The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [22]
“How could I refuse,” the author said in a light, sweet voice, “when you wrote me such glowing letters.”
“Sure she wrote glowing letters.”
Annie froze at the sound of Bledsoe’s voice.
“Your books still sell, Fleur. Though God knows why. The kind of drivel that soothes weak minds, I suppose.”
Fleur Calloway’s eyes—a clear green as light and delicate as the first spring shoots of cordgrass in the marsh—sought the speaker, sought him just for an instant, then her gaze moved past as if no one stood there, as if the words had never been spoken. She looked again at Annie. The warmth was there, but in it, unspoken, lurked a question.
“He’s just leaving,” Annie said tightly. “He seems to have come to the wrong place.”
“And so have you, Fleur.” Emma Clyde pushed roughly past Bledsoe. “Let’s give this conference a miss. I’ve already ordered my crew out to Marigold’s Pleasure. Made the arrangements this afternoon. We can sail for Tortola tonight.”
“Dear Emma,” Fleur cried warmly. She embraced the imposing author. “I’m the world’s worst sailor, darling. Remember? I never poked a nose out of my stateroom on that mystery cruise to Hawaii. Such an embarrassment. It always made me feel better that Christie had such a time on ships, too. And so, of course, does dear old Hercule.” Fleur turned back to Annie and slipped an arm through hers. The delicate yet unmistakable scent of Diva touched Annie. The author looked eagerly down the central aisle. “I’ve heard so much about your wonderful store. I understand you have coffee mugs with mystery titles painted on them.” She shot a dazzling smile at Emma. “The conference will be fine, love. Don’t worry. I’m looking forward to it. And you and I shall stay up and talk until dawn, just as we used to do. But now, I must see all of this wonderful haven for mysteries.”
Annie found herself drawn down the central aisle toward the coffee bar, her arm lightly grasped by her famous guest. It was like walking unconcernedly up the beach with a tsunami on her heels. Annie glanced over her shoulder.
Emma, her face a sour mixture of disgust, anger, and defeat, glared at Annie, then turned on her heel and yanked open the door.
Bledsoe looked equally furious, but, of course, for an entirely different reason: Fleur Calloway had ignored the critic’s very existence. He turned toward his fluttery companion and gestured toward the door, which was closing behind Emma.
Max was frowning, obviously aware that all was not well at Death on Demand.
Annie flashed him a reassuring smile, then gave full attention to her conference’s guest of honor.
“… and I’m delighted to see that you have a romantic suspense section. That’s marvelous. Romantic suspense is so undervalued today, despite books like Rebecca and Nine Coaches Waiting. But you know how publishing is, this kind of book now, another kind next year. So difficult for authors. Most of us”—jade green eyes sought Annie’s opinion—“are best at a particular kind of book. We just can’t change our styles every other year like hem lengths.” Her laughter, though, was good humored, untroubled. “Perhaps that might be a good topic for my talk. I’m sure you’ve noticed the trends. Everything is a series now. Very few thrillers. Oh, the Tom Clancy techno-thrillers, of course, but what we need more of is the kind of novel Mary Higgins Clark is doing—the quiet, domestic suspense, the scraping sound outside the window in the middle of the night.”
They had reached the coffee bar. Admiring fans made way for them as they passed. Annie was reaching for the mug with the title of Calloway’s most famous book, I Won’t Let You Die,