The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [46]
Annie drew a breath in sharply and looked down at the small, plump author. The very matter-of-factness of Lady Gwendolyn’s statement told volumes about this gentle but indomitable old lady.
She looked up at Annie with troubled but fearless blue eyes. “I have the same sense now as I did then. Danger lies ahead.”
Annie had looked forward to slipping into some of the afternoon panels, The Occult in Doyle, Christie, and Rinehart, The Other Wonderful Women—Sayers, Allingham, Tey, and Marsh, Mary Roberts Rinehart—a Quintessential American, and Those Lively Ladies—Taylor, Rice, and Ford. She chalked up missing them as another grievance against Bledsoe—and Lady Gwendolyn. Although, she grudgingly had to admit, the old author’s ideas were sound. “Scout the territory,” she’d ordered. “We can’t operate without intelligence.”
Annie’s assignment was simple. Find Kathryn Honeycutt. Pump her. Somehow, it came as no surprise when she spotted Bledsoe’s aunt coming out of the session on the occult.
Annie studied the woman who had accompanied Bledsoe to the conference. Kathryn Honeycutt was in her late sixties, probably, and, except for those squinting eyes behind thicklensed wire frames, almost a ringer for Miss Marple, tall, quite thin, fluffy white hair. Annie suspected that Honeycutt was well aware of the resemblance and cultivated it, wearing a gray cotton dress cut in an old-fashioned way and a fleecy white shawl. Cultivated, too, Annie decided, was an expression of brisk inquiry and lively curiosity which mixed oddly with her obviously poor eyesight. However, she looked pleasant. Though it was hard for Annie to believe anyone with any decency could be a friend of that man. But Honeycutt wasn’t just a friend. His aunt, someone had said. You don’t pick your relatives. Still, why was she with him? Why had she come?
Kathryn Honeycutt stood near the wall and squinted at her program.
The program Annie had worked so hard to create. The program that louse Bledsoe was trying his best to destroy.
“Pardon me. Mrs. Honeycutt?”
A welcoming smile lit the pale thin face. “Oh, Mrs. Darling, this is such a marvelous conference! So fascinating about Mary Roberts Rinehart and the ghost in her house in Washington, D.C. A political boss! Rinehart was quite intrigued by the other side, and made some attempt to contact her husband after his death, but with no success. And I hadn’t known about those early stories of Christie’s. Even a seance in ‘The Red Signal.’ And several seances in Rinehart’s The Red Lamp. Odd coincidence on the titles—they sound similar but they had entirely different meanings. And of course, Arthur Conan Doyle devoted much of the end of his life to spiritualism. So sad.” A gentle sigh. “Trying so hard to get in touch with his son, Kingsley. Oh, that war destroyed a generation of young Englishmen.”
The more Honeycutt talked, the less she looked like Miss Marple. Annie was relieved. She couldn’t bear to think of the resident sleuth of St. Mary Mead as a companion to Neil Bledsoe.
“I’m glad you enjoyed the panel.” Annie tried to infuse warmth in her voice. After all, she’d once had a lead role here on the island in Arsenic and Old Lace. But her acting ability just wasn’t up to this role.
Kathryn Honeycutt’s face drooped. The happiness seeped away. “I want you to know I am terribly sorry that Neil is causing trouble. It makes life so difficult—Neil, you know—always causing trouble. Ignore him, my dear. That’s the only thing to do. I, for one, refuse to let my nephew ruin this wonderful week for me. I stopped apologizing for Neil years ago.” She looked at Annie earnestly, her eyes hugely blue and fuzzy behind the thick lenses. “You won’t hold the way he acts against me, will you?”
“Of course not,” Annie said gently.
“Besides, Neil’s outburst will be a moment’s sensation and then pouf!” Honeycutt fluttered her hands. “We all know Agatha Christie was grand. It won’t