The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [55]
Annie opened her mouth, then closed it. She had no intention of discussing her nocturnal fashion choices. Dammit, surely Laurel hadn’t rousted Annie from her slumbers merely to glance askance at her choice of lingerie. Not any of her business, anyway. “Yes?” she snapped.
With a sweet smile that exuded patient forgiveness of early morning irritability in less gracious creatures, Laurel announced firmly, “Annie, we must confer. I shall fly to your door.” Whirling, with the grace and effortless speed of a ballerina, Laurel pirouetted back into her own apartment.
Annie was not slow-witted, but her unexpected awakening, the vision of Laurel, bright and eager in a delicate shell-pink warm-up, and the unaccustomed misery of awaking first (Max always got up and put the coffee on and had it ready when she stumbled down the stairs. Really, that instantly available cup of coffee the first thing in the morning was one of the greatest plusses of the married state.) combined to make her less than alert.
So it took a minute or so for her to respond to the steady knock at the suite door.
Laurel sped inside, taking time only to scoop up another sheet of yellow paper from the floor just inside the door. Adding that to the sheet she’d fluttered from her balcony, she stalked to the center of the living room and clapped the squares of paper dramatically to her heart.
“Annie, Agatha is being Griswolded.”
Annie stared at Laurel. Her head was beginning to throb. Coffee. God, how she needed a cup of coffee. Of all the mornings for Max to go for an early morning walk. Coffee … where was the coffeemaker …?
“Coffee,” she moaned, heading blearily for the kitchenette. As Annie yanked open cupboards, Laurel skipped to her side, eyes downcast.
“Truly a dreadful occurrence and a heartrending story. Even now, more than one hundred and fifty years later, it brings tears to my eyes.” A tear dutifully rolled down her lovely cheek.
Annie ignored the tear and her mother-in-law and grabbed the canister of French coffee. Brought from home, of course. She ignored the container of Kona. This morning she needed a sharp, heady, dark, strong brew.
“… almost seems beyond belief that there could be such wicked misrepresentation of a poet’s life. It is truly a scandal that generations of American schoolchildren should be taught that dear Edgar was a drug addict and a drunk, a wastrel and a degenerate! All because of Rufus Wilmot Griswold. That dreadful man.”
Annie lifted the pitcher of fresh orange juice out of the refrigerator. “Juice?”
“Thank you, darling. I’d love some.”
Annie filled two glasses, slumped into one of the kitchenette chairs, and downed half a glass at one gulp.
Laurel joined her. She dropped the folded sheets of paper on the table and picked up her juice. She sipped dreamily. “My heartfelt desire is that the world should know the truth about dear Edgar.”
“Opium,” Annie muttered, “all those horrid visions—”
“My dear, that’s Griswold.”
Annie blinked. “I thought,” she said distinctly, “we were talking about Edgar Allan Poe.” She almost demanded to know why they were talking about Edgar Allan Poe and his opium proclivities at—it took character but she steeled herself and looked at the wall clock. God!—at six-fifteen in the morning.
“My dear, it’s just like Bledsoe with Agatha.” Laurel hitched her chair closer to Annie’s. “You see, when it started out, they were friends—”
“Bledsoe and Agatha?” Annie demanded. If the coffee would just perk …
“Edgar and Rufus,” Laurel explained patiently. “They met in Philadelphia in 1841 when Rufus was twenty-six and Edgar was thirty-two.” She clapped her hands together. “Poe at the peak of his genius! Not knowing he had only eight years left to live. Poor dear boy.” A lowering of her eyes and an instant of reverential silence. “Anyway, in 1841 Griswold was putting together an anthology. Young Poe