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had indulged in the English breakfast were relaxed to the point of somnolence. Obviously, many of the morning panels were going to be ignored in favor of Bledsoe’s appearance. He was throwing a monkey wrench into the flurry of investigating underway at Confidential Commissions, too. Not even Laurel would agree to forsake the hotel this morning until Bledsoe made his appearance. Lady Gwendolyn understood, and they all agreed that inquiries would resume as soon as possible at Confidential Commissions. Annie pointed out further that she needed everyone’s attendance that afternoon at the Agatha Christie Treasure Hunt. Lady Gwendolyn suggested that Annie could handle the hunt alone. “Have you ever,” Annie inquired, her tone strained, “participated in a mystery convention contest?” That won over Lady Gwendolyn immediately. “My dear, there was a Mystery Weekend in Wales, and before it ended, there were three kidnappings, one case of amnesia, and two elopements. Such excitement. By all means, we must stand ready to assist you in your hour of travail.”

The lines wound through the Palmetto Court to Neil Bledsoe’s table. The table was untenanted at the moment, but Annie could see stacks of the yellow flyers, an ample supply of pens, and a pile of subscription blanks.

So now they knew Bledsoe’s real reason for attending The Christie Caper. It wasn’t to torment his enemies or to sabotage the conference. If such were the by-products of his scheme, no doubt it would be added pleasure. But these weren’t his primary interests. As soon as possible, Max would dig deep into Bledsoe’s financial situation, but Annie was sure she already knew the truth: Bledsoe was in trouble over a gambling debt or Mean Streets was in a hole. Bledsoe desperately needed money—and lots of it—and was willing to stoop to any level to increase the number of subscribers. Everything in magazine publishing hinged on the number of subscribers: advertising rates, ad linage, lender confidence.

If all of these people subscribed …

She glared at the people in the lines. Dammit, what kind of loyalty were they showing to Christie? And what could she do about it? And where the hell was Lady Gwendolyn, after all her fine talk about taking action? Not that she’d come up with any concrete plan before they parted. Annie scanned the court again. Not a trace of the English author. Annie didn’t doubt the author’s determination to foil Bledsoe. But where was she?

Well, somebody had to do something!

Annie marched to the deep end of the pool and climbed swiftly up the ladder to the ten-meter diving platform. She walked out onto the board. Now the lines snaked past the tables and around the shallow end of the pool, almost to the boardwalk.

Annie pulled a crumpled yellow flyer from the pocket of her white cotton slacks. She took a deep breath and shouted:

“DON’T GRISWOLD AGATHA!”

She hadn’t known that’s how she would begin. The words popped unbidden into her mind. But once started—and startled faces turned up to watch—she sketched it for her audience, just as Laurel had for her. At one point (shaking her fist over the gutter-inspired tactic of inventing slander then attributing it to “common knowledge”), Annie heard a husky “brava” and looked up to see Laurel clapping energetically on her balcony. On the adjoining balcony, Max raised his hands above his head and clasped them in a victory stance. Lady Gwendolyn flashed a brilliant, approving smile.

Laurel and Max and Lady Gwendolyn were not the only balcony observers.

Neil Bledsoe, a cigar poking jauntily from the corner of his mouth, leaned casually against a blue vase, arms folded, and listened intently.

Annie held up the yellow flyer. “This is a scam!” she shouted. “Don’t waste your money. I can answer these questions for you.

“What was Christie’s relationship with Eden Phillpotts? It was,” Annie said clearly, “simply that of a novice who shyly sought advice from the then-famous novelist, who was a neighbor of her family. Upon reading her first novel, Snow upon the Desert, Phillpotts took the time to write the eighteen-year-old