The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [78]
Out in the hall, Henny shot a wary glance in both directions, then hissed, “They’ve identified the victim!” Henny was vivid in a bright yellow cotton dress. Her dark eyes glowed with excitement. “John Border Stone from New Jersey.”
“Who was he?” Annie asked quickly. “A writer? A fan?”
“Don’t know. Max said he’d add him to his list to investigate. Anyway, thought you should know. I’ll get back to you,” and Henny sped off down the corridor. Inspector Slack never moved faster in The Murder at the Vicarage.
Annie grinned, but her smile quickly slipped away. Henny meant well, but her fascination with crime suddenly seemed callous. Annie remembered only too clearly that brutal wound which had ended John Border Stone’s young life. Each time the image returned, another horrid detail burned in her mind—the class ring on a pudgy, lifeless finger. Annie shook her head and scolded herself. Good detectives kept their emotions in check; they distanced themselves from the horrors they confronted. Witness Bill Knox’s Glasgow Detective Chief Inspector Colin Thane and his partner Inspector Phil Moss, and Laurie Mantell’s New Zealanders, Detective Sergeant Steven Arrow and Inspector Jonas Peacock. That’s why Henny was scouring the surroundings for clues.
Annie walked slowly toward the main lobby.
The unexpected corpse.
If Bledsoe had been found, battered to death…. But it wasn’t Bledsoe. However, the murder must be linked, somehow, someway, to the attacks on Bledsoe; Annie felt confident of it. All the violence had been directed at the critic. John Border Stone had glimpsed the gunman on Saturday night. He’d been unable to give a clear description.
Had he truly been unable?
Or had he seen only too clearly—and, for reasons of his own, kept quiet? Until someone permanently quieted him.
That made all kinds of dreadful sense.
And validated Annie’s quest.
Annie checked the autograph room. Yes, Emma Clyde was there, as scheduled. A long double line of fans inched forward to have their books signed. So, while the big cat was engaged—
Annie searched every likely spot in the hotel. She was ready to give up, when she decided to check the beach. She spotted her quarry at the end of the pier.
Annie walked forward swiftly on the wooden planking.
Perhaps it was the hurried cadence of her shoes that made Fleur Calloway jerk around to watch her approach. Perhaps it was that and nothing more which gave an anxious cast to that lovely face. Yet, even half frowning, the delicate tracery of lines on Fleur’s face echoed laughter and sunshine and warmth. She sat on the weathered wooden bench at the end of the pier, shading her eyes from the morning sun.
“Good morning, Mrs. Calloway.”
“Please, call me Fleur.” A moment’s hesitation, then, the author said, her voice troubled, “I understand a young man was killed last night.”
“Yes.”
“Do the police have any idea what happened?” Was Fleur’s question just natural curiosity, or was there an undertone of fear?
“I don’t know much about it. He was attending the conference. Someone killed him with a sugar cutter.”
“A sugar cutter? How odd. I haven’t seen one of those in years.” The author smiled wryly. “Yes, Annie, I do know what one is. I grew up in Louisiana”
Annie wished she had the nonchalant demeanor so natural to private eyes. Surely Spenser would have revealed nothing at this disclosure. Obviously, her expression—shock? uneasiness? surprise?—had been too easily read.
“Fleur, I know there has been some unpleasantness between you and Neil Bledsoe.”
The wry smile dissolved. Fleur Calloway suddenly looked pinched and old.
“I’m asking because I hope to get a full picture of the man and use it to combat his plan to smear Christie. I hope you’ll agree to help me. I know you don’t want to see her reputation destroyed. If you could just tell me what happened between you and Neil—”
Fleur pressed a hand against her lips. She wasn’t looking at Annie; her eyes were focused on the shore.
Annie felt like a paparazza.