The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [37]
Annie felt a surge of absolute delight. She was blessed not only with a beautiful day and gorgeous surroundings, but with the best of companions. Annie eschewed sentimentalism, of course, just like Tommy and Tuppence in Partners in Crime, that delightful collection of short stories in which Christie parodied then-fashionable fictional detectives, including Sherlock Holmes, Father Brown, Reggie Fortune, and even her own Poirot. Annie leaned an elbow on the breakfast table, cupped her chin in hand, and admired her husband, or what she could see of him over the newspaper. Actually, Max and Tommy had a good deal in common, despite their transatlantic differences: good looks but not too handsome, good humor but with plenty of steel beneath, good intentions but never sappy.
She beamed at the newspaper. A hell of a guy.
Annie almost told him so. But Max was so accustomed to admiration (honestly, Laurel treated him like a crown prince, which got to be a little old) that she broke off in midsentence.
“Max, you’re—”
He lowered the newspaper and looked at her inquiringly.
She regrouped and asked briskly, “What are your plans this morning?”
He folded the paper, stretched, and reached for the coffee. “Whatever,” he said agreeably. “Do you want me to help Ingrid at the registration table? Or should I make sure our official hostess feels properly pampered? Or shall I mingle and be friendly?”
Annie lifted her cup for a refill, then checked her watch. Just past eight. Although she loved leisurely breakfasts with Max, there was much to do this morning. “Lady Gwendolyn, by all means. I’m sure she’s used to lots of attention.”
“I like her. Sprightly old gal.”
“You haven’t spent the last ten months on the telephone with her, trying to field a half-dozen brilliant suggestions at once.” Honesty forced Annie to continue. “Not that they weren’t all wonderful ideas—but I don’t have the manpower to produce a Christie play, track down people who knew Christie personally and tape their reminiscences, coordinate a thirties fashion show, and direct the conference all at the same time.”
“Full of vim and vigor,” Max said admiringly. “She had a hell of a time yesterday. Cleaned the coconut shy out of Kewpie dolls. What will she do with the damned things?”
Annie didn’t respond to his lighthearted query. Instead, she said soberly, “She looks almost like a Kewpie doll herself, all softness and curves, and she sounds so genial. But, Max, there’s an underlying toughness—or maybe it’s strength of character. I have a feeling that when she looks, she really sees. Yet her good humor is real—not because she sees life as sweet and light but in spite of the fact that she knows full well how dreadful the world can be.”
“Oh, sure,” he said quietly. “A gallant old gal, too.”
“Oh, God, Max, do you think Lady Gwendolyn’s right?”
He had no trouble understanding her thought processes. “That we’re sitting on something pretty ugly? She could be. Or she could be overreacting.” He poured out the last of the coffee. “All we know is that someone shot out a window at Death on Demand two nights ago. Was it an attempt to kill Bledsoe? Or is your instinct right and was Emma toying with him again? Or was it a random attack?”
A random attack on an island with a year-round population of about twelve hundred? Random attacks in a big city she could understand. She’d read Ed McBain.
On Broward’s Rock?
“Not random,” she said decisively. “It must have been aimed either at Bledsoe—or at Death on Demand. But,” she pointed out emphatically, “nothing happened yesterday. If nothing happens today, I think we’ll be okay.” But her brows drew down in a tight, worried