The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [54]
As Hillman loosened his grasp, Derek wavered unsteadily.
Annie reached out, took his arm, and smiled up into alcohol-dulled eyes. “Tell me about the novels you’re promoting right now.”
She wasn’t even certain he heard her. He pulled free and, unexpectedly, careened into a shambling run, lurching past Hillman and stumbling to a stop beside Bledsoe’s table. He reached out a trembling hand. “Natalie.” His voice cracked. “Natalie, he’ll hurt you. Please, come away with me. He’s—oh God, Natalie, he’s evil.”
The young writer’s head jerked up. She stared at Derek in surprise, then an angry red flush suffused her face, vivid in the light from the chandeliers. “Derek, for God’s sake, be quiet.”
Bledsoe leaned back comfortably in his chair and looked up with an amused smile. “Drunk again, Derek? How sophomoric. But then I suppose you can’t get away from your genes, can you?”
Derek made a noise low in his throat and flung himself on Bledsoe, his hands scrabbling for the big man’s throat.
Bledsoe grunted. Although Frank and the harried editor both lunged forward, the encounter was over before they could intervene. With apparent ease, Bledsoe chopped upward with his forearms, brutally breaking Derek’s grip, then one huge hand grabbed Derek’s tuxedo jacket and flung him backward onto the floor.
Bledsoe erupted out of his chair and stood, legs braced, glowering down at Derek. For a moment, Derek lay flat on his back, stunned, then he rolled over and struggled awkwardly, painfully to get to his hands and knees. His face was crimson with fury and frustration.
Bledsoe glanced at Hillman. “Get him out of here, Nathan, before I have to hurt him.”
Derek lurched to his feet and once again, mindlessly, flung himself at Bledsoe. Frank and Nathan grabbed him, but Derek continued to struggle, head down, drunken arms flailing helplessly, trying to get to Bledsoe.
As the older men hustled him out of the dining room, Annie walked away. She didn’t want to see any more of Bledsoe. She hated his look of smug amusement. It was in such sharp and ugly contrast to Derek’s tear-streaked, maddened face.
AGATHA CHRISTIE
TITLE CLUE
Blood on a golf club, blood on a suit;
Somebody, Inspector Battle thinks, got very cute.
Annie, Anniieeeee …”
Her name, huskily, throatily, penetratingly voiced, buzzed in her ear with the persistence of a mosquito.
Annie said, “Mmmhph,” and sleepily pawed to her left. The rumpled sheets were cool to her touch. She reluctantly opened one eye and turned her head. No Max.
“Annie, Anniiieee …”
Annie lifted her head and peered through the shadows toward the windows opening onto the balcony.
The call came again. Annie knew who it was, of course. In all the world, there was no other voice quite like Laurel’s, a combination of Dietrich sultriness, Bacall sensuality, and wood nymph innocence, a beguiling, enchanting, bewitching triad—but not at sunrise.
The call came again, clearly from outside.
Their room was on the third floor. Sleep fled. Both eyes snapped open. Surely—
Annie rolled out of bed and trotted to the balcony. Peering out, she saw Laurel on the next balcony. Oh, good Lord, she hadn’t realized her mother-in-law’s room was that close to their own. And they’d left the balcony doors open both nights…. Annie’s ears flamed.
Laurel, with the eyesight of a marsh hawk, hadn’t missed the telltale movement. She waved energetically to summon her daughter-in-law, and the folded sheet of yellow paper fluttered in her hand.
Annie peered out once more, this time surveying the darkened Palmetto Court below and the untenanted nearby balconies, then, with a shrug, padded barefoot in her shorty pajamas to the railing.
Laurel didn’t say anything, but her brief glance at Annie’s pajamas moved the flush from Annie’s ears to her cheeks.
Laurel’s eyebrows rose just a fraction; she gave an infinitesimal sigh and headshake.
So what was wrong with Bugs Bunny pajamas! Annie liked them. But she knew that once again she’d failed to pass muster. She was quite certain that Laurel, in her many marital outings (five,