The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [61]
The man, Annie realized, was one hell of an athlete. Bledsoe reached the roof edge and flung himself over it. He was so big that even in a menacing crouch, he was still clearly visible from below. His head swung back and forth as he searched the roof. Finally, his chest heaving from exertion, he slowly stood erect. With an angry headshake, he turned and glared down at the Palmetto Court and his mesmerized audience.
Thwarted fury roughened his deep voice. “Somebody call the goddam cops—and don’t touch a goddam thing down there.”
• • •
Yellow crime scene tape fluttered both on the roof and around the impact area in the Palmetto Court. A hastily drawn sign on cardboard directed guests seeking service to the picnic area adjacent to the boardwalk where the hotel was providing a buffet luncheon free of charge.
As Annie skirted the cardboard sign, she was glad to see that Frank Saulter had his back to her. She didn’t have time to talk to Frank right now. He had plenty of witnesses, of course. She wasn’t necessary to this particular investigation, but she didn’t kid herself. Frank would want to talk to her. But later was better. The Agatha Christie Treasure Hunt was scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes. She’d seen no reason to cancel. After all, the crashing vase had caused some damage, but no one was hurt. Annie took a tighter grip on the cardboard box with the Clue Sheets and the Title Slips as she hurried into the lobby. She’d taken no chances with these, leaving them in the storeroom of Death on Demand until now. (Agatha had frostily ignored her visit Fairweather friends deserved no better. Besides, Agatha wasn’t fond of Max’s secretary, Barb, who was provisioning the water and food bowls this week. Barb, Agatha was prone to growl, talked too much and had the effrontery to pick up cats without permission.) Annie had known better than to leave the Clue Sheets and Title Slips at the conference registration desk at the hotel. She was experienced at mystery events, and, much as she hated to admit it, some people would do anything to win, including attempting to rip off the clues in advance. It had come as no surprise to hear from Ingrid that the boxes behind the registration desk had been moved about, obviously as the result of a midnight search. But she wasn’t born yesterday.
“Mrs. Darling!” The manager bounded across the lobby to block her way. Thirty-fivish and already balding, Ed Merritt looked as aggrieved at the misfortune striking his hotel as Jenny Cain’s father when any kind of crass reality intruded into his carefully manicured, socially vetted world. Merritt’s voice cracked with outrage. “This willful destruction of property must cease. Immediately.”
As if, Annie thought furiously, any of this were her fault. She glared at Merritt. “Vandalism is not included in the program.”
The pudgy manager glared back. “I’ve already had three checkouts this morning. We’ll probably get sued by some nut who claims the vases were improperly secured and the crash has caused him to develop a phobia about sitting beneath balconies. Listen, that vase couldn’t have fallen by itself. But the police won’t even let me out on the roof to look at it.”
Annie tried tact. “Don’t worry. Nobody thinks it was an accident Everyone can relax. That vase was aimed at Neil Bledsoe, no one else. So—”
Merritt blanched. “Oh, Jesus, attempted murder?” he wailed.
It occurred to Annie, belatedly, that her efforts at reassurance had backfired.
“What’s going on here?” the manager demanded frantically. “Is this some kind of crazy Christie cult? Is there a real murder planned? My God, lady, you can’t really kill people!”
“Not to worry,” she snapped. “The police will handle everything. Now, I’ve got to take the Clue Sheets to the registration table.”
As his eyes bulged, she added, over her shoulder, “Clues to the treasure hunt. Not murder.”
She had expected the treasure hunt to be popular. She had not expected the lobby and the hallway to the registration area to be swamped with contestants. Not all of