The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [40]
“Got a minute, Annie?” the chief asked brusquely. His normally sallow skin was flushed a dark pink.
“Sure, Frank.” Plumping down the island maps, she placed a thermos by Ingrid, who smiled her thanks, and shifted the remaining containers. “Taking fresh coffee to the workers. What’s up?” She took a quick glance at her watch. A quarter to eleven. Almost time for Lady Gwendolyn’s session.
“You got a list of everybody attending the conference?” This query was delivered with all the charm of Inspector Slack. Annie lacked Miss Marple’s adroitness at remonstrating without words at rudeness, but her startled look of surprise evidently sufficed. Saulter’s flush deepened. “Sorry, Annie. That—” the chief stopped, swallowed, started again with an obvious effort at control—“Bledsoe still won’t give us a damn thing. Not a single name. Says he’s pretty sure he knows who’s behind the shooting, and he’ll take care of it. He’ll take care of it. Who does he think he is? A bloody vigilante?” The chief’s face gleamed like copper in the desert sun. “Sorry. Anyway, I need the list. Bledsoe’s not going to make a fool out of me. I’ll figure out who knows him whether he likes it or not.”
As Annie delved into boxes, hunting for the master list of attendees, she wondered at Bledsoe. The man had his psychology all wrong. If he thought obstructionism was the way to choke off the chief’s investigation, he was going to have to think again.
The chief stalked off, list in hand.
It was during her final dash through the Palmetto Court that her swift stride checked for an instant in surprise. Bledsoe’s table was full now: the critic, the young woman author, Max, and Lady Gwendolyn. Lady Gwendolyn’s bright blue eyes studied Bledsoe, who was talking fast and gesturing vigorously as he spoke. Natalie Marlow looked prim and uncomfortable, like a child at the adult table. Max had on his Charlie Chan face.
Annie hurried on to the main conference room. She checked the speaker’s table—the mike worked, ice water was available, and clean glasses in place—then tilted the blinds on the east wall to filter the late morning sunlight. The seats were rapidly filling, and there was a genial roar of excited conversations.
“… can’t understand the preoccupation of the American media with hard-boiled books! Romantic twaddle, most of them. Reality? Christie was closer to it than …”
“… Agatha thought Margaret Rutherford looked like a bloodhound …”
“… she scrapped very hard about the book jackets …”
“… can’t believe it! I found a copy—very fine—of the first American edition of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd for less than a thousand!”
“I love that movie. I think Margaret Rutherford’s marvelous, even if she isn’t even a little bit like Jane Marple.”
It was a good-humored, holiday crowd, eager for the first session to begin. By golly, everything was going to be all right. So a few people didn’t like Bledsoe! So what? The world, as Max pointed out, was full of unlikable people, and you just coped. Annie waved to Laurel and raised an eyebrow at Henny’s huge sack overflowing with books. Aglow with excitement, her fox-sharp nose quivering in triumph, Henny raised her closed right fist, indicating some good buys in the book room. It was a bit painful, but Annie knew she couldn’t run a conference and scout for titles at the same time, so she grinned, clasped her hands above her head, and mouthed, “Congratulations.”
Neil Bledsoe ambled in, Natalie clinging to his arm. Her fashion rating was still abysmal. Today she wore an ill-fitting brown cotton jumper and blue blouse with puffed sleeves. Her lusterless brown hair, which desperately needed to be both styled and cut, hung unevenly, a jagged frame for her thin face. Her eyes were at odds with the rest of the face, almost as if they’d taken up residence there by mistake. They were deep-set, luminous, unforgettable eyes, as