The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [66]
“Now that the procedure is clearly understood, I’m going to pass out the Clue Sheets. Good luck and Godspeed.”
Annie really was rather proud of the Clue Sheets.
The treasure seekers split faster than John J. Malone could order cold beer for breakfast in The Lucky Stiff. One moment Annie was the focus of attention; the next she and Ingrid were alone in a suddenly frowsy hallway, littered with discarded Styrofoam cups, occasional cigarette stubs (this was South Carolina, and, honey, no-smoking bans are a communist plot), and candy wrappers (if God didn’t want women to eat chocolate, She’d never have arranged for Columbus to get that loan).
Ingrid grinned. “I’m glad I’m not a hunt attendant. Do you want to bet on some creative ploys to get at the Title Slips?”
“That’s one tough group—a couple of junior high school teachers, an IRS agent, a priest, a probation officer, a computer security expert. They’ve heard it all, Ingrid. They won’t be conned.” Annie spoke with a good deal more assurance than she felt. She’d tried to warn the hunt attendants—be suspicious of telegrams demanding immediate attendance at a loved one’s bedside, don’t let anyone get close enough to grab the Title Slips, ignore sirens, dismiss as absurd any rumor that a man-eating anaconda has escaped from a circus train. Her brow crinkled. Had she remembered to warn against fainting fits and simulated heart attacks?
“Maybe,” Ingrid said doubtfully. “I’d say it’s about as likely as either of the Kellermans writing a jolly mystery. Anyway, it’s nice to have some breathing space.”
“Yes, indeed.” Startled, they turned and saw Lady Gwendolyn, almost obscured behind a palm. She stepped forward. “Certainly, you must agree that I attempted to merge the investigative efforts. I was, as you can attest, rebuffed. But never, never, never defeated. After all, we can do much on our own, can’t we, my dears?”
Annie lurked behind a huge potted palm, observing the rather glum group gathered outside the door to the Card Room. One of them wanted to be a murderer. That was apparent now. The shots at Death on Demand might have been intended to frighten; the vase crashing into the Palmetto Court was clearly intended to kill. Annie had crisp instructions from Lady Gwendolyn: Observe, report.
Nathan Hillman sat stolidly in a red wing chair, ostensibly immersed in a Fortune magazine. She could just glimpse his wiry hair and part of his horn-rims. She would have been more impressed if the magazine hadn’t been upside down.
Derek Davis, in contrast, was in constant motion, striding up and down. The young publicist’s freckled face was puffy. Too much alcohol, too little sleep? What had happened to him last night after his abortive attack on Bledsoe? And wouldn’t that be grist for Saulter’s mill.
Fleur Calloway, as always, was a book publicist’s dream, her finely modeled face hauntingly lovely, her flowing, emerald shirtdress a perfect foil for her tawny hair. She rested casually against the cane chairback, her hands loose in her lap. Her head was slightly bent, her gaze focused on her hands. She looked up briefly when Derek Davis bumped a coffee table. Her eyes were deep and melancholy pools of pain.
Emma Clyde glowered. She had the air of an irate and dangerous Chow looking for trouble. She stood beside Fleur’s chair, as if daring anyone to approach. Annie didn’t envy Saulter his session with Emma.
Margo Wright sat beside a red-and-gold chinese dragon, and Annie found them both a study in inscrutability. The agent’s face was dead white, her brows dark slashes, her mouth a carmine line. An unreadable face. She could as easily have been composing a sonnet, planning an ax murder, or contemplating her karma. So the change was striking when her lips suddenly curved in a smile, her dark eyes softened, and her large hand gestured invitingly. “Victoria, come sit with me,” and Margo patted the love seat beside her.
Victoria Shaw took the proffered seat as though it were refuge. She looked especially small and wrenlike next to the imposing agent. And frightened.