The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [5]
“Agatha, stop it!” Annie wailed.
Annie used both hands to remove the sleek black feline from the middle of the centerpiece and to carry her squirming, furry captive to the storeroom and shut the door. Swinging around, she called out, “More champagne! Ingrid, hurry. Go buy at least two more bottles. Magnums.”
“Annie, I really think we have enough.”
Annie darted to the coffee bar and ripped open the second box of glasses. “I’ll do this. Hurry, Ingrid. At least two more. Better make it three.”
After Ingrid left, the phone rang.
Of course it waited until Ingrid had left to ring.
Annie stared at the ornate French ormolu instrument. A gift from Max. Honestly, did he think she had rococo taste?
The damn thing rang again.
Annie had for some time now had a love-hate relationship with the telephone. Ever since Laurel Darling Roethke, at that time her mother-in-law-to-be, had enriched MCI with her frequent calls to consult over details for Annie and Max’s wedding. Mercifully, that time was behind them. She and Max had now been married for almost a year. There had, of course, been other, later calls from Laurel. Enough calls to instill in Annie a somewhat nervous response to the shrilling of a bell. But, to tell the truth and Annie had never expected it to happen, she positively yearned for this call to be from Laurel.
And not from Lady Gwendolyn Tompkins.
Perhaps Lady Gwendolyn’s airplane had been hijacked to Tibet.
Feeling guilty, Annie amended the silent prayer. Perhaps Lady Gwendolyn’s airplane could be hijacked for just a few hours, just long enough to diminish the continuing shower of incredibly complicated albeit cheerful suggestions for improving the conference. After all, she’d succumbed to Lady Gwendolyn’s siren song about the beauty and majesty of classic cars. But it hadn’t been easy to arrange! One of them—the six-seater Nürberg Mercedes-Benz—had come all the way from Pasadena.
Annie yanked up the receiver. She didn’t start breathing again until she realized it was a local customer who wanted to know why the latest Eugene Izzi book wasn’t in yet and was cheerfully oblivious both to the impending conference and the fact that Death on Demand was closed this Saturday in preparation for the evening’s festivities.
She was reaching for the last plastic wineglass when the phone rang again.
There had been three calls from Lady Gwendolyn yesterday. Annie always recognized her caller immediately. The British crime writer’s effervescent voice brimmed with eagerness, delight, and good humor—and more good ideas (involving beaucoup work on Annie’s part) than John Creasey had titles.
With remarkable—considering her feelings—control, Annie scooped up the phone. “Death on Demand.” Fortunately, mental images are not, as yet, transferable over telephone lines and no one but Annie could see her personal internal vision of a certain famed English author bound and gagged—eyes still twinkling, no doubt—and securely stowed in the darkest recesses of a French dungeon. Where was it they’d put the man in the iron mask?
The hotel banquet director’s voice was a distinct whine. “Mrs. Darling, I understand your concerns for authenticity. But this is not England. Lionel—our chef—threw up his hands. Literally, he threw up his hands! Where do you expect him to find kipper stock!”
“Not to worry. The kipper stock arrives tomorrow.”
Unless—she refused to relinquish the faint hope—an insanely daring hijacker made off with Lady Gwendolyn