The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [25]
Laurel pressed a graceful hand to her forehead and swept to the back of the bookstore, quoting—and Annie couldn’t help noticing how distinct and far-carrying was her diction—“‘What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore/Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”’”
Occasionally, as Annie took names and reassured her guests that murderous volleys were far from routine on Broward’s Rock, she heard snatches of “The Raven.” While dispensing coffee, Laurel was performing the whole damn poem! Annie refused to look toward the coffee bar. Lord, grant her patience. Grant her endurance. Grant her some means of deflecting Laurel from this latest obsession. Grant her also an end to this stream of anxious registrants whose names she must record. She chafed to be outside, in the thick of the investigation. What had Saulter discovered? Had he got a description of the gunman from the pudgy conference-goer and the excited boys? Had he settled Bledsoe down?
Bledsoe’s heroics had surprised her. So often in her experience, bullies turned out to be cowards. Certainly, no one could accuse the critic of cowardice. Not only had he tried his damndest to get to the gunman’s vantage point first, he had protected his companion, pushing her to safety, before going fearlessly after his assailant.
And where was she now, the elderly woman who looked so much like Miss Marple but had a distinctly American accent? Annie spotted her deep in conversation with Henny, gesturing with a now neatly bandaged hand. Annie hoped that Fleur’s cashmere shawl wasn’t ruined.
Max popped back inside twice, once to report no luck in the search for the gunman, a second time to assure Annie that the front window would be boarded over in a jiffy.
Annie whipped through her task as fast as possible without appearing rude. She understood the point, of course. Anyone who had been inside Death on Demand when the shots were fired was automatically not a suspect.
The corollary, of course, was equally apparent.
Every person outside was, perforce, a possible marksman.
That would include those who had earlier been at Death on Demand and who had departed before Bledsoe.
Especially those who obviously knew and disliked him.
Like Emma Clyde.
“Scotch and soda?” Max held the syphon in his hand and looked inquiringly at their guests.
Saulter declined. “Coke,” he said mournfully. Still on duty, of course.
Seltzer sizzled cheerfully as Max prepared the drinks. Although it was almost midnight, neither Laurel nor Henny showed any signs of flagging, and they’d stuck closer to Annie and Max than Nora to Nick Charles, especially when it became clear that the chief had no intention of waiting until tomorrow before quizzing Annie about that evening’s events. For the first time, Annie regretted having rented one of the Carolina suites at the Palmetto House for the duration of the conference. Unfortunately, there was plenty of room for everybody. Annie was in a hurry to get this behind her. Tomorrow was the first day of The Christie Caper. She didn’t want an investigation ruining the fun. And she had a million details to check before the fête opened at three.
Laurel slipped off three-inch green heels and tucked her size-five triple-A feet daintily beneath her on one couch. With her head tilted admiringly to one side, she smiled winsomely at the chief, looking like a fifties thriller heroine who had just sighted a ruggedly handsome man.
Rarely, Annie thought sourly, had she met any male who was immune to Laurel’s charm. The chief was certainly no exception. There was nothing official about the smile he bestowed on her.
Henny was, for her, unusually unobtrusive. Death on Demand’s most passionate customer sat in a far corner of the room. The light shining through the Tiffany shade on a nearby lamp created an interesting multicolored effect on her face and her white blouse. Annie’s eyes narrowed. Surely Henny’s placement wasn’t fortuitous. Nothing was ever likely to be fortuitous with Henny. She was obviously