The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [4]
If he could get his book to the right editor, he had it made. It was ridiculous the way you had to have an agent even to be considered. How did you get an agent if you weren’t already published? Oh, he’d heard the same story over and over, “Go to writers’ conferences, sign up to talk to agents, tell them about your book.” He’d done it and done it. And nobody ever asked to read “The Ashen Prince.”
He sat lost in daydreams for a moment, the New York Times Best Seller List, higher than Tom Clancy—appearances on the top talk shows, on a first-name basis with Geraldo, Oprah, and Phil—admiring fans following him, timidly seeking his autograph.
The jolt as the plane hit the runway brought him back to the present, the wonderfully, incredibly, magically exciting present.
AGATHA CHRISTIE
TITLE CLUE
Be wary of so many accidents;
Fair of face, but a greedy soul.
Annie counted the magnums of champagne. Four. Five. Six. Surely that would be enough. She whirled on her heel and dashed out of the storeroom.
“Ingrid!”
“Yo.” Her faithful clerk was nimbly transferring plastic wineglasses from a box perched atop the coffee bar to the tablecloth-draped trestle table in the center of the coffee area and trying at the same time to persuade Agatha, the bookstore’s resident feline, to leave the centerpiece alone. Despite its expensive price tag ($240), Annie had been totally unable to resist a wax replica of the dining table centerpiece used in the 1945 American film version of And Then There Were None, starring Barry Fitzgerald as Judge Quincannon. Agatha swiped one whip-quick black paw at the nearest figurine. Ingrid, careful to avoid the snaking claws, scooped up the cat and placed her atop the coffee bar. “Look at the nice box, Agatha. It’s a beautiful box. You love boxes.” The elegant black cat made a sharp, chuffing sound, an unmistakable indication of displeasure.
The tables usually in place in the coffee area of the bookstore had been shoved toward the back wall and utilized to display copies of Agatha Christie’s books in order of publication (The Mysterious Affair at Styles, 1920, the first, and Sleeping Murder, 1976, the last) and assorted memorabilia reflecting the exciting course of the Crime Queen’s long and productive life. The coffee area chairs were stacked out of the way in the storeroom, behind the ice-filled tubs holding the champagne magnums.
“Do you think we need more champagne?” Annie demanded frantically. “Henny said more than a hundred have already checked in. What if everybody comes?” She shoved a hand through her thick, already tangled blond hair. It had seemed like such a good idea when the conference was in its planning stage. What could be nicer than a champagne reception Saturday night at Death on Demand to welcome the early arrivals for Sunday’s kickoff of The Christie Caper and at the same time subtly—she had ignored Ingrid’s snicker at this statement—introduce all those wonderful mystery readers (the kind who buy hundreds of dollars’ worth of books at one whack!) to the finest mystery bookstore this side of Atlanta? She had the latest books by Peters, Elkins, Pickard, Barnard, Clark, Matera, and Cannell enticingly displayed right by the front cash register. But last-minute details whirled ominously in her mind. Would it, for God’s sake, rain tomorrow afternoon on the Grand Garden Fête on the grounds of the Palmetto House? Had the printer delivered the banquet programs? Were the copies of the Christie Treasure Hunt clues ready? Would Billy Cameron, Police Chief Frank Saulter’s assistant, serve as night watchman for the vintage-car exhibit? Had Max checked on the grand prize for the treasure hunt? Max! Oh, dear. She’d promised her unflappable, adorable spouse (Max Darling was definitely Joe Hardy all grown up and sexy as hell) that she would squeeze in a