The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [30]
Max handed his map to Annie, and she saw at a glance why no one had caught the gunman. A grove of pines stood behind the shrubbery. Easy enough to duck behind a pine and wait until the excitement cooled down.
“Damn fool kids. And Scouts, too. Should’ve known better. I asked Willy Washburn what the hell he thought he was going to do if they’d caught up with a man with a gun.”
“But the man didn’t have the gun at that point,” Laurel interposed.
Saulter glowered at her. “So they heard a splash! Could have been a fish. Anyway, they got to the pine grove and didn’t see anybody. That’s when they turned around and hightailed it to the shops.”
Max popped up to freshen the glasses. Annie glared at him, but he was oblivious. Did he have to be such a good host? They’d never go home.
Henny ate the rest of a fat pretzel and took a sip. “At least we know the gunman was a man.”
“Nope.” Saulter sounded grim. “The most those boys saw was a figure. They heard a splash; they heard running footsteps. Could be a man. Could be a woman. And the guy from your conference”—he looked toward Annie—“hell, he was worse than useless. Saw someone. Could’ve been tall. Thought maybe short. Yes, it might have been a woman. The kind of witness who sees everything but a giraffe in red tights. But, believe me, I’m going to find out. And Annie, you’re going to help me. Somebody shot at Neil Bledsoe right after he left your store. You told him to get the hell out. Why?”
“He was rude to another customer,” she said briefly.
“The lady who dropped the book?”
“Yes. She’s the widow of a mystery writer. The book was one by her husband.”
“Is that the book he tossed at the desk?”
“Right.”
“What’s this widow’s name?”
“Victoria Shaw.”
Saulter wrote in his notebook, then gave Annie a hard stare. “Was Bledsoe rude to anyone else at the store?”
Annie sighed. “Of course. The man couldn’t cross a street without being rude. God, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“Frank?” Curiously, Henny had dropped her role-playing. She was once again herself, bright, sharp, and noticing. “Why on earth are you asking Annie?”
For a moment Annie didn’t understand.
It was Laurel who saw it at once. “Surely it is only too simple. Why, who would better know his enemies?”
Max was nodding in agreement.
The chief’s corrugated face slowly and painfully turned a dull red.
Annie finally tumbled. “Bledsoe!” she bleated. “Why don’t you ask Bledsoe who would be likely to shoot at him?”
A muscle rippled in Saulter’s jaw and he spoke through clenched teeth, making him difficult to understand. “… arrogant … pigheaded, obstinate fool … he’ll take care of it …”
Annie relaxed against the love seat and grinned at Max. If Bledsoe wouldn’t tell the chief the likely suspects, certainly it was no duty of hers. Besides, Emma was the ticket….
Annie stretched luxuriously between the silk sheets. She didn’t really like silk sheets. But Max did, of course. They were comfortable. Silky. And so was her negligee. Max had packed it. Cute of him. He always looked forward to hotel stays and had been especially insistent that they book this suite—actually, the honeymoon suite—for the duration of the conference. They could just as easily have driven over to the hotel from home. Really, extraordinarily thoughtful of Max to be so concerned with the success of her pet project! Insisting it was much better to be on the spot. So much to do tomorrow. Make sure everything was in readiness for the arrival of Lady Gwendolyn.
The bed sagged a little as Max slipped between the sheets. There was a tiny click. Annie opened her eyes, startled. A dim radiance spilled down onto the bed. She looked up. Her eyes widened as she