The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [73]
Annie nodded eagerly.
“That gives her a reasonable basis upon which to approach the suspects. When she does so, however, she will accomplish a dual purpose: she can vet them as possible murderers and, at the same time, gain derogatory information about Bledsoe. The man obviously is a cur. If he attempts to publish scandalous lies about Christie, we can immediately respond with material that discredits him.”
“That’s brilliant,” Laurel enthused.
“Might work,” Henny admitted grudgingly.
“Excellent idea.” Max nodded. “When we add the results of Annie’s interviews to our investigations, we’ll probably know at once who’s trying to bump off Bledsoe.”
Lady Gwendolyn lifted a plump hand. “However, it is clear to me that a grim sequence of events may be underway.”
Something in her tone froze each in his place.
“I’m terribly surprised that this possibility has not yet occurred to others. As I attempted to communicate this morning to Chief Saulter, there is a disquieting parallel between the toppled vase in the Palmetto Court and the boulder crashing down at Abu Simbel in Death on the Nile.”
“Oh, my God,” Henny said softly.
In an almost breathless silence, Lady Gwendolyn’s soft voice continued stalwartly, “Oh, yes. You see, the attack on Bledsoe came after the flyer was distributed. It could well mean that a deranged Christie devotee was taking matters into his or her own hands. We must not leap to conclusions. The gunfire and the vase may not have been the work of the same individual. There is much going on, possibly including much of which we have little knowledge. We must remember Miss Marple’s maxim: Nothing is ever quite what it seems to be on the surface.”
• • •
Clouds scudded across the face of the moon. Their footsteps echoed from the wooden dock. To the south, lightning flickered, illuminating a clot of rain clouds dark against the night sky. Thunder rumbled.
“Rain pretty soon,” Max observed.
Annie spared a brief thanksgiving the rain had waited until Tuesday night and hadn’t ruined the marvelous fête on Sunday, but she wasn’t worried about the weather.
She was worried about Lady Gwendolyn’s shocking pronouncement.
“Max, you don’t really think we could have a furious Christie fan trying to kill Bledsoe, do you?” She tried not to wail.
Although Max never looked for trouble, he didn’t flinch from reality.
“It could be, sweetie. But, look at it this way. Isn’t it a lot more likely, given the circumstances, that anyone with a rational reason to kill Bledsoe might have the wit to mask a murder behind a facade of madness?”
“Just like The ABC Murders. So it still makes sense for me to try and talk to everyone here who knows Bledsoe.”
“Sure. Tomorrow.” Max slipped his arm around her shoulders as they reached the end of the pier.
Annie relaxed against him.
Suddenly, warm lips touched her cheek. “But for now … it’s getting ready to rain. Let’s go in.” The urgency in his voice had nothing to do with inclement weather.
Annie was eager, too, as Max unlocked their door. He took her hand, pulled her toward the bedroom, then Annie saw the blinking red message light on the phone.
She stopped, glanced at the light, and almost ignored it.
But she was co-chairman of the conference. It could be important
AGATHA CHRISTIE TITLE CLUE
Things are hot, revolution is brewing.
Bob hides the jewels, but a mirror reflects.
Annie waited impatiently for the elevator, her thoughts churning. Probably this visit would come to nothing. There were always a few nuts—harmless but weird—at any mystery conference. Though that name—James Bentley, James Bentley—seemed familiar. But she’d better check it out.
The elevator doors slowly parted.
Annie rushed in, punched the Close Door button, and the second floor button.
The information from the hotel message center was precise, if not especially revealing: Message received: 10:49 p.m. To Annie Laurance Darling from James Bentley. I have some information of great interest to the sponsors