The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [31]
She looked at Max.
He grinned.
And so did she.
AGATHA CHRISTIE
TITLE CLUE
Malicious Henet met her fate among disordered sheets;
Human nature was just the same, then as now.
ATTENTION!
TREASURE HUNT PARTICIPANTS
Clue Sheets Distributed
1 P.M. Tuesday
Max Darling stepped back to survey his handiwork. Just a little uneven. He straightened the poster board on the easel next to the registration desk. Good thing he’d planned on being up early. He’d already been accosted by four conference-goers demanding to know when the treasure hunt would begin. Perhaps Annie should have scheduled it for this morning. But she wanted this afternoon’s Grand Garden Fete to be the official beginning of the conference. And the emphasis Monday would be on Lady Gwendolyn’s presentation about Christie, so Tuesday had seemed best. Certainly, Annie would be thrilled to know how eagerly some of the conference attendees were looking forward to the treasure hunt. Such intense interest was—Max blinked. The portfolio containing the twenty-five treasure hunt posters toppled to the floor and began to inch away from the registration desk.
Assuming it was not being propelled by a poltergeist, the portfolio was exhibiting a mode of independent locomotion foreign to inanimate objects.
Max took three swift steps and grabbed it. Then he saw the almost invisible line and the barbed fish hook.
A tug.
Max tugged, too.
The line was taut and straight for a long moment, then the tension relaxed and the line shimmied to the floor.
Max plunged toward the end of the hall and careened around it.
Halfway down the hall, the door to the ladies’ room was slowly closing.
Max grinned, but he also made an instant decision to put the posters in the trunk of his Porsche for safekeeping until Tuesday.
The phone shrilled.
Annie struggled awake. Why in heaven’s name was the phone so close, almost exploding in her ear? As she flailed blindly, she realized she wasn’t at home, where the phone was a decent twelve feet away from their bed, atop a table next to the chaise longue. Oh, no. She was in a strange hotel room. Although, memory returning, a hotel room with unexpected charms. One eye opened. Where was her playful companion of the night? Probably out for a morning ramble. Lovely, the way the English described a country walk. Not that she was interested in dawn strolls at any time. A successful marriage didn’t require Tweedledum-and-Tweedledee coordination of pleasures. Not so long as primary pleasures received due attention. Another piercing ring. She tumbled with the receiver, mercifully cutting off that strident peal.
“Hllmph.”
“So sweet of you, Annie, to set the hounds baying at my heels.”
Emma Clyde’s icy gibe, sans salutation, shocked Annie to full wakefulness. She sat up in bed.
“But I give you a warning, my dear.”
Annie’s hand clenched on the receiver.
“Although God knows why I’m bothering. I don’t feel I owe you anything. But I liked Ambrose. Your uncle was a good man.”
Annie tensed. For God’s sake, was Emma threatening her? After scaring her to death in that Jaguar and ruining what was left of the reception at the store!
Emma snorted in disgust. “He was never a damn fool. Too bad you aren’t more like him.”
That was too much. “Listen, Emma, Uncle Ambrose would’ve been ticked off, too, if you shot out his front window.”
A weary sigh. “The point, my dear young fool, is that I didn’t shoot out your front window. I am not the mysterious marksman stalking that odious creature. If you have any sense at all, you’ll stop setting the cops after me and start looking for the culprit—or you may truly have a dead body on your hands.” A mirthless chuckle. “Not that I wouldn’t enjoy seeing that son of a bitch deader than last year’s bestseller.”
“Oh my God, a 1930 Duesenberg Model J,” Max exclaimed in awe. “Just think,” he implored Annie, “it has a six-point-nine-liter twin-overhead-camshaft power unit of eight cylinders and a top speed of one hundred sixteen miles