The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [70]
Avoiding Ingrid’s pitying gaze, Annie busily righted a chair that had been knocked over in the excitement, then began scooping up the Clue Sheets littering the floor. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Okay, so it will take a month’s gross to pay for what that ravening herd is going to consume. What the hell else could I have done?”
Annie ordered a chocolate soda by the swimming pool and dropped wearily into a deck chair. What a day, from Bledsoe’s triumphant subscription sale to the treasure hunt. Ever afterward in her mind, the afternoon would be remembered simply and eloquently as the Hunt. The lengths to which people would go to win! As for Bledsoe, what was she going to do? It was unthinkable that he should succeed in his plan to fabricate ugliness about Christie. But what in the world was she going to do about it?
As she sipped the luscious concoction, a tiny wriggle of energy returned. She sat up straighter and felt a sharp edge of paper in her skirt pocket.
It was the message the bellboy had handed her before the treasure hunt erupted. The signature was indecipherable, looking somewhat like a beetle wearing a crown, but scanning the spidery, ornate handwriting, much like that of Emily Arundell in Poirot Loses a Client, Annie had no doubt as to the author of the missive.
The message was quite direct: REPORT TO YOUR SUITE UPON RECEIPT.
If Annie hadn’t been so weakened by the treasure hunt fray, she might have ignored it. But she needed help. Maybe Lady Gwendolyn would have some ideas on how to combat Bledsoe. Though it did seem to Annie, as she punched the elevator button, that perhaps Lady Gwendolyn had presumed a bit on Anglo-American relations in setting up shop in her and Max’s suite.
“There you are!” Lady Gwendolyn announced cheerfully. “We can’t start without you, my dear.”
Annie’s resentment fled in the face of such good humor and obvious good intentions (not to mention such consummate tact).
Max popped up, smiling.
Dear heart, Annie thought fondly.
Laurel waved an abstracted hello, then bent again to the notebook in her lap.
Henny merely flicked her a grumpy look.
Lady Gwendolyn nodded encouragingly toward the couch. Annie sprawled on it gratefully. Her head was pounding. She was too tired to perk up even when Max joined her.
Lady Gwendolyn rustled her sheaf of papers. “I won’t call our meeting to order until everyone has gathered. But this is a good opportunity to organize our thoughts. Annie, if you will, dear, please recap the Wednesday schedule.”
Although Annie’d never had any trouble keeping up with Pam North in her thought processes, Lady Gwendolyn sometimes stumped her.
“Wednesday schedule?” She tried not to sound plaintive. “Whose schedule? What schedule?”
“Tomorrow’s conference schedule.” Lady Gwendolyn’s sapphire ring flashed as she poured steaming tea that looked gunmetal gray as it curled out of the spout.
That Annie knew. “There are six panels on Wednesday and a Christie film festival. The Passing of Mr. Quirin—1928, Alibi and Black Coffee—both 1931, Lord Edgware Dies—1934, and Love from a Stranger—1937.”
“Nineteen thirty-seven.” Lady Gwendolyn’s eyes softened. “Ah yes, that was a very good year. I played at Wimbledon and met quite a handsome chap. Nigel—” A tiny sigh. Then, briskly, “The schedule sounds smashing. Moreover, it frees you for deployment.”
Annie stiffened as much as her tired spine would permit. There was something in the sound of “deployment” that she did not like.
A sharp knock rattled the door.
Lady Gwendolyn nodded at Max.
Max opened the door (generous of her to permit Max that privilege) and Frank Saulter looked in.
“Inspector!” the high, clear voice proclaimed.
“Chief,” he replied wearily.
The brilliant blue stone flashed through the air as Lady Gwendolyn waved dismissively. “Inspector … chief—a rose by any name. You are, indubitably, in charge. I prefer to be open and aboveboard with those in authority. I wish to stress that we in no way intend to obstruct, hinder, or interfere with the due processes of the