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By Root 928 0

the State of South Carolina had quite particular requirements for the licensing of such offices, requirements Max had no intention of fulfilling. Ergo, his own private counseling agency. No law against counseling. He had been employed to solve several interesting problems. Lady Gwendolyn had been quite impressed with the capabilities of his agency. Of course, he never worked on weekends. Weekends, though tailored around the exigencies of running the greatest mystery bookstore this side of Atlanta, were meant for windsurfing, love, tennis, love, boating, love, whatever, but, most of all, love. Not that love was limited to weekends, but freedom from work surely meant freedom to play, and if there was a better game in town Max had yet to find it. After a successful weekend, he never felt in any great rush to plunge back into the workday world, so the hum of activity this Monday afternoon at Confidential Commissions seemed odd indeed.

The last of the extra phone lines had just been installed. Normally, of course, it took at least two days for new lines to be activated. Lady Gwendolyn spent ten minutes in private consultation with the telephone company supervisor, who emerged from the session in her thrall, and presto, here came the phones.

The extra tables in his office—workstations for the phones—did crowd the decor. And it was hard to concentrate with Laurel chattering to his right (“so interesting that you’ve known Mrs. Calloway ever since you both were just girls … so exciting to have a window on the life of one of the truly popular authors of our time”) and Henny aggressively pressing her questions to his left (“Someone told me Nathan Hillman has quite a temper … Not your experience? How well …?”). They’d divided up the list—Bledsoe and all who appeared to be involved with him—among the three of them. He rubbed his ear. It seemed to him as though he’d been on the phone for days, not just hours. And he’d never realized just how uncomfortable office straight chairs were. He glanced longingly at his Italian Renaissance desk, fit for a cardinal. Behind it, Lady Gwendolyn looked just a trifle absurd perched on his red leather desk chair, which she, not surprisingly, had punched into the most upright position.

Of course, it did make it easier for her to let fly with the darts. Her plump arm flashed through the air, the dart sped unerringly for the target, and that aristocratic nose twitched with satisfaction.

Uncanny, how close she came each time to bull’s-eye.

Annie’s eyes watered. Cigarette smoke always did it to her. She blinked and peered into the dimness of Blackbeard’s Retreat. Although it wasn’t quite five yet, the hotel bar was full.

And loud.

“So a few of the books aren’t wonderful. Three, maybe four. But she wrote more great mysteries than anyone else ever has—or will.”

“… be fascinating to know the name of the officer who painted the fresco around the top of the walls of the library at Greenway when the house was occupied by the American Navy during World War Two.”

“… wished she hadn’t put Poirot in The Hollow. She was right, you know. The book didn’t need him.”

“It gives me the willies—an old lady looking at a fireplace and asking about the child buried behind it!”

“She spent fifteen years writing her autobiography.”

Emma Clyde was at the very back of the bar where it was so dark and jammed with bodies Annie felt claustrophobic. She felt a bond with Christie, who disliked crowds, cigarette smoke, loud voices, and cocktail parties. The shy author would have avoided Blackbeard’s Retreat like the plague.

Annie felt as welcome as the plague when she met Emma’s gaze.

Emma’s chilly gaze.

No smile. Not a flicker of welcome.

Annie ignored the awestruck fans clustered around Emma. Plunking her palms down on the table, sticky from spilled drinks, Annie snapped, “Dammit, you did almost run Bledsoe down. Why shouldn’t I think you shot at him, too?”

“I was in absolute control of the car,” Emma pointed out impatiently. “I know too much about guns and how bullets can ricochet to fire them in the presence of innocent