The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [39]
Annie was still grinning when she noticed the chunky middle-aged editor and the young publicist from Hillman House deep in conversation with Lady Gwendolyn and Max in an oasis of quiet behind a line of potted palms. Annie raised an inquiring eyebrow as she passed, but her husband didn’t even notice her, he was so absorbed in watching the official hostess. Lady Gwendolyn was leaning toward the editor with a most engaging smile. Hillman had the expansive expression of a man busy talking about himself.
Twenty minutes later Annie spotted Max and Lady Gwendolyn making a beeline for Margo Wright. The agent was striding toward the elevators in lavender jogging top and shorts, her face flushed from exercise, a pink headband restraining her tumbling dark curls. (Near the button panel, a card proclaimed: Christie’s favorite home—after Ashfield—was Greenway House, which is located on the river Dart, just south of Torquay.) Annie eyed the agent and the pursuing duo thoughtfully.
The mob scene at the registration table had transferred to the lobby outside the book room. As Annie tried to calm two collectors who were jockeying viciously for first place in line, she noted Victoria Shaw halfway down the line—smiling eagerly at Lady Gwendolyn. Max, of course, was close at hand.
Behind the closed doors of Meeting Rooms F and G, mystery booksellers from across the country were frantically emptying boxes and filling their tables. Annie didn’t even have to peek inside to know that Henny had already finagled her way into the book room and was busy spotting the good buys, ready to grab up the true collector’s items at the stroke of ten.
Fleur Calloway, striking in a richly red cotton top and a split red skirt emblazoned with tropical flowers, looked over the heads of eager autograph seekers and waved a cheery good-morning to Annie. The author’s light green eyes crinkled in a warm smile. Annie grinned in return. She liked this woman.
Lady Gwendolyn, with an ebullient “Good morning, dear Annie,” swept past, Max in tow, to join Fleur Calloway.
Lady Gwendolyn obviously didn’t believe in letting grass grow under her size-four feet. But how could she hope to learn anything important in these brief chats?
If, Annie mentally crossed her fingers, there was anything important to learn. There was, despite Emma’s denial, a darn good chance the shooting could be marked down to malicious mischief, not attempted murder.
Annie dashed through the Palmetto Court several times. (Two palmettos bore cards: Hercule Poirot is buried in Styles St. Mary; Of all her books, Christie best liked the beginning of The Body in the Library.)
It was on Annie’s first rush through the Palmetto Court that she’d noticed Bledsoe, lounging at a choice table on the north side. The table was shaded from the sun by the fountain to its left, the wall behind, and the rising tier of balconies above. (The breeze fluttered a card taped to the fountain: Agatha and Max left Nimrud for the last time in 1960.) Scattered papers and a dish-laden table testified to an indulgent breakfast. Bledsoe, once again in an all-white suit (Did he think he was Hercule Poirot in Egypt?), leaned back in sleepy contentment, basking under the adoring gaze of Natalie Marlow, whose sensitive face reflected excitement—and more. Annie wondered sardonically how Bledsoe had managed to jettison the Miss Marple look-alike and just how much time he had spent with Natalie since yesterday. His blunt hand occasionally stroked her arm. He looked supremely self-satisfied. His sensual lips parted in a half-smile and his cigar tilted at a jaunty angle. All was right with his world, that was apparent.
All was certainly not right with Chief Saulter’s world when Annie almost cannoned into him near the registration table, her vision