The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [23]
AGATHA CHRISTIE
TITLE CLUE
Poor Wonky Pooh’s mistress never reached Scotland Yard;
Lavinia was Victim Number 4, how many more?
Not that Annie immediately identified the faint pops as gunfire. The other sounds, which erupted almost simultaneously, seemed far more ominous:
The tinkling of broken glass.
A shrill, choked-off scream.
Deep-throated curses.
Saulter’s shouted commands.
But she knew instinctively that trouble—big trouble—had struck Death on Demand, and she was racing down the central aisle toward the front when Max grabbed her and shoved her behind the true-crime section.
Shielding her with his body, he hissed, “Stay down!” then rolled to his feet and moved in a crouch toward the open door.
Annie popped back to her feet, disconnected thoughts tumbling: outside? … of course … but it sounded like firecrackers … firecrackers wouldn’t shatter the window … oh God, shots!
It was some indication of the terrorist mentality of Americans that no one had questioned Saulter’s shouted commands to take cover. In a country where children can be mowed down in a schoolyard with an assault rifle and where American Rifle Association members defend the sanctity of AK 47s from prohibition, an armed attack on a resort island bookstore seemed reasonable enough.
Annie didn’t, of course, stay put.
Without even looking, Max waggled a hand peremptorily behind him.
She ignored that. Dammit, it was her bookstore.
And it was her south front window the bullets had shattered. Splintered glass glinted on the floor.
Bledsoe, swearing in a harsh monotone, unceremoniously shoved his elderly companion back inside Death on Demand. Once again his white suit was the worse for wear, stained now with sand from the much-scuffed wooden veranda that fronted the harbor shops.
“My goodness,” his companion exclaimed in quiet surprise, struggling to sit up, “I’m bleeding.” Crimson spurted from her right hand.
Annie darted up to join her, then looked frantically around for something to staunch the flow, but Fleur Calloway brushed past and set to work. “It’s all right,” the author soothed. “Surface cuts bleed profusely, but it’s not deep,” and she wrapped the wound in her soft white cashmere shawl.
Swinging around, Bledsoe charged back toward the door. “Fucker shot at me!”
“Stop, you fool!” Saulter ordered.
If Bledsoe heard—and such was his rage, Annie doubted it—he ignored Saulter.
It took the police chief’s tackle and Max’s block to bring Bledsoe down. It also brought down pink-scarfed Edgar, the stuffed raven, and the hanging beads that separated the children’s corner from the bookstore proper.
By the time the three men stopped thumping about in the foyer, Annie had reached the door and was cautiously surveying the veranda, ignoring the stunned comments of those trapped behind her in the bookstore.
No bodies.
From behind posts, rocking chairs, and stubby palmettos, island residents and tourists peered out with equal caution.
“Stay back, Annie,” Saulter snapped irritably as he and Max brushed past her and slid through the open door. Max flapped that hand again.
Annie, of course, was right behind them, almost trodding on her husband’s heels.
The harbor front looked—except for the cautious heads poking from behind shelter—as it always did. Romantic, charming, inviting—and dimly lit. The harbor was on the southwest end of the island, a natural curve facing west. The shops followed that curve, overlooking the marina and the boats moored there. Old-fashioned lampposts dotted the sidewalk that rimmed the harbor. They emitted a golden glow with scarcely enough wattage to attract even the most virile moths. As for the varicolored lights adorning the sea wall, they were strictly for show. Down in the marina, sharply bright, businesslike lights threw into stark relief the floating docks and the boats, which ranged from a multimillion-dollar yacht from Monte Carlo to a single-masted sailboat from Charleston. But this illumination only emphasized the calculated duskiness along the boardwalk.
A gaggle of boys wheeled