie’s eyes. She gave Victoria Shaw a quick hug. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Shaw. I want to give you this book”—Annie touched the faded brown cover “—and I hope you’ll be willing to speak at the panel Thursday. Your husband’s fans will be so excited to learn more about him. He must have been a very fine man.”
Over Victoria’s shoulder, Annie caught the flash of Bledsoe’s sardonic grin. He started to open his mouth. Annie gave a sharp nod at Frank Saulter.
“If you can’t stand the heat—” Bledsoe began.
Victoria Shaw’s face crumpled.
Saulter jerked his head toward the door. “Time for you to go see a man about a dog, mister. Outside.”
The bell above the door jangled. It swung in, and at long last, there was the man in Annie’s life, beaming at her and gallantly shepherding the famous Fleur Calloway into Death on Demand.
Despite her sudden sense of dismay, Annie couldn’t help being proud of Max. Not even David Niven as Raffles could match Max in a white dinner jacket. He was so damned nice-looking, thick, short blond hair, blue eyes as dark as a Norwegian fjord, strong, firm nose and chin.
His companion was laughing up at him.
Oh, God. Earlier, when the party was at its height, before Neil Bledsoe arrived, Annie would have been delighted: Fleur Calloway at Death on Demand!
Now she desperately wondered how to avoid disaster. There was a clot of people near the cash desk: Victoria Shaw, who was edging behind Annie toward the door; Neil Bledsoe and Frank Saulter, Bledsoe glaring at the chief, Frank undeterred; Annie, and now Max and Fleur Calloway.
Annie, her hands outstretched, surged toward the author. “Mrs. Calloway, this is so exciting, so wonderful.”
From the back of the bookstore Emma Clyde boomed, “Fleur. Fleur!”
Annie took slender hands, cool and soft to the touch. “You have so many readers here on the island, Mrs. Calloway. I sell some of your books every week. Everyone is delighted that you are our guest of honor.”
“Fleur.” Louder and closer. Emma was struggling through the crowds toward the front.
And Annie, looking into jade green eyes, had an inkling why Emma, whom Annie had always found so intimidating and, frankly, so self-absorbed,