The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [27]
Henny added a dry little cough. “Necessary to look at all the evidence.”
Every eye was on her as Henny delved into her purse and brought out a sheaf of papers. Thumbing briskly, she said, “Aha! Important exhibit here.”
Annie snarled, “Barristers offer exhibits. Not judges.”
Everybody ignored her. All eyes were on Henny.
Annie immediately recognized the pale apricot sheet Henny thrust at Saulter. It was the third status report Annie’d mailed to all who had pre-registered for the conference. “Back side,” Henny instructed briskly. “List of authors expected to attend.”
Saulter looked at her inquiringly.
“Bledsoe’s listed.”
Annie started to protest.
Henny continued decisively, “Nonfiction authors are included. He has a book out on the hero in detective fiction.”
Annie subsided. To tell the truth, she hadn’t paid any particular attention to names unfamiliar to her when she checked the list that Ingrid had compiled from registrations.
“Point is,” Henny concluded in that dry, unemotional tone, “everyone coming to the conference got that sheet and could have known Bledsoe would be here—and brought along a twenty-two pistol. And since Bledsoe’s obviously intent on causing trouble, it was a safe bet he’d show up at the reception tonight.”
“Oh, dammit,” Annie exploded, “you’ve read too many mysteries!”
Everyone looked at her.
Annie bristled. “Well, for Pete’s sake, why come here to kill him?”
A thoughtful silence.
Annie could have reeled off a dozen reasons herself. She ignored her own question, plunged ahead. “A twenty-two,” she exclaimed disparagingly. “No serious murderer goes around shooting at people with a twenty-two!”
Her sarcasm didn’t impress Saulter. “Dead’s dead,” he said succinctly, “whether it’s a forty-five slug or a twenty-two.”
“Reopens question of probability,” Henny stated.
Even Max supported the opposition. He patted Annie’s arm gently. “Have to face facts, sweetheart.” She could have strangled him. After a sizzling look at her well-meaning but infuriating husband, Annie tried another tack. “You’re all just being stubborn. Look at what actually happened—no one got hurt! Obviously, it wasn’t attempted murder at all.”
“Because the shots missed?” Saulter asked.
Henny snorted. “Annie, that’s dumber than Shaitana inviting all those murderers to play bridge.”
So much, Annie thought, for the dry and unemotional approach of Mr. Justice Wargrave. Four sleuths appeared in Cards on the Table. As Henny leaned forward, chin in hand, eyes farseeing, Annie nodded. Colonel Race, of course.
Henny’s clipped, matter-of-fact commentary confirmed her suspicion.
“One person in front of window. Other already started down steps. Bullets hit six-foot level. Intended victim obvious.” Henny glanced at the chief for confirmation.
Max nodded vigorously. “I was facing the front of the shop, and I saw the glass break. Eye-level to me.”
The chief riffled back through the notebook. “Bledsoe is six foot two. No one else was on that portion of veranda. His companion—an aunt by marriage, Kathryn Honeycutt—was midway down the steps. The bullets struck Death on Demand south window six feet one inch from floor level.”
Annie refused to be quashed. “The bullets didn’t hit him!”
“Nope,” the chief agreed. “So you could be right. The shots could have been intended merely to frighten him. Thing is, we can’t ignore the possibility the shots missed from sheer bad luck. Bledsoe’d stopped to light a cigar. He dropped his lighter and bent to pick it up.”
“So that’s when Emma decided to shoot,” Annie insisted.
Laurel chose this moment to murmur in her unforgettable, husky voice, “There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart … an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime.”
There was, also, understandably, a pause in the conversation.
Henny grinned. “A woman’s intuition, that’s the ticket.”
Max smiled kindly at his mother, an admiring light in his dark blue eyes.