The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [67]
The agent’s look was a mixture of pity and sorrow. And something darker, an underlying edge of cold, hard rage. Before she could answer, the door to the Card Room opened.
Every face turned.
Neil Bledsoe filled the doorway. Just behind him, one hand clutching his arm, stood the awkward young author.
As always, Annie felt the inescapable magnetism of the man. And fought it.
Bledsoe’s dark eyes surveyed those who had responded to Saulter’s call.
“Which one of you fuckers did it?” His tone was insinuatingly conversational. “Was it you, Nathan? You’re too soft and gutless to face me. Maybe it’s you.”
The editor lowered the magazine, closed it, carefully placed it on the side table. “Having fun, Neil?” he asked quietly.
But Bledsoe’s gaze was fastened on Fleur Calloway. Her hands came together in a tight, painful grip, but not a muscle moved in her face.
“Not you, Fleur,” Bledsoe drawled. “Ice water in your veins.”
She looked at him, through him. Once again, he didn’t exist.
For just an instant, his fury showed, his dark eyes molten, his scarred face a deeper, redder hue.
Emma Clyde stepped in front of Fleur. “Get the hell out of the way, Neil. We didn’t come here to see you.” She bent to look past him. “Chief, Chief! You’ve got some slime obstructing the passageway.”
Saulter came along then and broke it up, motioning for Bledsoe to move on, standing aside for Fleur and Emma to enter.
Bledsoe stared at the closing door.
Natalie Marlow tugged at his arm. “Come on, Neil, let’s go get a drink.”
Annie marveled, not for the first time, at how startling the contrast can sometimes be between an author’s persona and an author’s work. Natalie Marlow’s book quivered with sensitivity; the writing was somber yet as graceful and fluid and unforgettable as an Edith Piaf melody. Marlow herself had all the charm of a water beetle.
“Neil!” Kathryn Honeycutt rushed up to the critic. The more often Annie saw Bledsoe’s aunt, the less she resembled Jane Marple. Oh, the height and the dowdy clothes and the fluffy white hair were there, but she had neither the dignity nor the air of insightfulness so characteristic of the indomitable Miss Marple.
Bledsoe looked down impatiently.
Kathryn’s voice was pettish. “Neil, this charade has gone far enough. We must go home.”
For just an instant, Bledsoe stood immobile, his dark brows lifted in surprise.
But only for an instant.
“No. Never. I’ve never run in my life, Kathryn. I won’t run now.”
Natalie’s eyes glowed with admiration. “Oh, God, Neil. You make other men look like shadows.”
“Neil—” Kathryn’s voice was a despairing cry. “Please, you must listen to me, you must do as I say.” Her mouth trembled. “I know something dreadful’s going to happen. I feel it. It’s surrounding me. Evil, Neil. I swear before God, something dreadful will happen if we stay.”
Annie felt a ripple of foreboding, as distinct as a clap of thunder, as hard to define as a scarcely glimpsed figure in the fog.
“I won’t run. Never.”
Kathryn Honeycutt pressed her hands to her face, then turned and stumbled away.
Bledsoe scowled, lifted a hand as if to call her back, then angrily shook his head. “Come on, Natalie. Let’s go get a drink. And have some fun. This is a vacation, isn’t it? We’re all having fun, aren’t we?”
AGATHA CHRISTIE TITLE CLUE
Poor Dora Bunner meant well,
But there was too much she could tell.
Annie hesitated to leave her post behind the palm. After all, Lady Gwendolyn’s charge had been explicit: Observe, report. But Annie had a distinct feeling she’d better check on the treasure hunters, especially when she heard shouts and cries of “Not fair! Not fair!” emanating from the main lobby.
Skidding to a stop beside Hunt Station 6, she found a bookseller from Boston with her back to the wall. The bookseller, when accused of attempting to deface the poster, was unrepentant “Surely when the safety of conference attendees hangs in the balance, no one can complain if a poster received some damage when